poetry 180

I'm having so much fun reading through Billy Collin's poetry project for students. A really fantastic selection of modern poetry.

Here are two simply great ones. But most all of them are just really wonderful.

I lovelovelove the cheeky allusion to Isaiah in line 7 and how it flows right back into the ironing. And the last line is so perfect.

Heat

Michael Chitwood

A Coke bottle stopped
with a sprinkle head
sat at one end of the board.
She'd swap iron for bottle,
splash the cloth,
then go at it with the iron.
The crooked was made straight,
the wrinkled smooth,
and she'd lecture from that altar
where rumpled sheets went crisp.
"If Old Scratch gets his claws
in your thigh or neck,
you burn a thousand years
and that is the first day."
Our clothes got rigid,
seam matched seam.
Our bodies would ruin her work.

And this one, I mean, if you teach, it's going to make you laugh. :)

Did I Miss Anything?

Tom Wayman

Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth
40 percent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I’m about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 percent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
a shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel
or other heavenly being appeared
and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
to attain divine wisdom in this life and
the hereafter
This is the last time the class will meet
before we disperse to bring the good news to all people
on earth.

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom
is a microcosm of human experience
assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
This is not the only place such an opportunity has been
gathered

but it was one place

And you weren’t here

the capacity to hurt.

I'm making a resolution to think less.

(I realize that blogging about this resolution does not bode well for its success. Still. Hear me out.)

I'm good at teasing through problems; I'm great at speculating. It's probably my #1 hobby. I plunk through things on piano, I tinker through phrases on paper, I type torrentially. All in order to understand life. A worthy effort, certainly.

The problem: I'm dishonest. I don't write truthfully. I write according to what I should feel, what I ought to want, who I ought to be. And that person, the ideal me, is not afraid of anything. And she is also incapable of embarrassment. And she is never, never, never found in a place of vulnerability. And she is stunningly articulate, all the time. She is not someone who can be abandoned--that would be impossible. It's not in her vocabulary. She is not someone who suffers hurt, because she is not someone who cares. If I don't care, I can't hurt. Simple enough.

I'm such a storyteller--I rewrite everything. So I rewrite my own story, mashing my imperfect, real, hurting self down into this mold. I over-think and re-write and then use that as protection from having to feel, to participate in relationships. By writing I can control.

But relationships are messy--I mean all relationships. I can't be so concerned about maintaining control; I'll miss everything. In fact, the same goes for faith. I can't profess to follow after Christ while keeping a death grip on my safely-constructed image. Our faith hinges on the willingness to be remade in the image of Christ. That's freedom. I can't be so concerned with avoiding hurt that I miss out on that freedom.

I don't mean I'm going to stop writing. And I don't mean I'm going to stop thinking. But I want to stop over-thinking in order to rationalize away pain. I've got to release the image that holds me hostage and keeps me far away from real emotion. If a situation is hurtful, I want to give myself permission to hurt. Even if it's humiliating. Even if I'd rather lie and say I'm unscathed. If I'm angry, I give myself permission to be angry. Even if it feels futile. Even if I feel weak. And if I'm twitter-paited, or joyful, or hopeful, I want permission to be that. Without probable cause or a visible safety-net. Without an escape route. Even if I end up looking like an idiot.

A shorter metaphor with the same theme:

I hiked Mt. Wilson yesterday. I woke up this morning aware of muscles I never even knew existed. Every time I stand a different twang in my butt or shoulder resonates. But I don't really mind. I know those twangs will turn into strength I didn't have before.

And I wouldn't mind if life felt more that way. I wouldn't mind waking up with some aches I didn't know I could feel: the realization of failure and the loss of my build-up, idealized identity. I know it will hurt. I know it will turn into strength I didn't have before.

mine eyes up

teach me the word

up.

I lift mine eyes

up.

teach me the meaning

teach me seeing.

up.

at 6 I would sprawl

across the floor, pour out

the jewelry drawer, my mother's tangles

shoved into the corners, pull

at the metal lace rolled

into locked worlds.

I could sit for hours

happily freeing

chain link after chain link:

twisting, pulling, humming

lost and unable

to stop until everysingle tangle

pulled clean.

teach me the word

loss

to let it drop

and lift mine eyes

up.

hello lamppost, whatcha' knowin?

Jenny and I like to pick on our parents. In a good-natured, naggy, look-at-us-we're-adults-and-we-survived kind of way. Specifically, we harp on our mother's total failure to expose us to pop culture in our youth. I'm unaware of a grand plan on her part to keep us from modern life in the 1980s; however, her utter lack of interest in current music, movies and trends did the job as well or better than any well-hatched plot.

Instead of cassette tapes or CDs, we had records on a large, boxy stereo. It's a beautiful piece of furniture, the kind you might see in Urban Outfitters now that these things are "vintage" and therefore achingly hip.

My childhood soundtrack was, shall-we-say, not achingly hip: a mixture of John Denver, The Beatles, musical scores, (specifically Hello Dolly and The Sound of Music) and Simon and Garfunkle, Leslie Gore and the Lettermen. But this music, though not current, was very important to us. I can hardly remember a day when the record player was not on.

This morning I woke up humming one of those old songs. It's odd--I heard this record a million times, but the strongest memory I associate with "The 59th Street Bridge Song" is not the stereo at all. It's my mom singing it to me on the cement steps in our backyard.

I loved those steps. They made a lovely seat, from which I could observe the entire back yard: the alder trees, the roses and the lemon tree, the swing-set.

I remember, at around age 5, scooting down the steps one summer morning, (they were still cool from night, even though the sun was warming the grass) and finding a caterpillar. I yelped in joy at my discovery, and my mother came and sat with me to watch him nudge through the vast cement plain on which he found himself. After about three minutes of mutual, silent contemplation, she started singing me that song. She sang the whole thing. And then she stayed beside me for a bit longer in the morning summer sun, just humming.

My mother had stopped sleeping just 5 years earlier, when her mother died. She went whole nights without even getting tired, she told me later. Months it went on like that. She describes healing from that insomnia as taking her life apart, deconstructing it, every last screw, and then re-assembling everything. Quiet, more orderly, very slow. So she could sleep. So she could take care of us.

She has a lovely voice, a soft soprano. I always think of her when I hear this song. She still tells me that I need to give myself a break sometimes. I think she's right.

Slow down, you move too fast

You've got to make the moment last

just kickin down the cobblestones

looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

Hello lamppost, whatcha knowing?

I've come to watch your flowers growin'

Ain't you got no rhymes for me?

Dum da duh dum, feeling groovy.

Got no deeds to do,

no promises to keep,

I'm dappled and drowsy

and ready for sleep

let the morningtime drop

all its petals on me

Life, I love you,

all is groovy.

Life I love you, all is groovy.

a little letter love

Please enjoy the product of a particularly successful, serendipitous day of LA exploration. Not to brag or anything, but if urban letter-spotting was a sport, we'd be varsity. Nay, pro.