So Many Mothers to Me

Sheer Good Fortune - A Documentary from virginiatech on Vimeo.

Jamaal May

"you with the full ashtray/ and empty scotch glass/ for a therapist/ you must have felt it/ because you've got/ a pocket full of lottery tickets/ for a financial strategy/ a vibrator for a love life." 

— from "The Movement of a Trapped Animal."

This brotha here.

 Jamaal May.

I'm feeling heads from Detroit. Everyone says the city is dying but every time I've been there the African-American community is doing something vibrant and reverent. Maybe that's what the death of a Midwestern city looks like.

Speaking of vibrant and reverent, I am going to participate in my very first Umoja Karamu ritual tomorrow.

 The people who call Kwanzaa Black Christmas will call this Black Thanksgiving, but it's  deeper than that. It was started in 1971 by Dr. Edward Sims and it's a ritual that vibrantly and reverently honors and acknowledge Black people from slavery to the present and beyond.  



May's new book of poetry is called "Hum."

We Elegant Everywhere: Joshua Bennett at Kent

A girl in class today said she didn't like using end-rhymes because they made her feel ashamed. Then she beamed a smile satisfied with how witty it thought she was.

I drove to Kent to hear Joshua Bennett and he made a thousand brown ova swoon while brothas gave him subliminal dap when he rhymed "Ellison" and "heaven is."

He started his set off with the first lines of Lucille Clifton's "Won't You Celebrate with Me" and went into a poem he wrote after he heard the Zimmerman verdict. Since that day, two more Black people asking for help have been shot to death.

In class, we discussed whether or not a poet has the right to write beautifully about something tragic he has never experienced, say, the death of his wife from cancer. We debated whether it was dishonest because the reader is assuming the poet is writing from experience and feels cheated when the poet says, "No, no, I made that up, my wife is right here, pink and healthy."

In other news, white people have run out of shit to say and are now borrowing other people's pain.

If Joshua Bennett is any indication of his generation, they are cohorts shiny and  new with wonderful things. They care about gender issues (he asked a room full of brothas to stop cat calling women on the street--personally, I always liked catcalls); rethinking the education system; disability vs. difference; and love. Yes, love. Always love.

Joshua told of how Thomas Jefferson said that Black men where incapable of love. In that context, his every love poem was a revolutionary act against Jefferson and his legacy.

And he knew who Rilke was. :-)

Poetry on the T.V.

TV shows are using poetry to give episodes a little something something.

In the last season of Breaking Bad, an episode entitled, "Ozymandias" had everybody googling the Percy Bysshe Shelley poem and what it said about kings and empires falling did not bode well for Walter White. Mad Men titled an ep after Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus" to echo the show's themes of recreating oneself and rising from the dead (Don, Draper, anyone?). Frank O'Hara's "Meditations in an Emergency" also tent-poled an episode and thematically returned later in season 2.

  And I just finished watching a Homeland episode entitled "A Red Wheelbarrow" in which pregnant-ass Carrie got shot and Saul found Brody in Venezuela strung out on heroin; it even had a William Carlos Williams reference.  Characters tended to say "it depends" a lot.  Last week's episode was called "Gerontion" after T.S. Eliot's poem about an old man who realizes he's wasted his life.

Apparently, an M.F.A. in poetry does a body good in Hollywood writing rooms.

People watch T.V. in a different way nowadays. I've noticed I don't watch anything that I can't follow on Twitter for live-tweeting action. There's something about sharing the snark with other people who are watching that makes the experience more enjoyable. Then, I read episode recaps, listen to podcasts, and join in the hunt for the Easter eggs the writers hide in the script. So an episode named after a poem is another clue into the deeper meaning of the show that adds to my overall enjoyment of the watching.

It almost makes you curious about the poems that inspire the writers of such awesome shows. (Well, Homeland kinda sucks this season, but still.) Titling eps after poems helps me see poetry in a different light. It makes poetry seem fresher and a little more relevant to have the direct link between the poem and a fictional life I care about pointed out to me.

Huh, I'm being introduced to poems by cable television.

won't you celebrate with me

  by Lucille Clifton

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

This Lucille Clifton poem is hands down my favorite poem. Even before I read the analysis and learned of its connection to Psalm 137, this poem spoke to me because I recognized myself in it. That's kinda what plays and poems should do--show you who you are or who you could be, either as an affirmation or a cautionary tale.

Last year today, I checked myself into the psych ward at Cleveland Clinic and spent a week on the mood disorder floor at Lutheran hospital.

I remember waking up and seeing nothing but gray. I remember thinking that things--whatever things were--had to stop, that I couldn't go on that way. In the time since I made that decision, I have had many mornings and nights when I felt the same way. However, Cleveland Clinic's lame attempt at mental healthcare is no longer an option.

I'm not the only one who feels like this. Another girl in one of my classes who is also one of the few African Americans in the program casually mentioned to me before the start of one class that she had done the same thing over the weekend. I gave her my number and told her to call me if she ever felt that way again, but she never did.

Even if I were the only one who struggled with this, I'm just learning that what I feel is real and valid.

"born in babylon/ both nonwhite and woman/"

I sat in a class and a teacher, who is kind and funny and well-traveled and who I like, looked at me and looked at the syllabus and realized he had chosen no plays by African Americans (or people of color, for that matter). And when he added one, he chose a play by a Black Gay man.  And yesterday, I sat in a meeting at work in which examples of couples where given and not one Black or Latino face was shown. The person who put together the presentation is kind and very nice.

I'm not angry--though people assume if a Black woman points out that people deny her existence on an hourly basis, she suddenly comes to life in the guise of the Angry Black Woman.  I'm just realizing the cost this has had on my soul. This constant being the only Black in the room. Every day, I look for myself and I am not there.

"something has tried to kill me"

I was in Mac's Backs looking for a book to research a play I'm thinking about writing, and I saw another book about emotional abuse. I picked it up and thumbed through it. Resisting the urge to read yet another self-help tome, I left it in the store. But something in it kept nagging at me. Eventually, I got up, went back out and bought it.

I am not relishing playing the victim. Nor do I want anyone to feel sorry for me. But I am trying to understand why I am the way I am and how I ended up where I am. The book talked about being in a relationship with someone who treated you like an enemy. A light went on, the same way it did when Greg explained play structure to me. It's exactly the way I felt whenever I was around Michael.

When you are in a relationship with this kind of person, they will do things that make you think you are crazy. Since they are in a relationship with you, you assume they like you and mean you no harm.  But you are wrong. The book went on to describe every single conversation and interaction Michael and I ever had. The parsing of words, constantly having to explain myself, the sudden outbursts of anger, the withholding and belittling. I once remember joking that if I said, "Today is Tuesday," Michael would say, "Sure, if you want to use the Gregorian calendar."

He'd do things that made no sense like sneak into my plays before the curtain went up and sneak out before curtain call so that I wouldn't know he'd been there. Since he's 6'6", my friends saw him and told me he was there. When we got back together, which precipitated my stay in the psych ward, he'd tell me things like "Stop hanging around Cleveland State, you don't need to be there," or only communicate by text and suddenly stop communicating all together. To some extent, Don did these things as well. And these things happened in private, so I had nothing to check them against other than feeling like I wanted to die.

It's also the way I grew up. The way my father treated me until the day he died. Even my mother shamed me and contributed to the crazy-making simply by refusing to divorce my father, even after he went to prison for selling narcotics through his medical practice.

"I had no model"

Being in these kinds of relationships and this environment destroys the spirit. It makes you sit up one morning and see nothing but gray. It disconnects you from God's power to do the miraculous things He is always doing. I was in a meeting and I forget what I said, but a manager looked at me and said, "Lisa, I'm not arguing with you." I was taken aback because I realized that I was operating in a defensive mode in my every day life. My father was dead, Michael was gone, and I was still acting as if I had to fight to survive or avoid the punishment of isolation.

And it didn't help that two women I thought were my closest friends completely and utterly left my life, not asking about my health after I had been hospitalized or offering condolences when my father died.

It freaks me out because I wonder what is wrong with me that I can ferret out people who treat me this way. But then I try to remember the people who stepped up and surprised me with their kindness and friendship, the professors who offer a diverse syllabus without a second thought, the eye-popping miracles God drops on me like rain every once in a while.

"won't you celebrate with me."

bell hooks and Melissa Harris Perry

These two women gave me LIFE today. bell hooks and Melissa Harris-Perry were at the New School discussing Black Womanity.

It was interesting to hear some of the theory I've been reading referenced and discussed. It made me realize that it would be engaging to read theory and apply it to things I'm interested in, like Black Studies and theology.

I'm almost 50 and every time I go to school to study something, I always dance around these two subjects--the two subjects I'm most interested in. Duh.

Another reason I enjoyed seeing these two discuss Black women and the things we care about is because I spend so little time in the company of Black women. It's always me and one other Black girl and we are, on some level, aware of our trophy-like status. You know, whatever company, department, or program we're in gets to check off its diversity efforts with a Black and female twofer. Women befriend one another. Trophies eye each other suspiciously, aware of the precarious nature of their status. That's more than lonely; it's stressful.

I love that hooks said we must find ways to revere and honor masculinity that exists outside the patriarchy. I love the thinking this woman has done about Black on Black love. How to put that theory into practice--that's the question. And they spoke of the individual, personal, human costs of being a Black woman. Don't get it wrong, there are joys—we are the funniest, lovingest, laughingest, silk-out-of-a-sow's-ear folk ever in existence. But needing that tear wiped, and that shoulder rubbed, and that forehead kissed.

I was driving home and my chest was hurting and I thought about stopping to buy myself some flowers, you know that, I don't need a man I can buy my own flowers bull shit they tell you you're supposed to do when you're single and not feeling it. And it came to me as clear as day: it's not the buying, it's the giving; it's not the cumming, it's the caring. It's not marriage; it's being chosen. That is what is missing and what is making this experience feel barren and grey.

I don't know.

Venus In PASTO

Just got back from Venus in Fur, by David Ives.

I know little about the structure of a play, which is funny, because when I was acting, I always memorized the play. I knew I was ready for opening night when I went for a run and could run the whole play in my head (I'd skip the scenes I wasn't in, lol). So, I was aware of the structure on some level, but never made a conscious effort to understand how the playwright had constructed the play. I approached the play in terms of my character's history and objectives, as an actor should.

So, most mornings, I go to get coffee with my work buddy, Greg. Greg has an M.F.A. in play-writing from U.N.L.V.  And, in turn, I have a B.F.A. (Buy the Fucker A coffee and ask him a lot of shit.).  One walk, he casually tossed off PASTO.  Sixteen lights went on in my head. You don't know what you don't know.

Ken Macgowan came up with PASTO in his "A Primer of Playwriting" and UNLV professor Davey Marlin-Jones taught it to his students. I'm lucky Greg was all up in that mix.

So, let me PASTO "Venus."

Preparation: Thomas, the writer/director of an adaptation of a kinky 19th century German novel, is on the phone with his fiancee. He lays out that he is a) looking for an actress to play Wanda and b) can't find one who can handle the role. He says all the women are young, uninformed, and talk like valley girls.

Action: In walks young, not-to-bright, colloquially rich (and coincidentally named) actress Wanda, hours late.

Struggle: Wanda begs for an audition and Thomas balks. Thomas gives in and Wanda is terrific! The play is kinda sexy to them. They slip in and out of the present day and play-acting and shift power back and forth. Thomas' fiancee, Stacey calls. Wanda calls her "significant other." Wanda tells Thomas the play is really about his own desire to be dominated. Thomas doesn't like that Wanda is right. In a passionate exchange, Thomas calls Wanda a stupid idiot. Wanda is hurt. Eventually Wanda confesses to spying on Thomas for Stacey. Thomas asks Wanda to stay and finish the play. They become more turned on.

Turn: Stacey tells Thomas to call Stacey and tell her he is not coming home. Thomas resists, but gives in.

Outcome: They engage in some S&M and Wanda turns out to be the goddess Aphrodite.

OMG! That's amazing!!!!

I went to see the play with my friend and classmate, Deb. She thought the turn happened at a different point and she's not wrong.

And I'm studying adaptation with the awesome Eric Schmiedl. His theory is that a work has a heart and the bones are the structure and the breath is the way it's told. Heart, bones, breath. The heart of this play: two people's passion coming up against each other. The bones: playwright and actress in an audition. The breath: the S&M power play of desire. OMG!!!!

This really helps me understand how a play is constructed and adapted.

Steve Roggenbuck

This is always my question: what is "good" poetry? Just like someone told me to say "isn't" instead of "ain't" somewhere there is someone who wrote down what makes a poem a poem ( a play a play, a novel a novel, etc.). I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that, because if you teach someone the rules, they might break them in a fascinating way. Like Nadia Comaneci.

Man, I was obsessed with her when I was a kid. I was fat, Black and, still, I signed up for gymnastics like Bela Karolyi was gonna ready me up for the next Olympics. Anyway, Nadia followed the exact same rules and regulations that, say, Cathy Rigby did, but she blew the sport out of the water with her perfection and personality. No one said, "I don't know, Nadia, what does a round-off look like to you?" They said, "Point your foot like this!" (and  Bela probably cussed her out a time or two) and she came up with something amazing.

That said, here comes Steve Roggenbuck.  He's got Justin Beiber hair, big grey/blue eyes, and a heap of 26 year-old energy and passion. He was in an M.F.A. program and his professor read one of his pieces and told him to "save it for his blog." So he quit the program and took to the You Tubes with his slam/rant/exultation poetry words.

Now, this is America. And this boy is young, cute, and media savvy enough to catch Gawker and The Atlantic's attention. He's got a good fifteen minutes coming to him. But what if that prof had said, "Here, try this. I know, at first, you're going to be copying [very important poet] but see where these rules meet your passion."  Maybe he'd be a celebrated poet. Maybe he'd be a fifth grade English teacher in Flint, Michigan (not a bad thing).  Maybe he will really stick to it and come up with a new form of poetry. Maybe he'll end up the new Chocolate Rain guy.

I was just thinking.

The Center Has to Hold

This week's reading? Derrida.

Yikes.

I'm interested in Derrida's post-structuralist contributions, but I read some of "Plato's Pharmacy" at the beginning of the semester and his work is not something you casually dip into.  Seems like you would need years of grad school toiling to get a handle on him.

So let's do the Jeopardy/Cocktail Party summary, shall we? (note, I know my JCP summaries are often wrong, but I just want to give you enough buzzwords to bullshit the asshole would talk about this shit at a party anyway.)

Jacques Derrida was born to a Jewish family in Algiers. (So was Helene Cixous, so there must have been something about Antisemitism in that French colony that got people thinking differently.) Dude failed his baccalaureate, then spent his time reading stuff he was really interested in, like Rousseau, Gide, Camus, and Nietzsche.  Fast forward, dude gets into some good schools, studies then blows everybody's mind with Deconstructionism in 1966. (Wow, I am as old as Deconstructionism.)

Deconstruction is, I guess, a way of challenging the Western way of thinking. Derrida showed how all centers (the things we take as the ultimate: God, straight white men, beauty) are problematic because they marginalize other concepts. Instead, Derrida advocates the Play of Binary Opposites, where the center and the marginalized  do this funky kind of dance like this:

Is it two faces? Or a candle stick? Is it good or is it evil? Is it heaven or is it hell? You get the picture. Then, Derrida would write stuff and cross it out, put it Under Erasure to show that the words he was using were inadequate to explain what he was trying to explain but he still had to use them.

Shit, go here, because this dude explained it better than I ever could.

Here's my problem —look, I like Derrida and I'm glad his method of analysis ushered in an era of challenging the canon and inclusion —but ain't nobody got time for that in real life.

There is a Center in this country and if you are one of the marginalized, your safety depends on you knowing the rules and, even then, you might still be in danger. For example, when I learned how to drive, my mother, like many Black mothers, taught me how to behave when I was stopped by the police: put my hands on the steering wheel, be polite, comply with the officer. But when I was out with my white friends, I saw how they behaved when stopped by the police —challenging, annoyed, even belligerent a few times. They could bump up against the center of the traffic cop's authority. My Black ass, on the binary opposite other hand, needed to know where the Center was and what its rules were or else I might find myself in jail or worse.

Another example is 12 Years a Slave, which I saw this weekend.

Go see it.

Solomon Northrup knew the center: white men. He even experienced the binary play of opposites (I think) as a free Black Man in a country that enslaved most of its Black citizens. But when Northrup was kidnapped and sold into slavery, he had to locate the Center, figure out its rules, and strictly adhere to them just to survive long enough for Brad Pitt to come and save him. I think that is the experience of many marginalized peoples.

Nothing wrong with deconstructing things in the safety of my mind, though.

Nikki Giovanni

Despite my aversion to poetry, I love Nikki Giovanni.

When I was a little girl, I was driving in the car with my mother and one of Nikki Giovanni's song/poems came on the radio (I know, right? A time when radio stations had the autonomy to play poetry, r&b, rock, soul, the whole side of an album, or whatever tickled the DJ's fancy).  It said something about feeling like a cow chosen by Carnation every time she was kissed on that spot behind her knee. My mother smiled a funny way that suggested she had felt that kinda way.  I remember thinking why would anybody kiss your knees? (I get it now and could do with some knee kissing myself. Check out the poem here.).

I went to hear Ms. Giovanni speak last night.The thing I like about her is that she has lived until she has exactly zero fucks to give. Like many who came of age in the Sixties, she is a race woman and unapologetic about being so. She said if she were to be sent somewhere outside this universe and she could only take one person, she'd take a Negro because we're good people, fun, friendly and we'd find a way to get along (She used Negro, Black, and Colored interchangeably and if you grew up with those words like she did, I think you should).

At first, I found myself getting anxious for the white people in the audience. But, in retrospect, I see what she was doing. She was letting Black people exist in a space not defined by whites. She has amassed enough power to flip the usual dynamic on its head and let them be the outsiders who monitor their behavior around "the other." I had been angry--I mean like Mercury-is-in-fucking-retrograde angry--for two days from not having a space to be myself in and a combination of crying, praying, and sitting in Nikki's presence released that from me.

What I love, love, love about her is that, though she creates space for us to be us, she loved us too much to let us stay us (you don't hear me!). She subtly challenged homophobia in the Black community, even calling out T.D. Jakes. She did that. In the Warrensville Public Library. And those good Christian Deltas just oo-ooped her and didn't say a word, (hush now.)

I bought her books Chasing Utopia ( Utopia is a beer, not a society) and On My Journey Now. 

I Am Not A Feminist

The reading this week was from three feminist authoresses (yes, I lady-ed up their titles.) Let's get a quick Jeopardy/cocktail party overview of them:

First up is Monique Wittig. In addition to being a novelist, Ms. Wittig's is also known for shocking the Modern Language Association convention in 1978 with her radical lesbian proclamation: "Lesbians are not women," which she explores in the essay, "One Is Not Born a Woman."  There is some Hegelian somersaulting going on there, but, really, I don't care.

Next up: Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar. Together, these two gals authoressed The Madwoman in the Attic. G & G suggest 19th century authoresses wrote at great peril to their psychic selves because of "the patriarchal authority of art," but, really, I don't care.

Finally, Helene Cixous. I like her the most because she's pretty, and she doesn't presume white privilege the way the other authoresses and theoretician-ettes do. Being Jewish, French, and Algerian, she explored things in terms of "multiple alterity [the state of being other or different; otherness]constituted by the logic of nationality." She'd probably be annoyed that I called her French and Algerian, but this is the cocktail party version, not a dissertation.

I'm not a feminist. I took some class way back in college where I learned that white suffragettes threw the cares and concerns of women of color under the bus in pursuit of voting rights.  That was enough for me to see being a feminist would have me end up old, fat and alone (hey, waitaminute...).

I'm much more interested in this take on privilege, white women, Black women and slavery on Jezebel by the awesome Michaela Angela Davis.  Or this book, Out of the House of Bondage, by Thavolia Glymph, in which she discusses how "plantation mistresses—typically portrayed by historians as removed and not part of the slaveocracy—who, were, in fact, the major culprits of these violent acts and executed their power against enslaved women."  Or Black Feminist Thought by Patricia Hill Collins, which one day I hope to read. 

The New Critics

Ooh. I been slacking and laid-backing. 

My nerves are bad.  Lot going on.

Anyhoo, this week, we're reading critical theory essays by T.S. Elliot, John Crowe Ransom, and Martin Heidegger. I haven't finished Heidegger yet, mostly because he was a Nazi and I figured I was about due a break when I got to that little tidbit.

But this Ransom cat. Wrote a tongue-in-cheek essay in 1937 called "Criticism, Inc." He said we should study the text and not the text's history or effect on an audience and certainly not its moral value. He and his road dawgs (Eric Bentley, Cleanth Brooks, etc.) were called The New Critics. New Criticism was kind of a response to The New Humanists, who believed the classics were the only worthwhile art. Irving Babbitt, a Harvard professor, was the chief proponent of New Humanism and kind of a prig.

Sinclair Lewis was down with The New Critics.  So much so, that when he wrote his famous satire of American middle class life, he named the lead character Babbitt  —completely obscuring Irving's contributions to the critical theory and forever linking him to his buffoonish literary namesake.  

Sinclair Lewis is hella zany.

Six Word Stories

One of our assignments this week is to tell a six word story. You know the famous Hemingway (or whoever) one:

For sale.
Baby shoes.
Never worn.

That's just so perfect that mine always seemed to suck in comparison. 

But since I have to write five a day for the next week, I tried to look at what makes Hemingway's so great.  First, it's got a clear beginning, middle, and end.  More importantly, as my friend Greg pointed out, it builds and then has a satisfying pay off: "Hey, look, someone's selling something. Baby shoes? That's weird, I wonder why they —oh, they were...never worn. Sigh."

Here's one I came up with.

First date.
Great chemistry.
Loud fart.

Stuck

I used to have a blog. It was called Ephphatha and I wrote about Black folk, mental health, pop culture, and foolishness. Sometimes I wish I still had it because untreated mental illness is running rampant lately. Miriam Carey, the young mother who rammed her car into barricades and was shot to death; Joseph Constantino, the elderly man who set himself on fire on the National Mall.

I used to wake up every day with something on my mind or something that I saw on the internet and I'd write up a storm, like I knew what the hell I was talking about. Don't get me wrong, it was a good blog; The Plain Dealer asked to link to it and I was labeled a Northeast Ohio blogger. Most of the people I started blogging with are either dead (R.I.P. Undercover Blackman) or they've figured out how to monetize their blogs or they've moved on to grad school across the country.

And here I am. Stuck? Stuck. Stuck? I don't know.  I know, that my life changed irrevocably over the last 16 months. I made a bad decision; I moved; a relationship ended; I went apeshit crazy; the last of my family died (it was just my dad and he was an asshole anyway) and here I am back in Cleveland Heights, back on a blog.

I know I just don't care about stuff the way I used to.

I'm trying to find a poem about being stuck. (Ugh, don't ever go looking for a poem on poemhunter.com. LOL. It full of the kind of poems your emo-niece writes two days before her period.)

I can't find one, but I did come across this poem by Patricia Smith.

They Romp with Wooly Canines

and spy whole lifetimes on the undersides of leaves. Jazz intrudes, stank clogging that neat procession of lush and flutter. His eyes, siphoned and dimming, demand that he accept ardor as it is presented, with its tear-splashed borders and stilted lists, romance that is only on the agenda because hours do not stop. Bless his sliver of soul. He’s nabbed a sizzling matron who grays as we watch, a thick-ankled New England whoop, muscled to suffer his stifling missionary weight. Earth-smudged behind the wheel of her pickup, she hums a tune that rhymes dots of dinner trapped in his beard with twilight. Is it still a collision course if you must lie down to rest? Bless her as she tries on his name for size and plucks hairs from her chin. Bless him as he barrels toward yet another wife who will someday realize, idly, that her only purpose in this dwindling novella of his days is to someday lower his heralded bulk, with little fanfare, into a grave. 

I like that line, "Bless her as she tries on his name for size and plucks hairs from her chin." And the  part about suffering under his "stifling missionary weight."

We read David Hume's Of the Standard of Taste. It talks about how one should be able to discern whether or not something has value. It's wrong in a thousand ways. And right, too. One of the good points was about immersing yourself in a particular field of study so that you can contrast and compare and speak on what's good with some oomph behind it. Maybe that's what I'm doing.

Wouldn't it be cool if I developed some kind of insane passion for poetry and I understood my life's purpose? Hahaha. No.

Kevin Varrone Poem

OK, so far, it seems what I like about a poem is that it's short, in English, and sexy in a non-slutty way. Sensuous, I guess you'd call it. And I like poems about love. 

I hate love. 

When I am in what I frequently mistake for love, I write all kinda of poems. And I think they're good, too, because they make me feel like I'm sitting on a peach and soaking in the juice.  But I haven't written a love poem in a long, long time. Not since 2008. Ugh, I know exactly who he is and he is worse for me than rotten teeth, but when I get to thinking about his skin, spread like dark loam over bone and sinew...don't tell him, but a tiny part of me is still holding out for a meaningless romp with him. 

Wait, what? This is for school. Loins be still.

Today's poem is by Kevin Varrone.

poem I wrote sitting across the table from you

if I had two nickels to rub together
I would rub them together

like a kid rubs sticks together
until friction made combustion

and they burned

a hole in my pocket

into which I would put my hand
and then my arm

and eventually my whole self–– 
I would fold myself

into the hole in my pocket and disappear

into the pocket of myself, or at least my pants

but before I did

like some ancient star

I’d grab your hand 


Now, I don't know the ins and outs of why this is a poem. I don't know if it meters, why he broke the lines the way he did, and all that. But I like the image of a man reaching through a burned hole in his pocket to disappear and then grabbing his woman's hand right before he did. 

Affirmation by Donald Hall

Like I said, I hate poetry. Well, I like Nikki Giovanni. And Lucille Clifton. And Maya Angelou in small doses. And my friend Kamilah Aisha Moon (go buy her book!).

 I just don't know a lot of poetry. And when my eyes start glaze over from all those verse or really obfuscatory words, well, I'm not going to know it.

But this poem, it made me feel some kinda way. It's by Donald Hall and it's called "Affirmation."

To grow old is to lose everything. 
Aging, everybody knows it. 
Even when we are young, 
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads 
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer 
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters 
into debris on the shore, 
and a friend from school drops 
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us 
past middle age, our wife will die 
at her strongest and most beautiful. 
New women come and go. All go. 
The pretty lover who announces 
that she is temporary
is temporary. The bold woman,
middle-aged against our old age,
sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand. 
Another friend of decades estranges himself 
in words that pollute thirty years. 
Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge 
and affirm that it is fitting
and delicious to lose everything.

I like because I'm getting old. And, this past year, I lost just about everything, starting with my damn mind. I also started rowing, you know, crew, oars, boats, all that. So, the metaphor he uses trips my trigger (and if you've ever rowed on the Cuyahoga after a summer rainstorm, you know all about polluted waters and debris on the shore!). 

But it's the idea of things drifting away — relationships failing, family dying, friends turning — and realizing there's nothing to do but declare it "fitting and delicious."  Well, that just gave me LIFE, y'all.

Ferdinand de Saussure: What's He Talking About?

Ha ha, get it, what's he talking about? Saussure? The father of semiotics?  I'm not so sure (get it?) I get it, so maybe that's why the joke wasn't funny.

The main text for class is the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, which has the kind of tiny, hard-to-read type that suggests graduate degrees should only be pursued by people under 40. After reading the assignment in Norton, the thing I'll guess on Jeopardy about Saussure is that there is the idea of the sign, signified, and signifier. 

I'm sure this is wrong on so many levels, but I think it's like me saying, since I'm a spinster, it would be nice to have a small, furry thing to love. The sign and signifier are the letters that make up the name we have for that small, furry thing: CAT. The small, furry thing itself (in my case, her name is Fran) and all the love, petting, purring, and litter box cleaning that fill my empty days is the signified. (This is hella convoluted. For a better example go here)  

Saussure also says signs are arbitrary because if I were in Spain, I'd be calling Fran el gato. I just happen to live in Cleveland where small, furry things taken care of by lonely, older women are called cats. If you had a naughty thought about lonely, older women's small, furry things, that's okay! You just made a postmodern critique of Saussure's theory which argues Saussure leaves out the small linguistic differences that take into consideration 21st century slang and gender politics and so on.

Like I said, I could be seven different kinds of wrong about this and I'm foolish enough to publish it on the internets. If you know more, tell me.

Poetry? No Thanks, I'm Full.

Ugh, I hate poetry.

Okay, I don't hate it, but knowing that I have a finite number of years of sightedness and no known proficiency for braille, I'd rather fix my eyes on something more enjoyable, like a good book with densely worded pages.

But, I'm in an MFA program and I'm taking a poetry craft and theory course and I hafta do a final project, so here it is. A blog. 

How positively 2006 of me.

Here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to blog every day for a month. Easy enough. I'm going to blog about the reading assignments and I'm going to try to find poems that make me feel some kinda way and see if I can't gain a finer appreciation for poetry.

There you have it.