Ulysses
~Mary Ruefle

Dropped down and hauled up, dripping
like a tea bag.
And if he is a little darker now, more obscure, quieter,
it doesn’t mean he is gone from us.
Don’t you think every butterfly you’ve ever seen
is the same one?


~I looked out my window this morning and knew that the day was written in poems. The type of poem you never write down, you scribble inside your mind and reread only upon deep sleep. The sun hurt my eyes, but I could still see the throng of crows that swarmed in like bees near the edge of construction laden building crevices. I could hear them screaming and singing at the same time. Why this continual land and flight off the edges of the red tinted oak? They were in constant motion, and I couldn’t tell one from the other. The black blemishes on the blue sky weren’t so much distracting as they were confirming. Imperfections authenticate beauty. Someone asks for a phone call in five minutes. Someone asks for the answer to world hunger. Someone asks for a poem about the prairie. Someone asks to see more of belief written in black on white. Someone asks the meaning of the word “humble.” I would create new worlds with my pen, but that doesn’t erase my old manuscripts. Watching the birds I imagined myself walking among them. We were holding hands; the sun was stagnant on the horizon and casting barbed wire shadows across our dusty faces. They were taking us to the tree, past all the rubble. They were calling to us with that terrible noise. And we were soaking it in. We were not yet gone. ~

The blog has been a bit neglected of late. I would apologize, but I know that no one has time to read it anyway.

Thinking is sometimes a disease, and lately I have been plagued by it. What is there to think about you might ask? Everything. For example, I think that I wander almost directionless through my studies and my life trying to get a sense of my place in this mess of a world. And in reality, I know my place; I just haven’t gotten there yet. I want to make a difference, to someone. I want to change the world. I feel ignorant for thinking that I can do this. How can I? Am I already? Are these books going to help me? The thinking continues. Why might I even consider blogging about this? Probably because I assume that a lot of people feel the same way and can relate. There are too many variables in life to make complete sense of them all. The equation is muddled and mine is missing an equal sign.

Free write poems are never very good, although I think the intentions behind them are well grounded. Perhaps I'll go back and edit edit edit this one until I have something that is actually well-written. For now, I give you the raw thoughts. The format of the blog has changed how the poem looks, removing the gap syntax and appropriate line breaks. Keep that in mind.


Kissing Earthworms


images swim like this
through soil—it is riding the bus to the rhythm of the mentally ill girl in the back with the snake tattoo on her neck
calm

we write about our pathetic experience
wondering the truth in those books the child soldiers publish
could I aim a gum at a human?
it is easier to aim words words are (less vulnerable) weapons

sky folds over itself
we walk, because country air is crisp
in red fall grass we don’t feel what happens across the ocean

I want to feel the worms moving beneath my toes
we walk above
inside damp shadows they are sleeping

the ink snake is motionless only glares and stares trespass on his universe
a hum the treacherous steps my hand helping her balance

earthworms used to be ground into cosmetics
children are taught to be bombs

and on dry days I eat dirt tasting for minerals chewing
microbes for strength and steady hand

I could engrave with needs fire pistols

the black snake is staring at me
it knows its place.

There is something to be said for thunder (echo or alarm). There is something to be said for wine and cake. I’ll try not to put much thought into this post. Just a mess of words on a Saturday morning...My birthday is coming, and I wish I had time to read. Is getting older losing something or gaining something? Why don’t I mourn getting older each day that passes, but instead feel the burden of age on just one day of the year? I know I am not old yet, but age is relative. I feel I’ve missed something because I’ve been trying so hard to get there. If I were Simone de Beauvoir writing letters to Sartre, maybe I would throw it all out the window for the reality of physical and spiritual intimacy combined, titles and all. Maybe. Maybe Closet poets don’t always write on the page, but always write on the sky. When I close my eyes I can see a number line. The red arrow is pointing forward—toward another year?—death—a chance to do it all? If we could accomplish everything within the same network of time…maybe then we’d get a better sense of the world. Splashing through puddles while learning to play the mandolin…speaking Portuguese while painting a cornucopia in surrealist style. I’ll add a lobster to my canvas just to emulate Dalí. Using derivatives to build pristine bridges and detailing the human genome…Using pathogens to study immunity in plants and plants to cure disease in humans…listening to thunder and whales with the same musical criticism.

This excerpt from “A Speech about the Moon,” by Chelsey Minnis sums my feelings up nicely:

I think, “I am going to sleep” and “I am dreaming about grey hair.” and I lie very still for a while. I think, “I can strew daises in grew hair…”

Then I start to cry and the tears flow down to my teeth. I think, “Everyone has to bite silver mesh.”

I constantly try to think, “Fish are resting in the sea.” Or “Some fish are just hanging in the sea.”

And I lie very still and tell myself, “…In the middle of the night…it is totally quiet… noe crabs are coming towards you…”

Then I sit up and cup my hands over my nose and shake my head slowly back and forth.

The world rises up on both sides of me. I think, “I have to die.”

Then I lie in a position for a while.

everything the same

It is strange how things can seem the same. Take for example, pale white steps in the middle of the prairie reminding you of the precise cascade of stairs leading to the temple of the sun at Machu Picchu…how a small beetle descending a rock can remind you of a crab conquering a mountain of coral. The way a particular smell is the exact same as the smell of a trip to Montana...how a new face has your mother’s eyes. Is it form or function that brings up past memories, turning the new into shadows of something else? Then of course there are the déjà vu moments that make the present feel like the past. Are we just reliving the same...? I am not sure where I am going with this really, just that where you are is always like somewhere you have already been—at least somehow. I find that music is the same. One song blends into another. Lyrics are poems I wrote in my sleep. Melodies are like archetypes used over and over. I wonder if this takes the mystery out of life...How our minds are constantly comparing each moment to moment, experience to experience. Nothing is separate. Nothing is unique. On the other hand, perhaps, it is our ability to relate that gives life consistency or provides peace of mind. Does it allow for the metaphor? Maybe it can make us feel at home wherever we are. Maybe, similarities can help us find comfort even in strangeness. Or perhaps, it explains why we favor certain things, developing a taste for one style over another. Is it because of our past experience? G and I have been discussing lyrics and purpose lately. Cocorosie sings the following and I swear I’ve been there. Dreaming and breathing these thoughts and feelings—or at least something similar…

“I dreamt one thousand basketball courts”

“your hot kiss in mid December/what's god's name i can't remember”
Cocorosie (K-Hole)

Bird for Thought

Today L and I discovered the following:

A group of crows can be called a “murder”

A group of ravens can be called an “unkindness”

Do you think that this says something about how afraid we are of the color black? Or perhaps, these birds have and always will be associated with death. Maybe it digs deeper than that. Is it the screech and claw and feather beatings of our nightmares that give these birds such a bad reputation? Am I being melodramatic? Then why in the world is a group of crows called a murder!

S, my other roommate, loves furry animals but hates "bugs and birds." I am now wondering why birds get such a bad rap. Think Hitchcock, Poe, Leda and the Swan etc. I mean… no birds have ever deliberately attacked me. Wait, that is a lie. Wally, the semi-tame, but clearly still wild, macaw I encountered in Peru made a malicious swipe at my shoelace on two occasions. Other than that, however, I have never had a sore encounter with your average robin. I guess I have always wondered about pigeons. Shall we call them, "dodgy" birds? Try your hand at sitting in San Marco Square in Venice for an hour or so in May. The pigeons are mating and it looks like a battle-field. I am not exaggerating when I say that they will mate with the first thing that flaps a wing (or a wrapper, hat, purse). They mate in a giant frenzy, only stopping to eat the scraps of day old panini off the ground. And yet, when it is all said and done, I don't know where they go. The infrastructure of pigeon populations seems ultimately chaotic. Is there a family system? Some people call them, “rats of the sky,” and fittingly so. I mean, do they actually come out big? Has anyone ever seen a baby pigeon? I certainly haven’t. Nor have I seen a baby rat, come to think of it.

Ok, so I haven't defended birds very well. Nevertheless, I think we can learn a lot from birds…from the mechanism of flight for one, to something about their amazing ability to maximize VO2 uptake levels or even more how they look down on the world. They can almost see it all. What does feather color matter anyway. Ravens and crows are just birds. And most birds are delightful. Plus, who can resist the music?

Reflections on a Friday:

The missing spot—when someone dies. How can anything be more important than a connection? We forget about people…for days…months…years and then, unexpectedly, they die. Reflecting back on a person is really painting a masterpiece of memories. The most poignant are those that are cemented or engraved in our minds and will forever describe that person. In my case, they are usually conversations had on long walks in the mountains…the sounds the person made when eating ice cream, or the way their hands looked as they played the piano. We all love things and do things in our lives, but the moments that we share with others are truly remembered. I remember learning square roots on a hike around Monarch Lake like it was yesterday and the awkward way that someone can bend their knees when preparing for a putt in mini-golf (only the real golfers even aim in mini-golf). Even though I missed years of this person’s life, fond memories can fill in gaps. It makes me want to treasure the small moments, the unique habits, and meaningful conversations with the people that surround me today. It reminds me to keep in better touch with the people that I love and miss.

The Belief Project:

Spurred by interesting conversations with L and G in the past week, I have started a miniature study/project to better understand belief. What is it that we all believe? Is not believing something a belief? Even if we are different in lifestyle, religion, personal experience, and personal choice, are there not a few core values or beliefs that remain the same? What is belief and how does it differ from person to person, religion to science, child to adult, woman to man? What is the difference between what we actually believe in and what we think we are supposed to believe? What are the silly, nonsensical things that we believe? What about the abstract notions that we have about the world? Does writing our beliefs down make them real? The grand scheme of questions that surfaced as a result of some brief conversations that I had this week led to the development of what I will call The Belief Project. While the project may initially lack in creativity (with its title at least), I think the result will be interesting. I hope that the apposition of different belief sets will lend itself to a new understanding of belief as a whole. If a poem is a universe, perhaps we can look at belief from a new perspective.
Additional thoughts?

There are moments that become photographs and words that become tattoos. I have always thought that we are walking around wearing a million scars...Invisible, but present. What about that song that hits you in just the right way? Does it leave a dent?
You were right. I should add something that I have written to this blog. And so, below the epigraph by Adrienne Rich, you will find it.


Give me your living hand If I could take the hour
death moved into you undeclared, unnamed
—even if sweet, if I could take that hour
between my forceps tear at it like a monster
wrench it out of your flesh dissolve its shape in quicklime
and make you well again
~Adrienne Rich (“In Memoriam”)


I would—

give you the kite. from childhood. the parrot
we flew. dancing, feathers of plastic,
casting blue and red shadows
on breezy summer grass.
our fingers imitating the beating wings
like voices casting diamonds across the fence.

pretending we were all
parrots, the park less empty—
you weren’t one to chase the wind.

before the crash of rainbow energy with sand, with weeds,
before the snag and squeal
watching parrots soar far beyond reach
into crystalline weightlessness
past this universe—

we shared this moment.

Speculative Philosophy on Coupled Dynamics

Someone is always saying that existentialism is humanism. Someone is always writing prose. Why on such an odd day, would I receive the following poem from a person so far estranged that I had nearly forgotten his face? Perhaps it is because this poem is my life in masculine pronouns. I read it four times. I am compelled to share it.

So Long

I look down at my hand and there's a wrinkling ocean in it.
A halcyon nest rocks on careless waves.
Small in the bottom of the nest, fledgling, my father curls.
He doesn't look so good.
What I say, what he says, what does it matter?
I've got this ocean in my hand, and there's no cure for that.

-James Galvin, from "X"