Our House

I woke up late this morning, my head pounding with the infection that so often takes up residence in my sinuses, despite the surgery, compounded probably by the exposed nerves of my second molar, top right (the root canal is on Friday; I've given up a chance to road trip through the south west to LA to do the responsible thing and fix my tooth).

I drank coffee at the coffee drinking table, and ate a bowl of flax and amaranth corn flakes, sweetened with Agave nectar, because I used to be punk rock, but now I shop at Whole Foods and Fairway, and take Fish Oil supplements, in spite of my lack of steady income.

The siren call of which I fight every day. Health insurance that isn't Cobra. Money to spare every week. Money to save, if I can figure out a way not to spend it all on toys from Apple, on accessories for my Weber Smokey Mountain, on hydraulic fluid electricity generating bicycle trainers, on new motorcycles.

I read in the New Yorker that a social gathering once a month brought an increase in happiness equivalent to doubling your salary. I would love to believe that, deep deep deep within me.

I would not have this time at my desk, surrounded by books and pictures and two computers and cats and music and long leisurely mornings writing and drinking coffee and watching tv, and running errands if it comes to it. I wouldn't have my writing group.

I wouldn't have the fear of where the next job is coming from and will I make my rent and keep my health insurance.

But I spit poetry and prose, when I write, I do. Less so when I'm working, granted--then I wake up and I do my ablutions and work and come home and read and sleep and watch television on the internet.

But when I'm off...

I said I wouldn't explain my poems, but this is my poem. All of it.


Our House

When we grow up

there will be a place for us.

Wooded--not quite suburban

but near enough (for jobs, and such).

Birds through morning quiet,

rain on skylights. Dark coffee.

A clearing with a house,

and outbuildings.

And stepping onto the porch

in my long johns,

and boots open at the top,

I watch the air cloud at my mouth.

The day begins,

in our place.

But first,

a way to get there.

Autumn Sky Poetry Submission Revision

I received some generous criticism from an editor with whom I had what may have been the first ever twitter feud involving an online poetry journal. I tried a couple of major cuts with "Sylvia," which I think improve the poem greatly. I made a minor revision to the last line of "Sundries." As for "Your English Background," and "The Gift," they were described as, "more like descriptive lists than poems to me. There was no human connection, no point. They're lovely exercises in the use of language and imagery, but I'm usually looking for something more." 

I agree, to some extent with "The Gift." I'm not entirely happy with the way the poem turned out. I'll describe my intent, only because this blog is an exercise in revision and feedback and, as a think I say somewhere in the blog "description," an "online workshop." So this is the part where I get to defend my work, explain my intent, and see if it resonates or not. I have no problem accepting a poem as failed, if the intent is lost, or so vague that the reader draws nothing from it. 

My intent with "The Gift" was too address my fear of giving too much of myself to Kristina. It's about the parts of myself that I'm afraid to let go of. It's about giving myself to her, but telling her that there are parts of me that she can never touch. Maybe that's using poetry as therapy, just so much sorting through personal garbage that it doesn't resonate on a public level.

As far as "Your English Background," I personally think there is a very clear narrative arc--the cycle of nature, of land shaped by man and nature's struggle to reclaim lost ground. The femininity of the earth. My fiancée's English background and how that ancient history informs her present in small ways and not so small ways. Our disconnect from our past. Again, that's my intention, but if it's not clear ... of course, it doesn't have to be completely clear--poetry is subjective, but if there's no emotional pull, it doesn't work. 

I've left the two poems I just described as they are. I'm interested in other people's considerations/feedback. If you'd like to compare the previous versions of "Sylvia" and "The Gift," I'll post them as a comment.

Your English Background

You, the land.
Razed and plowed,
deep furrows running through
where forest once stood.

And now,
second growth
in scattered poles--
bracken, peat and bog,
high winds of highlands.

You bear the heft
of Sarsen,
dragged across the windy plain,
land shaped like blue stone,
bit by bit
until

having chipped away,
the edges no longer sharp
but shorn by patient hands,
you gave witness,
watchman like,
ghastly Cerberus;
Avon, Lethe or Styx,
no matter:

You,
this foreign land.

Shaped by man,
reclaimed at last,
sprung
from your forever womb.

The Gift

I am everything

inside this box,

felt lined,

blood red.

Lacquered mahogany,

fancifully etched

by some careful hand

with images of swirling demons

beneath

a veil of mist.

You have the key,

but you dare not open the box.

You the disease,

You the cure.

Pandora,

I am what's inside.

But you can not look;

only cherish this box:

intricately carved,

polished, finished to a high gloss

that blood red hinting

at depths and depths.

You have the key;

you have the box.

I am inside--

patience.

You, the disease.

You, the cure.

Hope

is what's left behind.

Sylvia

Sylvia Plath,
I went in for Ariel,

but the copy in stock was hardcover, glossy,
and there next to it were your collected works,
1956-1963,
poems you’d written right up until that final cold February,
just days before my birthday,

that you stuck your head in the oven.

You were thirty.
You had two children.
Your husband left you for another woman
because you couldn't fix yourself
and when she couldn't fix herself
he didn't leave

but she went out
just as you did.

I try to calculate how may poems you wrote
between twenty six and thirty one
and how many I've written up to now,
and how they’d stack up.

Ted Hughes said Sylvia never scrapped a poem once written.
She approached her writing with an artisan dedication--
if she couldn't make a table, she’d settle for a chair,
an ottoman, an end table. Sylvia Plath?

And for me,
Poems like whittled spoons for stirring beans over camp fires;
Bent brass door handles fitted over the steel drum body of a bullet smoker;
Glued together mugs full of pencils and wooden beads,
an old triumph badge and bent safety pins.

A drop in the ocean.

No more. No less.

Sundries

The orchid on the table is dying;

shriveled leaves curling back into itself.

Someone could have changed the water,

but there were other things to attend to:

the dishes in the sink, for instance.

The hairball in the middle of the bedroom.

Visiting friends in the country,

and wondering at the lack of clutter in their homes:

"They have more space," I said.

and I meant it then, but now wonder.

We could have that space, if we wanted it.

but there is a pushing against,

and the space between

can not be filled.

Things are crowded out,

little things--

the pile of clothes at the foot of our bed,

the flower, curled and dry on the table.

Longing to be filled,

we push towards each other,

only to be repelled

by the space between.

The orchid on the table is dying,

a sort of beauty in its curling leaves.

Teleoeschaton

I think in circles,

and wonder,

what must it be like,

to think in straight lines,

A to B to C.

Crossing west fourth,

skipping lake edge

of gray slush

under the dull shine

of high sodium.

Back where we began.

Dating the same girl.

Feet wet from misplaced winter gray.

Working the same job.

Watching the same shows

on television.

Reading the same poets

and looking for more,

trying to make something for myself

as I've tried before,

kept awake by two sirens--

one the call of a regular salary,

the other, ten hours of no-thought,

five days a week.

I've written for six months,

by force of will,

or circumstance?

To what end?

I think in words,

and words,

it's nearly endless

in bed,

longing for an end,

but there is no end

to this thinking in words.

Let us study the poets,

the philosophers,

turning symbols into words.

Study the scientists,

the mathematicians,

decipherers of those symbols,

Study the painters,

who let the symbols be.

I read the word,

eschatology.

And its everywhere now,

in Wallace and Levertov,

in crazy Terence McKenna,

and the X-Files I'm watching

again, completing a 13 year cycle,

which might mean something--

that dread solipsism,

the word creeping in,

everywhere I look,

like the distant rumble of trains

as the word is read,

and the flickering of lights

as my beloved walks beneath them.

I will never understand her:

on my way to work,

she said she would get high,

and listen to music,

and light candles,

and so I asked her,

promise me this:

look at the clock,

when you think fifteen minutes have passed,

and that night I got a text--

“I'm sorry to say, but time is passing,

as it always does.”

I look into her eyes,

and see myself reflected there,

and hope it's proof

that she is there,

watching me,

and that I am here,

being watched,

and hope that

being watched

is proof enough,

to know I am.

To know we are,

and never mind the end times,

once around,

in fullness,

together,

will be

our lot.