Louisville v. WVU
Go cards
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Ritual Sight iii
The third poem was published by itself in 1992 in Poetry. It is my proudest and most successful, but was always meant to be part of the whole five part cycle. It is the most direct, and it's directness is it's power. More after the poem.
iii.
You like cloudless, cold afternoons
At four, trimmed nails, how this hour
Seems your visual end of day, but still
Not dusk. You cut your nails
Thursdays. You like birds that flap their
Wings to fly, the feel of nails on wood, the lake
Under a scratched sky. You like all
Your Thursdays- back and back, or towns
Who stand marker to a past, a notion, a scene.
The Thursdays stretch in green water- waves
Like bricks to the turn of shore. You like
The idea of town, of countless starlings
Circling a town's one apartment tower. You
Like your nails cut. You like how history
Breaks, re-emerges as water breaks
With a turtle's green carapace. You like four p.m.
On any day, nails on your face, broken roads that split
Like the past, clean or carnival. You like copper
Wire. You like the feel of cement, the taste
Of cold on days the afternoon will carry
Until morning. You like wire
Between you fingers. You like cavalry
Battles in books, the closing of past on present, always,
As drakes dive for nickel colored mud. You like
The clipped flight of starling wings, bending
Wire to animal shapes, the sleeping tower
Wild with dusk-light calls. Men ride
From the past, moving over stone- your quick
Breath, how you like your nails in palms, as the last
Hoof sounds behind your arching back.
You like afternoons the greenest water
And waves, the tower's reflection, your hands'
Shell bowls, seem shelters in mostly unbroken cliffs.
The rhythm of this poem was the most important to me, as I wrote and revised. I tend to work a bit with language and enjoy odd meter, as a composer might switch to an odd key to bring discordance but work in an identifiable framework. But for this poem, I wanted very orderly free form. I wanted the story to lay on the page in fairly orderly verses and stanzas. When I read the poem out loud, I build to the last four stanzas, quickening my pace until the last, when I slow like a runner past the tape.
The you in this section is my father, but only as I imagined him to be with some of me thrown in. He was a neat freak- always preferring orderliness. I find I'm becoming more and more like him. He was also an intense history buff.
iii.
You like cloudless, cold afternoons
At four, trimmed nails, how this hour
Seems your visual end of day, but still
Not dusk. You cut your nails
Thursdays. You like birds that flap their
Wings to fly, the feel of nails on wood, the lake
Under a scratched sky. You like all
Your Thursdays- back and back, or towns
Who stand marker to a past, a notion, a scene.
The Thursdays stretch in green water- waves
Like bricks to the turn of shore. You like
The idea of town, of countless starlings
Circling a town's one apartment tower. You
Like your nails cut. You like how history
Breaks, re-emerges as water breaks
With a turtle's green carapace. You like four p.m.
On any day, nails on your face, broken roads that split
Like the past, clean or carnival. You like copper
Wire. You like the feel of cement, the taste
Of cold on days the afternoon will carry
Until morning. You like wire
Between you fingers. You like cavalry
Battles in books, the closing of past on present, always,
As drakes dive for nickel colored mud. You like
The clipped flight of starling wings, bending
Wire to animal shapes, the sleeping tower
Wild with dusk-light calls. Men ride
From the past, moving over stone- your quick
Breath, how you like your nails in palms, as the last
Hoof sounds behind your arching back.
You like afternoons the greenest water
And waves, the tower's reflection, your hands'
Shell bowls, seem shelters in mostly unbroken cliffs.
The rhythm of this poem was the most important to me, as I wrote and revised. I tend to work a bit with language and enjoy odd meter, as a composer might switch to an odd key to bring discordance but work in an identifiable framework. But for this poem, I wanted very orderly free form. I wanted the story to lay on the page in fairly orderly verses and stanzas. When I read the poem out loud, I build to the last four stanzas, quickening my pace until the last, when I slow like a runner past the tape.
The you in this section is my father, but only as I imagined him to be with some of me thrown in. He was a neat freak- always preferring orderliness. I find I'm becoming more and more like him. He was also an intense history buff.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Ritual Sight II.
The first poem was about scene and introducing the character "you" slightly. The odd metaphore that the scene is historical is mixed with a character who is looking/wishing for something.
In this scene, the meter and orderliness of the poem starts to change and break down. That's part of the foreboding the main character- you - has for the coming of winter.
ii.
The ritual of years has fallen,
Week by week, again into autumn.
A new stand of diseased trees
Back from the water’s edge
Burn into black. Shop owners stand
In their windows, hands raised
To an officer.
Men,
Here from the city, crowd outdoor cafes.
The evening lights in oily
Water mute the spiraling
Outward of your thoughts
It will
Repeat, all events repeat, reproduce,
Never moving on.
Starlings
Round the apartment tower
With chitters to set your teeth.
Dead branches applaud.
Turtles swim home between chewed
Stalks
Of cattails. You watch a shopping-cart filled
With water work deeper in mud. On your knees
On the concrete ledge over water, you could reach out
A hand.
The lake
Fountain stirs, quiets
And settles for the season. You watch ducks
Gather mouthfuls of food two months
Before the first possibility of snow.
There is no hint, in this poem, of the historical other than to directly mention that history rounds and repeats itself.
In this scene, the meter and orderliness of the poem starts to change and break down. That's part of the foreboding the main character- you - has for the coming of winter.
ii.
The ritual of years has fallen,
Week by week, again into autumn.
A new stand of diseased trees
Back from the water’s edge
Burn into black. Shop owners stand
In their windows, hands raised
To an officer.
Men,
Here from the city, crowd outdoor cafes.
The evening lights in oily
Water mute the spiraling
Outward of your thoughts
It will
Repeat, all events repeat, reproduce,
Never moving on.
Starlings
Round the apartment tower
With chitters to set your teeth.
Dead branches applaud.
Turtles swim home between chewed
Stalks
Of cattails. You watch a shopping-cart filled
With water work deeper in mud. On your knees
On the concrete ledge over water, you could reach out
A hand.
The lake
Fountain stirs, quiets
And settles for the season. You watch ducks
Gather mouthfuls of food two months
Before the first possibility of snow.
There is no hint, in this poem, of the historical other than to directly mention that history rounds and repeats itself.
Ritual Sight
What a wonderful word- sight. I love that it is a homonym with site. That's what started me writing this long ago. Now, I posted part i earlier, then realized I had done a rewrite two years ago of the complete five part series, because the old one written twelve years before really fell apart at the end. So, now I will start the post and write up of the revised version.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Sighing, against cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here starlings return at dusk to take
The mirrored dusk-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight's shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers' sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dusk.
I see I'll have to go on and put the poem written in 1992 up against the rewrite in 2004 and explain what I did, and why I did it. Just an interesting note on this one is that I changed "bats" to "starlings" and "dark" to "dusk". They were both meant to be more honest to the scene. When I was writing a good deal, just out of college, I had an unnecessary inclination to change a scene to fit words I liked, or felt were more dramatic. Bats? Who knows. But the scene at the time was actually, as witnessed by me, starlings circling an apartment tower near where I grew up. And it was dusk, a beautiful deep blue dusk. I have no idea why I felt the need to change things like that, but my revision is to be more honest to the scene.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Sighing, against cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here starlings return at dusk to take
The mirrored dusk-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight's shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers' sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dusk.
I see I'll have to go on and put the poem written in 1992 up against the rewrite in 2004 and explain what I did, and why I did it. Just an interesting note on this one is that I changed "bats" to "starlings" and "dark" to "dusk". They were both meant to be more honest to the scene. When I was writing a good deal, just out of college, I had an unnecessary inclination to change a scene to fit words I liked, or felt were more dramatic. Bats? Who knows. But the scene at the time was actually, as witnessed by me, starlings circling an apartment tower near where I grew up. And it was dusk, a beautiful deep blue dusk. I have no idea why I felt the need to change things like that, but my revision is to be more honest to the scene.
Dear soporific fire
Tonight is the first wood stove fire. It's 45 out in Blacksburg, heading toward 35. Not really cold, but I've been looking forward to this (it's officially the second of the season, but the first was a small test fire). There's a hint of smoke now in the air, as it backs up at first, and the room is thickening with wood heat. Ah, and football on tv- even if it is only Rutgers and South Florida? I'm accompanied by a 12 year old Caol Ila whisky. I'd look up where that's from but I'm too sleepy and not moving until I absolutely have to go pee.
Floating so still
the puppy, Lucy, lies before
her first wood fire
she's snoring
her nose is much larger than mine
she's snoring
and I'll sleep on the couch
tonight.
Floating so still
the puppy, Lucy, lies before
her first wood fire
she's snoring
her nose is much larger than mine
she's snoring
and I'll sleep on the couch
tonight.
Friday, September 22, 2006
About Poetry
I will be posting descriptions and essays on my own poetry on here, but first, I have a bit to go through and just enjoy posting.
For now, Ritual Sight, a poem in 5 parts and a promised talk at the end.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Against the cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here bats return at dusk to take
The mirrored dark-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight’s shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers’ sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dark.
For now, Ritual Sight, a poem in 5 parts and a promised talk at the end.
Ritual Sight
i.
On the afternoon lake where ducks
Strike water, rise
Over cracked suns, you lean your hips
Against the cement wall, hands out
For wind to lift
And see your face recede, depthless
In singing green. Green reflecting
Bowl of azure
Sky and blond apartment tower.
Here bats return at dusk to take
The mirrored dark-
Their circling stayed in daylight
As the lake now holds your face. Bricks
Stretch beneath your
Feet like turtle shells. Night, the
Daylight’s shadowed armada, pushes
To land, you see
Their double masts, their posted oars,
Rock toward the wall, listening for
Keels to scrape and
The soldiers’ sandals on wood docks.
Cry out and your voice creases, dies
In air- released,
Or captured to welcome the dark.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
An Affirmation
If you love this land of the free
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Bring 'em back form overseas
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
It'll make the politicians sad I know
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
They want to tangle with their foe
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
The want to test their grand theories
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
With the blood of you and me
bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
To try this weekend
The Hokies play Cincinatti. Certainly more exciting than Duke, but not by much. Still, here in Blacksburg, we still have to party when there is a game in town. Adam suggests:
We both know that an ice-cold vigorously shaken martini made with BombayA fine idea. I'll visit the local ABC Friday and pickup some Bombay and a jar of extra queen olives.
Sapphire gin goes down smoother than anything on the planet. Especially
with an extra queen olive.
Now about Riggo -
Plowing through my line
A rustic sword of a man
Rug-burned knees sting good
- Adam Madam
A rustic sword of a man
Rug-burned knees sting good
- Adam Madam
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Hazelnut Martini
Look, I'm a pretty nuanced guy. I like shades of gray. I think opinions are like assholes, everyones got one and most stink.
But there are some things that are clearly evil. Here's my list (in no goddamned order):
But there are some things that are clearly evil. Here's my list (in no goddamned order):
- Hazelnut Martini
- Chocolate Martini
- Dick Cheney
- The Dallas Cowboys (especially after this weekend)
- Any sort of fruit Martini
iPods- ELO
- The yellow jacket nest I "discovered" this summer
- Any Martini that is not vodka, vodka with peppered vodka, vodka and vodka with something harsh or spicy in it, or gin, you happy Adam?
- Dick Cheney with a shotgun
There you have it
About Dogs
for Delia
I’ve lived with a pack
two days, now. We pause in the back yard, alone.
They’ve asked my name, in their manner.
I’m inclined to tell them.
We ate grass this morning-
the blond-black bitch taking the most.
My aim is to tell them of the grizzly, of my peanut
butter sandwich- fright grass turned in my gut
to tell them of the bear in my step
as I gave a feather, peacock eye,
to Two Medicine, as I
asked the lake to accept small
wood and bone. The dogs keep dropping
the ball at my feet, keep stopping
to snort. They’ve seen hands
full of fingers and bad meat tossed from a man’s
back-yard. They have no patience
for my talk. I remind them I’ve given
a lake gifts to find in myself
the bear, so I might see
wings, blond legs, to split, finally,
wild and domestic, bring my life to town.
The dogs bark and ask my name
again. I tell them nothing, play
the morning out sniffing grass, throwing
the ball. I follow the bitch
in milk weed, in catch. I understand not stories,
names, but this will fill my day.
I’ve lived with a pack
two days, now. We pause in the back yard, alone.
They’ve asked my name, in their manner.
I’m inclined to tell them.
We ate grass this morning-
the blond-black bitch taking the most.
My aim is to tell them of the grizzly, of my peanut
butter sandwich- fright grass turned in my gut
to tell them of the bear in my step
as I gave a feather, peacock eye,
to Two Medicine, as I
asked the lake to accept small
wood and bone. The dogs keep dropping
the ball at my feet, keep stopping
to snort. They’ve seen hands
full of fingers and bad meat tossed from a man’s
back-yard. They have no patience
for my talk. I remind them I’ve given
a lake gifts to find in myself
the bear, so I might see
wings, blond legs, to split, finally,
wild and domestic, bring my life to town.
The dogs bark and ask my name
again. I tell them nothing, play
the morning out sniffing grass, throwing
the ball. I follow the bitch
in milk weed, in catch. I understand not stories,
names, but this will fill my day.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Modern Poets - James Wright
A Blessing
Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
I chose this poem as the first to talk about (out of many on a regular basis) mainly because it is my wife's favorite, and one of mine as well. It is published in the Poulin anthology of the "post moderns" or "Contemporary Poetry". I'm new to blogs and hope I don't get in trouble for putting the whole poem here, but I do this to discuss and to enjoy, so I hope any relatives understand.
What a gift this poem is- its imagery starts with the mundane (most mundane in the heartland, perhaps) and teases us right away with a wonderful twilight picture. Wright's tacking between the mundane or simple and the beautiful image is my favorite aspect of this poem. From stepping over a barbed wire fence to suddenly imbuing the ponies with the human happiness (or, maybe I should say that is contained in the ponies and I am being unfair), takes the full first third of the poem. From mundane (the opening setting) to the first bright turn, he takes his time, as if easing us in. Then he seems to wax and wane with the description and his desire:
And then he returns us to delicate imagery, before delivering a truly transcendental ending. Some of his most powerful, to me, turns go from the most simple, to the most active:
What could be more simple, followed by a most passionate description?
A finally note about this post- I have read Robert Bly extensively, but I wrote this off the cuff. I'll produce another post with writings about James Wright and Robert Bly talking about this famous poem. I purposefully tried to stay away from those writings, because I wanted a simple explanation of why I love this poem.
-Doug
Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
I chose this poem as the first to talk about (out of many on a regular basis) mainly because it is my wife's favorite, and one of mine as well. It is published in the Poulin anthology of the "post moderns" or "Contemporary Poetry". I'm new to blogs and hope I don't get in trouble for putting the whole poem here, but I do this to discuss and to enjoy, so I hope any relatives understand.
What a gift this poem is- its imagery starts with the mundane (most mundane in the heartland, perhaps) and teases us right away with a wonderful twilight picture. Wright's tacking between the mundane or simple and the beautiful image is my favorite aspect of this poem. From stepping over a barbed wire fence to suddenly imbuing the ponies with the human happiness (or, maybe I should say that is contained in the ponies and I am being unfair), takes the full first third of the poem. From mundane (the opening setting) to the first bright turn, he takes his time, as if easing us in. Then he seems to wax and wane with the description and his desire:
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
And then he returns us to delicate imagery, before delivering a truly transcendental ending. Some of his most powerful, to me, turns go from the most simple, to the most active:
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
What could be more simple, followed by a most passionate description?
A finally note about this post- I have read Robert Bly extensively, but I wrote this off the cuff. I'll produce another post with writings about James Wright and Robert Bly talking about this famous poem. I purposefully tried to stay away from those writings, because I wanted a simple explanation of why I love this poem.
-Doug
In anger
...
Worship
Years on shore
I planted turtle eggs
clams for the tide
for the moon- old
pillar white lip -headless
shrimp and oysters.
Unthanked, I
finally threw
a stone to the water
as far as heavy a stone
as I could throw.
I wrote this in 1991 as a reaction to development in the suburbs of northern virginia. Which, of course, is nothing compared to 15 years later. Had I known!
I like this poem today in respect to our position in the world, the war (the occupation) and the current administration.
Worship
Years on shore
I planted turtle eggs
clams for the tide
for the moon- old
pillar white lip -headless
shrimp and oysters.
Unthanked, I
finally threw
a stone to the water
as far as heavy a stone
as I could throw.
I wrote this in 1991 as a reaction to development in the suburbs of northern virginia. Which, of course, is nothing compared to 15 years later. Had I known!
I like this poem today in respect to our position in the world, the war (the occupation) and the current administration.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
A friend tries to send me something political, I think
SD you sent me a link...
A haiku:
I tried your link friend
And anticipated wisdom
Error 404
A haiku:
I tried your link friend
And anticipated wisdom
Error 404
Sweet Jesus, I love football
Just to kick the tires, bend the antenna and try this sucker out, my Thursday night couldn't be better:
1) absolute peppar and absolute mixed 1 to 1 with olives
2) UMD and WVU on ESPN
3) a stack of mail
4) wireless internet
Holy crap, how'd WVU get up 28-0? I wish the hokies still played those Mountaineers.
1) absolute peppar and absolute mixed 1 to 1 with olives
2) UMD and WVU on ESPN
3) a stack of mail
4) wireless internet
Holy crap, how'd WVU get up 28-0? I wish the hokies still played those Mountaineers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)