“It’s a Poem Because I Said So” Literary Event (4/9/12)

Let’s be real, what college student doesn’t love free Pizza House, soda, and t-shirts?  If you answered absolutely no one, you would be correct.  The wafts of greasy cheese and pops of fresh soda cans was enough to lure hungry, poor students in from slaving away on Facebook…I mean, exams…

For my literary event, I chose to attend a poetry reading (snaps for April being Poetry Month) at Hatcher Graduate Library, sponsored by MLibrary. Albite a quick event, I did indeed learn a lot from the speakers, Linda Gregerson, Laura Kasischke, Van Jordan Benjamin Paloff, namely poet and University of Michigan professor, Cody Walker.

In 2008, Walker published a book of poems entitled Shuffle and Breakdown, from which he shared some of his favorites.  Prior to reading, Walker talked about his confusion of why April is poetry month because after all, it’s a little “scary”.  With Passover and Easter taking over the majority of the month, both holidays in which observants restrict certain food items or recognize the killing of a the Savior Jesus Christ, Walker remarked that he was unsure of whether April was the “right” month for poetry.  He then continued in jolly fashion to read his poems aloud.  He started with the poem “Art of Poetry”, a political satire about American leaders.  One of my favorite lines from that poem was “If I ever say even in my sleep…murder me with paper cuts”.  His crude, yet clever humor, which is a main asset of the majority of his work, is one of the most appealing factors.  At least, it drew me in.  I actually understood a lot of the messages in his poems, like the one about his teenage daughter, Zia, he recites: “Mistakes our Zia for Veronica Lake”.  For those who know who Veronica Lake is, you may understand the reference, but for those who don’t, here’s a visual:

Get the idea?

I really enjoyed listening to Walker recite his poetry.  His precise comedic timing and spot-on cultural and political references were for sure entertaining, but they were also enlightening.  I hope to listen in on more poetry readings in the future — definitely worth the sit…and free pizza.

A Day’s Worth

That moment when the sharp rays of the morning sun

Splash onto her smooth face.

A time to let it seep into her exhausted skin,

Wake up the sleepy freckles resting on her cheeks.

 

Every year on her birthday, her mother,

A woman of immaculate courage,

Intense like a lioness’s,

Breaks,

Shedding a single, lone tear,

Recalling the day her first child arrived into this world.

 

A frigid day in January,

She recalls, she sees her own blueness in her daughter’s wide eyes —

The relation uncanny.

The longing for her daughter to be lying in her arms, snuggling in what seemed natural.

Has anything really changed?

 

That moment when the sky becomes a painting

Filled with dark, swirling clouds, creeping up in front of the sun, dimming the brightness on her freshened face.

The grayness drips into her complexion,

Freckles slowly erased,

Revealing the reflection of a lost child.

While You’re Up

Flipping through the Globe, we both eye the milk,

Perched just a few feet from us, it sits.

Sunday lax keeps us from the normal ilk,

Of everyday life, constantly the glitz

And glam. But Sunday, a morning of rest,

Keeps us sane.  Both glued persistently for

Neither one will lose this sitting contest

To prove who is the laziest once more.

The milk spoils, longing to be matched with

The cereal box closest to me like

Bonny and Clyde, meant to be no myth.

If only we would quit being so alike,

Alas, it’s I, giving into your charm.

Mother, winking, never meant to cause harm.

Don’t Look, Please

“Undress” Print by Clare Elsaesser

 

“Turn around.”

“Just do it, okay?”

“I mean it; it’s embarrassing.”

“If you’re not going to, at least close your eyes.”

 

Looking down, all she sees is a deformity.

Other girls don’t look like this, she thinks,

Staring at her cut out chest.

 

Yes, she might be a pretty face,

A kind soul,

An aspiring intellectual,

Glowing at every moment,

But it is what is underneath her perfectly buttoned up facade,

That she is ashamed for others to see.

 

She wishes they would stop staring,

Attempting to figure out why her shirt does not lay the way theirs do.

Constantly tugging and pulling,

She curses gravity.

In fact, she curses herself,

But she knows that all

The yelling,

Crying,

Resenting,

Won’t make the anger disappear.

 

Looking blankly into the wall,

A vortex of forest palettes

Stares right back at her empty bosom.

Resistant to blink and lose the contest to a sheet of plaster,

She gives up.

 

“Can I look?”

 

“Yes”, she says,

Diligently staring at the innocent boy perched on her bed,

 

“You can look now”.

The Rusty Trampoline

The rusty springs inhale as we plunge

into the dewy soil

of my neighbor’s trampoline.

As the exhale propels us into the muggy August air,

I wonder, gazing into the deep portals of crashing waves perched under his long lashes,

“Does he feel it too?”

We collapse into the heavy breath of the tramp,

his hand brushes against mine.

A Day’s Worth

image via ISpyNYC

That moment when the sharp rays of the morning sun

Splash onto your face.

A time to let it seep into your exhausted skin,

Wake up the sleepy freckles resting on your cheeks.

 

Every year on your birthday, your mother, looking at you sentimentally,

Almost shedding a single, lone tear,

Recalls the day you were born:

A cold day in January,

she says that you stared directly into her eyes.

All you wanted was to be lying in her arms, snuggling in what seemed natural.

Has anything really changed?

 

That moment when the sky becomes a painting

Filled with swirling clouds, creeping up in front of the sun, dimming the brightness on your freshened face.

The grayness drips back into your complexion,

Revealing the reflection of a lost child.

Revised Poem: Unraveled

The pulse

b

o

u

n

c

e

s

in my brain

long enough to unravel the crescendo of rhythm

to

reveal

a string

of lost memories

Recovered and Restored

Clear yet Corrupt

just pictures of something

that happened

on a day

like any other

with people

whom I remember

for longer than I thought.

Poem Number 009

For copyright reasons, here is the link to Shoshauna Shy’s “Bringing My Son to the Police Station to be Fingerprinted”: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/068.html

I was unsure of how to approach Monday’s discussion of Shoshauna Shy’s “Bringing My Son to the Police Station to be Fingerprinted”.  First, I thought I should just say what I felt while reading the poem, why I thought I felt that, and possibly work through the “meaning” of the poem by speaking aloud (sometimes that helps more than writing a bunch of notes).  But then it occurred to me that by listening to me blabber on about a poem that most likely I was the only one who actively read it, I thought to approach it slightly differently.  Albeit my awesomely potential plan to un-bore the class, I failed.  My nerves got in check and I started blabbering away — I forgot to read the poem aloud!

I took inspiration from Martin’s presentation of his poem last week by asking the class as a whole about something that I felt was confusing: why Shy chose not to use punctuation throughout the poem.

Here’s a comprised list of answers to that question and others that came up:

1.  Shy was writing in “list form” to keep the character in check and safe (pre-safe police station knowledge).  If punctuation were added, actions would seem realer.

2.  Writing tools:  incredibly decisive techniques in alliteration/word choice/title.  Enjoyable to read.

3.  What was this poem actually about?

-When first reading this, immediately I thought it was about a Stepford-like, perfect woman picking up her delusional, rebel son from the police station, but man, was I SO wrong!  It’s actually about a new mother bringing in her child to be fingerprinted.  Tim brought up a really interesting point that without the title, the poem could really be about anything.  *Note to self: always consider the title before going about the poem!*

Overall, I enjoyed reading this poem and listening to other people’s thoughts about it.  —H

The Rusty Tramp

The rusty springs inhale as we plunge into the dewy soil

of my neighbor’s trampoline.

As the exhale propels us both into the muggy August air,

I wonder, looking into the deep oceans of his eyes,

“Does he feel it too?”

We collapse into the quick breath of the tramp,

his hand brushes against mine.

Unraveled

The pulse

                                                              b

o

u

n

c

e

s

through my brain

long enough to unravel the whole thing

to reveal a

s t r i n g

of lost memories

Recovered and Restored

Clear yet Corrupt

they’re just pictures of something

that happened

on a day

like any other

with people

whom I remember

for longer than I thought.

This poem reminded me of Devotchka’s “The Winner Is” from Little Miss Sunshine (who doesn’t love twisted family dramas about beauty pageants?!).  The pluckiness and passion evoked in this song just makes me want to move, and I felt this poem had a lot of movement.