Or, because this is a nice blog to read while trying to revise.
Was also reading Pavlova awhile back and though I don’t agree with everything she says, I really like that bit about Yuri Gagarin. And this: Not to envy others is easy. It is difficult not to feel pleased when they envy you.
Progress report: one poem (still) scares me, another makes me want to kick myself in the (nonexistent) nads, and another I’ve tried practicing reading out loud. Productivity level was inversely proportional to yesterday’s.
Life report: Right now, very upset. 1.) Poet I used to idolize turned out to be a shoddy shod (don’t bother asking who or what or why) + really awkward feelings for someone I know following a recent revelation (no, no attraction. Just a teensy level of disgust and maybe a lot of resentment. Which is weird). 2.) Long letter I sent to my friend via snail mail did a Houdini and said friend received it WITH NO WRITING. And that, dear everyone, is why you should NEVER EVER EVER EVER USE ERASABLE INK when writing a Really Important Letter (the contents of which, since it was written a month ago, escapes my overused memory banks). I feel really bad about this since said erasable pen never failed me up until this point. My friend tried all means to decipher it (“heat on the stove, craypas, pencil, pastel, eraser”). Yes, I know, there’s the internet, why bother with snail mail, right? I don’t know. I’m sentimental that way. I like giving people I really care about something they can keep and hold. Something there. Not something dependent on the battery life of a laptop or the kerning of a font.
Today I read something about how Frank O’ Hara said one of the goals of poetry is to convince someone to have sex with you.
- I honestly have never read O’ Hara’s stuff. Not because I don’t want to, but that I already have so much to read, plus I like to reread what I’ve already read (of poetry, at least).
- No I don’t want to have sex with you. I just want to talk to you. Shyness sucks (JSF said: Shyness is when you turn away from something you want. Well I want you.). Also: it is 2:23 AM. 2 hours and all I managed were 2 measly stanzas. BAH. BAH. Black sheep?
- One of the reasons I keep writing about you is because you never read my poems and will never ever in any point ever ask: whom is this about? We will never have to go through that awkwardness, because I’m pretty deadpan sure I’ll say something like You. Well, bits of it. Don’t give yourself too much credit.
- Then again, the fictive. Always the fictive. Love the fictive.
- Reference =/= effect
- I really want to write fiction but I am
lazy afraid, really. Or I figured poetry likes me better. Boo-hoo. Stick with what likes you more. When in doubt, return to the things that you love. Or the ones that love you. Er.
- I want to make a poem that has the same syllabic beat whatever you call that - meter? as an holosystolic murmur. Project for the future self? I know I can’t do it right now. As it is the current poem is something I am literally hacking and chopping limbs off. Or adding limbs to. Limbic system, save me.
- Be honest. Always be honest. (But to whom?) Interesting point too, of reading I read: the truth =/= telling the truth.
I think I should sleep but not yet, yes?
Here, have a poem:
Under One Small Star
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
Good news: Found out today that I’ll be promoted to 3rd year med! Yay. School worries are momentarily over.
Tried to talk about specifics but some moments leave me inarticulate. So. This is the best I can muster right now:
Here’s to losing sight and track but never time and face.
Here’s to persistent rain and wrong directions but not getting lost.
Here’s to the rock that disrupted the conversation, now marker, now memory – a point in the map I will fold over and over and over.
Here’s to disappearances and laundry deliveries.
Here’s to umbrellas and sidewalks.
Here’s to overpriced photocopying machines and cheap parking.
Here’s to the thousand cranes lodged in flattened sheets soon to be made.
Here’s to puddles and reflections of the sky.
Here’s to today’s unlit cigarettes.
Here’s to refusals and the necessity for No.
Here’s to keeping in touch and determining safe distances.
Here’s to everything that never happened and everything that will.
Here’s to that smile and the secret revealed.
Here’s to the coloring materials decorating the table.
Here’s to what she said, what he said, what was said.
Here’s to books needed to be read, muses waiting to amuse.
Here’s to the words soon to make their way into an old poem, again, again, again.
Here’s to being quiet, to conceit, to confessions (and the absence thereof).
Here’s to what you know, and everything that’s ever moved you.
Here’s to a poem, a story, and all the words you will ever need to speak.
Here’s to being a fool and moving forward, despite everything.
What I mean to say is: thanks for today.
Will get more writing done when I get enough sleep.
Top: Tilde’s Laundry Delivery Service & Shane LongSkirt, Bottom: (soon-to-be-super) Teacher Tin & Glennsaymada
[Hi guys, please don’t kill me. HE HE HE]