Category Archives: Poetry

Purgatory, Kentucky (3/7)

The young ones priss around and stew and fret,
yes, even here they do. I tell them to relax,
but I do recall what it was like, all fraught
with longing for a certain someone’s kiss,
the way a particular set of hard calluses
could raise a wave of shivers on my skin,
and one touch later heat me up fast,
so hot for more, I would do anything….
There is no profit in that kind of thought.
The man whose hands I speak of is not here.
I’ve grown restless all the sudden, not
full of life, I wouldn’t say, just bored.
Turns out I dislike it, this world without end.
The ferry’s here. I guess I’ll drive on in.

Ferry on Highway 169 somewhere in Kentucky (a Creative Commons shot from Edlitmus on Flickr)

Ferry on Highway 169 somewhere in Kentucky
(a Creative Commons shot from Edlitmus on Flickr)

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For National Poetry Month, I’m trying to write a lot of poetry–I’ve given up on writing one every day, but still–trying to write a lot. I reviewed what I’d written last year and found Purgatory, Kentucky, which I’d TOTALLY forgotten about. So I decided I’d see if I could write a crown of sonnets. And I wrote #2 of 7 the other day. And now almost halfway around the crown with this one.

Nick Fury’s SUV

[SPOILER ALERT: If you have seen trailers for the movie Captain America: The Winter Soldier,” you’ve already seen this scene–I’m not giving anything else away here, other than what Chevy cars show up in the movie.]

______

“The air conditioning is fully operational.”

Computerized, attentive, the voice of the Tahoe
recites time estimates and is just being rational,
still gets a pretty big laugh before it’s thrown
in the air and then upside down by a bomb
when it answers Nick Fury’s angry request,
“What isn’t damaged?” The answer then becomes
that Chevrolet is a company he can trust.

Black Widow rumbles in a new Corvette
(though I swear I thought it said Porsche)
and an Impala gets its own solid scene.
This is product placement at its best.

Like Cap himself–it’s honest, direct, authentic,
as up-front as a Silverado truck.

_____
Maybe I’ve become the ideal 21st century drone–I really don’t even mind the product placement in Captain America. I’m not sure how noticeable it would have been if 1)I hadn’t been trying to think of ways to write sonnets about cars because one of the big drivers for traffic on my blog is people who Google “car sonnet” and land on my category–which used to mean I started writing the sonnet in the car. Which I don’t do any more because it seems really obviously to be a case of distracted driving, even though I was pretty careful to do it only when there was next-to-zero traffic around. And 2)I hadn’t known I was going to see the movie twice, so I was letting myself pay attention to all kinds of everything the first time through.

It certainly wasn’t as awkward as the product placement in Back to the Future. COULD I HAVE A PEPSI?

And though I might be a drone about blithely noticing the Chevy vehicles in the movie, and while I would certainly accept a new Chevrolet in exchange for a fair number of product placements in my poetry, I doubt I’ll buy one. Of the cars I’ve owned, almost all have been Fords or Mercury products:
First car: Mercury Comet bought from my Aunt Toni. It was named Gloria & had a rust disease.
Next car: Mercury Comet bought from my Aunt Becky. It didn’t have a name or rust.
Next car: Mercury Zephyr.
(And then a Subaru Justy, which really shouldn’t count because it had only three cylinders and was totally totaled in a collision that would have caused only minor damage to my next vehicle,)
First truck: Ford Ranger, long bed.
(And then a VW Golf, which, regardless of paperwork, is actually my husband’s vehicle)
Current car: Ford Focus station wagon, silver, stick-shift.

It was my Gran’daddy who made me a Ford fan & that’s as permanent as being a Cardinals fan.
_____
Here’s a fun article on the product placement which SPOILER ALERT actually does say a couple more things about the movie you won’t know from trailers, and it also has the fun commercial with kids pretending to be Black Widow and Captain America.

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NaPoWriMo stats: I wrote poems on April 1, 2, and 3, but posted only a couple of those. Then didn’t write on April 4 or 5. Then here. Honestly? Not too worried about 100-percenting it. Just glad to write a little more.

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(not sure how to credit this image which is all over & clearly an ad for Chevy & the movie)

(not sure how to credit this image which is all over & clearly an ad for Chevy & the movie)


And you know, really, I’m remembering this car as having rounder front-end and butt. But I’m sure if everyone’s saying it was this car and it’s a Corvette, that’s really what it is and I must’ve just been revising it in my head based on the shape of the woman driving it.

Purgatory, Kentucky (a crown of sonnets?)

Last April I wrote a fair bit towards the NaPoWriMo goal of writing a poem a day during National Poetry Month, including the sonnet called “Purgatory, Kentucky” in honor of and gratitude for doing a poetry reading at UW-Manitowoc.

This year, I’m shooting for writing a new one each day, or revising one. It’s 9:52 p.m. and I haven’t written a poem today yet.

Can I write a sonnet to follow the original “Purgatory, Kentucky” piece? Could I do a crown (7 sonnets where the last line of one is the first line of the next one, until you’ve done 7 and come full circle).

Less see:
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This ain’t hell. Of that I am assured.
Would there be apple pie corn whiskey or
this nice soft chair if I was to be tortured
for now and all time to come after?
You might say yes, but I think not. No way.
I will allow to having had odd dreams.
But nothing scary, really. Nothing mean.
Just weird. Like a long old nap in the middle of the day.
There’s not much else to do. I could reflect
on all my trials and tribulations, the error
of my ways, but where would be the profit in that?
The wicked queen’s mistake was looking in the mirror.
She couldn’t rest in her own head and let
the young ones priss around and stew and fret.

_____
Why yes, yes I can. Can write a sonnet before sleeping, anyway. We’ll see about the crown. And I do intend to do some revising this April. Just not tonight.

Here’s an image my beloved made for a poster for an event from a while back, Speak Easy Love Hard, which reminds me of the tone of these Purgatory, Kentucky poems:

slh

At Least More Immune

It was a flu bug of panic,
a bad cold of shame,
and mostly I’m over it,
but it comes back again

like a lingering cough,
a fever at night,
and I almost expect it,
but I can’t manage tough

stances and logical self-talk
right when I want to
not each time I want to
even though I know I need to

become immune.

At least more immune.
_____

20130728-104507.jpg
A Kafka t-shirt to launch NaPoWriMo in which I will post a poem every day until I don’t, either a new poem or a revision.

Desperate for Silliness (Be There Now)

And so I take these online quizzes all the time
I’m every awesome everyone except
when inexplicably I’m Reagan or a ham
cured by local artisans. These I accept:
I’m Sherlock and Muttley and living in Paris.

So long as I’m not me, not being where here is.

And now I see I’ve failed to impress
you in your social media seriousness
“be authentic” is your web address.

They are made of pathos, these straws I’m grabbing for.
I’m plunging down and down in shallow water
with you with me, ending up we don’t know where.

___
A good friend complained on the Book of Face yesterday that he was tired of seeing everyone’s Buzzfeed quiz results.

I sympathize totally in one way–as these things go on social media, I participated early on, got tired of it, went back when it caught my eye again, got tired of it again…. And it is interesting to me, and curious, how eager we all are to answer questions about ourselves online and see what a random quiz tells us about what character or place or random object is a good match.

But I can’t frown too hard in the direction of people who are still quizzing themselves relentlessly because they may well be tired of how often they’re notified that I’m playing Candy Crush (though I will say I try very, very hard not to inadvertently click on “invite your friends to play Candy Crush,” but the game sneaks that into its long list of “click to send this person extra moves,” which I’m happy to do if I know that person is actually playing Candy Crush. Unless they emerged from Level 181 sooner than I did in which case why do they need extra moves? Harrumph.)

Another friend said last week she wanted to see more of our own pictures, not silly pictures we were sharing that someone we didn’t even know had posted.

And yes, let’s do that–let’s share some more of our authentic selves with each other.

And yet, is there a spot on our social media that could be an authentic medium for authenticity?

These are lines I cut from the sonnet:

You could eat a salad at McDonald’s, true,
but once you’re there, honestly, why would you?

Paris by Rui Ornelas  on Flickr

Paris by Rui Ornelas
on Flickr

Jimmy Fallon: Happiness Engine

It’s not that I think the Age of Irony is over (if irony didn’t die on 9/11, it can’t die), but something strange is afoot–I’m enjoying comedy bits on TV that are funny…because they’re funny.

What a revelation David Letterman was in 1982–things were funny because they weren’t funny. I was drowsy every morning my junior and senior year in high school because I stayed up for Letterman, and the not-funny=funny spilled over so many places–my dorm’s fundraiser in the Fall of ’83 we had toast on a stick….

I barely ever stay up until 12:30 a.m. any more, and when I do, it’s because I’m grading papers (YES I HAVE A VERY EXCITING LIFE). I still love Letterman in the abstract, but I can’t even manage the 10:30-11:30 CST slot.

However, I have spring break in a couple of weeks, and I’m looking forward to getting to stay up a little later, but sorry Dave–it’ll be the new Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon that I’ll be watching live-ish before I go to bed (instead of on the computer the next day or the next week).

I’m so motivated to watch because the clips I’ve caught have not so much made me laugh out loud (or, as I’m hearing people SAY now, verbally, not type, “LOL”) as they have just MADE ME HAPPY.

The first clue I had that Mr. Fallon was onto something was the verbal hash tag war he had with Jonah Hill. My Mom & I had a conversation about this, in which I was able to explain hash tags to her by comparing them to Library of Congress subject headings (I’d previously explained subject headings to students by saying “they’re like hash tags that old white guys use”).

But here’s when I started to crush on the new Tonight Show pretty hard–Paul Rudd killing it in their lip sync battle.

I’ve watched this so many times. Just–thanks, guys. Wonderful. Just what I needed. Awesome. Every little moment of it. Really.

And here’s when I realized Jimmy Fallon is not just funny, not just really doing great as a new host–

HE IS A HAPPINESS ENGINE.

Idina Menzel sang just fine in the Oscars* and I loved Frozen (happy it won), but this is my favorite version of “Let It Go.” The Roots Crew is so great, and they’re all so happy, and it’s so silly, and it’s just–I watch it again and again.

It just makes me happy.

When I lecture on humor, I point out that one of the categories of humor is delight, or childhood wonder–that humor doesn’t have to involve aggression or meanness or irony. It seems to be Jimmy Fallon is trafficking pretty heavy in delight.

I know he did a lot of these things on his other late-night gig, but I’m just now seeing people post them all over Facebook, and I know for a fact my Mom never watched him before he took over for Leno–so, wow.

Keep cranking it out, Mr. Happiness Engine. So happy to be happy out here where it’s still winter.
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Proof I need a Happiness Engine–here’s what winter does to me without it:

The Furniture of Winter

Like layering rugs on top of your carpet,
Like your grandmother’s hutch
There is no room for,
Or the trundle bed you’re holding onto
For a friend who’s recently nomadic,
The furniture of winter piles up.

Each shovelful’s a stack of old news
Balanced on top of whole hallways of snow.

All paths are precarious.

The unruly sun shuffles everything by noon,
And then at night the moon freezes
Everything in place.

Like another Collyer brother, you lie
underneath, praying messy prayers
for help, deaf heaven sending down
only more of what you have too much of
already, more, and also too much, snow.

(I started writing it two weeks ago; sadly, we got four more inches of snow this morning, so it’s still relevant.)

______

Let’s not end there.

Let’s watch the lip sync one more time.

#awesome #thankyou #engineofhappiness

(Les Chatfield from Flickr)

(Les Chatfield from Flickr)

*Loved the Oscars. Probably my favorite ever, and Ellen actually reminded me of Dave a little–the pizza bit was funny because it wasn’t funny, or at least that was my take. Whereas the selfie bit was just delightful to watch.

The Dream of Perennial Corn

1
Resource-hog sign of high summer,
high-fructose commodity seed,
short-term forest I missed sorely
in years Gran’daddy grew soybeans—

oh, corn.

Holding tight to cob-stabber handles,
letting butter invade where it will,
I demolish, row by row, kernel troops.
They leave behind mines in my teeth.

2
Fine people are already working
on sorghum and wheat
that don’t have to be plowed under,
replanted, cut down, plowed under,
and fertilized, fertilized, fertilized.

Much less practical is longing for perennial corn
but I do. I’m hot for it. Like August.
Imagine deep roots find Ogallala.
Acres jump up every year like bamboo.

We could wander and pluck at ripe goodness,
modern-day Eve, Adam, Abel, Cain.
There’s plenty enough for everyone.
More than enough for raccoons.

3
We probably won’t but we might
do the right thing, the right things
enough times in a row, enough rows
in a row, to harvest just once

without biting the hands that feed us,
without breaking our favorite jelly jar,
without zeroing out.

We might hold out our cup almost shyly
and blink, super-slow, as it fills up,
with sunshine, with sweetness, with juicy,

with corn.

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You should check out The Land Institute if you don’t already know all about them. My husband and I have supported them for years, and in fact, my parents do, too.

(Apparently there are other people working on perennial crops, including corn, but it isn’t pretty yet. And I’m not familiar with this particular fellow.)

The Land Institute’s main site is here, and here’s an article from the Wall Street Journal which ends with a lovely little paragraph:

“‘We’ll get there,’ Mr. Jackson says, with the patient drawl of a plant breeder from Kansas. ‘But it is no instant gratification. We’re making considerable progress, but this is not for the conventional mind.'”

As always, I’m pleased not to have a conventional mind.

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I blame Wallace Stevens.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate Wallace Stevens.  On an intellectual level, I do.  And I actually like “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”  But wow.  Tired of winter, tired of cold, looking forward to this forecast next week:

NOAA forecast

NOAA forecast

So, when a friend posted a copy of his lovely poem, “The Snow Man,” I couldn’t respond to the loveliness.

Instead, I grumped.

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The Dirt Woman

“One must have a mind of winter” Wallace Stevens

I don’t have one. I won’t ever.
Go eat a bag of winter
old man poet, in your suit and tie,

galoshes buckled tight
against the slush and ice
the poor tree limb split from.

What is this January sun
You speak of? I see none.
The only sound is the wind

which hits me right in the bare place
between my turtleneck and long johns.
I can no longer feel my face.

The only thing that gives me hope
is beneath the snow
something alive will grow something red.

The problem isn’t teachers.

for Heather, and so, so many more

The gritty nasty easy complaints take root
even when we try to weed them out.
The problem isn’t teachers. It isn’t you,

not if you’re teaching, it’s sure not.
We know what it’s all about
when gritty nasty easy complaints take root

in public discourse. Money is the root,
the square root, when we hear how
the problem is teachers. It isn’t you,

no, not you, rich man, you tell the truth
about those lazy public employees. Shout
those gritty nasty easy complaints! The root

is poverty, and unearned self-esteem, and too,
too much testing and less learning, but
the problem isn’t teachers. It isn’t you

my friend, my hero, my diligent compatriot.
Teaching well is about telling the truth.
Gritty nasty easy complaints may take root,
but the problem isn’t teachers. It isn’t you.

If I'd made one bale every semester I taught....

If I’d made one bale every semester I taught….

Girls, Girls, Keep Watch

Hanging out with the gargoyles at 3 a.m.,
the demon dogs, the dragon cats,
astride the roof of my brain.

Girls, girls, keep watch for me,
scare the bad buys off, don’t wake me up
with lists of all my ineptnesses.

In the morning, when you sleep,
I promise I’ll attack myself.
I always do. Meanwhile, do the job
I made you for, dreamcatchers,
stone oracles, armed guards at the door.