Category Archives: Uncategorized

Jesus Weasels and the Rusty Balloon

Those people who love Paul as much as Jesus—
shall we agree to call them the Paulines?
The schematics of sin, the counting of beans,
fault-finding, blame-placing weasels
not just ignoring the big guy’s red letters, but
also forgetting Shorty’s juicy bits
“Better to marry than burn” must have meant
the epistler burned like an old mattress,
like an oil lamp that never empties,
an abandoned refinery post-apocalypse.
But I get it, I really, really do. Without
a clear sense of rules, how the hell do you
know how to pop the rusty balloon
of anxiety in your chest, let alone actually pop it.

______

I wrote this sonnet in tweets, a couple of lines at a time, starting on Friday, finishing today. Made me look at the sonnet differently–I may try again sometime. Tweeting the lines makes me want to make them more stand-alone. Hm.

Purgatory, Kentucky (4/7)

The ferry’s here. I guess I’ll drive on in.
I tell you if I’d known I’d have my truck
on this side of, well, whatever side I’m on,
I’d have done myself in sooner. Just my luck
the ignition switch is still a fussy thing
which I guess means this isn’t heaven.
I never really minded when it wouldn’t start,
just took the time to admire my good old Ford,
Bought it new in ’72, Grabber Blue,
What was there me and my girl couldn’t do?
My favorite thing I ever hauled? An outhouse
that my Mama did NOT want me to take away.
“When your crazy cousin Vernon visits,
I like to have a quiet place to pray.”
_____
Keeping at it, might finish this crown of sonnets during National Poetry Month, just three more to go (but only two more days in April). (The others are in the category “Purgatory,Kentucky” and I’ll put them all together when I write #7). But it’s fun,even if I don’t finish in April, and I’m happy to have written another “car sonnet,” which is one of the big drivers of traffic on my blog, people Googling “car sonnets.” Hope this counts, even though it’s a truck. (NOTE: I no longer write sonnets whilst driving–now when I say “car sonnet” it means a sonnet with vehicular subject matter.)

Here’s a 1972 Ford truck, Grabber Blue. This is pretty much my dream vehicle.

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)

It’s Hard to Teach When Gollum’s in Your Class

It’s hard to teach when Gollum’s in your class.
He’s not the ideal student by any stretch,
but he’ll blame you if he doesn’t pass.

He’s very disruptive, all that muttering “my precious”
and small group work with him is just a bitch.
It’s hard to teach when Gollum’s in your class

because even saying Sméagol when you take attendance,
even smiling when you really want to screech,
you can be sure that he’ll blame you if he doesn’t pass.

He misses class a lot. Just vanishes.
Then swears he was too there. It’s hard to teach
the earnest students when Gollum’s in your class,

but you owe it to the ones who are not treacherous,
the step by by step by steps, the clear approach.
That rat-like monkey will blame you if he doesn’t pass,

but don’t dumb things down. Just do your best.
Backwards design might save you in a hitch.
It’s hard to teach if Gollum’s in your class,
but don’t blame yourself if he shall not pass.

 

_____

If fish were learning outcomes, Gollum would get an A+.

If fish were learning outcomes, Gollum would get an A+.

_____
(photo by Larry and Linda on Flickr, Creative Commons)

(OH that last line–“He shall not pass” sounds so foreordained and the teacher in me keeps hoping, hoping that Gollum will pull it together and squeak out a decent grade. But how can I not play on “shall not pass?” Decisions, decisions…)

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)

___
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.

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:
_____

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.

Missing the Magpie

Here’s a long overdue shout-out to my good friend Robert, who contributed to my Indiegogo campaign last year (thanks, and thanks again!). His contribution and others allowed me a “half-battical” last fall, which meant teaching two courses instead of my normal four.  I spent time working on creativity research, and I’ll be offering my first 2-hour workshop this Saturday.

 

You know how everyone is always posting all kinds of everything on Facebook & Twitter and some of it’s great but so much of it is….not?

What if someone had a blog in which they gathered all kinds of awesome stuff in one place, week after week?  That’s what Robert’s “Magpie Monday” did, and even though there hasn’t been one in a while, it’s still WELL WORTH a look-see because he finds awesome stuff, such as Bookshelf Porn and Ask Baba Yaga and a site with details I didn’t personally actually know or remember about the Piano.

 

I’m missing Magpie Monday, but at least there are nests to look back through!
cropped-crane19

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.
_____

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.

___

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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