Some Transtromer

In this quote United States poet Robert Bly talks about the Swedish poet Tomas Transtromer, "Even at 17 he realized that the dead 'wanted to have their portrait painted'." I love Transtromer's poetry. Here is an excerpt from one of his poems translated by Bly (please forgive, I forgot the title).

"A letter from America drove me out again, started me walking
through the luminous June night in the empty suburban streets
among newborn districts without memories, cool as blueprints."

Growing up in the suburbs, this resonated a lot for me.

August notes

Aug 5------------
Unlike this bug, if I were to be flung to the ground at a height one hundred times my size, I wouldn't scurry or crawl away after the landing. I am not as agile.
Poor humans.


Aug 6------------
'll show you my family tree so you know not to reference the stupidity
of a Billy Bob or someone living in a trailer park
like the ones my grandparents lived in.
I'll say "no thank you." You didn't even make me chuckle.


Aug 8------------
I was talking to my mom on Thursday and I told her that I don't talk to my sisters very often. I told her that they must think I'm a bad aunt. She said, "No. Well, you don't have much in common besides being sisters." My mom makes me laugh how poignantly brief she can make a true observation. I've always thought that my sisters were so much older than me that we didn't have much to say. It seems that when I realized this, I began to change it.

I always thought my mother's common sense pragmatism had a monstrously stifling affect on my creativity. Yet, there are moments when she says so much in a few words that I wonder if she has instead inspired the poetic thread in me. It's brief truth moments.


Aug 9------------

Preoccupation=
before occupation

and before
I would have thought
distracted

I scan magazines
event planning to disease

a quiet demeanor
is unoccupied

a quietly enraging demeanor
is occupied

occupation has become
my preoccupation

It is a condition
I'm looking into
while I am not inside it



Aug 10------------

Rain is exercise
to come

I love blackstrap
molasses on Bisquick
roll
some on my tongue

green beans
sliced tomatoes with black pepper
corn cobs
BBQ pork sandwiches fried flat on the pan
fried potatos
mashed potatos patted into
potato pancakes after adding a little bit of egg



Aug 15------------

Time for showdown
in store for
thievery
hold up
I'm catching up
to a memory
of my brief acting days
as a convenient store
robber in the black box
theatre



Mid-August------------


My Questions:

Will underlining
go out of style
when highlighting
satisfies all?


Will I be diagnosed
with post-beginning
tramautic disorder
because the middle
can seems so bland?


Will the shoe shine
busy bee miss me?


Will the Charles river
sailor woman drop her keys
into never-retrieve?


Will his lost gaze
sit atop his slumped spine?


Will there be enough time
for me to begin?


How is that we
must wake up
to ourselves?



Aug 30------------

Damn poetry

Our poetry
doesn't
move
that
fast
says
bookstore
owner


"Books of poetry, my dear Miguel, catch on very slowly." I encountered this quote written in a letter to Miguel Hernandez from Frederico Garcia Lorca. It reads (Translated by Timothy Balard. I need to find the original Spanish.)

Back from NYC Protest

I just returned from the Anti-RNC protests in NYC. I went to the Books not Bombs Youth Convergence on Saturday, and the United for Peace and Justice March on Sunday. Organizers of the march estimated 500,000 people in the streets. I have no idea how to estimate such a crowd. As a speck in the crowd, marchers and signs were the only things I could see. And all I heard was chanting and chanting like "The people united will never be defeated." "El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido," "Bye, bye, Bush goodbye," "Money for jobs and education, not war and occupation," "Show me what democracy looks like. This is what democracy looks like, " and many more chants that kept the pace for the 5 hours we walked. It was so hot. The signs, puppets, and costumes were amazing, although I did get tired of the "Bad bush, good bush"-type messages after so many similar ones. I may laugh at the mockery, at the mask of Bush on wheels dragged by the man wearing boxing gloves and red, white, and blue shorts who punches him out, but I don't think mockery is very effective. I don't want to punch Bush out even if he is standing in front of me (although I doubt that will ever happen.) But, I want to defend myself against his actions that serve the interests of the most wealthy. I do not want them to consume our spirit for justice and peace. It feels exhilirating to take over the street in protest, and demonstrate that I will not be complicit to the agenda of our government and its effects on the people on earth. It was important to me to march, and send a message internationally. I don't want to fall for anything....

Expand ...

...Pincers

Poof

Roiling
aftermath

half-expecting
full return
(that)
takes me shopping
to poetry section
big fat Garcia Lorca
and Giovanni

the henna on my hand
from the Indian festival
claims new veins

winds down
my pointing finger

oh no
I think of the colon I wrote
earlier
what a catastrophic mistake

I shake off
ridiculous
remorse

I'm reading "Noticia de un Secuestro" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez about the kidnappings in Colombia by the drug traffickers. Last night I had dreams of speeding cars, unidentified bones, and mass graves. I think I'll stop reading the book right before bed. This is the privilege I have since I am not experiencing such imminent threats.

A perfect house

Poked. Pricked. A parable for belonging. A vehement bandwagon for the begotten. I belonged in no other. In the all over. In the continuum I banged, staring at white walls for a vision. Saw battleships in doorways. Passageways in potholes. I was a visitor. A lampshade. A saddle of wounds. Doorways were a spectacle I could stand in. A rod of conditions. Thunder. The sketch of a horse. Drawing of a woman with frozen elbows since the talent stopped growing. A house without books. Except my books. A wooden door. The screen door. The door was knocking faster than the spaces could contract or expand or slice. A slit. Squeaking linoleum. Patterns of brown. Velour lime green chairs in a room with light maroon carpeting. Color was a platform. Rhythm was inevitable. Life was to be gotten over if the living could begin. I began to rock the steady. Start the laughing. Hit the sack. Suck up the juice. Sneak boys in the window because trying was the fun part, then they were expecting. Then they were there. A story. A memory tossed around. I didn't have any pets. Midnight. A leg on the windowpane. A stain from throw-up on kelly green carpeting. It was as far as I could crawl.

Wide-open

"A telegraphic message!" she cried; for the convenient word telegram had not yet been invented. "What can be the matter?"

She looked up at her husband with wide-open, terrified eyes, and seemed half afraid to break the seal. The envelope was addressed to Miss Lucy Graham, at Mr. Dawson's, and had been sent on from the village.

"Read it, my darling," he said, "and do not be alarmed; it may be nothing of any importance."
(excerpt from Victorian novel Lady Audley's Secret)

How many times has "wide open, terrified eyes" been written? Too many, perhaps. Why do we rely on the eyes to show this ballooning, exhausting fear? It must dwell in more places than the eyes. Were does the terror dwell? My mother always says "Don't dwell."

best begin

I best begin with the face

tongue of the country
parading, electing
an eye, and an eyelash
for good measure.