I talk a lot about the intersection of poetry and sound. Many people are sick of hearing me discuss the topic, I'm sure. Given that, here I want to share an experiment I tried in which poetry and image intersect–not in the usual concrete poetry method which involves using the words themselves to create images, but by using a pre-existing visual work by one of my favorite artists as inspiration and complement. This will be the first in a series; not of poems associated with images, but of poems which, for one reason or another, will not be incorporated into my senior project compilation.


Triumph Over Mastery II, Mark Tansey

***

Triumph Over Mastery II (in honor of Mark Tansey)

I dip my roller, white, ascend
the ladder to begin my work
attending to the task at hand.
A rippling muscled arm extends
much like my own as I erase
the arm, two hands, a head, a cloud
now nothing. Pure, unblemished white.
As I proceed I fail to see
my shadow, painted over like
the chapel ceiling I negate.

The thunder rumbled like a feral beast asserting its dominance. Softly, a whispered response came from the clouds, growing louder as the rains swept across the mountainside. The time of cleansing had come.

I'm back again... We'll see how long it lasts this time.

The Christmas season has been wonderful, but quite exhausting. I've been running around for the past week and a half going to various family events and church and out of town and back into town and only just now do I have a chance to sit back and breathe, having just driven Laura back up to St. Olaf. There's actually snow up here, and a bite to the air that provides a calming reminder that winter does, in fact, exist and should occur during this general period of time.

For Christmas, Laura gave me this collection of poetry by Jill Scott, which I'd asked for to help with the tutorial I'm trying to set up for next fall (an analysis of 20th century song lyrics as poetry). I have since fallen in love with Scott's words, and the book along with some holiday stress prompted me to start writing poetry again–– for which I am very, very grateful. Not only am I happy to be writing again, but the material I'm producing feels much more satisfactory than earlier work.

It's getting to that time of term when all the classes and activities and commitments all build pressure at once, which of course is why I'm posting instead of my grammar homework. The following is a remnant from a project I worked on a while ago that never really took off. I'm not really sure who the narrator is and why (s)he is relating this, but I like this paragraph/verse/whatever and hope to explore the character more. The character definitely has some issues with the world that need to be addressed, and the backstory, scenario, and future possibilities intrigue me.

------------------------------

There's a dusting of snow on the ground.
Everything is covered in glitter,
Like a first-grade art project.
It brings back bitter, cynical memories,
Of a time when innocence didn't mean ignorance
And having fun didn't mean getting drunk.
When being lonely meant being alone
And death was scarier than life.

A submission for my poetry workshop class, no doubt influenced by my life at an East Coast hippie school:

An aluminum tube sits before me.
What is inside?
Kidnapping
Abuse
Murder
Terrorism
Poison

I take it and drink.

Life tastes good.

I don't feel no ways tired

But I do. I'm exhausted. It's all I can do to lift one foot and place it in front of the other.

I come too far from where I started from

Got that right. I'm incredibly removed from so much of my former life, only way to go is forward.

Nobody told me that the road would be easy

And it's not. I'm stumbling, falling.

I don't believe He brought me this far to leave me.

I don't believe He brought me this far to leave me.

There's a picture on the wall in front of me, with patterns of colored dots forming the shape of an apple. I am surrounded by the constant clackety-clack of fingers hitting keyboards with the rapidity of a machine gun. A lone derelict monitor with a sign taped to it reading "Sorry! This computer is out of service" sits silently beside me. The air conditioning vent blasts cool air that combats the heat radiating from 19 running computers and a printer. There are white splotches in the carpet where a piece of chalk has been ground in. Books and papers litter the countertop, and one only hopes that some sense and a decent grade will come out of it all.

Chaotic images swirl around me: burnt moths falling like snow, ream's worths of blank paper fluttering all around, and a small metallic circle. I can't comprehend what they are, what they signify, and I cry aloud as they surround me. I clench my eyes shut as they all press in, and suddenly there is an absence in the space around me. One eyes cracks open the tiniest slit to see absolutely nothing. I open my eyes fully and blink several times, but to no avail. I cannot see. I reach out my arms, to feel the offending visions that had but moments ago pursued me, but they sweep through empty space. Blind and confused, I fall to the ground, weeping through sightless eyes.

And then a voice comes faintly into my world. A quiet, melodic voice whose very sound seems to fill my body with strength and purge me of exhaustion. I can hardly make out the words, but the tone is clear. Calm. Relax. This too shall pass.

Time passes, in that insufferably smug way that it does. Friends become acquaintances, acquantances become friends, and for some bizarre reason it's 89º outside in Vermont. In the midst of all this stands a young man simply doing his best to keep his heaad above water (not a terribly hard task in the literal sense, as he lives on a mountaintop, but much tougher figuratively). His mind is a whirlwhind of responsiblities, priorities, and the instinctive need to escape. There are moments of reprieve from his inner struggle, however. Conversations with loved ones and time spent with new friends make the days lighter and easier to bear. I cannot say what comes next, however. His story has yet to be told, and only that unbearably conceited time knows what is yet to pass.

Tunes: "Runaway Train," Soul Asylum (iTMS); "What a Good Boy," Barenaked Ladies (iTMS).

Tiny delicate
flowers purple and yellow
outside my window

Faces around a bonfire
some familiar, some new
all drawn together into a community
living with each other on the hill
for four long formative years
making connections
Will I see them after I'm done?

Tunes: "I Ain't Marching Anymore," Phil Ochs; "Living in the Love Life After," Vic Thrill.

A cat slinks along an alleyway at night. Its body is thin and worn, with many scars along its patchy fur. It pokes its nose into a garbage bin and is rewarded with a special treat: dinner, in the form of a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese. Purring, it leaps up to the roof of a garage and feasts upon its decaying meal, tearing into the molding dough as if it were freshly killed prey.

I wrote a big long thing tonight that touches on a number of topics, but it's not really ready for public edification yet. So, until then...

RANDOM LYRIC QUOTES THAT MAKE NO SENSE OUTSIDE OF THE CONTEXT OF MY LIFE!!!

WOO HOO!!!

"And then you had to bring up reincarnation
Over a couple of beers the other night
And now I'm serving time for mistakes
Made by another and another lifetime"

--"Galileo," Indigo Girls

"Do you dream about music or mathematics,
Or planets too far for the eyes?
Do you dream about Jesus or quantum mechanics
Or angels who sing lullabies?"

--"When You Dream," Barenaked Ladies

"I pulled into Nazareth, I was feelin' about half past dead
I just need some place where I can lay my head
'Hey Mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?'
He just grinned and shook my hand, and 'No!' was all he said"

--"The Weight," The Band

Not really sure how I'm feeling right now. Will update later when emotions give way to creative venting. In the meantime, what's running through my head:

Drink with me to days gone by
To the life that used to be
At the shrine of friendship, never say die
Let the wine of friendship never run dry
Here's to you and here's to me

–Les Misérables

The birds sing. Sunlight glows and makes my room painfully bright. Eyes still half closed, I roll over in an effort to prolong this semblance of unconsciousness before I have to face the day. I start to curl up into a ball, and that's when it starts. I am suddenly aware of my calf, and know what is about to happen even though I cannot stop it. In slow motion, I feel my muscles tense and clench, sending a massive wave of pain through my lower leg. I reach down to touch it, and encounter rock hard muscle, tight and rigid. Biting my lip to keep from crying out, I rub my swollen calf, feeling the solid mass of flesh slowly begin to melt beneath my touch. After a while, my leg is once again soft and flexible, but still sensitive and tender. I lie beneath the covers, wishing in vain that I did not have to rise and face the rest of the day.

Tunes: "Between Angels and Insects," Papa Roach (iTMS); "Art is Hard," Cursive (iTMS).

A thief, vanishing into a faceless crowd.

A holiday, celebrated long ago with friends and strangers.

A house, whose aged wood breathes with a life of its own.

A car, cruising along through countryside.

The night is cool, a sharp contrast from the humid heat that the day had been. He stands at an intersection, waiting. A broken beer bottle catches his eye, glinting in the glow of the streetlights. Its pieces are scattered, its original shape nothing but a transparent memory told by the label that still holds some few shards in its embrace. He pauses, reflecting on this piece of litter, and its symbolism, before pushing the thought out of his mind and kicking the fragments away, leaving no sign of their prior existence except a light scratch on a rubber shoe sole. Still he waits, and still that scratch stays.

Tunes: "Nobody Likes You When You're Dead," Zombina and the Skeletones; "Baby, I'm An Anarchist," Against Me!.

Imagine, if you will, me as a twelve-year-old boy. Hardly the dashingly handsome young man that stands before you, I was the same weight I am now, but a good foot shorter, with crisply parted hair and glasses that covered the vast majority of my chipmunk-cheeked face. I had arrived in town just in time for a Wednesday afternoon rehearsal, where I was greeted warmly-- for the most part. Will, the current head boy, led me over to a spot next to him so he could show me how they did things at St. Luke’s, so I settled in and started looking over the music I’d been handed. Right about then I received a sudden blow to my side, and heard someone say “Hey! Out of my spot!” I was already nervous, being the new guy, and this assault by an invisible chorister was almost more than I could handle, until I looked down and saw a boy who came up to about my elbow. I made a mental note to avoid him from then on out. His name, I later learned, was Mark Shuldiner. Most of you know how well THAT resolution turned out.

There really is a point to that story, aside from an attempt at humor. I was extremely insecure at that point in my life. I had just uprooted and moved not only to a different time zone, but miles and miles away from the East Coast, which had been my lifelong home, into the strange and unknown lands called the Midwest. Yet in the midst of all this uncertainty, I was dropped off in front of that beautiful neo-gothic sanctuary we know so well, and I was immediately embraced into a community of people united in Christ through a common passion. St. Luke’s made Evanston my home that day, and the choir and parish became a very real family for me, even those among you who I didn’t start off on the right foot with.

We’ve shared many amazing experiences over the years, most of which are hard to name. Whether we were at Six Flags or St. Paul’s Cathedral, playing hacky sack and dying our hair or singing Parry or Howells or Bairstow or whomever, the joy came not from the location or activity, but from the company. Playing Frisbee in the hail wouldn’t have been the same if the boys hadn’t roughed it through and kept on going. It wouldn’t have been as fun to ram someone else with a go-kart instead of Friedland. There’s a song I've listened to and enjoyed since I was a child whose chorus goes: “It’s not the pot that grows the flower/It’s not the clock that slows the hour/The definition’s plain for anyone to see/Love is all it takes to make a family.” Many from my St. Lukes family are here tonight. Many others are not, having graduated themselves or moved away or joined other parishes. But present or not, they and you will always be remembered as my family, and I can’t think of a higher compliment I can give.

It was a comfortably cool Spring night, the kind of cool that isn't cold enough to notice unless the wind picks up. I'd had a long day and needed some time away, so I wandered down to the lakefront, which is where I saw her. She was dancing– no, frolicking up and down the edge of the shore, kicking up a light spray of sand behind her moving feet. She spun and leapt, seeming not to know what movement would come next, but letting her body swing freely through the evening air. Her head tossed, sending her hair in a wave over her shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of her face. That picture is stuck in my memory, and I don't think anything, even the steady erosion of time, will ever fade that image. Her pale face was spread in a smile that was simply radiant. I watched in awe, wondering what could have given her this joy. She was so happy, she was almost glowing. With a start, I blinked in disbelief as I realized that she actually WAS glowing: there was a soft pale light surrounding her. Her face, arms, and the feet pointing out from under her dress were almost white with luminescence. Gradually, she grew brighter and brighter, until her features became indistinct behind the silvery sheen and it became hard to look directly at her. I raised my arm to cover my face, and the instant I could not see her the light vanished. I dropped my arm suddenly, and looked all about, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone without a trace except for the footprints in the sand, and a light melodic laugh that echoed in the night wind.

Tunes: "I've Been High," R.E.M. (iTMS)

I've tried my hand at poetry a fair few times, and while I think that I've got a good feel for rhyming schemes and patterns of emphasis, I still feel a total amateur when faced with works of such bizarre flowing whatever as what I read from Lewis Carroll. His poetry was ever-present in my childhood: I memorized Jabberwocky for a talent show at a young age, and Dad would read to my brother and me from The Hunting of the Snark (those of you who have heard Dad preach or lecture can probably imagine what a fabulous experience that was). Dad and Pippa got me a copy of The Annotated Alice the other day from the library booksale, which thrills me especially because it contains the original John Tenniel illustrations, the same ones that were in the books I first read from.

I would love to be able to converse with Lewis Carroll at length about his poetry, because so much of its meaning is left open. I wonder if The Walrus and the Carpenter really is "an indictment of organized religion," as they say in Dogma, or whether he simply wrote it for the sake of writing it, or if there was another meaning hitherto unexplained. Robert Frost, when asked about the ulterior meaning of The Road Less Traveled, simply said, "Oh, I was just talking about the two roads there in Boston." I'm realy not sure what to make of Carroll's works, or if I should even try. But I do know that I'll be keeping and rereading this book for a very, very long time.

Tunes: "Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me)," Blessid Union of Souls; "Good Old A Cappella," The Bandersnatchers.

Thinking a lot tonight about leaving and missing people. I'm going to be around for either three whole months or only three months, depending on what sort of mood I'm in. A sincere thank you to everyone who's been so blatantly honest (and amusing) about the absence I'll leave.

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because—because if he should die
While I was gone, and I—too late—
Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They “noticed” me—they noticed me;
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I ’d come—so sure I ’d come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name,—  
My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning’s sun,
Where midnight frosts had lain!

--Emily Dickinson

Tunes: "In This Diary," The Ataris (iTMS)

I remember when I first got to know her three years ago, at a party of Heather's. We were playing CatchPhrase, and her phrase was "call girl." We both turned bright red: she in embarassment, I in sheepish pride for having guessed it so rapidly.

I remember so many nights spent with her and Mark, sitting and talking about anything and nothing and everything in between.

I remember her indignation when she found out that I was spending Easter weekend on my own, and how rapidly she drove the hour-plus commute just to get me and bring me back to her house to decorate eggs with the family.

I remember first encountering Nikita, who at the time was expressing her displeasure with ATLA.

I remember learning just what she meant when she said that watching baseball on TV is "an audience participatory sport."

I remember defining the structure of our bizarre family, cementing very real and close relationships in a physically confusing family tree.

I remember many highs and lows, and I remember much more than she probably wants me to, what with awards night coming up soon. ^_^

Soon I will have new memories, of the beginning of the end for this particular stretch of the road she's traveling. I'm just grateful I've been able to walk with her for so long.

I'm proud of you, Jane.

Elkj lsjfkghls sg aslkghl hioh bjkb. Jluhbks senkgn kaeglgber, ealkl thlhgze sl dhuzib srebu. Tp zser lkbzlirdbrdubil ergz jkd dlrknbxl rdk lxzdrgurxd ehrrl lzbjk zgcbg. Bsluhsl rhlzghl wae hrui lhrliuh rd zleriohr.

There's a beat-up old washer lying by the sidewalk. I don't know why it catches my eye. I'm surrounded by Spring; the birds chirping, the sun shining, the flowers blooming... So why this small bent piece of metal? Not on account of contrast, surely. It's dirty enough that I hardly even saw it against the ground. I stand there, staring, for quite some time, wondering why.

Joyous Eastertide, everybody! I celebrate (as is my norm) with a song:

Jesus was way cool
Everybody liked Jesus
Everybody wanted to hang out with him
Anything he wanted to do, he did
He turned water into wine
And if he wanted to
He could have turned wheat into marijuana
Or sugar into cocaine
Or vitamin pills into amphetamines
He walked on the water
And swam on the land
He would tell these stories
And people would listen
He was really cool
If you were blind or lame
You just went to Jesus
And he would put his hands on you
And you would be healed
That's so cool
He could've played guitar better than Hendrix
He could've told the future
He could've baked the most delicious cake in the world
He could've scored more goals than Wayne Gretzky
He could've danced better than Barishnikov
Jesus could have been funnier than any comedian you can think of
Jesus was way cool
He told people to eat his body and drink his blood
That's so cool
Jesus was so cool
But then some people got jealous of how cool he was
So they killed him
But then he rose from the dead
He rose from the dead, danced around
Then went up to heaven
I mean, that's so cool
Jesus was way cool
No wonder there are so many Christians

"Jesus Was Way Cool" - King Missile

It seems odd that I should have such nostalgia, having seen (presumably) so little of the full span of my life, especially when what lies ahead appears to be so bright. But in spite of this logical premise, I do find myself wandering the streets and alleyways of memory, and lingering in places, times, and feelings long past. The peaks and valleys of emotion rush back as clearly as if they had happened just minutes before, and names, faces, and scenes can be seen as well as the clutter on my desk in front of me. I think what seems strangest about the whole affair is the reason for my looking back. Usually when I steep myself in retrospection, it is because I have fallen upon hard times and want to recall how well life can treat me, and will again. Now, I'm pleased, on the whole, and not really sure what to make of the lines of thought that I'm revisiting.

[revisited later:] Interesting ramble... A level of removed angst borne on a base of good cheer. I believe that the angst, minimal as it was in comparison to the rest of my emotions, needed to get out, but had an awkward time doing so. Or maybe I'm thinking too hard about all this.

Tunes: "I Am Downright Amazed At What I Can Destroy With Just A Hammer," Atom & His Package (iTMS); "In My Life," The Beatles.

This is my first time
Writing this sort of poem.
I think I like it.

I start to shrink from any form of outside stimulus. A dull, stabbing ache sets n behind my left eye. The world around me loses focus, not because my eyes aren't functioning properly, but because I haven't the strength to take in my surroundings. What little energy I have left seems to drip slowly out of my body, like a maple tree being sapped. I am nowhere near sleepy enough to drift off, but not awake enough to function, either. I sit in a perpetual half-life, waiting in a purgatorial state for SOMEthing. Hamlet chose between being and not being; I would be content with either, just to escape this monotony. Life offers new experiences around each bend, while Hamlet's proverbial sleep offers dreams, which surely cannot be any worse than this static image that faces me.

Indistinct memories fade in and out, flashbacks to a time of pure physical release. A dark room, packed with people, all thrashing and flailing about in the waves of aural stimulus that bathe them in its vibration. Standing on a level only a couple feet above the floor, the perpatrators of this cacophony abuse their instruments for all they're worth, seemingly unaware that they hold a mob of people in their thrall. Impossibly, the noise grows even louder, the dials go up to 11, and everyone in the room finds their escape. Release. Joy.

Once again, I give tribute to Nick Hornby.

"It's no wonder we're all in such a mess, is it? We're like Tom Hanks in Big. Little boys and girls trapped in adult bodies and forced to get on with it. And it's much worse in real life, because it's not just snogging and bunk beds, is it? There's all this as well."
High Fidelity

The man's a genius.

Picture two simple, mostly identical bent pieces of metal. If aligned properly, they slide together by virtue of their specific shapes, and overlap so well that at first glance, they look permanently attached. If one knows how to put them together, then one knows how to take them apart again— but there is no motive to. Without the other, each is just a twisted fragment of steel, but together, they create a singular who that is special and is to be marveled at. "How," an unknowing observer might ask, "could these two be attached so tightly without distorting their original forms?" But they do not know that these bonds are not forced into submission, but accepted as part of the objects' inherent nature, and only by giving in to that nature do the shapes give form to something new and amazing.

Tunes: "Life, In A Nutshell," Barenaked Ladies (iTMS).