in which bigscary writes her first poem in a long time
Several N.B.'s: I found it incredibly hard (&emotional &soul shattering, but in the good way) to write this poem. God damn you Jon. +237 points for making me think like a motha fuckah and feel like a poet again. The only way I could conceive of this poem was visually, so for your viewing pleasure, I have attached a drawing of sorts (I'm really hoping this will score me at least 30 points). I saw the assignment as a magnet toward or away entropy, with the first and fifth sections edging on organized, rational, ordered. The second and fourth became increasingly chaotic--entropy at its sexiest. Followed by the middle section: absence/void/the black holy suck force. The way it came out was surprisingly Gertrude Stein-esque. In fact, the title was taken from the poem A Carafe, That is a Blind Glass, from Tender Buttons. I'll shut up now, because it's 2AM. I'm falling asleep & still deciding if this is the best way to look at it and if the theme I chose actually works.
But, "Har!," she blows, "Wake Up, Rod"!!
the difference is spreading
i. ice water
Ice cubes never cracked at 12.
At 23 there are laws to unfathomables
like your hand hot with cold
from those exploding bergs
not carefully transplanted from tray to glass.
Whiskey melts nothing
but the need for clothes,
and yet it’s understood that that’s
what whiskey is for.
The glass sweats wherever you place it.
It sweats to remind you of presence
of the space between loss and gain, of his hand
perpetually about to grace your hand
but the distance halves.
ii. dirty napkin
It was read aloud at a party we hosted that
“in order to be truly
green people,
one must use one napkin per day”
Ridiculous victim we were using triangles
of fringed paisley for napkins.
And hoped that made us something
more like white than green
more like the first violence done to a wall.
And I did not mean to tell you
after the crumbs and rings restored,
I hid the paisley ones in the drawer under the sink.
Three paper napkins per day would be just fine.
iii. Zamboni
the easy chair
does not glide.
there are certain bolts,
staples of vocabulary rusting the chair
to the floor.
and however the slick of ice on ice knows better.
Water gives up
some molecules for others
discussing not in discourse, but in atomical precision
the hush of ice meeting skate
just jonesing
to be sliced through its body.
iv. cigarette butts
but you found them
and they weren’t where I hid them
and I can’t forgive the compulsion to stifle
the cigarette with fingertips that trace
all of your little desires in one too slick
flick of the butt.
v. ring stain
Mica displays cleavage:
a thinning of peelable layers,
that flake indefinitely. Layers that I stole
in chemistry class
to prove I had a need for mementos.
The ring stain on that book
on this shelf does much for meditations on buoyancy,
on the cleave between
a water glass left
to sweat its stain.
I keep rereading the last stanza. Then reading it again. Dayumn.
ReplyDeleteAD
ReplyDeletethis is delicious and primal in a lot of ways, a kind of yellowing tale – like an old, evil book on a shelf, fascinating to read, terrifying to comprehend. What blows me away is that this is what you transmit tonally. just at a non-comprehensive level, I get that. as my jazz professors might say, your feel is perfect.
Which isn’t to disparage the actual words-on-page, because this is real good AD. right away you’ve got me, with “those exploding bergs” – outfuckingstanding. I think “not carefully transplanted from tray to glass” might be a bit too much for one line, not enough for two lines - there’s something about it that’s a little off.
a suggestion: stanza two, first two lines are spot on (from experience, even more spot on). I suggest a line space after that, new stanza style, and make a monostrophe “that’s what whiskey is for.” the “yet it’s understood” is true but too editorial for the poem. it’s already highly emotive first person (with a nice sprinkling of ennui), so the speaker’s gotta walk a line here – there’s a high level of awareness here, you don’t want that awareness to become expected.
third stanza, why not “the glass sweats to remind…” and chop chop that first line into the second. really beautiful language here, the sweating, the presence, the halving distance. Right on AD. It’s been far too long since I’ve read you and I like it ubermuch.
I’m very microcosmic in my reading right now. so let’s take it up a bit to macro. Based on your diagram, but more based on the poem, “dirty napkin” (great section titles BTW) introduces a specific social function and a certain modern banality/ennui/bourgeoisie feel in it, which is very jarring next to the first stanza. That’s fine as wine, but that feel proceeds to enervate and spread to the rest of the poem, including section five. What’s fascinating is that that is not in the language, but in how much of a weird left turn thematically “dirty napkin” is. You’ve got another speaker, you’ve got a plural 1st person, you’ve got a definitely more editorializing speaker, and you have essentially an address to the green movement and an intrusion of political mores, which in this specific situation I don’t understand what the other speaker is talking about. That’s a lot for a second section to do, and it does it, but there are so many outside world intrusions that the speaker’s awareness of the self and the micro level gets completely overrun language wise. Once again, speaks to your diagram and the success of your project, but also throws off the balance perhaps too dramatically. it feels like an outside world intrusion that isn’t mirrored in the fourth. just someone came in and knocked down a wall and never picked it up. this might be solved by easing up on the editorializing (ridiculous victim, more like white than green, first violence, just fine, etc.), and a thought – can the speaker be displaced to a third person? I think it’s the transition from a singular I to a plural WE that throws me off right away, then somehow fails to locate me in this situation of discomfort. a slightly ajar perspective might have something to say that’s more of a buoy in the discomfort.
ReplyDeleteZAMBONI: love the section in general. first two stanzas, right on my friend, right on. I get thrown off at “however the slick…” because it points to two linguistic referents that aren’t there. but Big Scary, if that’s intentional to the preceeding stanza, and I think it is, fuck you you’re the smartest trickster there ever was. swear to god, and I’ll fight on this, that’s genius. because it’s SO ODDLY AWKWARD and the line before it codifies language as an imperfect rusty old sonofabitch who won’t go to the nursing home, who sits on his front porch shooting shells at kids. right on. I may have read into that more than is there, but fuck it I like it. maybe make it even more awkward.
ReplyDeleteI’m not crazy about the next two lines, but the last three lines of this stanza are just bliss. jonesing, hush, sliced, body- fucking yum dude. really really outstanding.
iv. is tricky. because I don’t really feel it’s there. it feels like a little anecdote break in craziness. I understand that urge, and I do that a lot in sectional poems. but your language here, comparatively, is not particularly playful when stacked up to it’s surroundings – you’ve got “sliced through its body” before and “mica displays cleavage” after it – and it’s gotta bring some thunder if it wants to play with the big boys. just not quite there yet, feels slightly melodramatic in a way that I can’t access, given the speaker’s depth of emotion and awareness in other parts.
“ring stain” is great. I have little to say. boss dawg. good motherfucking poem. you rock rock the block block.
bigscary blushes, then bows. i'll respond and edit accordingly...as for now, i need to do a happy dance. ME LOVE THIS BLOG LONG TIME.
ReplyDeleteps-
+500 points for Jon for a really fucking intense and accurate and ridiculous intuitive analysis.
with AD's blessing, i herebly submit a remix of her poem for review:
ReplyDeletei. ice water
Ice cubes never cracked at twelve.
At 23 there are laws of unfathomables
like your hand hot with cold from
those exploding bergs
recklessly translated from tray to glass.
Whiskey melts nothing
but the need for clothes, that’s
what whiskey is for.
The glass sweats everywhere you place it.
It sweats then the presence of the space between
loss and gain, perpetually about to graze your hand
but the distance halves
ii. dirty napkin
It was read aloud at a party we hosted that
truly green people must
one napkin per day.
We were using triangles
of fringed paisley for napkins
and that made us something
more like white than green
more like the first violence done to a wall.
iii. Zamboni
the easy chair
does not glide
there are certain staples
of vocabulary rusting the chair to the floor
however the slick of ice on ice knows better.
Water gives up some molecules for others,
not discussing the hush
of ice meeting skate just
jonesing to be sliced
through its body.
iv. cigarette butts
but you found them
and they weren’t where I hid them
but I can’t forgive the compulsion to smother
cigarette with the fingers that tend
all of your little desires in one slick
flick of the butt.
v. ring stain
Mica displays cleavage:
a thinning of peelable layers
that flake indefinitely. Layers that I stole
to prove I had a need for mementos.
The ring stain sheds meditations on buoyancy,
meniscuses;
a water glass left
to sweat its stain.
heck yes. thanks for posting mme emily louise!
ReplyDelete