James Longenbach and poems that don’t make sense

A year ago I took a poetry class through Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver. The class studied, “The Resistance to Poetry” by James Longenbach. The third chapter explored disjunction in poetry.

A disjunctive line in poetry doesn’t completely make sense from the preceding lines. The reader is asked to make a jump of logic. Longenbach provided the following poem as an example:

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream –
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream.

There is some tension and excitement in grasping onto that last line. The reader wants the entire poem to make sense. One struggles to bridge the gap between rowing down a stream and comprehending a philosophical statement.

While I was puzzling over disjunction, a wonderful line of poetry came to me. At the time I was struggling through a high-risk pregnancy. The verse was, “the seedling and the sunlight speak a secret language.”

I wanted to write a poem about my pregnancy that included the aforementioned line. The beginning of the poem came easily, but I couldn’t get to the end. I prefer most of my poems to have a steady rhythm with equal numbers of lines in each stanza. However, that formula just didn’t work with this poem.

Finally one of my poetry friends advised me to stop controlling the poem. (As in life, so in poetry) Here is the final poem in all its disjunctive glory.

The Sound of Being
By Maya Gurarie

Mother is big with child and the child is.

The first sounds of stirring seem like slow inside soft,
As spring buds sweeten.

So afraid of dropping the baby  (before he’s born),
I hold my breath.
Lest he become like the others, the ones without names.

What would I be if I couldn’t swim out of this moment?
I’d never eat coconut cupcakes again
Or lounge in the grass, the silky green grass.

And so I divide,
As I age toward immortality,
And my listening self divides with me.

I choose to breathe and hear the roots of being.

The sound of baby’s voice from the womb,
Small and sure,
The first drops of rainfall.

The seedling and the sunlight speak a secret language.

Give me a strong name.

One of my favorites

James Harms' poem, "My Androgynous Years" struck a personal chord with me.
I kept rereading it and turning phrases over in my mind. Finally I just
wrote my own version of a life crisis and felt better. My poem is called,
"Falling from the Heavy." 

My Androgynous Years 
By James Harms
I had a crisis at the supermarket, yesterday.
I said to myself softly, so no one could hear,
I said, Your soul is not stepping
from your body.  I said, Stop it, relax.
And I did.  I held it all together
past the magazines and gum,
through 8-Items-or-Less and out the door.
I sat in my car and let mascara
run down my arms like greasy rain.
Until a woman in a Volvo beeped
and pointed at the asphalt under me,
unwilling, I guess, to wait any longer.
When I was eight my sister hated me.
She hated clothes and make-up.
She hated buckled shoes.
We'd walk Vermillion Street beneath
the insect sizzle of neon
to buy my mother cigarettes,
loiter like felons till
all seemed clear in Lee's Liquor-Mart.
I'd ask Peter Lee where the Cokes had gone
and he'd come around to help me look
while my sister snaked her hand to a packet
of Pall Malls and was gone.  On the way home,
sometimes, she ran ahead, easy over long legs.
She'd find a crumbling vestibule
to soothe her shadow down to stone,
and time my slow arrival.
We'd sit near a puddle of ragwater
or piss, her laughter a hand against
my neck, and wait for my sobs to soften.
I share my lunch today with a boy from
Peru, Indiana.  He recites King's
"I Have a Dream" speech
rising off the bench to shake his fists
at the assembled phantoms.
Pigeons scatter and regather, and all around us
haloes appear and vanish, the fountain mist
blown in rainbows and to pieces.
He is splendid and I offer all my Fritoes.
One night he will come to me like a dream
on the television, and announce
a special offer:  laser-sharpened knives
or a three-record set.
But that's the future.  For now
we hold hands and talk about the news,
which is much better than yesterday's
but only half as good as tomorrow's.

###

Falling From The Heavy
By Maya Gurarie

I have a glow like I’m hiding something
Who’s the lucky guy? My friends ask
But I don’t kiss and tell.
My hair rides on electricity
As I rush to work on my pilot’s legs.
Yesterday I caught a shooting star
While driving to the Super market.

I bite into waffles, bananas, bacon and coffee,
Calories disintegrating in the tropical heat of my thighs.
It’s happening again. I’m falling in love
With myself
One breath at a time.
I’m falling from the heavy heart –
The one anchored to wanting
Love, pain and a quick death
In any order.

Before I grew my able wings,
Heaven was not knowing where I wore a heart
During an episode. Attack! Attack! Here comes panic
Holding me down. Hurting my chest.
Instead of a cute cupid shape,
For the saccharine crush,
My heart looked like an upside down ass.
She took my breath away.

I didn’t know what she ate so I tried to trade her in.
But the missionaries were after my soul,
And the boys didn’t want her whole,
For the military killing just one wasn’t the goal.
I felt heart wasn’t omnivorous,
But I filled my life with doing and swallowed fear without chewing.

Slowly I moved away from the heavy
Habits, the bad patterns, the dark years,
And learned to fall faster than my fears,
Letting the anxious anxious thoughts out of their cage –
Magnificent and stupid pigeons
Carrying “what ifs” tied to their legs.
What if Mr. Right doesn’t exist?
What if he doesn’t love me back?
Then I replaced him with Ms. Right Now –
Me, myself and I.

Once I made up my mind to fall,
I grew wings on my shoulder
Blades and started to soar and dive at will.
As I breathed in sensual lungfulls of air
The best thing happened –
I couldn’t feel my heart at all.

Instead of feathers I gathered charms –
A right-hand amber ring,
Love letters from 10 years ago,
Stunning self-portraits and
Clumsy drawings from children.
I became light on my feet as I flew
And I loved who I wanted.

The next time I panicked
In the car or at school,
My lungs closing shop,
My shoes sinking into the heavy element,
I held my breast with the heart inside
Inside inside
Inside outside
I noticed something strange
Between the sidewalks and trees and
Classrooms painted bomb shelter grey –
There was air everywhere.

I do my best writing at bars

Alcohol does something to writers – it breaks down the inhibitions, dissolves writer’s block and tells that mean critical voice to take a hike. I had a creative writing teacher who said, “I do my best writing at bars. Too bad all the bartenders have girlfriends.”

My personal drink of choice when writing is a glass of Australian Shiraz. You have to know when to stop though. Otherwise your poetry won’t seem as great the next day as when you were best friends with Jim Beam. Rumor has it that Maya Angelou keeps a glass of sherry and a bible handy while she writes.

I found an interesting article in the New York Times called Inebriated Love. Reporter Alan Feuer shared some found poetry from the missed connections section of the New York Craigslist. Missed Connections lends itself to poetry, especially when drinks are involved. I’ve posted my favorites from the local scene in Boulder, Colorado.

Guy at Shooters on crutches
You were on crutches at Shooters
and I was the brunette
who struck up a conversation with you.

When you told me how long it would take you to recover,
I said, ” {length of time}? Then I have no use for you”
and walked away.

Let me know how long it was
and what bone you broke
and I’ll buy you a drink or five,
because seriously… what a dick move on my part!
Sorry.

Sounds like a beautiful dream
This was awhile ago but for some reason,
it came to mind tonight.
I was drinking wine with two girlfriends,
telling them about my dream
to build a school in a developing country.
You leaned over and said,
“It sounds like a beautiful dream; you should go for it” and walked out.
You were sittiing alone, behind our table,
reading a book.

Girls fighting
We watched some dumb drunk girls fight in the parking lot,
we laughed and u sd “Drama”.
U had the cutest puppy in ur arms and beautiful smile.
Not sure if ur gay, bi or will read this
but I should of talked more
while we pumped gas!!! Darn!

 

Authors of Books Worth Reading Twice

Literature: The Poisonwood Bible, 1Q84, Found Literature, The Dovekeepers, The Robber Bride,
Palm Reading, At Home, A Widow’s Story: A Memoir, Five Quarters of the Orange, Library Signs,
The Whole World Over, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Fall on Your Knees, The Deep End of the Ocean,
Church Signs, Paula

http://pinterest.com/papayatree/authors-of-books-worth-reading-twice/

Board from Pinterest

Women of the World Poetry Slam

They’re beautiful, they’re sassy and they’re coming to Denver. The Women of the World Poetry Slam takes place in Denver on March 7. The event marks the first time the Mile High city has attracted a national poetry slam. Members of the public can check out workshops, performances and open mic events on the schedule.

I get a kick out of slam poetry because it’s competitive. Scoreboards and judges don’t seem like they would go hand in hand with poetry, but once you’ve attended a slam you’ll never go back (to thinking about poetry the same way)!

On Saturday, March 3 many open mic events embracing youth and minorities will take place at the Mercury Café on 2199 California Street. Another highlight of the WWPS is the Beauty vs. Brawn slam where teams of boys and girls face off. This slam takes place at Leela European Café on 820 15th Street from 10:30 a.m. to noon.

The final competition will be held in Ponti Hall at the Denver Art Museum from 7 to 10 p.m. DAM is located at 100 West 14th Avenue Parkway, but their Web site does not yet reflect this momentous event. Tickets to the final competition cost $25 at brownpapertickets.com. Don’t miss the culminating event of the weekend featuring 12 poets, three rounds and one winner.

Podcast from Tanaya Winder poetry reading

MFA student Tanaya Winder started her set with a controversial poem about the book ban in Arizona. Listen to the podcast of her poem.

Innisfree Poetry Bookstore in Boulder hosted Winder for an hour-long poetry reading on February 9. Winder, a member of the Southern Ute and Duckwater Shoshone Nations, read eleven poems. Subjects included Native American identity, graffiti, blues music, superheroes, love and MFA programs. At the end of the reading Winder briefly discussed a book she compiled with poet Joy Harjo entitled “Soul Talk, Soul Language: Conversations with Joy Harjo.”

Wearing jeans, a sweater and sneakers with bright white laces, Winder seemed at ease in front of the microphone. “This next one (poem) is called ‘Paper Dolls,’ ” she said. “I’m also really obsessed with paper, maybe because I’m a writer.”

The controversy over Chicano literature in Arizona high schools caught Winder’s attention for a reason. Her poetry reflects the people and places she knows best. As the assistant director for the University of Colorado at Boulder’s Upward Bound program, Winder works with 80 students living on or near Native American reservations. Upward Bound gives the students an opportunity to learn about college before they graduate high school.

Several of Winder’s poems explored relationships and intimacy. She delivered her poems with a lyrical style, breaking into song occasionally. Approximately ten people attended the event and everyone wanted to speak with Winder after she finished reading.

The book she compiled for Harjo started out while the two women talked about writing at coffee shops. Then Harjo asked her to put together a biographical book. She sorted through personal information about Harjo to select photos, essays, interviews and newspaper articles. Winder described Harjo as instrumental in her poetry education at the University of New Mexico.

“She said I want our names to be in the same size font and both of our pictures on the back,” Winder said. “It’s a long journey but a good process being part of the book.”

Winder pens a blog called letters from a young poet.

Climbing fences

Fence near open space

I took another walk in the open space in south Boulder. It had snowed 22 inches the night before. I scrambled through a fence in hopes of getting better views of the snowscape. I don’t know what it is about fences but I just have to climb them. I’ve lost boyfriends who didn’t past the “fence” test. There’s something about daring to go where most people wouldn’t (I refuse to make a bad Robert Frost reference here) and finding something unexpected.

Snowy Flatiron Mountains from south Boulder

Then I started to think what literary fences I’ve climbed lately. Currently I’m in like with Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84 and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles. Reading a favorite author doesn’t really count as an obstacle for me to overcome though because it’s too easy. I need a dangerous literary adventure – some kind of reading or theater performance that’s going to shake me up. Do you have any suggestions in the Boulder/Denver area? I hear Avenue Q is coming to the Boulder Dinner Theater in the fall and I plan on seeing it.

Ode to Nuts

Ode to Nuts
By Maya Gurarie

O steak of the vegetarian world,
To know you is to swallow small gods.

Omniscient-tasting token,
Stubborn and self-contained.

The force of life in one small stone,
Gathering itself for spring.

Your sexuality pleading
To be stroked and broken in half.

I had to do a little research for this poem. Firstly, what’s the difference between nuts and seeds? Nuts are the hard-shelled fruits of some plants. They must also rely on predators or natural decay to open the shell. Inside each nutshell, such as an acorn, lies one seed.

There are two kinds of seeds. Angiosperms are fleshy fruits that enclose seeds. Avocados and peaches are angiosperms. Nuts are also angiosperms, though they have a hard shell.  Gymnosperms are naked seeds. Conifers, such as pine trees, produce gymnosperm seeds.

I also did a quick Internet search about poetry and nuts, not in that order (ha ha). Immediately I thought about Pablo Neruda. He wrote,”Ode to a Chestnut on the Ground.”

Here is a cute post about nuts and poetry on Zel’s Vegan NutGourmet blog.

Haiku on the run

I got up at 7:30 this morning to go for a run/walk. I ran through some open space in south Boulder with a field of cows. The sun cast long fingers of light onto the field and I felt inspired. I wrote a haiku poem, posted it on facebook and 7 friends “liked” it.

First kiss of sunrise
Cows stand over the ice plains
Lowing love ballads

Some people (usually aspiring poets) say that poetry is dead. I disagree. People just want their information differently than they wanted it 20 years ago. There are definitely times when I want to sink my teeth into a long poem, but other times I want poetry on the go. Tomorrow I’m taking my camera to the open space.