First drafts from a new year

Poetry as Science

Poetry is aggregation

images and sounds and words

that pulse and settle through the day.

 

Air takes up

light and noise and scent

thinning it all into a pale blue

the spectrum's path of least resistance.

 

The poet gathers the overfull clarity of sky

and with fumbling hands

divides the colors again.

--or--

The Bleak Ordinary

The safety lights from the bridge reflected sharply up from the water in the early morning darkness,

as if determined that today was the day

the languid sun would not overcome their colors

with the bleak ordinary of daylight.

 

That mercenary, tired from wrestling the lower hemisphere,

would turn its back to the earth and burn out another day.

The air was so cold that I couldn't catch my breath

and walked gasping

 

like a landlocked tourist toeing vacation waves

or an overwrought teenager.

Push and click the door open into the office swipe the clock marks I'm here--

 

and the rush of the alarm shower hair ugh drink breakfast bringing lunch? car drive- speed- cop?- speed- garage walk cold air punch in slows

to the measured and exact hours of a day at work on a Friday. 

Happy New Year, from us :)

rkb

Lighting Up

You crouched close to show me your technique

and I was thrilling at our night of debauchery

and your pursed lips.

We laughed around mouthfuls of smoke.

Frustrated matches flamed out from between my cold novice fingers,

scattering onto the concrete like wasted snowflakes

that no child tried to catch on his tongue.

Finally, you pulled me over to crouch behind a truck,

my hands triangling and yours

lifted close to help. We lit up.

You suggested we walk because I was cold,

the suggestion helping more than the action.

Words dripped like ashes and left meaning glowing and protected like the cherry.

I didn’t like you much at the beginning of the night,

but once the cigar freed your tongue

you dropped bits of truth into the air

and that I liked.

Our group wandered the parking lot like vagrants,

worrying the ladies closing up shop

with little more than our presence

and slanted laughter.

The nicotine stung my lips for hours later

reminding them of the touch

of the cigar

and the smoke settled into my clothes to mark

the night on me. 

rkb

This has nothing to do with the post- but I voted today :)

The line between prayer and poetry is blurring for me recently. The block poem that is today's entry is a scrap of an ongoing internal discourse re: faith and sanctification in the real world. ("Real world" meaning, for me, mundane, prosaic, longing, fear, and beauty. If that definition makes sense to you, or if it doesn't but you're at least interested, then I think we're on the same page.)

Anyway, it was born out of my prayer this morning and I think still holds remnants of the questions I have about how my faith fits into the metrics of my daily life. Ontology and eschatology are easy for me (well- as easy as they can be), in the sense that I get how my faith demands certain assumptions, creates a specific worldview that dictates the beginning and end of this whole thing. What's curiously obscure is how faith winds into life through the redundant and the required, the workday and the laundry and reorganizing the pantry and taking out the dogs. Because I think it does; or rather, I think it must in order to be relevant and meaningful.

There must be true worth and value and love and gritty spirituality mixed in with life here. Because this is life. This is how it works, for most people, most of the time. Where is sanctification? Is it in the pride of being, doing something important or interesting? Like I know my life is holy because, here, here is the cause, and I can point to it with a commanding righteous hand, and it's erect in front of your face like a pylon or Lot's wife turned to salt. Or is it that grinding of humility that works itself into your skin and through your bones and inches toward your heart when you set your shoulder against life and push. When relationships are not what they used to be on paper, in an email update- roommate, boyfriend, classmate- but the places where we commingle our lives, and fill in the dark spaces between the globes of light cast on the concrete by the streetlights.

So come beside me, or don't, because where you stand is less important because it doesn't matter where I am, either. Write notes while I speak on a pad with preset lines- lines if you're an American, grids if you're European- and arch a brow to make light of the whole proceeding and when I'm done, call me back as soon as you get my message because you thought I might not be ok and you care enough to be wrong about that and know you've written enough notes if you're right. Make plans to mix drinks with me and mouth cigars in a smoky city room where we've never been before or tear walls and floors out of your new house, and it's good because we're filling in the dark spaces with life. And sanctification costs this much: as much as a pad of paper, a mixed drink, and a hammer broken on your old house. 

rkb

Another day, another (taxed) dollar

I’m two months into my first real job. By “real”, of course, I’m applying certain parameters to the job, since I have legitimately been working since I was sixteen. (Odd jobs, though, we’re not talking about salt mines here. And if anyone other than me had already mentally jumped to salt mines, I’m gonna go ahead and suggest that you read less Neruda and spent some more time outdoors.) At sixteen I had a job as a sales associate at a retail store (hated), from which I moved on to the public library (loved), and then carried a few different jobs during college, mostly working for my university.

             So when I say “real”, I mean a few, very specific things, meaning:

1.     Working full-time (40+ hours a week).

2.     Making a living wage (at least…theoretically. Once you factor in my student loans, I think I may actually be eligible for food stamps, and absolutely low-income housing).

3.     Developing an enormous aversion to taxation, even to the point of denying my dependence upon government-provided public goods (i.e. roads, mail, law enforcement personnel).

It’s kind of weird, working full-time. I never realized how much time it actually takes to be at work all day (and though it’s only 8 or 9 hours, it does feel like all day sometimes). And it feels strange that so much of my time and life experiences are starting to take place at work- away from my family, friends, and “real” life. I guess with a little more solipsism, work will start to feel more like real life and less like something I do in order to get back to my life afterwards.

So, obviously, I’m still figuring all of this out. I sort of feel the need to begin integrating my personality into my workplace so that my hours there feel less like lost time. I’ve found a couple things that have helped make me feel better about officially entering the workforce, though. (Not the least of which being able to use the phrase “the workforce”. It’s empowering, I think, for two reasons: one, it sounds like a lateral reference to Star Wars to me, and invoking a pervasive cultural phenomenon has never led anyone astray, right? And two, it also sounds vaguely cultish, which I can’t help but enjoy.)

                                    My desk at work

Decorating my workspace has been fun. I’m not talking full-size Beiber posters here (though I respect Beliebers; has anyone read his autobiography? That’s write- he’s already written one) I am talking about bringing some pictures of my family and friends, and a postcard from Quito that Hannah sent me. In addition, I posted this picture of the musical artist Darwin Deez next to one of my computer monitors. 

                                               You are my radar detector

Although I’m actually 90% sure that there’s an office rumor that I have a weird Al obsession, Darwin is staying. He makes me happy, and that counts for something.

I also try to find something fun to do during my lunch break. I saw a special on the news last week that recommended office workers Google a picture of a tree or stream and gaze at it for a minute during their lunch hour in order to rejuvenate, which kind of sounds sad to me. But the point is good to find something refreshing to do to make the day deepen. Poetry works for me. I’ll eat lunch and then read Levine until my day feels vibrant again. Maybe you listen to your favorite Beiber song. You know, whatever works.  

Maybe I’ll never feel totally myself at work; maybe that’s a good thing. I do think a level of detachment and professionalism is necessary and appropriate. But sometimes it leaves me feeling less than wholehearted. But perhaps not to be is to be without your being. Ok, now we all need to step away from the Neruda…

rkb