Post Secret

I've been reading Post Secret on and off for a few years now. I have to admit it makes me equal parts sad and fascinated---quite the collection of humanity within its pages (or screens, whatever).
I think its popularity lies in two areas. One-it does give outlet to those who think they have none; a voice to the silent. Two-it gives opportunity for people to enjoy lots of Schadenfreude in one convenient little package. Schadenfreude is a German word that is loosely translated as "taking joy in the misfortune of others" and I do believe that some people read Post Secret just for this reason; that when you see other people's lives as more miserable than your own you feel better by comparison. That is the same reason people love to watch those video shows of other people getting hurt. They are neat and sanitized ways to act on basest instincts without any repercussions.
I am quite sure that some of the postcards sent in to Post Secret are fabricated and despite all of the deeply moving and sad things I've read on that website, the disingenuousness that would lead someone to make up a 'secret' makes me saddest of all. That someone would be so starved for 'celebrity' that they would make up something (even something that was going to be posted anonymously) just to get their own warped fifteen minutes of fame is just a side effect of our celebrity driven culture.

The Elegy

This is the poem I chose to do quite a bit of re-work on. I tried to use as much imagery as I could while still keeping the theme and feeling I was trying to convey. Still, all these years later, remembering this night brings me to tears.

Martha's Elegy

Hands. Hands like a roadmap of your life.
Lines. And veins. And a scar or two,
illustrating your journey.
Hands that knew the world, knew it well
long before I entered it.
Hands that knew hard work
and toil
and love.
Hands poised over a pot of something wonderful,
a bit of this-a pinch of that
until
it became much more than the sum of its parts.
Hands swiftly moving, flying, thru yarn and hook,
twisting and winding up something to keep me warm,
a warmth of substance out of a bit of nothing.
Hands gentle, upon my brow.
Soothing. Calming. Easing. The tears of childhood,
the angst of adolescence,
the turmoil of life beyond.
I held your hand that night,
your last night,
and rubbed my thumb across your skin,
feeling the life still there even as it slowly ebbed away.
The soft fragile beat
of a heart that knew the world.
That knew me.
A heart that sustained me when my own would not.
And I saw your hands later
when they didn't even look like yours anymore.
Painted. And powdered. And still.
So still-
A stillness they never had in life;
and I will always be ashamed to say
that is when I was afraid to take your hand.
Because it no longer belonged to you.
Because what had animated you was gone.
And now my hands clasped together.
In pain.

The Sort-Of Sonnet

I attempted to write a sonnet. A sonnet is a 14 line poem written in iambic pentameter with an ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG rhyming structure. I say attempted to write it because although I have the correct number of syllables (the pentameter part of iambic pentameter), the stress/unstress iambic portion is what is keeping this from being a true sonnet. So, I'm calling it sort-of sonnet. I'm still happy with the message.
I didn't change too much from the original form of this poem, just some cosmetic touches here and there. I really like what is says, and the way it says it. I also hid a secret message within the poem, so I had very little leeway in changing the words too much. I am re-working my elegy and I will be posting that later.

Verdadero is the Spanish word for true. Aqui means here.

Verdadero

Digits and data are waltzing thru space,

Aligning themselves into something wise.

Void of emotion; I can't see your face.

I would say more if you could read my eyes.

Desire, elusive-things I can't know,

Conversation becomes our way to dance.

Honesty isn't a thing I can show,

And until later, there won't be a chance.

Rhetoric: with words-we spar-we flirt, we

Dodge around what is unbidden to say.

Astounding, the emotion in QWERTY

When it is simply the light of my day.

Aqui, I am. The truth is stronger stuff.

Yearning. And longing. For now, is enough.

The Object Poem

For this week's assignment we had to choose an object or picture that meant something to us and write a poem about it, working details into the poem if we could. I wrote about the Ghostlight.
The Ghostlight is a theatre staple. It is nothing more than a lightbulb, uncovered, on a tall lampstand. It stays plugged in and on the stage all night long, and whenever the stage isn't being used.
There are two reasons for the Ghostlight. The first, and truest reason, is that theatres tend to be windowless and very, very dark so a lamp on the stage, close to the orchestra pit, helps keep unsuspecting walkers from falling in and hurting themselves. The traditional theatre-nerd reason, however, is a bit more colourful. It is that every single theatre houses ghosts (ie: Phantom of the Opera) and the ghostlight is a way to beckon them homeward. Either way, it is something very near and dear to my heart.
The theatre I am involved in is called Stagecrafters at the Baldwin Theatre in Royal Oak and we have had paranormal experts do measurements of spirits and we are on the Michigan Registry of Haunted Places. Makes for a fun place to hang out. We all have our stories of our contact with the 'ghosts'.

Ghostlight

Are you there to protect

or beckon

glowing orb in the distance

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

Every theatre has one

perched

at the edge of the pit--

seems appropriate somehow

the pit is where the

music

comes from, but also

where spirits do dwell

ghosts

of strange lives and bad reviews

impetuous actions that taste

bitter

on the tongue

and of love affairs too torrid

to last.

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

In the distance

from where I sit in the last row

darkened theatre,

silent all around me,

enveloping me with

temperature fluctuations

and

a sense of fear, and yet

the ghostlight never wavers

I feel safe in its

sickly glow; yellow

the colour of

cowardice.

And yet, it stands there

all alone

in the dim.

Protecting. Or beckoning

the spirits beyond.

hovering-entrancing

aloft.

Gargoyles curled around the balcony;

nymphs in plaster

and

me.

Center row now, seat K106 and

you

beside me-in K105

hands clasped yet

silent, listening

to the sound beyond that of our heartbeats

silence

a silence so loud

so loud it fills my ears

and I know
your heart is

hovering-entrancing

aloft

and out of reach

to me.

The Haiku Project

As a disclaimer, I have to admit I am a haiku nerd. I love them, love how they can so concisely express entire stories and feelings in such a compact package. I love how you really have to think about what you are trying to say and chose your words carefully so they express your meaning exactly yet also allow for private interpretation. I'm currently in the process of writing a novel and I am having one of my minor characters speak in nothing but haiku. It has been a fun exercise in word usage for me. (obviously my life must be pretty boring if word exercises are considered fun, eh?)

Although I know traditional Japanese haiku are usually about nature, I have been writing them about everything and anything. Somehow it seems to put a sense of order into an otherwise chaotic life.

Here are the ones I wrote in class today:

Unload my heart in
seventeen syllable bursts
written just for you.

Fresh, fallen, crisp, cold-
snowflakes dance down from above
and melt into earth

Swiftly, downward, fly
a dizzying path of white.
Exhiliration

Cinnamon scented;
your heartbeat beneath my cheek.
Electric slumber.

Denim. Cotton. Gone
Together now, we combust.
Were the ghosts watching?

Reflections on a Poem

The first poem I read was entitled "For Freckle Faced Gerald" by Etheridge Knight. The poem was raw; with language as well as imagery. It was written in free verse, which seems to be somewhat ironic especially when you consider the fact the author was a prison inmate. It tells the story of two young inmates; Rufus who is tough and hard and doesn't seem to make it past his 21st birthday (although this is a bit unclear from the poem, that is the impression I get), the other is Gerald, a freckle faced 16 year old who is sentenced to prison and is truly so innocent he has no idea what he is in store for. One of my favorite lines is "sixteen years hadn't even done a good job on his voice". This is letting the reader know he is so young, and so naive that his voice hadn't even finished changing yet, that it still had the glow of youth to it. I surprised me how much beauty I found in a poem this raw-that truth and beauty can be found in any situation you find yourself in, and that poetry is a means to express that beauty. Although I don't know for sure, I would assume that Etheridge Knight didn't begin writing poetry until after he was incarcerated and that is was something that kept him sane during his time in prison.


The second poem was "Dear Mr. Merrill" by Moira Egan. This was a poem that followed a more classic rhyming structure but surprisingly I didn't like it near as much as the first poem. It speaks of the author's love of a marble statue because of its beauty and perfection and her comparison to being in love with an actual student of hers, although she is careful to point out that nothing physical ever happened between them. It speaks of her daydreams and fantasies--first with the statue and secondly with the student. I did like her imagery at the end of the poem, however. She discusses how the strong beauty of Hermes needs to be encased in marble to protect people from it's strength. She says "wildest things require strongest cages" and compares the steel bars that enclose a panther with the bitter rind that encloses the pomegranate seeds (pomegranates were seen in ancient times as being the food of the underworld). She ends with "love held tight in a sonnet" with is a line I really enjoyed, having attempted to write a sonnet or two myself. A sonnet has a very difficult rhyming and rhythm structure and since most sonnets tend to be about love, the fact that the strong dangerous emotion is held tight within a difficult poem made me chuckle a bit.



For my third poem I chose "Autobiography" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
He is the same author who wrote the poem about the Chagall painting we read in class. I really liked this poem. It was long-very long-but as an autobiography of someone born in 1919, it had a lot to encompass within its verse. The length and breadth of the poem is also a hallmark of the Beat Generation of writers and Ferlinghetti belongs to that group. Not only did I like the structure of the poem, more like a list of statements that someone was making that still sounded rhythmic and poetic, I liked all of the literary references he lumped into his poem. He discusses the classical American literary character of Tom Sawyer, mentions the Greek god Icarus who lost his wax wings when he got too egotistical and flew to close to the sun, he speaks of Thoreau's Walden pond, Wolfe's Homeward Angel, and says something about sheaves of grass, which make me think of Whitman. He discusses every part of his life, but there are also references in there that have to be a product of his imagination because I don't think logistically he would have been able to be in all of the places he mentions. My favorite line of the poem is "watching the world walk by in its curious shoes". That line just smacks of the incredible imagery of someone watching his life 'flash before his eyes' and how he is marveling at all he has seen. I'm glad I picked this poem.


For my last poem, I went with a classic. Shakespeare. Can't do wrong there I thought, so I read his "It was a Lover and His Lass." Truthfully, although I am definitely a Shakespeare fan, I was not impressed. The entire poem seemed like something a schoolchild could write. Lame sounding rhymes, a sing-songy 'hey ho nonino' and a very simple structure. It was nothing special to me. Although I agree with the universally held opinion that Shakespeare is the greatest writer in the English language, judging by this poem alone, I would say he cheated to get that title.

This painting is called Sunday Afternoon at La Grande Jatte. It is by the French painter Georges Seurat. There are many reasons why this painting has always been a particular favorite of mine, and one that inspires me. I love impressionism, and this painting is a great example of it. Impressionism is basically a whole bunch of teeny tiny dots and splashes of painting that someone come together to make an image. It reminds me a line from the movie Clueless, where the character Cher describes impressionism as looking really good from far away but up close it is just a big old mess. That label fits life so perfectly---especially when we are comparing our own lives to someone else's. Everything looks great from a distance, but when you get right up close and personal, you can start to see the flaws, the cracks, the things that make something imperfect.
Another reason I love this painting is that it is a centerpiece of a great scene in the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off, one of my favorite non-serious movies. The whole art institute scene in the movie particularly inspires me, from the Seurat painting, to the accompanying music by Dream Academy, to the fact that the mood of the scene transports me instantly to that time period in my life and I re-live it all. When I was in Chicago recently I was able to see this painting up close and personal and I took a whole slew of every increasingly close-ups of the painting, mimic-ing the scene John Hughes did in the film. Art brought to life.