Response to Arthur Sze's "The Ginkgo Light": Chrysanthemum Reach

As a response to reading Arthur Sze's "The Ginkgo Light," my professor recommended thus: "think about what the poems show that he values and avoids in his poems. These can be formal things, methods, kinds of diction, values, ideas about Beauty (or beauty), subject matter--whatever you notice. What do you suppose he would say a poet should and should not do?" My response is the following poem:

Chrysanthemum Reach

Envision. Enrapture.

Recall, remember, recite in fragments.

Introspect on observation.

Ignore nature, not.

The natural permeates all.

Acknowledge a duality of life.

Everything holds weight-

Nature, the manmade

Experience, interpretation, pain

Beauty, suffering, healing.

Experiences envelope, envelope experiences.

Do not fail to acknowledge, notice

Parallelisms

Succession of life

Momentary deliberateness

You say, “I am happiest here, now.”

"The Memory-Keeper" by Sharod Santos

The Memory-Keeper
by Sharod Santos

The smell of pine and bacon grease,
a house in a piney tract of land, a kitchen
in the house, a stove in the kitchen,
a skillet beneath which lowly burns
a bluish flame the jets discharge when a match
is held against their sound, a sound
that travels outside in from a metered box
where a boy sits watching the radium dials
record the backward passage of time,
and time itself, the beginning
of time, and beyond the beginning
the mind in the act of calling to mind.

"At the Playground, Singing for Psychiatric Outpatients" by Peter Enterwine

At the Playground, Singing for Psychiatric Outpatients
by Peter Everwine

The bright-faced children have gone home,
trailing the sun to supper.
Tonight,
these others have come,
almost sweetly shy, starched
for their monthly party.
Nurse herds them into metal chairs.

I've come to sing, Nurse tells them,
and they fold their hands
--these lately mad who failed behind a door
or slipped under in a jammed street,
whose eyes blossomed like silver
fists in mirrors, in plate-glass windows.
Nurse is waiting for me.

So I sing for them,
for the boy
in the front row, groping
the stiff corners of his pockets;
for the ugly one in pink anklets
--her legs have never felt a razor,
though her wrist has; for him
whose fingers are eaten by ants; for her
whose face sags like a torn sack.
They do not like my songs,
but infinitely polite, they turn
their smiles up into the dark
as if a smile should fall softly,
obliquely, like rain.

"Home on the Range," Nurse calls out,
her sure fingers on the pulse of America.
I start in faltering voice,
half-forgetting those dead words
sung at campfires in the past.
One joins, and then another:
Home, home on the range. . .
Where the deer. . .
And the skies are. . .
The voices crack and lurch, we
are singing--the boy, the ugly one--
singing like crows in the empty
prairie of a children's playground
where if there are distances that shine
they shine like the eyes of pain.

Book review: "Disappointed Psalms" by Brian Clements

Brian Clements’ book of poetry, “Disappointed Psalms,” is a sort of public service announcement for society to open their eyes to the world around them and realize that we are existing through rose-tinted glasses. It is divided into four sections, or poems, I am not sure which, so I will refer to them as sections. The first section titled “Corpses” begins with a description of corpses being burned and dragged through the streets. The narrator reflects on the scene, and with the lines “Yes, I hear the whispering of many-terror on every side!/ But my tongue is stuck to my jaw” I am reminded of the actions of people during the time of Nazi Germany and Hitler’s reign. While aghast with the horrors of the Nazi Regime, no one dared to speak up, for fear that they would be the next target for extermination. All too often we are beaten down, feeling defeated and almost too exhausted to stand up in opposition to that which we do not agree: “And all my bones are out of joint/ And I can barely stand to speak.” We are “…like a deaf man who doesn’t hear./ …like a dumb man who doesn’t speak.” We are bombarded by the atrocity of death multiple times a day through the media; we do not want to hear of such horrors-we do not speak up because we assume that in doing so no one will hear our lowly dissention over the noise of the world. The narrator in this section shares the sentiments of many: what good can one person do? Instead of speaking up we instead turn away, perhaps hoping that what we see is not real, perhaps even lying to ourselves that everything is fine in the world, “Their mouths chew lies/ And their bellies are filled with lies.”

The end of the “Corpse” section is met with one entitled “Mouth” where the narrator speaks of his/her disappointment in God and His followers. Those that produce the corpses that were spoken of in the previous section are not struck down by the hand of God. It seems as if God (and the moral teachings of Christianity) is nonexistent, insubstantial, and purposeless. “But we’re all still waiting” for God to punish these transgressors, yet he does not. “You are become many deaths, Lord,/ And you do nothing but/ Sit in ambush in villages/ And murder the innocent./ Even your enemies shall be ashamed.” However, the narrator does not wish for the word of God to be stifled: “I will allow your name to be shouted/ Over the rooftops and over the gunshots” so that maybe someone will take heed to His teachings and stop the atrocities of war, famine, disease, and suffering. “Mouth” ends with the line “Be moved by this prayer for action.” The narrator feels that perhaps not all hope is lost, and perhaps speaking up first to God will produce the necessary results.

The following section “The Word” is the shortest of the four. The narrator questions God about the validity of His word, His teachings. It ends with the narrator telling God that he/she does not believe in Him. The final section titled “Without End” is a list of daily concerns of a member of our society, such as: “You start heroin, television, gin, wearing black, jerking off, running,/ playing cards, and there is no end./ …You start lending money and there is no end./ …You start blonde and turn red and brown and ash and there is no end.” We are too caught up in our lives and routines to concern ourselves with issues that matter, such as those the narrator speaks of in the previous sections. The end result is a Nation of Complacence: a world that lacks empathy for its fellow man, lies to itself about the atrocities before its very eyes, and continues its routine as if nothing is amiss.

Writing Inspiration: Erik Peterson

My favorite lyricist, Erik Peterson, is the front man for folk punk band Mischief Brew from Philly. I have always loved his lyrics because they're not asinine "we hate the government but can't really put into words why so we're going to get drunk and break shit" type of punk. This is my favorite song from Peterson's solo work.

Listen to the song here

"Olde Tyme Mem'ry" by Erik Peterson

When father bought the farm we sold the farm
Stick his blood for rustic charms
Sold his ghost as an antique
To the city

Kids today can’t hold a spade
Rest in peace your weary trades
In this world there is no place
Such a pity

Well the barman shakes his head and fills my glass
Says we’re livin’ in the past
Why preserve a dying craft
And its misery?

We sigh and say another modern man
One of property not land
So I hold out this battered hand
Will you listen?

CHORUS
Come sit down we’re lamenting
About yesterday, sad ending
‘Bout the water in me whiskey
The brass passed off as gold
Another round we’re descending
Into olde tyme mem’ry
Of a day when wood was wooden,
Silver - silver, gold was gold
Sweet home was home

So you say you got a wood stove
And your second home runs on gas
But looks like oak
Hell, it even gives off smoke and glowing embers

There’s a quilt hung on the wall,
Reads “home sweet home”
The lonesome wise words of Thoreau
And they call me throwback
When I cry “Remember!”

CHORUS

Son, these tools are artifacts
Endangered species left its tracks
So lock me up behind plastic glass
In the city

There’s no going back for me
This antique’s rustic eulogy
Shall be sold as folk art histr’y
Such a pity

But I’ll never understand
Why they all only use those hands
To build a stead that will always stand
In old time country

But settle for white rooms and hollow doors
Paper ceilings, padded floors
Luxury boxes where your stored
In what was country

CHORUS

Book review: "The Scripture of the Golden Eternity" by Jack Kerouac

The Golden Eternity: Religious Dogma for the Practical Agnostic
“When you’ve understood this scripture, throw it/ away. If you can’t understand this scripture,/ throw it away. I insist on your freedom.” -Scripture 45


In reading “The Scripture of the Golden Eternity” by Jack Kerouac, this is the first time I have been exposed to any of Kerouac’s poetry. Until now I have only read his prose, so I did not know what to expect. As his book “On the Road” was highly influential to so many readers, I half expected “The Scripture” to be a disappointing flop. However, his poetry, at least in reference to this book, is completely different from his prose. “On the Road” is an autobiographical work describing his trip across America, whereas “The Scripture” is a deep look at a certain philosophy of thought: that of Nihilism.

This book consists of one long poem broken up into numbered stanzas, or “Scriptures.” Kerouac’s tone throughout the piece is a play on seriousness, an ironic sort of mocking of religious dogma by creating his own dogma through “The Scripture of the Golden Eternity.” The first two Scriptures sets the stage for the voice of the poem as a personal message to the reader: “There are not two of us here,/ reader and writer, but one, one golden eternity” (Scripture [Scr.] 1). A tone of irony is also present: “I am Mortal Golden Eternity” (Scr. 2), though being mortal does not equal being eternal-or does it?

It is as if the speaker is the “chosen Messiah to die in the degradation of sentience,” chosen to release the word of the Golden Eternity in an attempt to thwart conventional religious dogma. The Golden Eternity is portrayed as the embodiment of everything religious, supernatural, and dogmatic. Therefore, I find it interesting that the speaker, which is actually the Golden Eternity, states that “there is no me, because all is/ emptiness. I am empty, I am non-existent” (Scr. 6).

The Scripture’s main purpose is to allow the reader to question reality and perception, especially the ‘reality’ of religious belief. An attempt at changing how the reader views religion is made by switching from calling “the Golden Eternity” to other names such as “God” (Scr. 12) and “universal Thisness” (Scr. 20), among others. It is also stated that everything, even the self and your own perception of reality and the universe, are empty and nonexistent. The Golden Eternity suggests that we must “Discard such definite imaginations of phenomena” (Scr. 27).

The Golden Eternity speaks of religion as a human conception that is subjective: “I call it the golden eternity-what do you/ call it, brother?” (Scr. 29). This piece’s focus on religion is also subjective, as such religious innuendo can be interpreted as a metaphor for anything and everything.

This poem lead me to question many philosophies on an existential level, especially in the development of religion and religious scriptures. Who is to say that one day in the far-off future that someone may not find this book and deem it worthy of an actual religious movement? Such would be the final irony, as the narrator states that the scripture “is easily false” (Scr. 42) and that “your mind caused the world” (Scr. 62)- not a God, a Golden Eternity, or an Eternal Thisness.

The ZenAlarm

Written 2/2/2010. Writing this poem thoroughly creeped me out more than expected. I don't get creeped out by much. Enjoy.
I opened to a random page in my book "The Writer's Block" by Jason Rekulak and this is what I came to:

Alarm Clock Openings

"It's a common starting point for many of the stories in a creative writing workshop: An alarm clock sounds. The narrator drags himself to the bathroom and scrutinizes his weary face in the mirror. Then he showers, dresses, grabs the newspaper, and sits down to breakfast. Perhaps he watches television, or has an anxious thought about an important meeting in the afternoon. Meanwhile, the reader of the story is halfway through page four or five, wondering when something interesting is going to happen.

""Alarm Clock Openings" are appealing because they convey a wealth of information about a character's home, lifestyle, and social standing. Richard Wright's Native Son begins with an alarm clock ringing, and we discover that Bigger Thomas lives in a cramped one-room apartment with his mother, brother, and sister. But no less than a minute later, Bigger is bludgeoning a giant rat with a skillet, demonstrating the pent-up aggression that will surface again later in the novel. This scene works because it defies the conventions of a typical morning routine; write your own Alarm Clock Opening that does the same."

The ZenAlarm


incessant blaring from a small [rectangular box]
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
glowing red with lament
a covering of ears, a startled shriek
high-pitched turned low drawn out moan
of desperationEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
she has been awake for a spell
awoken for days-awoken four days
with each new bombardment
(of how many dB does an alarm clock make?)
comes a revived panic
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
it tempts her with its Siren
songEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
petrified to draw near, its face holds a menacing glow
its mouth emanating with the crimson of blood
emanating with the cry of the banshee
"But do you attempt stabbing out your eardrums because you fear getting near the box to turn it off?"
two days prior she searched for the box's manual
rummaged in drawers, in backs of closets
for any semblance of how to stop it from continuing
her search was futile
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
and now she sits in a far corner
eyes wide open, mouth agape, hands over ears
unable to stop the sou-
unable to stop the
unable to stop
unable to
unaBEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
she seizes her face
scratches with nails, flaked black fingernails,
drawing blood with red light blEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP..........
--

She was found in a disheveled room;
mattress, clothes, and furniture thrown asunder.
Dried blood and DNA caked under nails, flake black,
some remnants remaining in open wounds
framing her frozen expression.
Her eyes open tight, hands as claws,
muscles rigid. Rigor mortis had yet to set in.
Alone in a room of white.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
a corpse's only company.
It cut through the stillness,
leaving a bizarre ringing in the ears...
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEP.