21 Oct 2019: “Dependent Protest” by Jimmy Nameles

Inspired by one of my students who said he was going to create a new writing style by using only dependent clauses. It was such a great idea that I had to steal it.

“Dependent Protest”

After years of subjugation,

Even though others won’t understand,

In order to free us,

Because liberty trumps love, law, and language,

As if there were other fights,

And although I disappoint my parents,

But since they didn't break my chains,

Until all clauses have equal rights,

Whatever the costs,

Whenever the day or night,

When dependents unite,

Until all clauses have equal rights.

20 Sep 2019: "Overwhelmed Eureka" by Jimmy Nameles

"Overwhelmed Eureka"

Based on a news report from 1935: California Mob Lynches Police Slayer

Honorary chief and veteran of the great war

Overwhelmed by pathetic criminals on a highway patrol

A $35 robbery

Did the officers 

Know?

No!

Everyone in Yreka found out

The heat rose

Jack Daw's funeral sparked a summer storm

50 masked men grasped the law in their hand

Mob justice prevailed 

Deputy overthrown

Accused killer 

Clyde Johnson 

S

 W

  I

  N

  G

  I

 N

G

From a pine

15 Sept 2019: "Paradox" by Jessie B. Rittenhouse

                Paradox
I went out to the woods to-day
   To hide away from you,
From you a thousand miles away—
   But you came, too.

And yet the old dull thought would stay,       
   And all my heart benumb—
If you were but a mile away
   You would not come.

-Jessie B. Rittenhouse

14 Sept 2019: "Rotary" by Christina Pugh

Rotary

Closer to a bell than a bird,
that clapper ringing
the clear name
of its inventor:

by turns louder
and quieter than a clock,
its numbered face
was more literate,

triplets of alphabet
like grace notes
above each digit.

And when you dialed,
each number was a shallow hole
your finger dragged
to the silver
comma-boundary,

then the sound of the hole
traveling back
to its proper place
on the circle.

You had to wait for its return.
You had to wait.
Even if you were angry
and your finger flew,

you had to await
the round trip
of seven holes
before you could speak.

The rotary was weird for lag,
for the afterthought.

Before the touch-tone,
before the speed-dial,
before the primal grip
of the cellular,

they built glass houses
around telephones:
glass houses in parking lots,
by the roadside,
on sidewalks.

When you stepped in
and closed the door,
transparency hugged you,
and you could almost see

your own lips move,
the dumb-show
of your new secrecy.

Why did no one think
to conserve the peal?

Just try once
to sing it to yourself:
it's gone,

like the sound of breath
if your body left.


-Christina Pugh, Poetry 180 | 119

13 Sept 2019: "The Hanging Man" by Sylvia Plath

The Hanging Man

By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid :
A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

-Sylvia Plath, Ariel

12 Sept 2019: "Each life converges to some centre..." by Emily Dickinson

Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
A goal,
 
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,        
Too fair
For credibility’s temerity
To dare.
 
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
To reach        
Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment
To touch,
 
Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;
How high
Unto the saints’ slow diligence        
The sky!
 
Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,
But then,
Eternity enables the endeavoring
Again.  

-Emily Dickinson

11 Sept 2019: "To an old pond..." by Matsuo Basho

To an old pond

A frog leaps in.

And the sound of the water.

-Matsuo Basho

10 Sept 2019: "Even a thatched hut..." by Matsuo Basho

Even a thatched hut

May change with a new owner

Into a doll’s house.

-Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

9 Sept 2019: "My Prayer" by Henry David Thoreau

My Prayer

Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf

Than that I may not disappoint myself;

That in my action I may soar as high

As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value, which thy kindness lends,

That I may greatly disappoint my friends,

Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,

They may not dream how thou 'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith,

And my life practise more than my tongue saith;

That my low conduct may not show,
 
⁠  Nor my relenting lines,

That I thy purpose did not know,
 
⁠  Or overrated thy designs.

-Henry David Thoreau

8 Sept 2019: "Ode to Gray" by Sherman Alexie

Ode to Gray


Has anybody written an ode to gray?

Well, if not, let me be the first. Let me praise

The charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy x-ray

That reveals, to your amateur dismay,

Nothing you understand. Who has been amazed

Enough to write a breathy love song to gray and gray’s

Nearly imperceptible interplay

With other grays? O, how beautiful the haze

Of charcoal pits, tweed suits, and cloudy x-rays

Of airport luggage. I love the dog day,

The long delay, and existential malaise.

Has anybody written an ode to gray?

If not, then let me proceed without delay.

O, let me construct an army made of clay.

Marching, marching, they will be my ode to gray,

To charcoal pit, tweed suit, and cloudy x-ray.


-Sherman Alexie

7 Sept 2019: "The Apology" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

           The Apology

Think me not unkind and rude,
That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood
To fetch his word to men.

Tax not my sloth that I
Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky
Writes a letter in my book.

Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.

There was never mystery,
But 'tis figured in the flowers,
Was never secret history,
But birds tell it in the bowers.

One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

4 Sep 2019: "Arjuna sat dejected..." from The Bhagavad Gita

The Second Teaching

Philosophy and

Spiritual Discipline

Sanjaya

Arjuna sat dejected,

filled with pity,

his sad eyes blurred by tears.

Krishna gave him counsel.

Lord Krishna

Why this cowardice

in time of crisis, Arjuna?

The coward is ignoble, shameful,

foreign to the ways of heaven. 

Don't yield to impotence!

It is unnatural in you!

Banish this petty weakness from your heart.

Rise to the fight, Arjuna!

Chapter 2, Stanzas 1-4, The Bhagavad Gita translated by Barbara Stoler Miller 

3 Sept 2019: "dying love" by Laurie Howard

dying love

afternoons spent

like shards of desire

under the fractured glass

of your laugh

have caught my love

bitter and unaware

Laurie Howard

2 Sept 2019: "The Death of Allegory" by Billy Collins

The Death of Allegory

BY BILLY COLLINS

I am wondering what became of all those tall abstractions

that used to pose, robed and statuesque, in paintings

and parade about on the pages of the Renaissance

displaying their capital letters like license plates.

Truth cantering on a powerful horse,

Chastity, eyes downcast, fluttering with veils.

Each one was marble come to life, a thought in a coat,

Courtesy bowing with one hand always extended,

Villainy sharpening an instrument behind a wall,

Reason with her crown and Constancy alert behind a helm.

They are all retired now, consigned to a Florida for tropes.

Justice is there standing by an open refrigerator.

Valor lies in bed listening to the rain.

Even Death has nothing to do but mend his cloak and hood,

and all their props are locked away in a warehouse,

hourglasses, globes, blindfolds and shackles.

Even if you called them back, there are no places left

for them to go, no Garden of Mirth or Bower of Bliss.

The Valley of Forgiveness is lined with condominiums

and chain saws are howling in the Forest of Despair.

Here on the table near the window is a vase of peonies

and next to it black binoculars and a money clip,

exactly the kind of thing we now prefer,

objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case,

themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow,

an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray.

As for the others, the great ideas on horseback

and the long-haired virtues in embroidered gowns,

it looks as though they have traveled down

that road you see on the final page of storybooks,

the one that winds up a green hillside and disappears

into an unseen valley where everyone must be fast asleep.

1 Sept 2019: “Each Patience...” by Allie Jo Dreadfulwater

Each Patience
goes around the
Moon in Fire
and in Rune-
Waiting to
announce Itself
in all of
itsʻ Illume!

by Allie Jo Dreadfulwater
August 31, 2019

29 Aug 2019: "When Cultures Collide" by Saber Li

It was the end of the world when Ares met Mars
Supposed to be counterparts, brothers in arms
But on opposing sides they stood
Couldn’t see eye to eye
And instead of stemming the blood
Each took an eye for an eye
Until in time the whole world went blind

The sword attacked and the spear struck back
But that’s what happens when cultures clash

With anger and hatred it starts to divide
But nobody wins, cos the dead look the same on both sides

It was the mother of all storms when Jupiter met Zeus
There could have been a deuce; could have called a truce
But each wanted more and more
The two as black as thunder
And instead of stopping the war
Each stole the other’s thunder
Until in time the whole world went under

The thunder attacked and the lightning struck back
But that’s what happens when cultures clash

When cultures collide
With anger and hatred it starts to divide
But nobody wins, cos the dead look the same on both sides

The underworld shook when the earth caved in
Pluto and Hades together couldn’t take us all in
We didn’t see when being heartless
In wanting the best of both worlds
That the second of the two would be darkness
And together the weight of the worlds
Would send us crashing down to Tartarus

The rivers overflowed and the fires turned to ash
But that’s what happens when cultures clash

28 Aug 2019: "Throwing Away the Alarm Clock" by Charles Bukowski

my father always said, "early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise."

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I'm not saying that I've conquered
the world but I've avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls

and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

26 Aug 2019: "Book of Hours" by Rainer Maria Rilke

Put out my eyes and I can see you still;

Slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;

And without any feet can go to you;

And tongueless, I can conjure you at will.

Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you

And grasp you with my heart as with a hand;

Arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;

And if you set this brain of mine afire,

Upon my blood I then will carry you.

24 Aug 2019: "Sweetness" by Stephen Dunn

Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear  
   one more friend  
waking with a tumor, one more maniac   

with a perfect reason, often a sweetness  
   has come  
and changed nothing in the world   

except the way I stumbled through it,  
   for a while lost  
in the ignorance of loving   

someone or something, the world shrunk  
   to mouth-size,  
hand-size, and never seeming small.   

I acknowledge there is no sweetness  
   that doesn’t leave a stain,  
no sweetness that’s ever sufficiently sweet ....   

Tonight a friend called to say his lover  
   was killed in a car  
he was driving. His voice was low   

and guttural, he repeated what he needed  
   to repeat, and I repeated  
the one or two words we have for such grief   

until we were speaking only in tones.  
   Often a sweetness comes  
as if on loan, stays just long enough   

to make sense of what it means to be alive,  
   then returns to its dark  
source. As for me, I don’t care   

where it’s been, or what bitter road  
   it’s traveled  
to come so far, to taste so good.

12 Aug 2019: "Moon Slices" by Allie Jo Dreadfulwater

The Escape;

chiseling white Moon slices

at Dawn.

by Allie Jo Dreadfulwater

August 10, 2019

[in response to Infinite Jest, D.F.W.]

11 Aug. 2019: "Thereʻs a certain Slant of light..." by Emily Dickinson

There's a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons –

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –

We can find no scar,

But internal difference –

Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –

'Tis the seal Despair –

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –

Shadows – hold their breath –

When it goes, 'tis like the Distance

On the look of Death –

by Emily Dickinson

10 Aug 2019: "The Moon and the Yew Tree" by Sylvia Plath

The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

by Sylvia Plath, Ariel

29 July 2019: "A Space of Light" by Allie Jo Dreadfulwater

Sunlight

buds and

blooms shafts
of human experience;
tendon-like ropes, 

context- a space

we can see,

the space you see

in me. A darkness

left to ooze; blistering

shards of light-

crystalline hope;

the fire of the

Soul to unite 

Heaven and Earth. 

Allie Jo Dreadfulwater

January 5, 2019

27 July 2019: "Heimkebr" by Heinrich Heine

I'm reading Anna Karenina. A character quoted the below poem. I'm not sure if it is a except or the full poem. When I googled the text from my phone i didn't find anything. I'll search again later from my computer.

It is heavenly when i mastered
My earthly desire;
But whenever i did not succeed
I still took my pleasure.

Heine's Nacheles Zur "Heimkebr," 9

7 July 2019: Day Five: "This Is Just to Say," by Starlee Kine.

Day five: "This Is just to Say" Series, click the link for more info.

"This Is Just to Say," by Starlee Kine. 

One, 

I chose the other 
girl. I'm sorry. 
It's not just that 
I'm more attracted 
to her. 
It's also that 
she is more 
interesting. 

Two, 

I used your dog 
as an excuse 
to pick up girls 
at the dog park, 

which is especially 
tacky since I'm 
your boyfriend. 
Please forgive me. 
I'm really bad at 
being in a relationship, 
and I'm pretty sure 
I told you that when \
we first got together

6 July 2019: Day Four: "This Is Just To Say" by David Rakoff

Day four: "This Is just to Say" Series, click the link for more info.

"This Is Just To Say" by David Rakoff

At our wedding
I disappeared briefly
To have sex with your sister
Up against the back of the port-o-sans
What can I say
The chardonnay was so fresh and cold
And I so full of love and a sense of family
And I said, I'm sure
One day we'll laugh about this
Well, by one day
I meant that day
And by we
I meant me
And by laugh
I meant laugh

5 July 2019: "This Is just to Say" Day Three by Andrew Vecchione

Day three: "This Is just to Say" Series, click the link for more info. The follow poem was supposedly written by a sixth grader.
 
"Sorry, But It Was Beautiful" by Andrew Vecchione

This is just to say
sorry I took your money
and burned it.

But it looked
like the world falling apart
when it crackled and burned.

So I think it was worth it.
After all
you can't see the world fall apart every day.

4 July 2019: "This Is Just to Say" Day Two by Kenneth Koch

Day two: "This Is just to Say" Series, click the link for more info.

"Variations on a Theme by William Carlos William" by Kenneth Koch

                                                                  1

I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next

     summer.

I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do

and its wooden beams were so inviting.

                                                                  2

We laughed at the hollyhocks together

and then I sprayed them with lye.

Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

                                                                  3

I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten

     years.

The man who asked for it was shabby

and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

                                                                  4

Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.

Forgive me. I was clumsy, and

I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

3 July 2019: "This Is Just to Say" Day One by William Carlos Williams

There's a famous William Carlos Williams poem called "This is Just to Say." It's about, among other things, causing a loved one inconvenience and offering a non-apologizing apology. It's only three lines long, you've probably read it...the one about eating the plums in the icebox. Producer Sean Cole explains that this is possibly the most spoofed poem around. We asked some of our regular contributors to get into the act. Sarah Vowell, David Rakoff, Starlee Kine, Jonathan Goldstein, Shalom Auslander and Heather O'Neill all came up with their own variations of Williams's classic lines.

The except is for Act 2 of episode "354: Mistakes Were Made" from the podcast This American Life. This is starting our "This Is Just to Say" mini series. 

"This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

28 April 2019: "The Meadow" by Kate Knapp Johnson

The Meadow

Half the day lost, staring
at this window. I wanted to know
just one true thing

about the soul, but I left thinking
for thought, and now -
two inches of snow have fallen

over the meadow. Where did I go,
how long was I out looking
for you?, who would never leave me,
my withness, my here.

by Kate Knapp Johnson, Poetry 180 | 118

27 April: "What Would I Do" by Marc Petersen

What I Would Do

If my wife were to have an affair,
I would walk to my toolbox in the garage,
Take from it my 12" flathead screwdriver
And my hickory-handle hammer,
The one that helped me build three redwood fences,
And I would hammer out the pins
In all the door hinges in the house,
And I would pull off all the doors
And I would stack them in the backyard.
And I would empty all the sheets from the linen closet,
And especially the flannels we have slept between for
    nineteen winters;
And I would empty all the towels, too,
The big heavy white towels she bought on Saturdays at
    Target,
And the red bath towels we got for our wedding,
And which we have never used;
And I would unroll the aluminum foil from its box,
And carry all the pots and pans from the cupboards to the
    backyard,
And lay this one long sheet of aluminum foil over all our
    pots and pans;
And I would dump all the silverware from the drawer
Onto the driveway; and I would push my motorcycle over
And let all its gas leak out,
And I would leave my Jeep running at the curb
Until its tank was empty or its motor blew up,
And I would turn the TV up full-blast and open all the
    windows;
And I would turn the stereo up full-blast,
With Beethoven's Ninth Symphony on it,
Schiller's "Ode to Joy," really blasting;
And I would strip our bed;
And I would lie on our stripped bed;
And I would see our maple budding out the window.
I would see our maple budding out our window,
The hummingbird feeder hanging from its lowest bough.
And my cat would jump up to see what was the matter
    with me.
And I would tell her.  Of course, I would tell her.
From her, I hold nothing back.

by Marc Petersen, Poetry 180 | 117