Pensive with Mark Strand

It's a reflective night, a pensive one, and as nano's left in its tiny coffin of tags, margin, and punctual bounds. I'm mulling over poetry, and the nutmeg and cinnamon sticks of my mentality perfume the dreamy air. I am Mark Strand in these stanzas, tonight:

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
(Mark Strand - Keeping Things Whole - Reasons for Moving)


We are all scattered pieces of a shattered whole. None of us, as yet, perfect, I'm fairly sure. Wherever I am, I am what is missing. I feel this, sometimes. Stronger in the retrospective melancholy of hindsight, where I am here and there and now and not. Nano is finished, but my story is undone. And in the void, spilled treasures of fae gold are left ashen. How I remembered these memories differently. A puzzle, once vibrant, stained in salty water that no longer matches its master - how will I ever arrange these cardboard cutouts again? If your life is remodeled, you cannot walk through the same doors, slide over the laminate in your socks, or ride the banister into the grand hall.



And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
Mark Strand - Lines for Winter

Toothy Poetry

my tongue is a record player

covered in sandpaper, rubbing raw

over a mysterious hole in the wall –

can loss of tooth be prepared for?

what of two teeth, four

a swift horse jab to the jaw

and no more little white warriors

entrenched, as it were,

in their little red coats

stamping at whatever ventures close –

am I an adult?

will these, too, regrow no more?

small alpine huts, tiny white-capped

men clapping heels and heads

with seismic groans – how

will you endure, so few in number?

canine mutts with little pallid tufts
and sanguine bottoms, the sled
you drag behind grows heavier
by the mile, as you carry phantoms
through heavy snows,
how can one forget what one tows
tied tight behind, black hole memories,
the tongue scratches, leaving tracks behind


(http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/toothy-poetry/ ‎)

Hands

hourglass, crystal ball, scythe, neat-tucked bed, dusty corners, spiderwebs, time-greyed armoire, rusty crib, ancient toys the stuff of nightmares, ceiling collapsing beneath a weighty loneliness.

have you found what beauty is for?

Beauty is beyond me, its outer gardens waft to me. You've seen the whole of it: the love, the new words and senses, the pinched and kneaded time, bleeding colors spinning rainbows into auroral webs. It's in your eyes, face, rhythm and tempo. What do the lines in my hands say? Do they frown or smile pleasantly? Do they beggar me with wisdom, or silent, plaintive, whisper I've made mistakes - too many. A ledger of scarlet, written in palm cuneiform, a pictograph of questions, unclasped, etched into flesh.  Thumb isolated, a border of sharp fissures, fault lines - my fault?  Large 'A' on each hand, an 'l' following? Sacred symbol lines?

It is not for all, every experience.  My hands tell stories I cannot hear.

listen: the swan song sings for me - this is beauty, truth, beauty

I slept, and woke on a snowflake, just me and a giant snake, shivering with cold. Gazing into each others eyes, must we put our selves aside and cuddle close? I wrapped my arms about him, he around me, and we shivered together atop our snowflake eternity, the worldscape beneath of clouds, aurora, fields and forests. But the snake loved too much, or nature prevailed, and constricted - I could not breathe. But warm, warm, it's better this way, coiled not cold.

black glass ponds are not mirrors, but windows. What do you see? Is it love, or sorrow?

Sorrow, the crow, and memory - or thought? Dusty roads barefoot glow beneath yellowed-paper moon, glitter-black dress of twilight - is it dark in a phoenix egg? Is it this that drives the fight for freedom? Or because inside, without room, the song of life is strangled, muffled?

before you blink, as you smile,what gift to you who loves no gifts? It beats sola para ti, and it's glass running through my veins, and sand, will you have my hand if I give it? no. take this empty box, it's mine, it holds my everything. is it mercy or grace I need more? 

have you found everything without me

to guide you

i'd give my blessing but i misplaced it with my heart-

felt hopes and dreams of warmer things, what everyone

else just forgets - it's the best, the only, night of my life

let me have it with all my dreams intact

these lines on my hands untouched

such stories 

~in memory of..~

where prayers were not enough to save us the sorrow of your passing.

Juniper Hills and a Sagely Brush

When you build your house on babel, before long, all your friends are gone. And none spoke your language anymore. Then, whether mystery or history come knocking at your door, open. To a world most musical at dusks and dawns, alighting and rising as the butterfly's song. Quick, silver as mercurial pools, your eyes flicker and flit in lovely apprehension. Touch, and you'll ripple the lake-heart of calm, pierce the surface tension. Dainty the dawn, dulcet the dusk, halcyon the heavens between. Patient the whisper, shy as the fawn, the susurrus of wind new life brings.


Driving into the mountains last friday, the sun began to set. The steep cones of central oregon appear as shadow jaws against the horizon, and the ghastly remnants of trees are ashen memories of forest fires, crowding the hills like whispering ghosts, dull-eyed and plaintive. Charcoal lines of distant slopes form a sinister skyline underneath the golden moon, low and heavy over the treetops. The grasping trees stoop over the road, and I feel both protected or assaulted by their leaning limbs.
A chill on the air smells of winter, carrying a biting breathlessness and a hint of juniper, intoxicating as gin on the wind, greeting our entrance into Bend, the high desert.
Where man began and nature ends, I know not. Perhaps man's is a tentative hold on that sagebrush land, rugged lovely standoff against those volcanic sisters whose tempers may erupt on a slight. Patience, I'll linger not long. I'll miss the leaves and trees of my land, though this sweet juice of juniper pacifies my soul and imparts its wisdom - a brush with sage.

Turn my glass soul upside-down, gentle snow comes falling down
a bus, a school, a one house town
a child skips 'long an empty street,
snow builds high around his feet
before a while my crystal soul, is silent
silent
and winter full
place me down and soon I'll be, a dust reminder of frozen things
timeless attic memories, a photo treasure
misplaced mysteries

Betwixt the Paths

I used to be tragically shy, the kind of child hiding behind his mother's legs, whimpering and crying to go home. During these times, I harbored within all my thoughts. When asked about my day, I explained, perfunctorily, each of the necessary events without associated thoughts. In high school, the limited pool of students in the preppy school meant that I was swiftly relegated into the unpopular sphere of social strata. I did not climb clear of that then, for my relationships in-school were kept at careful distance. I said enough to prevent my abuse, for bullies found my small size easy pickings. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not.

But as I changed the rules; the game changed me. In college, I eventually learned (through persistent roommates and friends) to shed my skin, entire. I rarely did, but occasionally, when it suited me, I unloaded my heart unto those willing listeners, asking for assistance and guidance. I valued their opinions in lieu of my own. I'd not yet understood the golden means, the Aristotelian balance of valuing my own experience in measure with that of others.

Then, the most recent game, the game that stretched my everything, the trial of tears, triumph, and terror. With every day, the game's parameters changed, the strategy and purposes changed, all in dicey whimsy. Everything was in a flux, and I rolled through my experience in a regressive fashion: telling no one anything, telling everyone everything and following their rules, trying a balance, and cycling around again and again. I listened to advice even though it was my game, and as I changed, bent, broke, remade, burned through rules and transformed the game in a chaotic evolution, I realized I was defeating myself. It was my game, and the only true opponent I faced was myself. I've long assumed the belief that the only person I struggle to beat, given enough persistence and motivation, is myself. No matter how advanced my strategy, I always find ways to foil my own stratagem. 

I've re-learned much in this game. I've learned and relearned these things all my life, and I suspect I will never stop learning them.  I've learned to listen and to sequester my feelings in their appropriate times and places. I've learned to fail, and stand back up. I've learned to hope and believe when in a dark valley. I've learned to pray for others when I'm suffering. I've learned to love others all the more, knowing that we are all humans here. I've learned how necessary praise is in the brightest of places and in the darkest. I've learned thankfulness and kindness. I've relearned all these things and more, betwixt the paths.

This actually is not where I was originally going.... pending...

Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending

As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.

In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities.  Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.


---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.



Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Now I'll go to sleep.