One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
Keeping Battle
The art of keeping is a harder war to win
A war whose sides are me--it never ends
When losing, like divorce, just keeps stopping in
The keeping war yields to unforgiving sin
Consider life and love, even just the friends
Who disappear in sight of kinship going thin
'T would seem that all I keep is held within
But since that's metaphysical, let's not pretend
The one and only not-lost win, is my skin
I had it with me when 18 years ago I did begin
It doesn't seem to change even with the trends.
Keeping isn't hard, to me it's always pinned.
Seems it's all that's with me--this shallow bin
of everything I've created: Messages I send
through the keeping skin which reflects my within
Eventually the time ravages will take even my keeping skin
But for that, it seems I must make amends
For it knows not that it makes a sin
This losing war just always has to win
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dribble, dribble, snoot
Title: The Fixation on Life is Silly
Subtitle: How everybody deals with it, and the only reason it's important.
and these poems the drool that stain your night
(Hiding underneath your sub-conscious
--that's what that means)
Emotion, the rash act you choose to personify
as separate from your ever-so-logical self
The actions you take are the plot-line you set right
Or if it's condemnable, something inevitable
Your tragic flaw seems not such a flaw
but something innate that puts us in awe
The End
Interestingly enough, is never the end
End a chapter, end a soliloquy
The dream Hamlet predicts is the natural fix
All along, scraping the ends and folding them into beginnings
Your rationale for decisions are comletely the truth, just
from the final and ever-changing actual end.
Modern Flaw
The wound beneath me
Bleeds for another
Mother gift to give
Shift actions too swift
Thoughts drift across some forgotten shore
Beg more to be with the original sin
See I almost forget what
Once you did love me
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Faults in Clemency
Entry 1
The phone rings in a large office building downtown, just another bell-chime in the harmonies among papers flying and workers sighing. In one corner of the building sits a modest secretary, continuing another day in her modest life. As she picks up the phone, no shock or surprise appears on her face. She jots down the date and time of an appointment.
"Mr. Patterson, your wife is coming for lunch with you. First you have a meeting with Mrs. Johnson, though. Would you like me to re-schedule?"
"I should be all finished with Mrs. Johnson by the time Kelly comes. Thank you, though, Petunia. Listen, could you go get some sandwiches for Kelly and I for lunch?" Petunia scribbles his order on the back of her pay-stub. She will wait until thirty minutes before Kelly arrives to go get their lunch, lest the hot sandwiches get cold.
The noises of the office building continue on: pid-padding of feet, hands grazing arms in kindness, candy plopping out of candy jars, faxes arriving, copy-making, phone-calls ending, chairs scooting, computer chimes, yawns, pencils. An ordinary day is awarded to the ordinary people for their loyalty to the company.
An hour before lunch, Mrs. Johnson arrives at Mr. Patterson's door for their meeting. Before she notices Petunia, she walks up to the door casually and places her hand on the knob. Petunia coughs, though, and Mrs. Johnson steps back to ask if Mr. Patterson is in. His presence confirmed, she knocks carefully and enters slowly.
These weekly meetings between Mr. Patterson and Mrs. Johnson usually last about forty-five minutes. Petunia, knowing this, is eager to get the sandwiches in expectation of Mrs. Patterson. She prides herself on timing daily events perfectly, so that one task ends right as the next should begin. 'Efficiency, competency, and diligence are all you need to get by in this world, dear Petunia,' her father used to say to her. She used these words at his eulogy.
Thirty minutes before lunch, Mrs. Johnson is still in her meeting with Mr. Patterson. As Petunia leaves, she hears some ruffling papers and a large laugh. 'Oh,' she thinks, 'Mr. Patterson is always quite the entertainer.'
Petunia enjoys her outings, her food assignments, her menial tasks. She is a child-less caregiver, eager to take anyone under her wing. Mr. Patterson, over the course of Petunia's career at the firm, has become her man-child. She plans his day, makes sure he eats a healthy lunch, and returns him to his wife unscathed by the brutal highrise businesses.
When she returns to her little desk outside Mr. Patterson's door, Mrs. Johnson slinks out of the room with a half-smile unsuccessfully hidden from Petunia. Mr. Patterson follows her out, and while he speaks to Petunia about lunch Mrs. Johnson lingers a while, looking through the papers she is carrying. Their bodies walk away together.
Five minutes before lunch, Petunia searches for her man-child to make sure he will see his wife on time. She eventually finds him in the break room. While Mr. Patterson and Mrs. Johnson's bodies are not touching, their contours seem to ebb and flow together. He inhales and she laughs, the curves between them just lines of white against their grim clothing. As Mr. Patterson leaves with Petunia, he talks bout how long he and Mrs. Johnson have known each other, about their evenings spent grilling in the back yard.
Right on time, because Kelly is a punctual and time-conscious woman, lunch begins. Mr. Patterson enters his office stiffly, dodging glances to the corners of the room. When he sees that everything is in place, he lowers his shoulders and greets his wife.
"Hello, honey. I've been going through all this paperwork and I want..." The door closes, and Petunia is again placed at her guard over Mr. Patterson's 8 x 10 domain. More phone calls arrive, more appointments are planned, and all of them are coordinated through Petunia's catching eyes. Twenty minutes into lunch, Petunia hears someone fall. Perhaps it is Mr. Patterson! She should make sure he is fine, but she knows Kelly can take care of Mr. Patterson. She is a practical woman. Practical women think alike.
As Kelly and Mr. Patterson leave his office, Petunia asks Mr. Patterson if he would like to reschedule Mrs. Johnson for next week. Kelly shoots a fierce glance at Mr. Patterson. Before anyone says goodbye or allows for kisses, she tromps out the door. Two elevator dings later, and Mrs. Patterson is gone.
Mr. Patterson pauses for thirty seconds, silent while he tames his hair. He walks back into his office, even as Petunia tries to affirm his appointments for later in the day. No amount of calls or approaches later on in the day can provoke Mr. Patterson out of his office. He squats, belligerent.
__________________________________________________________________
A crisp morning means spring is trying not to arrive loudly. I honestly think that the wind and the sun are dueling. In the end, we all know that the sun will win and that the wind will no longer be the harsh opponent it so longs to be, but a soft breeze to wipe the sweat from our foreheads. Eventually, spring will arrive. Unfortunately for all us college students, it tries so hard to stay on the other side of the world. Damnit, Australia, give up your warmth!
About the story, I wrote it a month ago. I figured I should finish it. And, I have a particular direction I want to go in, so be warned. If I felt I could achieve the necessary impact on the reader, I would say to protect your heart. We'll see where it goes in the end.
The phone rings in a large office building downtown, just another bell-chime in the harmonies among papers flying and workers sighing. In one corner of the building sits a modest secretary, continuing another day in her modest life. As she picks up the phone, no shock or surprise appears on her face. She jots down the date and time of an appointment.
"Mr. Patterson, your wife is coming for lunch with you. First you have a meeting with Mrs. Johnson, though. Would you like me to re-schedule?"
"I should be all finished with Mrs. Johnson by the time Kelly comes. Thank you, though, Petunia. Listen, could you go get some sandwiches for Kelly and I for lunch?" Petunia scribbles his order on the back of her pay-stub. She will wait until thirty minutes before Kelly arrives to go get their lunch, lest the hot sandwiches get cold.
The noises of the office building continue on: pid-padding of feet, hands grazing arms in kindness, candy plopping out of candy jars, faxes arriving, copy-making, phone-calls ending, chairs scooting, computer chimes, yawns, pencils. An ordinary day is awarded to the ordinary people for their loyalty to the company.
An hour before lunch, Mrs. Johnson arrives at Mr. Patterson's door for their meeting. Before she notices Petunia, she walks up to the door casually and places her hand on the knob. Petunia coughs, though, and Mrs. Johnson steps back to ask if Mr. Patterson is in. His presence confirmed, she knocks carefully and enters slowly.
These weekly meetings between Mr. Patterson and Mrs. Johnson usually last about forty-five minutes. Petunia, knowing this, is eager to get the sandwiches in expectation of Mrs. Patterson. She prides herself on timing daily events perfectly, so that one task ends right as the next should begin. 'Efficiency, competency, and diligence are all you need to get by in this world, dear Petunia,' her father used to say to her. She used these words at his eulogy.
Thirty minutes before lunch, Mrs. Johnson is still in her meeting with Mr. Patterson. As Petunia leaves, she hears some ruffling papers and a large laugh. 'Oh,' she thinks, 'Mr. Patterson is always quite the entertainer.'
Petunia enjoys her outings, her food assignments, her menial tasks. She is a child-less caregiver, eager to take anyone under her wing. Mr. Patterson, over the course of Petunia's career at the firm, has become her man-child. She plans his day, makes sure he eats a healthy lunch, and returns him to his wife unscathed by the brutal highrise businesses.
When she returns to her little desk outside Mr. Patterson's door, Mrs. Johnson slinks out of the room with a half-smile unsuccessfully hidden from Petunia. Mr. Patterson follows her out, and while he speaks to Petunia about lunch Mrs. Johnson lingers a while, looking through the papers she is carrying. Their bodies walk away together.
Five minutes before lunch, Petunia searches for her man-child to make sure he will see his wife on time. She eventually finds him in the break room. While Mr. Patterson and Mrs. Johnson's bodies are not touching, their contours seem to ebb and flow together. He inhales and she laughs, the curves between them just lines of white against their grim clothing. As Mr. Patterson leaves with Petunia, he talks bout how long he and Mrs. Johnson have known each other, about their evenings spent grilling in the back yard.
Right on time, because Kelly is a punctual and time-conscious woman, lunch begins. Mr. Patterson enters his office stiffly, dodging glances to the corners of the room. When he sees that everything is in place, he lowers his shoulders and greets his wife.
"Hello, honey. I've been going through all this paperwork and I want..." The door closes, and Petunia is again placed at her guard over Mr. Patterson's 8 x 10 domain. More phone calls arrive, more appointments are planned, and all of them are coordinated through Petunia's catching eyes. Twenty minutes into lunch, Petunia hears someone fall. Perhaps it is Mr. Patterson! She should make sure he is fine, but she knows Kelly can take care of Mr. Patterson. She is a practical woman. Practical women think alike.
As Kelly and Mr. Patterson leave his office, Petunia asks Mr. Patterson if he would like to reschedule Mrs. Johnson for next week. Kelly shoots a fierce glance at Mr. Patterson. Before anyone says goodbye or allows for kisses, she tromps out the door. Two elevator dings later, and Mrs. Patterson is gone.
Mr. Patterson pauses for thirty seconds, silent while he tames his hair. He walks back into his office, even as Petunia tries to affirm his appointments for later in the day. No amount of calls or approaches later on in the day can provoke Mr. Patterson out of his office. He squats, belligerent.
__________________________________________________________________
A crisp morning means spring is trying not to arrive loudly. I honestly think that the wind and the sun are dueling. In the end, we all know that the sun will win and that the wind will no longer be the harsh opponent it so longs to be, but a soft breeze to wipe the sweat from our foreheads. Eventually, spring will arrive. Unfortunately for all us college students, it tries so hard to stay on the other side of the world. Damnit, Australia, give up your warmth!
About the story, I wrote it a month ago. I figured I should finish it. And, I have a particular direction I want to go in, so be warned. If I felt I could achieve the necessary impact on the reader, I would say to protect your heart. We'll see where it goes in the end.
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