Hans and the Funny-nosed Boys

"How come I end up where I started?
 How come I end up where I went wrong?
 Won't take my eyes off the ball again,
 You reel me out then you cut the string."
 -15 Step, Radiohead

Hans was a very poor boy. He lived in a small village with no one in the world to care for him. You see, Hans was the brat of a witch and a troll. His parents abandoned in a ditch soon after his birth, and gave him nothing but their demented genetics to remember them by. Luckily, the local priest spotted Hans laying on the side of the road rescued him to a decrepit shack near the outside of town to live in. The priest normally took in orphans, but even at that young age Hans' parentage was obviously demonic. What a scandal to bring a demon to a monastery! Thus, Hans was a lonely, poor boy.

Hans' lived in a rather wealthy village and survived on the shoelaces and boot-leather from the too-often discarded footwear of the villagers. After years of such a tough diet, however, Hans' teeth chipped away and ground down. By the time Hans' turned thirteen, he'd already lost many of his newly-acquired adult teeth. Those that remained rotted grotesquely, badly stinking and making Hans all the more unpleasant to be with. His eyes were of a milky white color and had impossibly black pupils. His skin was tough and gray. All these facts reminded him daily that he'd never belong in the village, among regular humans, an idea the villagers certainly didn't help to dispell.

Near the center of the village lived, quite a different family, a wealthy father and his four rather unusual sons. Each of the sons were tall and slender capped their heads with pointed green caps. Most extraordinarily, however, each of the sons had very long noses, nearly a foot from tip to base. Despite their strange appearance, the boys were brilliant and strong, so the villagers lauded them with praise worthy of a king. The villagers loved the boys so much they'd buy all their tools and supplies from the father's local store, and even paid extra if one of the funny-nosed boys would help them carry their goods home. In this way the father and sons were able to amass their great wealth.

Hans worshiped the funny-nosed boys and followed them everywhere in hopes that someday they, who also looked different, might accept him as one of them. No matter how much the funny-nosed boys abused him, he persisted in trying to play their sports and jumping into any subject they began to study. At first the boys had fun playing tricks on Hans and making him the butt of their jokes, but after weeks of this they determined that Hans must go.

Early one morning, the boys with the funny noses stood outside Hans' shack and called out to him to come play with them. Hans could hardly believe his ears when he heard their cries. The boys had never come to ask him to play. Hans quickly his raggy clothes and rushed out of the house and met them. One of the boys held a large brown bag in his slender fingers. Another of the boys, addressing Hans, explained, "Hans, we're sorry that we've not treated you very well and we've brought you this magic sack to make up for it. We've filled this bag with gold from a magical fairy fortress. There are over 100 pieces in here, and we'd like to give them to you! However, you must keep a careful watch over this bag for the next hour, or before you know it the fairies will have stolen all their gold back. Hans, don't take your eyes off this bag for an hour and you'll be a wealthy man by nightfall!"

Hans jumped with joy! The funny-nosed boys chuckled with glee. The boys were not laughing with Hans, however, but with the pleasure of seeing their plan succeed. You see, the boys had not really filled the bag with faerie gold, but only fools gold they'd collected in the hills. Because they knew that Hans wouldn't dare to take his eyes off the bag they could abuse him as they pleased for a full hour. When the hour was up they'd simply snatch away the bag and tell him the fairies had taken it. Surely a joke so cruel would rid them of Hans forever.

The funny-nosed boys shoved the bag into Hans' hands and shouted, "Come Hans! let's go play in the forest!" Hans nearly leapt out of his skin with excitement at the invitation, and, dropping the bag, rushed to go play with the funny-nosed boys. The most agile boys, however, had already snatched up the bag and hidden it behind his back. Next moment, Hans realized what he'd done and spun around to reclaim his prize. Upon finding no bag, Hans burst out into tears. He pulled his hair and gnawed on his hands. Hans roared, "Ack! Ho!! Now I'm back to my poverty! What a cruel trick, what a cruel fate to send me back to that shack!" He raged and finally laid on the ground and moaned in a sorrowful fit. The funny-nosed boys laughed at first, but laughter soon turned to panic. They'd never seen anyone act so strangely! The boy with the bag lost his nerve and, rushing to Hans side shouted, "Hans! Look! We've found your bag. You'd just dropped it behind a bush. Look Hans! Look!" Hans face immediately turned to joy! His salvation had returned!

Seeing Hans in such a happy state had a cruel effect on the cruel funny-nosed boys. "Well, if he's quite recovered," the boys whispered among themselves, "we'll continue our little game." They called Hans over to them and told him, "Alright Hans, we're happy to see you've been saved this time but you'd better watch your bag for two hours now, just to be safe!" Hans rejoiced! "I won't look away this time! I won't," he sang.

The boys gave Hans back his fools gold and led him into the forest. The boys tried to break Hans determination by taking hin through all the hardest parts of the forest and rushing through thorns and bushes. None of their tricks seemed to work, however, and Hans clung to his bag tenaciously, fiercely watched his prize. When the funny-nosed boys had nearly run out of tricks, they began to fear that Hans may actually win the sack! Their deception would surely be revealed once Hans tried to trade his fools gold to any merchant. All was on the line! It was just then the boys hear the sound of a nearby river. "What luck!" they thought. They rushed to the river and Hans ran behind them, following the sounds of their footsteps. Poor Hans was so focused on his watching and his running, that he hardly noticed the river until he was wet up to his neck. Suddenly realizing his trouble Hans thrashed his arms about and flung the bag to the opposite shore. One of the long-nosed boys, who'd already arrived at the other side, quickly snatched up the bag, feeling their reputation secured! When Hans finally struggled to the shore, the flung himself to the ground and moaned once more, "Ack! Ho!! Now I'm back to my poverty! What a cruel trick, what a cruel fate to send me back to my shack!" The boys began to panic again. Perhaps this time his heart was broken permanently and he'd die here on the shore! The boy who held the bag this time thought quick action might save Hans and, rushing to Hans side shouted, "Hans! Look! We've found your bag. It was here on the shore. Look Hans! Look!"

Hans leapt for joy! "Saved twice in what day! What luck," Hans screamed for all to hear, "I'll never take my eyes off this bag again!" Seeing Hans recovered, and hearing of his newly reinforced determination, the long-nosed boys decided they must try one last trick. "Come Hans, let us tie this rope around your waist so we can lead you through the forest. You won't have to waste your eyes or ears following us, but can focus on your bag!" they suggested. Hans didn't even make a reply.

The boys pulled Hans through the forest. They dragged him through all the forbidden paths and dangerous nettles they could remember, but nothing would break Hans' focus for a second. Finally the boys arrived at a cliff they knew, hundreds of feet tall. "Come!" they said among themselves, "Hans will never hold onto the bag if we push him off that cliff! Best of all he'll drop it far below where no one can ever find the gold and learn of our deception." The boys led Hans to the edge of the cliff, hesitated for just a moment, and pushed him off. Three of the boys braced themselves with the rope and the fourth ran to the cliff edge to see Hans drop his bag of gold. The rope went tight. The fourth boy glanced over the edge and called back to the other three, "He's... He's not dropped it!" The funny-nosed boys jaws dropped. Panic overtook them! If this wouldn't cause Hans to drop his bag, nothing would. Their plot would be uncovered! The boys holding the rope mournfully began pulling Hans back to safety. "Wait! the fourth funny-nosed boy called out. "He's dropped the bag?!" the others rejoiced in reply.

"No," whispered the fourth boy, pulling a dagger from his belt, "but he shall."

The funny-nosed boy set his knife to the rope.


 

As If the Internet Needed Another Cliche Quote...

"As if you could kill time without injuring eternity"
-Henry Thoreau

And yet, here I am, killing time because I really don't want to work on the Religion essay I should've started days ago.

The library here at BYU always has an art exhibit or two on the bottom floor. The art isn't ever particularly famous. I don't know how many artists who've grown accustomed to seeing their names in the headlines of art exhibits would let their work be presented like this. I still think the exhibits are noteworthy though. Through them, I've been introduced to a half dozen of the most talented people on and around campus.

I'm most impressed by each artist's ability to find their "voice." That niche that they perform in, a stage reserved for them. Right now the exhibit displays art from three students here on campus. My favorite artist made her ravens with only a piece of paper and what looks to me like various pencils, you'd have to have an artist tell you for sure though. Although each raven looks different (some in flight, some with backwards-turned necks), they all feel the same. Each has the same aura, the same personality and soul insofar as ravens have either. Each raven holds a length of ribbon in its beak, and the strands seem to tie them all together. The ribbons in the beaks seem to endow the ravens with an infant-like curiosity. Its easy to picture how moments before they each snatched up their shiny treasures from the shadows. Who knows what they'll do with all that ribbon.

Moral of the story: Go look at art, you never know when you might find something shiny.

A little explanation...

A little explanation for the last post.

I'm rusty and I haven't written in a long time.

The End.

English Reading Series, 11/21/08

I sat in my chair and trembled.

I haven't felt that way in a long time and now it's happened twice in as many days. I shake, physically shake, with the pressure of feelings and ideas rushing to press my skin (like a balloon, streched and tense). My bones flex like a scaffolding under too much weight. I lose focus because of the tickling feeling inside my skull.

So, I sat in my chair and trembled.

The vibrations of my body slow, and slip away unnoticed. I'm here now. I'm ready to listen and expect to be impressed. The professor, an older woman with a comfortable stance and voice like my sixth-grade teacher, introduces each of the writers. The writers (an essayist, a poet and an author, all girls) listen to their introductions with strict attention. All three girls seem confident and ready for what's to come, but the way they shift their weight and pick at their clothes gives them away. Each writer walks up to the podium in turn. Although they performs in their own genre, their own voice, all the girls are there for the same reason. They've come to gouge out an eye, slice off a finger or amputate an arm and display the bloodied articles there on the podium.

The girls perform their sacrifices with all the dignity of priests. Hardly a quivering word escapes their lips as they saw and rip, slaughtering their own bodies. They place the limbs, organs, skin (now detatched), where all can see. Like barbarians showcasing the heads of vanquished foes, they showcase their own bodies, now segmented and crimson. The smell of blood fills the room. The taste enters eyes and mouth. The whole thing feels irreverent, like a dirty joke told at church, but everyone watches carefully. Some silently whisper to neighbors.

A question and answer session follows:

Q: "What's it like to write about something so personal, so painful?"

A: "Writing is an abstraction. When I write about something personal, it allows me to distance myself from that thing. It becomes something physical that I can confront and grapple with."

Somehow, that's an idea I can live with.

The Fence

Therefore, hold on thy way, and the priesthood shall remain with thee; for their bounds are set, they cannot pass. Thy days are known and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever.

- Doctrine and Covenants 121:9 (emphasis added)

It seems reasonable to believe that I'll never run a four-minute mile. Of course I'll never read every book ever written, or discover the answers to the math, physics and medical problems plaguing mankind. It's obvious that I have limits, my bounds are set, and yet I continue to live my life as if they weren't there.

I can't remember the last time I carefully pored over which books I would check-out from the library, knowing my selection would mean one less book I could ever read. I know I've never hesitated about listening to CD, knowing every track I selected also symbolized another song I would never hear. Some may call this irresponsible, living my life as if I had all the time in the world. Others may believe I'm simply living in denial. The truth is that I don't actually believe in my limits.

Bear with me.

Have you ever thought about how horrific it would be to have a point you could never pass, regardless of how much work or time or money you pored into it? To finally run as fast as you could ever run? To make the last dollar you were capable of earning? What a terrible world to live in! A world with an end in sight. In other words, a world without eternal progression?

Some may choose to live in that world, however, none of us have to. Our God has provided us with a way out. The bounds of the wicked are set, but the righteous, with God's help, have literally unlimited potential. We can (and will) pursue our interests and our loves, forever. Eternally improving, continually progressing past points which time could never measure.

How much better to serve in Heaven than to rule in Hell.

Further up and further in!

A Tale of Two Styles

Alright! I'm going to try something new so you'll have to forgive the experimental nature of the blog for the next (hopefully) few weeks.

The more diligent readers among you (HA!) may have noticed the huge dearth of posts lately. I've had a few big changes lately (what with moving out of the house) and, more importantly, I frankly haven't been reading much poetry.

I think a blog should reflect its writer, even if it isn't specifically about the author. And hence, since I've gone home to prose, this blog will widen its scope. I'm officially shifting to writing about whatever I'm reading! Perhaps I'll even occasionally record the rare thought unprovoked by my reading. Scandalous I know.

Let's get into it.

Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it ... Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in. - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

I couldn't write about thoughts inspired by literature without letting Brother Lewis start me off. No, I'm not technically reading any of his work right now but the concepts he illustrates are never too far from my thoughts.

Sometimes you read an idea or hear a lyric in a song that resonates deeply with you. That's how I felt the first time I read this closing paragraph in one of my all-time favorite books. What a terrifying and radical and yet truly beautiful idea to feel deeply!

Have you ever considered what it would actually mean to sacrifice your entire will to God? Everything? Not just your sins and infirmities but even your most good and powerful instincts, ideas and emotions? What a sacrifice of self! Could it truly leave anything we could call uniquely ours?

I think the answer is no. However, I think it's important to note that even now we can't really call any part of our self truly ours. It's all been given to us by virtue of our creation. Even our agency came to us as a gift. Now we see why it makes sense that we're never truly ourselves until we give all that back. Who are we truly? Beggars, 100% reliant on God for even our daily breath, and it's only by coming unto God and ceasing to pretend we truly own anything, even our own will, that we're finally left with who we really are.

 

More prose soon!

The Writer

I had a strange encounter tonight.

I rode my bike down near Liberty Heights Fresh trying to catch the a little fleeting sunset for a "10 Minutes from Home" photography assignment. After a few minutes of futile searching, I stepped off my bike and started to walk, hoping my slower pace would help me to spot a subject. I had just finished a nervous photo-shoot on a neighborhood doorstep when I heard a voice call out from behind me. The man asked me to come a closer to where he sat on his porch across the street, and, surprised and unsettled, I obliged him.

He first showed me a beautiful rose he'd nurtured near the front wall of his house. I quickly took a few pictures in hopes that he'd let me go. Just as I began to walk away, however, he asked me in a smooth, quiet voice, "Hey, do you have 15 bucks?" I immediately started backing away, "Oh great, he wants to sell me drugs," I thought.

"No, I don't have any money on me."

"I don't care if you have it on you! Have you ever had 15 bucks?" He asked.

Phew, what a relief! He's not going to try and rob me!

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

"Well head up to the Museum of Fine Arts!"

He then spent about the next half hour delivering a subtle and eloquent narration of his experiences with Picasso and Monet, artists he previously hadn't cared much for. "When their pictures were only this big, Pssh!" He told me, indicating with his hands the small size we normally view these masterworks in. His story resonated with simplicity and beauty, like a true contemporary writer.

I've always imagined it'd be a little strange to meet an author in real life. They almost feel a little too disconnected from normal life in their work to have real interactions with people. Now, I think I know what that is really like.

***

The PoetLoses his position on worksheet or page in textbook
May speak much but makes little sense
Cannot give clear verbal instructions
Does not understand what he reads
Does not understand what he hears
Cannot handle “yes-no” questions

Has great difficulty interpreting proverbs
Has difficulty recalling what he ate for breakfast, etc.
Cannot tell a story from a picture
Cannot recognize visual absurdities

Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next

-Tom Wayman

Balm of Gilead

I think sometimes there's no better treatment for pain than to know someone else has felt the same aching. I don't think I'm ever really alone in hard times, as exceptional as I'd like to think myself. My mother first taught me that lesson years ago after a particularly hard night.

I laid in my bed, closed my eyes and thought through, over and over again, how I'd finally goofed up for real and things could never go back to the way they had been. My eyes, and the bridge of my nose ached under the strain of too much emotion. Dear memories rebelled, and stained themselves red with regret. I wallowed there in my broken condition until finally I decided I could no longer wait to talk to someone. I woke my mom up, asked if I could share her bed for the night, and choked out everything that had been bothering me. She chuckled slightly, and unbelievably recounted to me how she'd had a similar moment while she was in High School. A small hole opened in my anguished defenses, and soon velvet darkness came to put me to sleep.

***

Desert Places

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

-Robert Frost

Seeing the Torturer in the Mirror

This is a poem I thought I'd forgotten about, but now that I've rediscovered it, I realize how much it's lurked in the back of my mind.

I've struggled to realize the value of art since the moment I began taking it seriously. I remember realizing I missed something wiser people saw after attending my first theatre conference. A man stood behind a podium and declared to an auditorium of thousands that drama meant more than just good entertainment. He told us that we suffer, even before getting on stage, to give an audience a gift many of them may never fully appreciate. He used other words to teach the gathered actors from around the state, but I heard his message for me clearly.

I took the first step when I realized that I missed something when I observed art. Since that time I've been trying to figure out what that missing something could be. For years I've pursued the theme to fill the hole in my experience. "If I can only find the theme, I'll have it!" Only recently have I started to understand that the real meaning of a poem can't be reduced to a theme. Additionally, a theme can't even be caught through direct pursuit. They're far too subtle for that.

I don't know exactly where that leaves me. I'm still trying to find a way to proceed. But I feel like I've made progress, and hopefully, even learned a little about myself on the way.

***

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

-Billy Collins

Soft Summer Searing

The summer heat and I have always had kind of a back and forth relationship.

I remember when I first arrived in Utah to a record breaking summer day. We stopped by a bank on the way to our new house and visited with a teller there while we were taking care of whatever business we had. The teller off-handedly commented on the scorching heat, to which I boomed, "Heat! Ha! This is nothing! We just got here from TEXAS!" Perhaps my response wasn't quite that blustering, or maybe not even really spoken aloud... at all... but I've never been more proud of my southern heritage! It seems like only a few short years later I slouched drenched and oppressed in New Orleans, Louisiana and caught myself hoping, just a little, for some of that nice dry Utah heat and a stiff breeze to dull its searing edge.

***

Heat

O wind, rend open the heat,
Cut apart the heat,
Rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
Through this thick air --
Fruit cannot fall into heat
That presses up and blunts
The points of pears
And rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat --
Plough through it,
Turning it on either side
Of your path.

- H.D.

After Hours at the Hotel Frustration...

Ya know, you never realize exactly how limited blog editors are until you try and get them to display some kind of poetic formatting. Forget about handy things like, you know, adjustable line spacing, who needs that. Oh, and preserving tab spaces? Forget about it.... P.S. Don't ever try and adjust your template, it's a nightmare.

Believe me, it's not worth it...

Have my worst challenges really lead to my greatest successes? Although that's a maxim that has been broadcast to me my entire life, making me naturally distrustful of it, I think it's an idea I really believe. There's something for me to learn from and strengthen myself against in every barricade. Even those who suffer worst, born starving in war-torn countries with little hope of escape, seem to grow in meekness and gratitude for what they have. Today, on pioneer day, I find myself envying my (non-biological) ancestors. Although they suffered horribly, enduring the loss of loved ones and limbs, they grew so strong in their obedience and will power. They've left a legacy we honor even 200 years later.

The evidence is undeniable to me. Suffering benefits me, no matter how uncomfortable. I've only to set my shoulder against the boulder, and push.

***

Nightingales

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.

-Robert Bridges

Aaaaand, we're back....

I just came home from a steady place. Each complacent pond and every wine-red sunset testifies every day of the unalterable quality of the rolling hills of Kansas. Hills past endurance. Hills that share their fountain of youth, the elixir sheltered deep in limestone treasuries, with each inanimate object that sets root there. Buildings buy immortality with their motion. They sacrifice their activity, their soul, to share in the promise of immortality. Lifeless but never dead.

Chips of paint flee their homes, the now cold sides of never-dying houses. A vine reaches through a defunct window, to devour its rotten wood. Roofs implode. Insects stake claim in dark corners of shudder-cold building-caves. They construct mud temples with their spittle. Mindless hives for raising imps who learn to prey on more noble creatures. Still the house stands.

A boy stares at the undying houses; Two horizontal lines left on a white canvas. Balance. Peace. Reliability.

The boy sighs, alone, but content, and leaves the still unmoving houses to their rest.

***

Written in Very Early Youth

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-centered, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

- William Wordsworth

Seperations Pt. II

I believe that we all need each other. Not because without our friends we'd grow bored or because we'd miss our family members if they went on a long trip, but because each of us plays a role in creating all the others. I think in the end if I look carefully, I'll be able to see how each person crafted me, imbued me with the characteristics I thought uniquely mine. I think I need my friends and family, even my rivals, like I need my kidneys. Sure, they're pleasant, but they're also what allow me to function as a person. Without them I couldn't grow or develop, test myself or even learn who I really am.

Maybe that's part of why it's so hard to lose someone you need. Especially if you lost them through a fault of your own, like taking out your own kidneys.

2

We sit in a parked car on an empty street
and I keep trying to talk but everything
in the car is shouting: the steering wheel
and dashboard, the pedals and black vinyl seats -
all keep shouting. Now your hands are pressed
against your ears and I keep raising my voice.
Cold night, cold street, rows of dark apartments -
then I see a gray dog run into an alley
carrying some creature in its mouth, something
that twists and raises its arms. And raising
my arms I turn toward you and abruptly
the shouting stops and the place where you were
sitting fills with silence. Before I can speak,
soften my words, you jump from the car.
Once, when you were away for a week, I wrote
your name on a banner to welcome you home.
Now the wind blows pieces of paper against
the car windows, and on each I see a letter
of your name, as if my voice were a pair of hands
good for nothing but tearing and breaking. How
did we become so foreign? I tell myself, I could
collect these fragments, patch them together.
I sit without moving as the wind rocks my car,
whips scraps of white paper through the street.

-Stephen Dobyns

Finding What You Never Lost

Since doing our poetry project in Lake's class last year, Stephen Dobyns has held a special place in my heart. I'd never really enjoyed anyones poetry before, and after putting so much time and energy into his work, I forged a connection with him that I haven't really felt with other poets since. I guess it's a kind of first love.

I think someone first introduced me to the idea of "Celestial nostalgia" in a seminary class a couple of years ago. Basically, the idea observes that occasionally we'll read something, or hear something, or think of some "new" idea and in that moment be overcome by the idea that you've known whatever it is you've experienced all along. The idea is that occasionally we hear things in certain Sunday school lessons that, well, that we somehow remember from the pre-existence. And you know, how could we remember that thing unless there was a pre-existence, etc...

I guess I should be a little more serious about the idea, I'm totally in love with it. In fact, anyone who knows me knows I'm a major C.S. Lewis fan, and that's one of the biggest reasons. When I read his work I feel like I'm just getting back in touch with something I always knew.

Almost ironically (not all of his work is what I'd exactly call spiritual), I get that same feeling when I read Dobyns' work. Like when he writes he's just reciting something that was already there, often something a little dark, but still ancient.

Anyway, here's the first part of a four part poem titled, "Separations."

1

To begin with photographs of summer: lakes
ringed by white birch held by hands of white bone -
skeletons as delicate as the skeletons of birds.
To begin with a scene in a theater: a man and
woman sit on a red couch and between them
are photographs so bright that each becomes
a small lamp lighting their faces, making
a circle of yellow light around the couch;
but then it is darker, and moving back one sees
that the couch is alone on an empty stage.
The man and woman look at the photographs
and although they are talking there is no sound.
The only sound comes from a cleaning woman
at the back of the theater as she moves along
each row. She is old and lives with her cat.
She thinks of nothing but raising the seats
which she likes to flick up in such a way
that each snaps shut. Outside it is snowing and
almost dark. People hurry from office to home.
They are dissatisfied and all their cars
complain: snarling, honking, hating each other.

-Stephen Dobyns

Open Mic Night

Here's the first in what I hope will be a serious of posts kind of spread throughout what I write. I understand that, you know, sooner or later you'll get sick of just hearing my thoughts so here's a piece from a friend.

It's a piece by Margaret Atwood, a Canadian poet, and has no title. It has a marked political slant but I get the feeling there's more to it than meets the eye.

We hear nothing these days
from the ones in power

Why talk when you are a shoulder
or a vault

Why talk when you are
helmeted with numbers

Fists have many forms;
a fist knows what it can do

without the nuisance of speaking:
it grabs and smashes.

From those inside or under
words gush like toothpaste.

Language, the fist
proclaims by squeezing
is for the weak only.

-Margaret Atwood

Discuss.

Maybe just one more...

Growing up as an only child, I quickly discovered a world that spoke only faintly of reality, where I could go when long hours of loneliness threatened to creep upon me.

To avoid boredom, the enemy of every childhood, I played odd, exciting, creative games with elaborate stories and intense climaxes. Sometimes I'd pretend I piloted futuristic spacecraft through high-speed-and-higher-tension race courses filled with tricky elevation changes and underhanded competitors. Other times, I'd simply create stories like those I watched on TV. Ace pilots performing impossible maneuvers to outfox pursuing enemies and escape to safety, just in time. Occasionally my heroes, for all their tricks, were vanquished unjustly. I remember once spending what seemed like hours discovering the personal reactions of each character to the untimely death of their beloved friend, Hero.

Whatever happened, a particular pleasure filled my imagination adventures. The pleasure of excitement, like the feeling of playing with new toys on Christmas day. Unlimited possibility flashed like lightning, lightning that I became. Dancing, crash! Boom! I leapt like like between ideas and I felt the energy unleashed when the climax arrived. Lightning strikes the Earth, burns a scar into the immortal Earth.

The pleasure became part of me, a companion who spoke joy to my heart. I developed a feeling like passion, a deep affection for the characters I played with everyday. My adventures burst with excitement, freedom, and a wild rush. They left a story on my bones. A story I read and relive now and again.

Imagination means children discovering a rushing fire within themselves.

"The Centaur"

The summer that I was ten-
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten? It must

have been a long one then-
each day I'd go out to choose
a fresh horse from my stable

which was a willow grove
down by the old canal.
I'd go on my two bare feet.

But when, with my brother's jack-knife,
I had cut me a long limber horse
with a good thick knob for a head,

and peeled him slick and clean
except a few leaves for the tail,
and cinched my brother's belt

around his head for a rein,
I'd straddle and canter him fast
up the grass bank to the path,

trot along in the lovely dust
that talcumed over his hoofs,
hiding my toes, and turning

his feet to swift half-moons.
The willow knob with the strap
jouncing between my thighs

was the pommel and yet the poll
of my nickering pony's head.
My head and my neck were mine,

yet they were shaped like a horse.
My hair flopped to the side
like the mane of a horse in the wind.

My forelock swung in my eyes,
my neck arched and I snorted.
I shied and skittered and reared,

stopped and raised my knees,
pawed at the ground and quivered.
My teeth bared as we wheeled

and swished through the dust again.
I was the horse and the rider,
and the leather I slapped to his rump

spanked my own behind.
Doubled, my two hoofs beat
a gallop along the bank,

the wind twanged in my mane,
my mouth squared to the bit.
And yet I sat on my steed

quiet, negligent riding,
my toes standing in the stirrups,
my thighs hugging his ribs.

At a walk we drew up to the porch.
I tethered him to a paling.
Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt

and entered the dusky hall.
My feet on the clean linoleum
left ghostly toes in the hall.

Where have you been? said my mother.
Been riding, I said from the sink,
and filled me a glass of water.

What's that in your pocket? she said.
Just my knife. It weighted my pocket
and stretched my dress awry.

Go tie back your hair, said my mother,
and Why is your mouth all green?
Rob Roy, he pulled some clover
as we crossed the field, I told her.

-May Swenson

What's the deal?

AP tests! That's the deal!

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten the blog and still feel horrible guilt every day I realize I didn't write anything. For now though, I'm just to busy!

Be back after AP tests...

A Quicky

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My teachers are a little batty,
Hopefully there's more sanity at BYU (unlikely)

The wind fiercely hammered against a star-torn sky!

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to write honestly and interestingly?

I had kind of a cool experience today that I had planned to share tonight. So, when I came home, I grabbed my laptop, sat down in my comfiest couch and began to type. Ironically, I'd only spat out a few lines before actually stopping to read what I had written.

"What an interesting story!" I thought. If only it had reflected at all what actually happened. I seemed to remember something like a feeling "flaming down into my belly," but certainly wouldn't have used those words myself.

Whoops!

I'll admit that there's a time to stretch the action a little bit and blow readers away with powerful and overwhelming verbs. Persuasive essays seem like a great place for this; who can think about refuting your argument while they're trying to visualize Emerson unleash a lionlike roar?

However, the writing about my life could sure use a nice taste of subtlety, of verb use that tells it like it is. A dose of Emily Dickinson.

On this wondrous sea
Sailing silently,
Ho! Pilot, ho!
Knowest though the shore
Where no breakers roar -
Where the storm is o'er?

In the peaceful west
Many the sails at rest -
The anchors fast -
Thither I pilot thee -
Land Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!

Solve You! Pt. II

A strange kind of excitement washed over me yesterday when I realized I wasn't entirely alone in thinking about poetry as something to solve! In fact, while perusing the library shelves, I found a book, and I'm not kidding, titled The Complete Poems to Solve. Although May Swenson, the author of the book, doesn't quite take the "Seward" approach to poetry, I certainly drew some parallels. Here's an excerpt from the introduction.

"Each of the poems in this selection, in one way or another, is a Poem to Solve. A characteristic of all poetry, in fact, is that more is hidden in it than in prose.
...
Solving a poem can be like undoing a mysterious package. The identity or significance of what's inside may be concealed or camouflaged by the dimensions or shape of its 'box.' Sometimes, nested within a first discovery another may be found - which in turn contains still another - and so on. And if then you explore all the notions in the poem, you receive the added pleasure of seeing how they relate to each other in surprising ways, while at the same time combining to create the whole design of the 'box.'"

Don't you just love that analogy?

So here it is, a poem for all of you to solve! It's from a section of the book titled "Some Riddle Poems."

Hypnotist

His lair framed beneath the clock,
a red-haired beast hypnotic in the room
glazes our eyes and draws us close
with delicious snarls and flickers of his claws.
We stir our teacups and our wishes feast
on his cruelty.

Throw the Christian chairs to him,
a wild child in us cries.
Or let us be Daniel bared
to that seething maze his mane.
Loops of his fur graze the sill
where the clock's face looks scared.

Comfort-ensnared and languorous
our unused daring, roused, resembles him
fettered on the hearth's stage
behind the iron dogs.
He's the red locks of the sun
brought home to a cage.

Hunched before his flaring shape
we stir our teacups.
We wish he could escape
and loosen in ourselves the terrible.
But only his reflection pounces
on the parquet and the stair.



Can you solve the riddle?

Renfield!

Last year I performed in what turned out to be one of my favorite roles ever.
Dr. Seward came to life in 1897 when Bram Stoker published his now famous, Dracula. I, of course, didn't meet Mr. Seward until much later, but scarcely after meeting him he shouted something I'll not soon forget.

"I shall solve you Renfield!"

Over and over again, "I shall solve you! I shall solve you!" After the lunatic had finally exhausted himself, he slumped into his chair, a wooden, uncomfortable looking contraption, the type with a tall, strict back which looms far above the head of its victim. After panting for several minutes Seward finally collected himself somewhat, apologized and sat silently. Without warning he began to tell me of Renfield, the Doctor's obsession, his folly.

You see, the Doctor had a theory. If only he could find the root of one man's insanity, locate the dungeon where even one man languished, and turn the key, he believed he could free them all. If he could "solve" this maniac Renfield's illness, fame and fortune would pour in from all quarters. Perhaps the good Doctor could even find the key to unlock his own soul....

I'd go on but I don't want to ruin the book/play for you!

I guess I remember Dr. Seward so well now because I can relate to him, at least superficially. I've always had this longing to know, a yearning to understand. I guess I've even fallen into the trap of believing if I could solve even this one problem, suddenly everything else would fall into place.

Although this train of thought may seem a little extreme, I believe its only a demented form of the idea poetry's appearance is based on. Interestingly, I don't think I'm alone in this belief...

More on that tomorrow!

I'll "leaf" the puns to the poets

I remember going outside on long autumn nights growing up (I say growing up but I guess it was just a few years ago). My family lived across the street then and we had one of those trees in the front yard that dropped those helicopter leaves. You know the ones I mean? They have a round seed body and a stiff propeller that comes out of one side, almost like the sail of a ship strung from its steady mast.

There was something profound in the way these seeds drifted to the ground. Quietly, often unobserved, they'd meander gently through the air before resting on the ground. There was no protest in their movement; how could there be? Just a soft floating and complacence.

It's that quietness and complacence I think about when I read this, our second e.e. cummings poem. In my experience this piece has been pretty consistent with most of his other work, and in that spirit, this poem is also untitled.


l(a

le
af
fa

ll

s)
one
l

iness


P.S. Mads were awesome tonight! It was... well.. even invigorating! very good!

"cumming" over?

Lately I've been reading a lot of e.e. cummings. I figure if I'm going to understand tough poetry I might as well start with the toughest, right?

Anyway! Turns out I actually enjoy his stuff a lot! Though maybe a little unorthodox (think Picasso, only with words), his poetry has a lot to offer to those who are willing to go out on a limb and put in a little effort.

Here's a piece I particularly liked. It's untitled.


who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold



of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)



cummings loved to play with the visual appearance of his poems and use punctuation in ways... well, frankly in ways it wasn't meant to be used (not to mention capitalization, case in point: "e.e. cummings").

Anyway, inspired by his use (or misuse) of grammar and words, I've started this little game.

Here's how it goes, take the letters in your first, middle and last names, then put them together to create a poem using only those letters. You can use whatever title you want and punctuation is totally fair game.

Here's mine. It's called, "Leaving."

Tak-tap-TiCk, r E (bl(Is)s) V!!
en.

Weird, huh? First one to figure it out wins a prize!

In the begining...

I've had two realizations today. I'll start with the most dramatic...

Realization 1: I'm completely sick of not understanding poetry. Totally fed-up, done, kaput, finished, ready for something new! Just the very idea that a man (or woman) can discover something insightful or beautiful, horrific or true, bury it in a landslide of words and make it completely disappear makes me uneasy to say the least. The only cure for this uneasiness comes in blowing away the dust and revealing these "meanings" for what they are. I need to know what these people are trying to say and why they said it like this.

I like understanding. It's just who I am.

Realization 2: Everyone else is getting a blog and I want in on the fun (on a not completely unrelated note I actually did once before try the blog experiment as a protest against an unfair regime).

All this combines to one simple fact.

I've decided to create a blog for the furthering of poetry comprehension among High School students everywhere (not least of all myself)! I want to create a place where we can all come together and share our favorite works, discuss what we don't understand, and well, even occasionally complain about how hard it all is.

The format for the little experiment is, at this point, by no means set. I think for now I'll just post a poem for thought, perhaps with a brief biography on the author, and open up the comment section for discussion! What don't you understand? What do you like? Dislike? Which influences do you think the author was under (if you know what I mean) when he wrote this piece?

Anyway, this has been long winded enough! Hopefully the whole project will round out with time!

Onward!