Too long away

Will anyone read this? I wouldn’t blame you, or be angry, if not. But I’m attempting to get back into the game. So here goes: a few poems written in the past months

“A Secret”

The one reason I never gave.
My hopeful mind closed by reproach.
Sometimes I think
it was your willingness
to forgive anything
that lead me to never tell you.

“First Lap Dance”

There are no words
for knowing a person
however intimately

I loved once
like hell
burning for another
body, bloody and chock
full of human
emotion

but a dancer
like the seraphim
gives you none
she does and doesn’t
know you’re scared
she does things
you’ll never remember
she whispers “thanks honey”
you slip the five
where it goes

to those who ask
I say it felt dirty
but it wasn’t
I don’t think much
about her,
nor she me
I imagine

What May Brings

It brings The National, my favorite band at present, and their new full-length album named “High Violet”. Check out this song – from the upcoming release – that they performed on Jimmy Fallon Live a month or so ago:

The National embody a sense of class and nostalgia that I identify with….probably more so than any other band I’ve the privilege of listening to. That, and the vocalist Beringer has a knack for truly poetic lyrics (something I think is a bit lacking in many artists). Anyways, hopefully ya’ll enjoy this song now. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it

Change

So, I’ve decided that I am going to change the agenda of this blog. At least, I’m going to try it out and see what comes of it. Anyways, the focus of Olly-olly-oxen-free, from this point on, will be for “scholarly work” (whatever that means), instead of creative. Thusly, you’ll be seeing more poems of other, far more prestigious and talented poets, and hopefully I’ll be able to dissect the poems in a way that is comprehensible and entertaining. This will be great practice for school, and maybe even better practice for my own poems. Anyways, you might or might not be seeing some of my own writing on here – that decision is not final. But, you’ll certainly be seeing more critiques. Look for C.K. William’s poem “Loss” as my first critique within the week.

‘Til then, drink water and be kind – Zach

Deep Archaic

Like allergies, an unknown pollen floating unseen.
Despair, an undefined (and unwarranted) abyssmal feeling
of undeserved disparity. It worries me so greatly
because I don’t know why – makes it feel deep archaic.
Undefined, it must be beyond nomenclature,
beyond that age-old escapism of cataloguing.

I used to believe that. Now I just think I don’t believe.
Either way I’ve slept soundly.
But I’ve come to control these esoterics
by two activities: writing and God.
One lends itself to subjective self-explanation (this).
The other doesn’t deserve that kind of logic

a couple poems, old and new

Dancing

Little girl dancing
In the flowerbed
Thank you
For being my philosophy

After long days
Of learning
Feminist Composition Literature
You gave me
Theology

Little girl dancing
In flower beds
Thank you Thank You
For good philosophy

Transcription

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

Memories
That I keep in a box under my bed. They are
old hirsute dogs that sneak into the woods
Or crawl under the porch
to die alone.
That scares me so much, I no longer allow
Myself to think of such things.

*
I will show you fear in a handful
of dust. Ice dust. Shavings from gliding
ice skates. That’s how I’ve lost it all. Spinning doily designs
in the solid water. Always reflecting You, but murky. You can
jot then rewrite your reasons for wasting time.
They too are transcribed in those handfuls.

What agnostics have wrong – there is every evidence for
G-d in moments we can never recall.

New World

We are a military family
For your service.
I am a military brother
Militant in brotherhood.
And now that you
Too have emancipated yourself
The union is lesser.

The motherland
And fatherland
Watch their satellites
Turn sovereign.
And the world
As we knew it
Is changing

The Elevator

Why are we all so scared of one another?

The Elevator

As we step on
She hits my button
Then starts jabbing the one
That keeps us pent together.
Then, doesn’t acknowledge me at all
Just stares into the callboard,
Waxes her lips, pockets the chapstick
Staring even harder at the buttons.
She never sees me, refusing to – I. don’t. exist, here.
Until we reach G* and tilts her head
Obtusely like saying: “You walk out first
so I can see who I shared this intimacy with”
and I reply by darting out the doors, like “Why
are people so damn scared of one another?”

Its easier – I have to believe its sympathy,
Even self-sympathy. We’re all just so frightened.

Forget the coffee I’ve come for
And Proust left on tenth floor.
Hurdle out western doors,
Into unconditional rain.

This Means Dead

To all the great advice I’ve been given:

This Means Dead

A cigarette is beautiful.
A thing that unites me with
The back-alley crosseyed man
Searching my dumpster.
When he asked me for one,
I affirmed and thought about tossing it
And my lighter to him.
But that thought was inhuman.
Make no mistake, your relationships
Are the heaviest
Components in your life
No, I have no change
For your booze well pockets.
I have none, change.
The beautiful things that bring us together
Love, sex and cigarettes.
Et cetera, that make us ache.
Those must be beautiful.
The most inventive poets
Must know received forms
To rebel against. I have none,
Change. I’m learning that writing
Is not poetry, diary
Entries are not art forms.

I know you don’t have a thing
Until it can be given. To control
What could control you. I cannot
Give up this writing. In that vein,
I’m told a life is not life
Until lived. To me, this means
Dead.

Two Beautiful Songs. I really hope you enjoy

I beg, listen to these songs while doing something other than really, overtly listening to them. They’re meant to reach an inner part of your psyche that is not so…rational or intuitive.  I don’t think either piece is “music” as we are used to. More like classical compositions, that set a very tangible mood, leaving you to fill in the blanks as you see fit.

The first, by Mogwai, is one that’s kept me in an uplifted mood so far this winter. It may even be a little too uplifting, but I need that in the dead of winter. Maybe you do as well.

The second song, performed by  Grouper (actually the solo project of Liz Harris), is a hauntingly beautiful piece. The lyrics evoke a very hypnotic, engulfing sense of what Love might be. One of the better “love songs” I know of, its a very deep and emotional reflection on the ever-elusive feeling of Love, whatever that thing is. But, at least for the first few listens, I recommend listening without the lyrics, so as to think of the singing not as narrative or voice, but as an instrument. I think that’s the first thing Harris wants her singing to accomplish. But, the lyrics certainly deserve contemplation, as they are very well written (I’ll post them below the video, which is an unofficial accompaniment to the music). After doing so, I think you will find a very modern view on Love in the lyrics. To reuse a previous adjective, a very haunting view of Love..

This feeling doesn’t go away
I feel it moving through me

I want a love I had inside
Want to feel it moving through me

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
The love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall into tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

I opened a mirror up
and saw a true love
I let it separate in two
the water rising up over my head

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
the love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall in to tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

In dreams I’m moving through heavy water
the love is enormous its lifting me up
I’d rather be sleeping
I’d rather fall in to tidal waves
and go where the deepest currents go

Three submissions to MOSAIC

Its been a while since posting. So, I’ve decided to put up a few at once. According to my instructor, “Its never too late to say something”. I am inclined to agree. Though, it may be too late to be heard…

Seasonal Depression

A river of salt is smeared
Down the walk and I realize,
It is not just the cold
That abominates the winter.
Not just the leaveless, stretching,
Witchfinger branches
Nor a miser sun that shares no warmth.
Not just these. And though the swelling nights
Encroach upon my days, shortening,
It is not just these. But winter comes,
I have no falling nor hibernation.
I have no defense against this rape
And pilfering of warmth.
Lesser life just dies or sleeps
While I have nothing to shore
Against this Siberia of the mind.
I have nothing for a naked psyche
But crunching salt beneath my boots
And coats and gloves. How nice
It would be to birth into spring,
To awake again, warm or warming.
But now, winter looms above the buildings
Descending upon all the naked students.

On Watching a Cello Orchestra with Soprano and Conductor, 11^th Floor, Thompson Library

I.

Poor posture cellists,
In medulla oblongata
Of this spinal tower.
Your fingers dance on necks,
While sawing string ribs
With wooden rapiers -
You are musing me and I write
Anything these days. But I swear
You are different Cello Orchestra.
Keep sound checking.
The soprano is sitting two seats
Away, warming up and though
She is beautiful in voice and body,
Your stroking of throats
Make my hands shake.
II.
The lost orations,
The conductor’s archaic
Language matches no cadence
Of the cellists.
He does not rhyme well
With their beautiful instrumentation.
Coat-tailing diva! Your wizard wand,
Followed only by my eyes
Like fruit flies
Buzzing about my head.

III.
Solo soprano, though beautiful
And womanly strong,
I can only tolerate
Second-hand Italian.
For some insolent reason,
I am told the best conductors
Perform their worst songs
Twice.

IV.
Stairs down from eleventh floor.
Concert above and behind me,
The music only echoes
Down the stairwell, chasing
Me and though I wish it could,
That moment will never
Catch me again.

Rubbernecking on I-77

There’s a hard rain on
the highway. My windshield wipers are
heartbeats after nicotine
fast fast fast

There’s a slowing pace
in my lane.
A truck rolled on its side;
like me asleep in bed.

Hopefully the driver
-And possible passengers -
Are like my sleep after nicotine:
In bed on my side, my heart beats
nic’tine nic’tine nic’tine

Surely the passengers and driver
are nicotined hearts
in the sleeping car
on its side.

Surely they are
refusing to be
snuffed
out