how to undo a lie without taking it back

If you read my last post [I psychically know you did], you probably read this poem, which I turned into my poetry class and for which I received exactly what I was expecting. A thorough trouncing of UMMMMMMs in the oral discussion and mixed reviews in the written discussion.

It was either a) THIS POEM IS BRILLIANT or b) I DON'T GET IT. WHERE'S THE STORY?

And [thankfully thankfully because this is what I had been waiting for all week] one THIS DOESN'T RHYME. I ONLY LIKE POETRY THAT RHYMES.

The rule in poetry class discussion is that the poet cannot say anything. She cannot respond or explain.


Which means that (as badly as I wanted to pull handfuls of hair out of my head and scatter them around our circular discussion table like easter eggs) I could not say THIS IS NOT A NARRATIVE POEM -- NOTHING HAPPENS -- THERE IS NO STORY.


My favorite FAVORITE [I mean THE WORST] part was when my poetry professor, Ralph, gave us his poetic philosophy, which went like this: "Each poem is like a little bubble. And it's the poet's job to convince the reader that everything in the bubble is true. That the bubble is a real world. If the reader must come out of that bubble during any point in his or her reading, the poem fails."


At this point I was digging a hole under the table and hoping to fall through and land in some other classroom. Ralph says: poetry = genre novels + crappy films + pop music. With salt on top. Kat dies.

I cannot wait until our midterm conference when I can finally tell him how wrong he is about everything. And especially how I will jump off of a building if I ever write a poem that is a bubble. If I ever write a poem that doesn't pop at least twelve bubbles. And then stomp on the kid blowing them.


So there was that.


And then today was wonderful. It was warm, so I painted a picture and made chocolate chip cookies. I went shopping with a friend and bought things that I don't need.

Tomorrow I need to accomplish two things:
1) Take my very dirty long white coat to the dry-cleaners
2) Stand in line at the post office to apply for a passport

Because I'm tired of walking around in a dirtyish coat and because I'm going to spend six weeks in Italy this summer.


This week the poetry assignment is to mold three sessions of automatic writing into one poem. I never thought that taking a class on something I love so much could make me so miserable.



Also, I've been wondering. What ever happened to the Chapbook Review?

in which I plan to tell a lie, or, a new poem

This week my poetry professor wants poems that imitate poems from an anthology called '150 Poems Worth Reading'. These poems are, of course, exactly what you would expect.

Because I like to only pretend to follow assignments as they should be followed, I pretended to write an imitation of Elizabeth Bishop's 'The Fish'.

Instead of waiting to pretend to care when my classmates offer pint-sized criticism come Monday or Wednesday, I sent it to an Ana to aid in expiration.

You can read it here unless you are in my poetry class, in which case you will spoil your appetite.

Do not expect more than a casual nod to Elizabeth Bishop. Do expect a casual nod to JM Wahlgren who shared a lovely letternotletter poem with me earlier this week.

peppermint good morning

New poem in Unscroll IV. Excellent ensemble.


Last night had a dream about snow and lemurs. An original combination. Today it's cleaning. The end of Woolf. Marx. Hegel. Whatever else can be gotten to.

End.

procedural

I started reading David Mitchell's Black Swan Green on my second trip to the hospital, picked it up again for the extensive third trip, and now I fear I'll never finish it. Granted, I spent most of my time there doped into the wallpaper, so reading was sparse and disjointed. But now, I even look at the front cover (which, honestly, was the very reason I bought it in the first place) and think hospital, no thank you.

Now I've got this nice afternoon of reading left to finish it up and more than sufficient excuses not to read it. The semester has started, and it's a week or so before the heavy reading starts -- but already I've got Virginia Woolf and a little book of '150 poems worth reading' to preoccupy me.

This feels dirty. I have left books unfinished before. There was Wilkie Collins's No Name that I willingly abandoned. Several books I ran out of time for in a literary genre class last semester. But this is a light thing, a clumsy, nice-featured novel with no particular grudges. In short, a hospital book. Something completely repulsive. I've literally hidden it in a corner under my desk behind my do-it-all-and-grumble-about-it printer. It feels abandoned. Unloved. Unwanted. I know it.


Did I tell you I have holes in my stomach? Yes. Not ulcers. Holes. The lining has been all rubbed away in five places. Cue pain. Cue hospital. Multiply.

But now there's acid prevention, a quiet bread and yogurt diet, non-aspirin-based pain meds, and the good, solid hope that things will heal themselves (and I won't -- here comes the secret gore -- have to have my stomach replaced).


Today in one of my brit lit classes, we briefly discussed the Victorian obsession with vampire fiction. The real monster of course was syphilis and other venereal (what they called blood) diseases. I can certainly see this relationship resurrected in modern vampire madness. [The only test subjects I have are a friend's divorced&bitter motherfromhell and her widowed&desperate best friend. Formal studies to begin shortly.]


If I were to fit into this equation, it would involve David Mitchell instead of vampires.

post roll over

2010 is good. Post hospital, all cheer. Sleep, but cheer.


And snow. Snow. Georgia snow.
And we're talking Atlanta snow -- not mountain snow.



School is back. I have a stupid schedule. But I am grateful for this because it is still not nearly as miserable as six classes miserable. Plus much time for the darling.




Nora is a cat now. I am not a cat person. Luckily she is the prettiest cat that I have ever seen.


First day of classes and my only weekend assignment is Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse. My favorite book. I honestly only signed up for a 20th century brit lit class because I KNEW there would be Woolf. I call this an excellent decision.






&&&&&& SNOW (!!!!!!)











PS. People who 'don't believe in' global warming are stupid.

hospitalia

Um. Twilight Zone.



I spent several days sharing a room with a woman who, at 75, experienced the abrupt death of her short-term memory. Surprisingly, she handled this cheerfully. Crazy things can happen, she'd say. Again and again. After day two, the nurses came to me when they had questions for her. I know everything about this woman. Her date of birth. Her sister's name and phone number. Her church and pastor. Her son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren in Philadelphia. Her night nurse. Who sent the flowers on the windowsill. When she'd arrived. Where she came from. What happened.

After several days, a nurse took pity on me and moved me to a private room.



Crazy things can happen.