And Now for Some Poetry That is Not Mine.
Aug. 31st, 2007 10:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morrigirlIf I am going to write poetry than I must begin reading poetry again, preferably the good kind. I went into the SLC Library yesterday and checked out to random poetry chapbooks by two authors I'd never heard of, only because Beth Ann's latest won't be coming out until Spring 2008. I read the first twenty pages of Jean-Paul Pecquer's The Case Against Happiness and found them impenetrable. They were so frustrating I had to pull out my copy of Nicole Blackman's Blood Sugar in order to counteract it.
I bought Blood Sugar right after I graduated from Knox and I never read it all the way through because after spending five years absorbing the poetic conventions most favored by the academic elite I found her style, which I had once loved, underdeveloped and juvenile. I deposited it on my bookshelf in 2004 and didn't pick it up again until last night. I read the final poem in the collection, "Fifteen, She Learns." It is a blatantly spoken word piece. I loved it.
This, of course, is just a round about way of saying what we already knew, but that I seem to have forgotten, that, in general, conventional poetic techniques do not jive with me. I do not like poems so dense with unrelated imagery that I can't get a firm idea of what's being said. I do not appreciate the ridiculous skirting of issues by shrouding them in symbolism. This type of poetry is written and read by literary snobs interested in maintaining an elite community of intellectuals whose ability to decipher poetic code allows them the luxury of calling themselves experts.
I go for poetry that is accessible. I think inner-city kids should be able to get it, mid-western housewives, prison inmates, high school drop outs. Poetry should not be confined to academic and literary circles. Opaque verse only serves to push readers away, and considering how few Americans actually read these days, that's not something we can allow to happen. I am also of the opinion that if an interest and love of accessible poetry is cultivated it will naturally lead to a broader understanding and interest in poetry of the more intellectually challenging variety.
Like Miguel Algarin, I think everyone needs a little poetry in their life. So, I offer you a couple of poems by one of my favorite writers on the planet, Sherman Alexie. He is a rare breed in the poetry community; a slam poet whose work is whole-heartedly embraced by the academic community. This is a guy our great-great grandchildren will be studying in Am. Lit. II. His work has become canon. His poems are direct and narrative. See for yourself.
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World
by Sherman Alexie
The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
- Richard Wilbur
The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.
I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?
Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because
He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,
I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father
Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he's dead. I’m sorry—
How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee
This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—
And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs
At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days
And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.
Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.
Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.
How to Write the Great American Indian Novel
by Sherman Alexie
All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.
The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.
If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man
then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white
that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps
at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.
If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.
Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives
of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust
at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.
Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.
There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.
Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian
then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed
and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.
If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.
An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,
everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.
For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.
In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.
I bought Blood Sugar right after I graduated from Knox and I never read it all the way through because after spending five years absorbing the poetic conventions most favored by the academic elite I found her style, which I had once loved, underdeveloped and juvenile. I deposited it on my bookshelf in 2004 and didn't pick it up again until last night. I read the final poem in the collection, "Fifteen, She Learns." It is a blatantly spoken word piece. I loved it.
This, of course, is just a round about way of saying what we already knew, but that I seem to have forgotten, that, in general, conventional poetic techniques do not jive with me. I do not like poems so dense with unrelated imagery that I can't get a firm idea of what's being said. I do not appreciate the ridiculous skirting of issues by shrouding them in symbolism. This type of poetry is written and read by literary snobs interested in maintaining an elite community of intellectuals whose ability to decipher poetic code allows them the luxury of calling themselves experts.
I go for poetry that is accessible. I think inner-city kids should be able to get it, mid-western housewives, prison inmates, high school drop outs. Poetry should not be confined to academic and literary circles. Opaque verse only serves to push readers away, and considering how few Americans actually read these days, that's not something we can allow to happen. I am also of the opinion that if an interest and love of accessible poetry is cultivated it will naturally lead to a broader understanding and interest in poetry of the more intellectually challenging variety.
Like Miguel Algarin, I think everyone needs a little poetry in their life. So, I offer you a couple of poems by one of my favorite writers on the planet, Sherman Alexie. He is a rare breed in the poetry community; a slam poet whose work is whole-heartedly embraced by the academic community. This is a guy our great-great grandchildren will be studying in Am. Lit. II. His work has become canon. His poems are direct and narrative. See for yourself.
Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World
by Sherman Alexie
The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
- Richard Wilbur
The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.
I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?
Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because
He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,
I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father
Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he's dead. I’m sorry—
How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee
This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—
And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs
At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days
And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.
Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.
Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.
How to Write the Great American Indian Novel
by Sherman Alexie
All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.
The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.
If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man
then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white
that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps
at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.
If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.
Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives
of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust
at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.
Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.
There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.
Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian
then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed
and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.
If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.
An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,
everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.
For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.
In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.
