Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Amazementology
by JD Steinmetz
***
There is a tape recorder
There is no
Microphone
There is nothing
So truly amazing
That we would all agree.
At 4 A.M. a vacuum roams the carpet
In the far corridors from this
Back window, where Pete Gray
Sits across from me recounting
The boyhood tragedy that separated
His right arm in the spokes
of a wagon wheel
But it didn't keep him out of the majors.
"How does a one-armed guy snag I triple?" I ask.
"A good jump on the ball and a lot of confident speed."
He declared in words or smoke I couldn't tell
He had mastered some ancient diner talk.
Amazement flowers
in small spaces
Never engulfing
A unified perception.
In the end, we learn to forgive
A lukewarm world.
Coffee keeps getting better.
"Is there the possibility
for amazement deep
in the woods if there
is no-one around to notice?"
He dragged on a Pall Mall,
Working over the question
Until responding that "questions
Rarely have one answer,
But if there was some
Unrealized source of amazement
There may be a temporal
Presence, a wave or particle
Released from its origin.
A particle of amazement."
He said, "elusive in its size,
Perhaps too small or even
Far too large, wavelengths
Stretching the breadth of our galaxy."
He lit another cigarette.
"Perhaps the physical debris
of amazement is too close
to our faces. There could be
however, some ancient civilization
tuned to the right frequency,
With chants and incantations
They spoke a common language
Of amazement. Everyone was in awe.
Around the fire, they could feel particles
Of fascination on their cheeks.
Could have been something in the anything:
Loam, Guano, or high Methane levels.
Their brains had not
Yet developed.
Maybe had not yet
Devoured that petal
Bringing amazement.
They destroyed it for
Knowledge, for a higher
Level of survival.
"Sure enough," he said opening sugar packets.
"Unknowing brings amazement. So here we are
Knowing more and moving
Farther away from what is truly amazing."
I cannot say a thing I
Can only watch this plate of eggs
Beside a fine commercial coffee.
I turn off the tape recorder.
Sometimes we want to know
A little less in order to be more
Amazed in the early morning.
***
A Response to Amazementology
There is
no tape recorder.
There is
no camera lens.
There is
no satellite dish,
secret police,
or extra-sensory perception
that will play this back
to you.
Only me,
spinning in information,
spitting up experience
for you to swallow and digest
like the tawny owl (Strix aluco).
Smile backwards and you'll reveal
those conventional feelings
you always denied,
busting through your mottos of
philosophic higher ground.
Shrug and discard,
and I'll resolve to never understand.
Or just laugh and make it simple,
because we both agree that love is
an altogether complicated affair
that takes up far too much time,
and turns our deep and poetic thoughts
into mindless giggling.
I overheard your name the other day
while walking along the cobblestone wall
and thought about some of the things
you said, last we talked:
"She's amazing," you told me then,
"and I'm a fool."
"You're a fool," I agreed,
hoping if I reverberated the words
you might understand them better.
You said that love is not a condiment, a disposable.
But we treat it as such.
We are cold and illogical.
We take pleasure in new pursuits.
We garner hope from our imaginations.
We are no longer amazed.
And yet people are not possessions...
not power tools, stilts, or springboards.
And so there is
nothing for you to give up,
nothing for you to lose,
nothing for me to steal.
There is
no compass.
Check rearview mirror
and realign the wheels,
dine with pastime princes in an run-down subway car,
but when you're done,
please fill me in
("fill her up!")
with all your experiences.
There is
no tape recorder.
by JD Steinmetz
***
There is a tape recorder
There is no
Microphone
There is nothing
So truly amazing
That we would all agree.
At 4 A.M. a vacuum roams the carpet
In the far corridors from this
Back window, where Pete Gray
Sits across from me recounting
The boyhood tragedy that separated
His right arm in the spokes
of a wagon wheel
But it didn't keep him out of the majors.
"How does a one-armed guy snag I triple?" I ask.
"A good jump on the ball and a lot of confident speed."
He declared in words or smoke I couldn't tell
He had mastered some ancient diner talk.
Amazement flowers
in small spaces
Never engulfing
A unified perception.
In the end, we learn to forgive
A lukewarm world.
Coffee keeps getting better.
"Is there the possibility
for amazement deep
in the woods if there
is no-one around to notice?"
He dragged on a Pall Mall,
Working over the question
Until responding that "questions
Rarely have one answer,
But if there was some
Unrealized source of amazement
There may be a temporal
Presence, a wave or particle
Released from its origin.
A particle of amazement."
He said, "elusive in its size,
Perhaps too small or even
Far too large, wavelengths
Stretching the breadth of our galaxy."
He lit another cigarette.
"Perhaps the physical debris
of amazement is too close
to our faces. There could be
however, some ancient civilization
tuned to the right frequency,
With chants and incantations
They spoke a common language
Of amazement. Everyone was in awe.
Around the fire, they could feel particles
Of fascination on their cheeks.
Could have been something in the anything:
Loam, Guano, or high Methane levels.
Their brains had not
Yet developed.
Maybe had not yet
Devoured that petal
Bringing amazement.
They destroyed it for
Knowledge, for a higher
Level of survival.
"Sure enough," he said opening sugar packets.
"Unknowing brings amazement. So here we are
Knowing more and moving
Farther away from what is truly amazing."
I cannot say a thing I
Can only watch this plate of eggs
Beside a fine commercial coffee.
I turn off the tape recorder.
Sometimes we want to know
A little less in order to be more
Amazed in the early morning.
***
A Response to Amazementology
There is
no tape recorder.
There is
no camera lens.
There is
no satellite dish,
secret police,
or extra-sensory perception
that will play this back
to you.
Only me,
spinning in information,
spitting up experience
for you to swallow and digest
like the tawny owl (Strix aluco).
Smile backwards and you'll reveal
those conventional feelings
you always denied,
busting through your mottos of
philosophic higher ground.
Shrug and discard,
and I'll resolve to never understand.
Or just laugh and make it simple,
because we both agree that love is
an altogether complicated affair
that takes up far too much time,
and turns our deep and poetic thoughts
into mindless giggling.
I overheard your name the other day
while walking along the cobblestone wall
and thought about some of the things
you said, last we talked:
"She's amazing," you told me then,
"and I'm a fool."
"You're a fool," I agreed,
hoping if I reverberated the words
you might understand them better.
You said that love is not a condiment, a disposable.
But we treat it as such.
We are cold and illogical.
We take pleasure in new pursuits.
We garner hope from our imaginations.
We are no longer amazed.
And yet people are not possessions...
not power tools, stilts, or springboards.
And so there is
nothing for you to give up,
nothing for you to lose,
nothing for me to steal.
There is
no compass.
Check rearview mirror
and realign the wheels,
dine with pastime princes in an run-down subway car,
but when you're done,
please fill me in
("fill her up!")
with all your experiences.
There is
no tape recorder.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Poetry is all around us. I found this one while enjoying a Fribble in America's favorite family restaurant.
***
Hearty, Delicious
Friendly's Homestyle Clam Chowder
Midwinter Heat Wave
***
Hearty, Delicious
Friendly's Homestyle Clam Chowder
Midwinter Heat Wave
Monday, February 16, 2004
I like your name.
Is it Swedish? Finnish? Estonian? Swahili?
Well its beautiful all the same.
The stars are out,
shall we look for Cassiopia?
I can only imagine -
since molecules are shifting
and time is infinite -
that I too shall one day be a star.
You shall be a power tool.
Would you like to read my poetry?
I think there's a verbal translucence
to it all.
(reluctance, defiance)
But enough about me...
what do you think about me?
I think you're swell,
in case you've been wondering.
I think if we tally-marked
our thoughts,
we'd be on the same page.
You disagree?
I was thinking the same thing!
Babe,
you're a snowflake in autumn,
an index finger, pointed like a gun,
a classy tattoo.
Positive enough
to want
to approach.
Exceptional enough
to want
to love.
Let's go see a movie.
Is it Swedish? Finnish? Estonian? Swahili?
Well its beautiful all the same.
The stars are out,
shall we look for Cassiopia?
I can only imagine -
since molecules are shifting
and time is infinite -
that I too shall one day be a star.
You shall be a power tool.
Would you like to read my poetry?
I think there's a verbal translucence
to it all.
(reluctance, defiance)
But enough about me...
what do you think about me?
I think you're swell,
in case you've been wondering.
I think if we tally-marked
our thoughts,
we'd be on the same page.
You disagree?
I was thinking the same thing!
Babe,
you're a snowflake in autumn,
an index finger, pointed like a gun,
a classy tattoo.
Positive enough
to want
to approach.
Exceptional enough
to want
to love.
Let's go see a movie.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
The Butterfly Effect
by Billy Collins
***
The one resting now on a plant stem
somewhere deep in the vine-hung
interior of South America
whose wings are about to flutter
thus causing it to rain heavily
on your wedding day
several years from now,
and spinning you down
a path of calamity and ruin
is - if it's any consolation -
a gorgeous swallowtail,
a brilliant mix of bright orange
and vivid yellow with a soft
dusting of light brown along the edges.
What's more, the two black dots
on the wings are so prominent
as to make one wonder
if this is not an example of mimicry,
an adaptation technique whereby one species
takes on the appearance
of another less-edible one,
first brought to light,
it might interest you to know
and possibly distract you from
your vexatious dread
with regards to the hopelessness of the future,
by two British naturalists, namely,
H.W. Bates in 1862 and A.R. Wallace in 1865.
by Billy Collins
***
The one resting now on a plant stem
somewhere deep in the vine-hung
interior of South America
whose wings are about to flutter
thus causing it to rain heavily
on your wedding day
several years from now,
and spinning you down
a path of calamity and ruin
is - if it's any consolation -
a gorgeous swallowtail,
a brilliant mix of bright orange
and vivid yellow with a soft
dusting of light brown along the edges.
What's more, the two black dots
on the wings are so prominent
as to make one wonder
if this is not an example of mimicry,
an adaptation technique whereby one species
takes on the appearance
of another less-edible one,
first brought to light,
it might interest you to know
and possibly distract you from
your vexatious dread
with regards to the hopelessness of the future,
by two British naturalists, namely,
H.W. Bates in 1862 and A.R. Wallace in 1865.
Monday, February 09, 2004
and all I want is to play in the snow
but i go outside
and quickly get cold
and wet
and so i go back inside
where it is nice and warm.
but i go outside
and quickly get cold
and wet
and so i go back inside
where it is nice and warm.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
- e.e. cummings
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
- e.e. cummings
Friday, February 06, 2004
God
***
And so they fucked, and he felt a little better.
She sighed when he kissed her lips, gasped when he grabbed her wrists, moaned when he touched her sex. She told him he made her wet, and he beamed.
His wife never said such things.
Afterwards, they lay in bed. He smoked a cigarette with the covers pulled up to his protruding belly, and watched her as she dressed.
Normally, he did not smoke, but today he decided it would make him feel sexy.
“You tore my shirt,” she told him as she put it on.
“Where?” he asked. She pointed out the spot, just below the neckline.
“Its only a small tear,” he said. She didn’t respond. He puffed at the cigarette and thought about Europe, and the university, and dancing. These thoughts bothered him, so he picked up his book off the dresser and started reading it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Homer's Iliad,” he told her. It was in its original Greek. He had spent many years learning Greek, at the university, and now he could read Homer's Iliad as it was supposed to be read. He wanted her to ask him what language it was in. He wanted her to ask whether it was in its original Greek. He wanted this desparately, but she could not ask, because she did not know who Homer was.
“Is it good?” she asked.
“Its pretty good, yeah.” He wanted her to ask more. But instead, she started putting on her makeup. He grabbed her above the elbow and pulled her into his arms.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to get back to work,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He let her go.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked her. She laughed, and rolled her eyes.
“That’s a strange question,” she said. “You’re one strange fella.”
She got up and put on her heels. He handed her the money.
“Next time, maybe a discount?” he asked. She sighed.
“We’ll talk about it, next time,” she said, then wished him well as she closed the door behind her.
She does believe in God, he decided. She must.
***
And so they fucked, and he felt a little better.
She sighed when he kissed her lips, gasped when he grabbed her wrists, moaned when he touched her sex. She told him he made her wet, and he beamed.
His wife never said such things.
Afterwards, they lay in bed. He smoked a cigarette with the covers pulled up to his protruding belly, and watched her as she dressed.
Normally, he did not smoke, but today he decided it would make him feel sexy.
“You tore my shirt,” she told him as she put it on.
“Where?” he asked. She pointed out the spot, just below the neckline.
“Its only a small tear,” he said. She didn’t respond. He puffed at the cigarette and thought about Europe, and the university, and dancing. These thoughts bothered him, so he picked up his book off the dresser and started reading it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Homer's Iliad,” he told her. It was in its original Greek. He had spent many years learning Greek, at the university, and now he could read Homer's Iliad as it was supposed to be read. He wanted her to ask him what language it was in. He wanted her to ask whether it was in its original Greek. He wanted this desparately, but she could not ask, because she did not know who Homer was.
“Is it good?” she asked.
“Its pretty good, yeah.” He wanted her to ask more. But instead, she started putting on her makeup. He grabbed her above the elbow and pulled her into his arms.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to get back to work,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He let her go.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked her. She laughed, and rolled her eyes.
“That’s a strange question,” she said. “You’re one strange fella.”
She got up and put on her heels. He handed her the money.
“Next time, maybe a discount?” he asked. She sighed.
“We’ll talk about it, next time,” she said, then wished him well as she closed the door behind her.
She does believe in God, he decided. She must.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Two texts
Up until this morning, Victoria's Lao Tzu has been sitting on my bookshelf. I have skimmed, but never really ingested the material, and thus it has acted strictly as room decor to impress the masses.
But this morning, boy did I need some abstract philosophy to help me ease my mind. I came across a passage I found incredibly comforting... Okay okay, mildly comforting.
***
Lao Tzu
Tao Te Ching
Book One, Chapter XVI
I do my utmost to attain emptiness;
I hold firmly to stillness.
The myriad creatures all rise together
And I watch their return.
The teeming creatures
All return to their separate roots.
Returning to one's roots is known as stillness.
This is what is meant by returning to one's destiny.
Returning to one's destiny is known as the constant.
Knowledge of the constant is known as discernment.
Woe to him who wilfully innovates
While ignorant of the constant,
But should one act from knowledge of the constant
One's action will lead to impartiality,
Impartiality to kingliness,
Kingliness to heaven,
Heaven to the way,
The way to perpetuity,
And to the end of one's days one will meet with no danger.
***
This poem, also good.
God's at the Top of the Stairs
Steven Cramer
It can't feel like homework.
If it requires penmanship
Don't do it. If there's no red
Magic marker, no edible
Paste, no aroma of mimeo blue
To push a face into, forget it.
Who wants to sidle up close
To the moment inside the moment
Inside the moment, if it's not
An apple skin peppered with cloves?
Stop listening for the wind
Somewhere hushing the Sweet William;
Don't demand enlightenment
from the bindweed between railroad ties
In Dover, New Hampshire -
Where once, on mushrooms, you swore
"The Browns" brown mailbox
Shouted brown so loud
World Married World and moved in
And stop waiting for your ship
while the dock rots. God's
At the top of the stairs. You'll see
If you sit at the edge of the bed
And stare at your feet and say
Here I am for a damn good reason
***
Up until this morning, Victoria's Lao Tzu has been sitting on my bookshelf. I have skimmed, but never really ingested the material, and thus it has acted strictly as room decor to impress the masses.
But this morning, boy did I need some abstract philosophy to help me ease my mind. I came across a passage I found incredibly comforting... Okay okay, mildly comforting.
***
Lao Tzu
Tao Te Ching
Book One, Chapter XVI
I do my utmost to attain emptiness;
I hold firmly to stillness.
The myriad creatures all rise together
And I watch their return.
The teeming creatures
All return to their separate roots.
Returning to one's roots is known as stillness.
This is what is meant by returning to one's destiny.
Returning to one's destiny is known as the constant.
Knowledge of the constant is known as discernment.
Woe to him who wilfully innovates
While ignorant of the constant,
But should one act from knowledge of the constant
One's action will lead to impartiality,
Impartiality to kingliness,
Kingliness to heaven,
Heaven to the way,
The way to perpetuity,
And to the end of one's days one will meet with no danger.
***
This poem, also good.
God's at the Top of the Stairs
Steven Cramer
It can't feel like homework.
If it requires penmanship
Don't do it. If there's no red
Magic marker, no edible
Paste, no aroma of mimeo blue
To push a face into, forget it.
Who wants to sidle up close
To the moment inside the moment
Inside the moment, if it's not
An apple skin peppered with cloves?
Stop listening for the wind
Somewhere hushing the Sweet William;
Don't demand enlightenment
from the bindweed between railroad ties
In Dover, New Hampshire -
Where once, on mushrooms, you swore
"The Browns" brown mailbox
Shouted brown so loud
World Married World and moved in
And stop waiting for your ship
while the dock rots. God's
At the top of the stairs. You'll see
If you sit at the edge of the bed
And stare at your feet and say
Here I am for a damn good reason
***
There's a Valentine's day contest at my college... whoever writes the best Valentine wins a $75 gift certificate to some restaurant.
While I was in Thailand and feeling particularly lonesome and in need of some good loving (beginning of the trip), I wrote a song, a big pat myself on the back. I considered posting it on the Olde English website, but decided that was a bit too... self-advertised. Luckily, no one really goes to this site (seeing as I never post), and so I'm putting it here.
And though there was no actual girl that I was writing it for, I think that somehow adds to the charm... girls don't like the elaborate display of artistic work if you don't know them yet.
***
Dear Valentine,
You have such a strong presence that everytime I see you, I'm blown away, and can't relax enough to make any sort of impression. In an ideal world, you’d simply come up to me and ask, “What makes you so special?” And if you did, I’d have a song prepared. And I would stand up, clear my throat, and sing:
My hair is curly, eyes are green,
when I get drunk I don't get mean.
Though I'm not humble, who needs that?
I'll kiss your thighs and rub your back.
I love to dance! I love to play!
I'm wise but in a youthful way.
I'm sensitive! I'm arrogant!
I also speak Hungarian!
When kissing I would hold your face,
I love your ass (don't mind your waist).
Joke! Write! Act! Sing!
Making money! Traveling!
I'm honest, but I'm nice to you.
I don't take up alot of room.
I'll listen to you when you're mad,
I'll be polite to mom and dad.
And yes, I'm jealous (so I'm told),
and when critiqued I do get cold,
but if you tell me that you're mine,
I think we'll be just fine.
Happy Valentine's Day,
Adam
While I was in Thailand and feeling particularly lonesome and in need of some good loving (beginning of the trip), I wrote a song, a big pat myself on the back. I considered posting it on the Olde English website, but decided that was a bit too... self-advertised. Luckily, no one really goes to this site (seeing as I never post), and so I'm putting it here.
And though there was no actual girl that I was writing it for, I think that somehow adds to the charm... girls don't like the elaborate display of artistic work if you don't know them yet.
***
Dear Valentine,
You have such a strong presence that everytime I see you, I'm blown away, and can't relax enough to make any sort of impression. In an ideal world, you’d simply come up to me and ask, “What makes you so special?” And if you did, I’d have a song prepared. And I would stand up, clear my throat, and sing:
My hair is curly, eyes are green,
when I get drunk I don't get mean.
Though I'm not humble, who needs that?
I'll kiss your thighs and rub your back.
I love to dance! I love to play!
I'm wise but in a youthful way.
I'm sensitive! I'm arrogant!
I also speak Hungarian!
When kissing I would hold your face,
I love your ass (don't mind your waist).
Joke! Write! Act! Sing!
Making money! Traveling!
I'm honest, but I'm nice to you.
I don't take up alot of room.
I'll listen to you when you're mad,
I'll be polite to mom and dad.
And yes, I'm jealous (so I'm told),
and when critiqued I do get cold,
but if you tell me that you're mine,
I think we'll be just fine.
Happy Valentine's Day,
Adam
