Stream of Consciousness

Straight geometric triangles come off from the edges

of the thoughts that circulate her mind.

She hangs on to every word of her friend’s story

like the last pinch of mint in her gum, or the bottom of the cup.

Gravitating towards the less opaque shades of carolina blue

and the circular marble tables at the shops

she observes other people in their areas of expertise

Does everyone choose their destiny? or does it choose them?

The transparent globes of pearly green succulents have purple tips

the fins of the plants are perfectly hard, with a glowy white film.

Remaining silent, she has learned, is the most wise thing to do.

Those stories can be dismissed like the endless crumpled drafts.

Sometimes the corners of the crumpled are opened,

to reveal the inner heart of the artichoke, her fragile hopes.

The geometric lines illuminate and soften, and a white light

shines through them, the listener is appreciated with a smile.

these succulents, distinctly wave at their sides, softly.

each have their own ideas to share, magenta, sea foam, amber.

These creations of G-d are ethereal, and unique in form.

She thinks her thoughts are stupid, but the beauty is still there.

Yes, everybody thinks their crumpled drafts are far superior

but that statement lacks in point.

The various lines in the notebook,

do not rule our futures.

On occasion, we write above or below the lines-

which we don’t realize is still allowed.

Guidelines do not always follow truth.

Truth does not follow the guidelines.

Instead, let’s enjoy the foggy mist and throw up the leaves

make angels in the snows of confusion. Ask the snowflakes.

Jump into the questions and observe the crumpled drafts.

Let’s drink to her stupid thoughts, because the beauty is still there.

John Ashbery's "Shadow Train": A Response

Understanding John Ashbery requires the ability to immerse oneself into his work and fill in the gaps he doesn’t elaborate. He utilizes many conventional elements of poetry but breaks many “rules” along the way. The poems in his book The Shadow Train are concise, with no more than four stanzas of quatrains for each poem. But each one, offers substantial and interesting whimsical images in a fresh new way. His writing has a very lyrical quality to it and forces readers to visualize the specific eclectic images he brings forth. He breaks apart these images with provocative phrases and questions that seem almost reflective of life. Alice Quinn, a poetry editor for New Yorker comments, “I don’t feel like John should be pigeon holed into a particular school. I think he demonstrates more what poetic thinking is. He manages to capture a lot of the palpable feeling of being alive in his writing.” His poems seem to emulate thoughts in a stream of consciousness, never staying in one place for too long.

Those who do not appreciate Ashbery’s unique writing might consider him scattered in his thoughts, and difficult to understand. Those who feel this way lack the point of what Ashbery tries to achieve in his work. The art of Ashbery’s poetry is in the lack of his concreteness. It is challenging to the reader, yet strangely inviting. The techniques he uses in his quatrains create a version of poetry that emphasizes the overall aesthetic of the piece versus a definite plot line. In “Frontispiece”, he describes rain as “the profile of the day” that “wears its soul like a hat”(46). In “The Leasing of September”,  it begins with the phrase “the sleeping map lay green” (32). Obviously, these phrases make no tangible sense especially because often they don’t explicitly contextualized in the poem, but Ashbery uses them in such a way that it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He forces the reader to appreciate the image on it’s own rather than it’s place in the story.  The magic of his writing is in his ability to make the reader decide that the cohesive meaning is only secondary to the word play.

Along with Ashbery’s fantastical images of blue taxis, dreams with gold flecks, and rosy-fingered dawns, he plants in sporadic “isms” on life . Although the thoughts are not always finished, these quotes often provide provocative questions and force readers to stop and think about the emotions. “The Absence of a Noble Presence” gives the classic Ashbery-like feel in the third stanza:

“You’ve got to remember we don’t see that much.

We see a portion of eaves dripping in the pastel book

And are aware that everything doesn’t count equally-

There is a dreaminess and infection in the sum.”

This stanza exemplifies the combination of images and “isms” on life that Ashbery uses throughout Shadow Train. Debating the precise appearance of “eaves dripping in the pastel book”  takes away from the bigger purpose of the images. The fourth and final stanza of this poem seems to finish his thought:

“And since this too is of our everydays

It matters only to the one you are next to

This time, giving you a ride to the station.

It foretells itself, not the hiccup you both notice.”

One can speculate the meaning of these sentiments in multiple ways. Perhaps the ride to the station as opposed to the hiccup refers to the idea of being present with friends instead of focusing on the “hiccups”, or negatives of life. Perhaps the juxtaposition is rather, a negative comment on how people ignore all the “hiccups” that they “both notice” in a way of coping with tragedies in life. The message of the poem can change each time it is read, making endless possibilities for the reader to experience. The point isn’t for the poem to make complete sense, but for  the reader to appreciate the way Ashbery plays with words. He succeeds in capturing the moment and depicting it with his unique diction, portraying his mastery of intonation (still not happy with that word, but your choice)in his distinctive way.

Ashbery reaches out to his readers and pulls in the attention through his use of the second person point of view and enjambments. In the stanzas from “The Absence of a Normal Presence”  he uses the word “you” to bring readers into the action and make the poem personal. It also surprises readers, because it’s not a common person to use and offers a new perspective. Additionally, the enjambments he uses brings the readers to the next line and also breaks up the sentence to add more intensity. Nonetheless, both these techniques further engage readers into Ashbery’s lair.

Ashbery’s works are  not for a simple reading; It is for the finely attuned ear . Those who appreciate poetry for it’s emotive qualities  will enjoy Ashbery’s poetry exponentially more than the sticklers who are more concerned with old fashioned meter and proper form. Personally, I find Ashbery’s mastery over words very impressive and I only hope to emulate his sensory images and multidimensional messages he has transcribed. I only aspire to succeed in breaking literary rules like he doesand I strongly recommend his work to those willing to experiment with poetry and experience something different from the norm.

Works Cited

http://observer.com/2013/01/the-meaning-of-all-this-talking-to-john-ashbery-about-his-past-present-and-future/

Incident

My hand pours the milk making a pool for her graham colored cereal. I prepare her morning dosage of Adderall, to help with her focus. Suddenly, the spoon shakes and lands on the tile in front of her. Her eyes focus hard on her fruit loops and she jerks slowly first.

“I think shes’s seizing.” I hear myself say.

The others whimper softly. Someone calls 911. She's sunken to the floor and is jerking faster now, her eyes racing. My mind speaks to me “Go get her papers. Keep calm." What do we know about her? Does she have a history for this? The police men ask, looking at me. Then the heat arrives, first in my fore arms. It moves up to my chest and around to the back of my neck. Keep breathing, I tell myself. Grab her pill, shoes, and coat. 

Everything will be ok.

No it won’t.
It’s your fault. 
You couldn’t do one thing.

“Is it okay if you go with her to the ER?” they ask. “Yes. It’s fine. I can handle it.” I say, knowing I can’t. My stomach squeezes,and my brain seems to be floating in it's socket. We’re driving now. Is this real? I got this. No I don’t.

There’s the heat again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale. 
Exhale.

I feel frozen. The stretcher is behind me. I’m here for her. Wondering if she will be okay, I’m sitting by her wilted body now, alone. I didn’t know her yesterday, and I’m holding her hand. Her pale eyes are glazed, hair is matted sweaty, but she calls my name. “I’m here, I’m here. Your mother is coming. She will be here soon.”I’m calming down. The nurse says she will be fine. All is well, don’t worry now. They said its not your fault. Others finally rush in. “How are you doing?” they ask “I’m fine" I say. I can handle it.” again, knowing I can’t. The heat.“I’m just going to go get some fresh air.” I tell them. “Of course, go.” It’s over. I tell myself. You did everything you needed to do. She comes to me- “Are you okay?” “Yes, I’m fine.” No.
No.

Why am I lying? 

The heat returns. Its surges fast like water. My hair goes up in a pony tail. I am fine. I am fine. So hot, my heart beat runs too. I’m shaking a bit. “Your not okay.” she says. “Yes I am”. No I’m not.

“We need to get some sugar in you. Fast.” My vision slides back and forth along the pendulum. Her voice sounds quiet around me. Fingers twitch.

Count your breaths.
One.
Two. 
Three. 
This heat is a tyrant.

“You did everything right. She’s fine because of you.” Still counting, the heat festers and overtakes. I breathe in. “She’s fine. Why am I like this? All is well. I eat my pretzel M&Ms swished with ginger ale. She’s fine. Concentrate on each chew. Let the candy coats calm. She’s saying words to me. 
I can’t hear them much.

--

A gym filled with young women who share a passion for- a certain sport of purple circle wounds and electric weapons each fencer for herself today- game day. Keep the focus.  2 wins and 6 losses for me so far. I blame my brain, still sliding. “Kerzner. Kerzner. KERZNER.” Finally, I see the ref, angry. “You need to be on deck before hand.” he shakes his head. Plug myself in. Put on my mask. Ale’. Focus on the point control. Circle 6. Circle 8. Her arm is bent. Beat up. Beat Down. I’ll just get her on her extension. BEEP. "Touch right!” smiles the ref. How did that happen?I just had her. Beat her blade at the guard. Angle right. 

The heat prickles my arm.
No. Not now.

It creeps to my neck again. 
Please. I can’t do this.

“5, 1.” End bout.” The heat subsides. 
Messed up again.

The spoon on the floor. 

The stretcher. 
Fingers twitching.

They hit me in waves, smacking me without warning. 
She’s fine now. Better than me.

It happens. 
People get seizures. 
Get over it.

Welcome to life, Rebecca.

Ode to the Lavacourt Under Snow

--A pantoum--

Emotions would be cerulean or sapphire, not just blue

If only we could taste our surroundings

Mundane details would illuminate

with Swirly Periwinkles of soft yellows

If only we could taste our surroundings

Through the eyes of Claude Monet

Swirly Periwinkles of soft yellows

would replace the flurry grays of soot

Through the eyes of Claude Monet

chilled minty glimmers of blue ice

would replace the flurry grays of soot

gently brushing, sharing space with eachother.

Chilled minty glimmers of blue ice

Mundane details would illuminate

gently brushing, sharing space with each other.

Emotions would be cerulean or sapphire, not just blue.

Lavacourt under Snow

about 1878-81. Claude Monet.

The Dryad

It was that time in the spring when the first slivers of snow began to dissolve and the sun rays reached out through the cold airs of the winter. In Central Park, the leaves were still missing from all the trees but the dirty globs of ice were still frozen to the curbs of Colombus Circle. Within the naked trees, stood a different tree. Perhaps its limbs were more curvy? The last leaves a more lush green? It was merely an Oak, but this tree stood alone amongst it’s plain brown companions. But, laying deep beneath the tree was something the New Yorkers could not see. There lay a Dryad- from centuries ago, an aged Greek tale. A young nymph, with perfect rounded locks and a porcelain face wrapped in a satin ice blue scarf. She lived her life, listening to the conversations within Central Park. She knew why Christina decided to break up with Seth, how Regina and Adam fell for each other, and even what happened between Lauren and her mom that ended their friendship forever. One time, a bird specialist lead a tour through her neighborhood, and she learned of robin’s eggs, pheasants’ mating calls, and that one sparrowhawk sighting of 1984. She soaked up the information like a sponge, as a mosquito savors its blood. For this was all she lived for, and all she could do, since the Oak was her prisoning home. She could understand the words of animals in the park- it was her special gift. She knew all about territorial disputes and mating drama which sometimes unraveled into a quite comedial entertainment. However, there was a sadness within her, that she could not leave the Oak. She would always remain the listener, the therapist, the boring one with no story of her own. She dreamed of herself meeting “the one”, owning that tiny white dog, and going to brunch at Sarabeth’s. A true tragedy, she felt, one she could not escape. A longing “nobody”, understood by all.

3 Haikus

Jog

Beat blasts through my ears
the quads fight the crunching leaves
steady punching feet


Thought

Coffee Stain on shirt?
Fashionable brown detail!
Mindset over mood


The Bustle

Plan every minute
Tired, over-worked, can't stop
On to the next thing

Lessons of the Beatles

Images of broken light

dance before me like a million eyes

Possessing and caressing me

Waves of joy drift through my open mind

inciting and inviting

Sounds of laughter, shades of life,

the smiles returning to the faces

I'd like to be

With lovers and friends

In our little hideaway beneath the waves

No hell below us

Above us only sky

We would be warm below the storm

Limitless undying love which

shines around me like a million suns

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green

There's nowhere you can be that isn't

where you're meant to be.

Imagine no heaven

no countries and no possessions

no religion too

And our friends are all on board

Everyone of us (Everyone of us) has all we need

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

Across the Universe.

All You Need is Love.

Imagine.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

an Octopus's garden.

a yellow submarine.

You may say I'm a dreamer,

Guess you know it’s true. But

There's nothing you can know that isn't known

Nothing you can see that isn't shown

Crimson Carpet

A crimson velvety carpet feels damp under my feet
There is a smooth bumpiness, a hybrid texture like leather and cashmere
Addictive to touch, like the fuzz of a peach's side. Looking on,
I see more crimson hills, they are burgundy with a bit of shade.

Feet first, I step slowly down one soft valley, but it curls out and-
My arms are flapping, they can't hold like a baby bird, faster and fas...
TERRRRR. I lose touch and I'm falling down fast and turning circles.
The wind slaps me and blurs of color woosh around.

Are those brown blurs sharp? I see them shining.
Ow! One slices my arm, seeping pain. Yes, there's my answer.
Still falling, hair pulled up, I shut my eyes hard and wait for it.
THUD. Ouch, that hurt my legs and boy! they ache, but hey! I've landed.

This weird ground hugs me all around with spongey pieces of something.
I pick up the grainy fluffy stuff with a hand, but it falls through my fingers.
A shooting droplet of water hits my shoulder, right on the cut.
Ok enough. Where am I? Do I need more pain?

I look up and the misty surroundings focus up.
A bed of roses. Thorns. The morning dew.
How could I be so stupid? G-d just laughs.
But wait! Why am I.....
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
small?

Everything Happens for a Reason

The cushioned couch, a mother’s resting base,

A giver of care, her memories keep warming,

Yet still remains that empty space.

Too soon, without guilt, cancer did debase,

this angel, with children and husband still adoring,

No words to say in this place.

Two young lovers make of vow of embrace

A passion for infinity, they ignore parental warning,

and try to live without that empty space

Alas, both were too different, traits they couldn’t erase,

Hope lost, all alone now, What was the point of all the yearning?

No words to say in this place.

“There’s someone else” he touches base.

her heart pains from the betrayal, but dreaming,

still longs to fill that empty space.

Reason can’t excuse this disgrace.

No way to rationalize such harming.

No words to say in this place,

Yet still remains that empty space.

The Effectual Truth

Brainstorm [Updated]

The ceiling fan. Textbook. Shopping bag.

The Laundry basket. iPad. Rumpled bed.

Searching for the best idea of the bunch,
like picking fruits at the grocery store, except--
most are yellowing or mushy. Rotten.

For a moment, I look up to The window--
it's offer, a browned brick building. Some smoke.

sirens whine not too far and cars honk impatiently down low.
The clock keeps ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock. Eyes stuck, staring into space.

Lids droop slowly, beginning to shut down, when--
an albino pigeon, feathers brown and white,
arrives on the 'sill, head twitching back and forth

Tap. tap. tap. TAP. The bird's beak jabs.

it's beady gray eyes squint straight on me
It's mouth opens and closes rapidly.
Is there something wrong with it? Cautious.

I suddenly hear "You seenka vuzan loss"
a soft baritone voice. Where is it coming from? What's it saying?

My ears open. The sounds focus. Behind that clear glass--

"You seem confused and lost,

in search of an idea. Can I help?"

I just stare but it continues.
"You seem to be experiencing what I call
"worm hunt". Us pigeons know about it.
It is a game out there, really is.

Only the fittest survive.
Name's "Stanley" by the way.
My suggestion is to put yourself out there.
Take a walk. Look around. Buy a coffee.
Take notes. Get inspired. Keep those eyes open to absorb."

I try to interject. What? How?
Stanley's wing goes up "No. I'm still talking." he says
"There is only way to beat this damn worm hunt.
and that starts by leaving your room. Do things. Engage with people.
This will give you experiences-- positive, negative. Who cares.
Experiences are writing material. It's simply the only way. Are you getting this?"

Eyes go up from my notebook. I've written this down.
My mouth opens and closes rapidly. But nothing comes.
This time, my eyes really open.
The browned brick building. No pigeon.

I can't help but grin. Papers all over my bed.

I gather them in a pile. Put them in my bag.
A pencil. Camera. Keys go in too.
Shutting the door behind me, I go on a walk.

The Silverado [Updated]

It was a dark muscular truck

monster wheels like biceps of steel.
On that night, the big hulk

 rolled down my driveway, size surreal.

A young girl hopped out from the brute,

"Rebecca, look! It's my new car!"

This must be a joke, what a hoot!

still, her eyes creased, smiling bright.

Her father traded cars, this just another pursuer.

Ignoring my shock, she squealed,
 "isn't he just beautiful?"

she climbed up the step, love already sealed.

Finally, I climbed in and reached my elbows out

to try to the fit the black leather throne

We were out of place, no doubt,

 like two chihuahuas in a lions den.

"Let's go!" my friend yelled, as she revved downtown

she spun the volume up to our favorite recent beat.

Singing the usual words, my shyness died down

 I settled deeper into the king-size seat.

There was a moment of simple freedom,

when we belted the catchy chorus in that truck,

the lights of buildings and cars flying past us,

creating linear streams of light.

This moment was of complete content,

as the air freshener rocked back and forth,

letting the wind pull our hair back

and the powerful stereo seduce us.

The fling didn't last, but that moment

of giddiness and invincibility lingers.