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.