Vertigo

Misshapen spots of heat pick her body back

trying to remember who it was and where

although a part of her, the nagger tries to allow

it all--but she knows she’s just a hedon.

Hedon? Hedonist? Shifty strobes and vertigo

these are the tunes we eat and breathe

the cubes rattle in the glass slammed on the

table-- the lights streak and shimmy with the beat

Questioning. She straightens in the mint green

she wipes her hair out of her face so she can

pump harder and let go of it all, no more chase

chasing truth, but proves hard to hold on.

The cubes seduce and ask for more rum begging,

there is only one droplet of control

before the vibrations swallow her whole, pumping.

Talking talk is always easier claims innocence

Stomachs froth with the poison and slave

to the shifty strobes with few inhibitions

arms express freedom since they can finally

move in unison. Hedonism always gets its way.

Arms lose each other and forget worry

still prices get paid, you would think

that the end would show, it’s a tough bargain

learning truth is always harder with this vertigo.

The seduction lays with the cubes, rattling

there are no rules here, nothing to be afraid of.

Here, lips talk and walk free, but do they really

think they are invincible? Everyone remembers.

Strobes stop shifting and it is light again.

The poison fades and her body is bare, white.

Do they count as “mistakes” in vertigo? Streaks

slowly scratch innocence away with a penny.

It’s a hard bargain, hedonism, that smooth talker,

convincing preacher of invincibility, courage

and the freedom to spread love, but fails

to mention the inevitable end.

The oh-so freaky fade, the vertigo goes

faster than a blink and the cubes melt and

when they do, the water is clearer than glass.

Then the truth hurts. Was it worth it?

Repost: Ashbury's Punishing the Myth

Punishing the Myth 

(A repost of a poem by John Ashbury that speaks for itself)

At first it came easily, with the knowledge of the shadow line
Picking its way through various landscapes before coming
To stand far from you, to bless you incidentally
In sorting out what was best for it, and most suitable,

Like snow having second thoughts and coming back
To be wary about this, to embellish that, as though life were a party
At which work got done. So we wiggled in our separate positions
And stayed in them for a time. After something has passed

You begin to see yourself as you would look to yourself on a stage,
Appearing to someone. But to whom? Ah, that’s just it,
To have the manners, and the look that comes from having a secret
Isn’t enough. But that “not enough” isn’t to be worn like a livery,

To be briefly noticed, yet among whom should it be seen? I haven’t
Thought about these things in years; that’s my luck.
In time even the rocks will grow. And if you have curled and dandled
Your innocence once too often, what attitude isn’t then really yours?

Two Weeks

Last night, I noticed the spots.
round and red, they appeared on my chest
"Oh my G-d, your back, its bad" said my friend
Thinking back to two weeks, please don't let it be

100.3 F, as a matter of fact pointed out Ol' Therma
No, they aren't even itchy, they don't itch!
There no way, I've had them before
It can't be allowed-- I'm older now          right?

Two weeks ago--
two weeks though.

Trudging through the rain holding bags,
We held ourselves together with simple frowns.
My sister had the red dots, but we walked--still
with disbelief at the dots.

The bags held her bedding and clothes
For the others had asked timidly,
that she move out of her room to another- alone
so her leporous state would not spread

I helped and fed her but nothing prepared
for those two weeks and half later

My fingers search my body
there are bumps on my scalp, ears, and neck
One throbs particularly large behind my ear
these dots, they don't care.

Snooping around my body
Wreaking pain, with every step
Is that a hornet on my tonsil?
Nope, just another one of the dots.

They blister in form with pus
Only withstanding soft cotton and calamine
Unimaginable pain that forces tears
And the friends say "I must stay away, I can't get it".

"I know exactly how you feel" says
my sister- my only redeeming soldier.
She hugs me close "Don't worry, we'll start a
support group for adults with chicken pox after you heal."

Then we laugh for a while
at the absurdity of the happening
adults getting a childrens' disease
Somehow though, it's very hilarious

How funny, that life, I guess
has its' ways of making crap into comedy
The two sisters who both got the pox
within two weeks of eachother- as in solidarity to each other.

The Unnecessary Bark

Settle muscles deeper within the crevices of the sheets.

If God won't let me fall asleep, fine. 
I won't sleep.
I'll just day dream for a bit.

White lines go back and forth to create a pattern of whicker baskets 
curling around peas vining up and down
The wirey mixtures create a canopy,
around a coned cape of fabric.

Inside the little fort there is a pair of jeans 
with bluer flecks among the wash.

The pocket is shining and beating. 
What is in the pocket?

Gaze shift sharply vertical to see 
through the frayed pocket the light 
that emanates is deeply saturated 
with a rich marbley brown.
Outter edges of the rays are golden 
but the inner stay light and white.

Somehow the marbley brown conveys … a message.

Through the soft webs that break and part
like fresh melted mozzarella
Comes out a stream of mindful ism that starts off
small and grows as you tear through
I pull off the excess white webbery from my fingers.
The letters are clear In the air to read now: 

The blanket fort and whicker patterns.
The Amber marbley unexplained brown.
The light that emanates from the jean square. 
Was it dreamt? Was it real? Was it even important?

Inhale, just soak up

the ocean air and leave out the salt. 
Drink up the smoothie, leave the ice.
Ignore the brain freezes, the sun burns, the unnecessary bark.

I swear, you will be happier once you realize that all which you gain is under your control. The frosting is all you can taste. The best part of the muffin. The good night text. The end of a good book. When the Advil kicks in. When the rain stops falling. The record of sprints on that day. The morning latte.  The moment when you finally fall asleep.

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.