Friday, January 22, 2010

"Protests Quashed"

For once and all, I'm surrendering.

I don't hate poetry after all.

The issue in my early years seems to have been the wrong poetry applied to the wrong brain.  Now that I'm flailing through Older Years, I keep bumping into precisely the right stuff.

Finally, I get it.

Poetry says stuff differently enough that we understand it more betterer.

For my particular taste, the poems that work are simple and straightforward--but with a little rub in them.

Poet Louis Jenkins, who has lived in Duluth the last 30-odd years, writes just such lines.  If you have any income to dispose towards a volume of verse, I'd recommend you seek his out. 

He writes "prose poems," paragraphs and anecdotes that are denuded of all the "things that insist that the reader should be having a poetical experience,” as he puts it.  In short, his style releases readers from labor and hands them moments of knowing, of cynicism, of wryness.

I also really like that, noting poetry's inability to earn great income, the 67-year-old, long-married Jenkins says he continues to write and publish for the "fame and glory...and the chicks."

Take a moment to give this guy his due, would you?

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"First Snow"

By dusk the snow is already partially melted. There are dark patches where the grass shows through, like islands in the sea seen from an airplane. Which one is home? The one I left as a child? They all seem the same now. What became of my parents? What about all those things I started and never finished? What were they? As we get older we become more alone. The man and his wife share this gift. It is their breakfast: coffee and silence, morning sunlight. They make love or they quarrel. They move through the day, she on the black squares, he on the white. At night they sit by fire, he reading his book, she knitting. The fire is agitated. The wind hoots in the chimney like a child blowing in a bottle, happily.
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"A Quiet Place"

I have come to understand my love for you. I came to you like a man, world-weary, looking for a quiet place. The gas station and grocery store, the church, the abandoned school, a few old houses, the river with its cool shady spots . . . . good fishing. How I've longed for a place like this! As soon as I got here I knew I'd found it. Tomorrow the set production and camera crews arrive. We can begin filming on Monday: the story of a man looking for a quiet place.
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"Uncle Axel"

In the box of old photos there's one of a young man with a moustache wearing a long coat, circa 1890. The photo is labeled "Uncle Karl" on the back. That would be your mother's granduncle, who came from Sweden, a missionary, and was killed by Indians in North Dakota, your great-granduncle.

The young man in the photo is looking away from the camera, slightly to the left. He has a look of determination, a man of destiny, preparing to bring the faith to the heathen Sioux.

But it isn't Karl. The photo was mislabeled, fifty years ago. It's actually a photo of Uncle Axel, from Norway, your father's uncle, who was a farmer. No one knows that now. No one remembers Axel, or Karl.

If you look closely at the photo it almost appears that the young man is speaking, perhaps muttering "I'm Axel damn it. Quit calling me Karl!"
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"Too Much Snow"

Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain, does not immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family fortune. It's the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends. I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother. She writes "Don't send so much. I'm all alone now. I'll never be able to use so much." To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate; different from all the others.
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"Appointed Rounds"

At first he refused to deliver junk mail because it was stupid, all those deodorant ads, money-making ideas and contests. Then he began to doubt the importance of the other mail he carried. He began to randomly select first class mail for nondelivery. After he had finished his mail route each day he would return home with his handful of letters and put them in the attic. He didn't open them and never even looked at them again. It was as if he were an agent of Fate, capricious and blind. In the several years before he was caught, friends vanished, marriages failed, business deals fell through. Toward the end he became more and more bold, deleting houses, then whole blocks from his route. He began to feel he'd been born in the wrong era. If only he could have been a Pony Express rider galloping into some prairie town with an empty bag, or the runner from Marathon collapsing in the streets of Athens, gasping, "No news."
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"Suitcase"

I keep my clothes in a suitcase at the foot of my bed.  I haven't been anywhere and have no plans to go anywhere, but these days you never know, and besides it gives me a focus for my anxiety and for my occasional moments of unfounded excitement and anticipation.  Every morning I take out clean socks and underwear, etc. and throw the dirty clothes back in the suitcase.  Once a week or so I take the suitcase down to the washer and dryer in the basement and sit around naked waiting for my clean clothes.  That's about it.  The days pass quickly enough.  Once in awhile I see old friends.  "You look tired," they say or "Why the long face?" I reply, "Well, you know, it's stressful, living out of a suitcase."
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"Invisible"

There are moments when a person cannot be seen by the human eye.  I'm sure you've noticed this.  You might be walking down the street or sitting in a chair when someone you know very well, your mother or your best friend, walks past without seeing you.  Later they'll say, "Oh, I must have been preoccupied."  Not so.  At times we are caught in a warp of space or time and, for a moment, vanish.  This phenomenon occurs often among children and old people.  No one understands exactly how this happens but some people remain invisible for long periods of time.  Most of these do so by choice.  They have learned to ride the moment, as a surfer rides the long curl of a wave.  How exhilarating it is to ride like that, a feeling of triumph to move from room to room unseen, only the slightest breeze in your passing.
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"Somersault"

Some children did handsprings or cartwheels.  Those of us who were less athletically gifted did what we called somersaults, really a kind of forward roll.  Head down in the summer grass, a push with the feet, then the world flipped upside-down and around.  Your feet, which had been behind you, now stretched out in front.  It was fun and we did it, laughing, again and again.  Yet, as fun as it was, most of us, at some point, quit doing somersaults.  But only recently, someone at Evening Rest (Managed Care for Seniors) discovered the potential value of somersaults as physical and emotional therapy for the aged, a recapturing of youth, perhaps.  Every afternoon, weather permitting, the old people, despite their feeble protests, are led or wheeled onto the lawn, where each is personally and individually aided in the heels-over-head tumble into darkness.  When the wind is right you can hear, even at this distance, the crying of those who have fallen and are unable to rise.
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Jocelyn's prose poem, a shout out to Jenkins:

"We Cannot Consider Your Offer at This Time"

I spent two hours today uploading photos.  We're hoping to go live somewhere else for a spell, so we've signed up with some home exchange agencies.  Selling our lives to others requires photos and many fawning adjectives, packaging the quality of our refrigerator so that Australians or Germans want to come use it.  As I clicked the upload button repeatedly, having each attempt fail, a drumming began in my head, one that pounded, "You are very busy thinking about next year when, right now, there is work to do here, now."  In response, a different drum beat a tattoo of, "Yes, but when I think of the possibilities of next year, the here and now seem prettier." Then I clicked the button again. I went to yoga and squatted out the tension.  Later, after I sent out 45 letters of inquiry, the responses began to trickle in:  "I'm sorry...," "...already committed...," "...best of luck..."  Reading these over, I went back to doing the work of here, now.


22 comments:

furiousBall said...

see if i did that pose, i'd be too self-conscious of ripping some insanely loud flatulence. and look, you're even hovering over a wood floor too, that's hold. that polished hardwood will reverberate like a mf'er

Jazz said...

Maybe some Montrealers would like to move to Duluth for a while? You could come to the cottage and play outside. Ski, shovel the snow off the roof, that sorta thing.

Shania said...

Love! I will pick up a volume. Know what else I love? That window! If no one will come live in your house, I could be pressed into house sitting for you. It'll be a sacrifice, but anything for you!

diane said...

The poems are great. I like the idea of sending someone one snowflake.
furiousBall's comment is hilarious. You DO look a little like you're ready to give birth or something.
Have a great week-end Jo. xo d

secret agent woman said...

So, I'm trying to decipher what this means for your sabbatical. I trust that you'll keep us posted?

Green Girl in Wisconsin said...

I think the pose at the end really makes the last poem.
Gorgeous language, Jocelyn.

ds said...

Wonderful! I, too, like the thought of sending someone a single snowflake. And the squat? Well...You gots better quads than me, that's for sure.
Great post! (wd ver for future reference: dasmat. Hazmat for yoga??)

Logophile said...

I
LOVE
him.

I am a poetry fan, as you know,
so I am probably an easy sell,
but STILL,
I love these!

Come over to the poetry side,
we have finely crafted word mosaics with jack-in-the-box connotation surprises!
:D

Becky Cazares said...

Appointed Rounds was good and lifted me from reality to who knows where for just a moment. But Suitcase... wow. Gotta go post this one on Facebook. My quirky cousins will love it... I think. No matter, I do!

choochoo said...

loving the poems almost as much as I'm loving you couch.Hmmm. And that window looks big enough...now I just need a truck and your address. Nyahaha.

jess said...

I love it! "I'm Axel damn it. Quit calling me Karl!"

You can come stay in my house, but I'm not leaving. On the upside I can make excellent book recommendations for the girl if she lets me share her reading nook.

Steve said...

Jenkins and Pihlaja, together, give poetry a good name.

Jeni said...

I generally like poetry of most all kinds and the ones you selected here were really good, very interesting and well, quite enjoyable. (Loved the One Snowflake especially)
And I have to agree with those who commented on your pose too. I'd never be able to stand erect again if ever I tried a stunt like that! My knee joints would probably freeze in that position then for the rest of my life and if I find walking a bit difficult from time to time now -what with the creakiness of all the old joints -I can just imagine how hard it would be for me to maneuver myself around at all after trying that pose! Kudos to you and your youthfulness for being able to do that!

Pam said...

Tell me you had trouble getting up. I'll feel better.Those who are capable of doing that pose in Australia execute this move skillfully,and it's known as "I'd sit with my bum on the sand, but with no beach towel it's too damn hot-god,how much longer till the sun goes down!" Old guys use it to draw directions with a stick in the soil, those old timers who have no experience with GPS.Their squat is mainly to avoid ants.Some species of bull ants have you praying for mercy. If you come to Oz and prefer the cold climate of Tasmania (a truly beautiful place),that squat is often glimpsed briefly in the wild western side of that state in the wilderness (jeans lowered somewhat) as "please don't let that be a logging truck or other campers approaching, and please may the bottom of my jeans remain dry...". Come to Australia. In Germany they don't have Tasmanian Devils...but don't say "Tasmanian Devils, my arse..." .They are trained to attack so you might want to leave that pose at home.Only joking.Live underground in a dugout at Coober Pedy. You'll be praying your alarm clock or mobile phone goes off to remind you that it is, in fact, daylight and time for, whatever you do in Coober Pedy, mainly noodling, which is not a rude word by the way.Have fun researching this, and don't do a house swap in somewhere say like Iron Knob.As in your photo,you'll be praying this way, that way, any way to get you and your family out. They're not big on poetry in some parts.Our cities are quite far apart, vibrant, ,cosmopolitan, welcoming and unique.Wherever in the world you decide to go,and if it happens ,wherever your house swap is,you'll all have the best time!!

Karen MEG said...

Those are great, J (or should I call you Ms. Mighty Flex - whoa on that position), but I like your verse the best (not biased, totally not ;)!

Good luck with the home exchange...it sounds like a most exciting prospect. I'm sure something great will come your way. After all, an opportunity to live with that new kitchen of yours? That will be snatched up soon!

cathy said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
cathy said...

Visiting your blog, for a well crafted post, I stumbled on "more betterer" and I couldn't be upseterer. It quite spoiled my afternoon repose. For although I know you spake in jest it's really not what one expects from Jocelyn the teacher...or the poet!

LOL.


What do you mean you hate poetry?
SHOCK, HORROR, PROBE, GASP!!!

chelle said...

poetry eh. Never really had the desire for it. HOWEVER I liked these! Interesting.

Bummer that the process has been less than perfect, yet that is not necessarily a reflection of the experience itself.

Hang in there, when one door closes, another one is bound to swing open and knock your coffee cup :P

heartinsanfrancisco said...

Louis Jenkins is great! My favorite is Too Much Snow but Appointed Rounds has a marvelously manic Ray Bradbury feel to it and Suitcase made me laugh with delight. Your offering is great, too - the last sentence makes it perfect.

Midlife Jobhunter said...

"Poetry says stuff differently enough that we understand it more betterer."

My grandfather's name was Axel. And his brother was Karl. And Axel was a Swedish minister, and I don't understand poetry, and maybe Louis Jenkins is long lost relative - and you have me scared.

I ain't doin' no squat though.

Anonymous said...

i love your blog. It always entertains me. My favorite of these poems is "Too Much Snow".

lime said...

really i quite liked "too much snow" and seeing your squat was poetry in motion, baby!

here's to the here and now.