BEFORE THE AIR BECAME THE JOURNEY

It is Good Friday
and I am seven.
I don’t understand the priest
who speaks in Latin
or in Polish,
but I like the hopeful smell of
candles burning.

Inching forward
on our knees,
we sway and shuffle towards
the giant crucifix
propped at the railing.
The men’s heads are bare.
The women wear bubushkas.
Everywhere I look
there are soles of shoes.

My turn. I stand
and stretch to reach
the bleeding instep.
An altar boy
wipes away my kiss
with a white handkerchief.

I bow my head
to imitate the old man
who on Sundays stays
for all the Masses,
locked in place
at the altar rail, face
buried in his hands,
hunched over and sad
as if, like me,
he’d done everything wrong.

Someone like him, I think,
could stop the nails
from going in.

-Elisabeth Murawski

HOME TO ROOST

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small–
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost — all
the same kind
at the same speed.

–Kay Ryan

From her interview at NPR at the time she became the poet laureate:

First of all, it comes from the thing we say to other people when they’ve done a lot of stupid things, and now they’re getting their comeuppance. We say, well, your chickens are coming home to roost, and I have no doubt that when I wrote this, I was chastening myself, and I was telling myself this, but unfortunately, this poem was sitting on the desk of an editor in New York at the time of 9/11, and it suddenly took on this terrible added significance, and I had to withdraw it because it seemed cruelly appropriate. . . . Now right after 9/11, that sounded, you know, the blue sky in here, the clear sky, sounded just like the beauty of that day, and those chickens sounded much too much like airplanes.

In relation to the beautiful day it was 10 years ago, here are a friend’s sentiments.

You can view this interactive map from the New York Times to see where people were on that day. You can click on it and write where you were and how you felt/feel.

This is an NPR interview with John Adams and his commission to compose a piece to commemorate the one-year anniversary of 9/11.

This is the first third of the composition:

10 years.

Still healing.

“Swept Up Whole”

You aren’t swept up whole,
however it feels. You’re
atomized. The wind passes.
You recongeal. It’s
a surprise.

Kay Ryan

And, an excerpt from the linked interview:


What do you think about the state of poetry and the reading of poetry in our country?

I never, ever worry about poetry or its survival because it’s the very nature of a poem to be that language that does survive. Poems are even better than tweets – they don’t require any electronic equipment. They can lodge right in your brain. They are by nature short. You don’t even have to remember all of them — you can remember just a phrase. That can be something you can turn to in any emergency, good or bad. You’ll pluck out a little group of words, just maybe a phrase, and that’s exactly what poetry is for. It’s for the things that really last. Because it lasts.

Well, at least about writing.

I got a paper back tonight. My first of the semester that wasn’t French. It earned an A. Nice surprise, considering I’d written it in a big hurry, pretty much until just before it was due.

A year ago, I don’t think I would have written a first paper – in that manner – that would have done as well.

I’m becoming way too comfortable with procrastination.

Also, I’ve learned just not to write about Jane Austen.

So far, I’ve gotten A’s and A-’s on French papers.

My first French grammar midterm earned a B+ (89% – so close!), which relieved me. I remember leaving the testing center thinking I’d be perfectly content with a B. The exam ended with writing a short composition about the novel we’re reading. I remember feeling pretty good about the essay. The professor gave me a bonus point for style, with a little comment at the end: “Vous êtes poète!” Also, thank goodness for bonus points, for I  might have dipped down into B- or C range without them.

So, that balances the ridiculous crying I did today. If those good things hadn’t happened, I would have chalked today up as an epic loss. Of course there are worse things.

Thanks for the comforting texts, you. I wish I had a gold star to give.

1/11/11: People outside “the bubble” seemed très occupés or surtout agacés or something. Nothing I could do, except probably be less annoying. I admit I can be annoying at times, but really, I haven’t done anything out of character. And people’s reactions are what they are.

Awesome things that happened today:

It was 1 degree this morning. Fahrenheit. It’s more impressive as Celsius: -17.

I blushed for nearly a full 75 minutes because someone decided to call on me three times throughout class AND decided to administer un intérro, after which that someone graded the quizzes one at a time as we stood in line to turn them in. In conjunction with my flushed face, I may have gotten close to 100% with the bonus question. The only reason I don’t know my exact score is I was too scared to look over the professor’s shoulder while she held her mighty red pen. I did notice that there weren’t giant slashes as on some other quizzes, but instead tiny slits, maybe indicating half-point deductions. And maybe there were two of those. Again, I was scared to look, so I’m not certain.

Part of that classroom experience today was my changing seats in class. I was no longer in the front row, but me câchais behind a new friend who served her mission in Madagascar. And the instructor, with her sixth sense, could tell I was hiding. But I was relieved when she pulled out the photo class roster and starting calling students au hasard. It’s just a little stressful when I’m 1) at the top of the alphabet and 2) the teacher knows who I am for a different reason than 1).

Oh, other awesome things:
1) I had lunch with a good friend, and our parting always results in a big hug.
2) I found out about some submission conditions for some symposia where I’d like to present.
3) I made a new friend in another class who is quite cute, but in accordance with my luck or style, this will not progress beyond a platonic level.
4) I realized I like William Wordsworth quite a bit, although I wasn’t entirely sold on him during the assigned reading this past week.
5) I felt extra alert during classes today. Relaxed situations intermingled with rigorous intellectual training seemed to be in perfect proportions. It was cool.
6) I helped coordinate a Free Club reunion. If you’re not already a member or otherwise haven’t been introduced, don’t worry about it.
7) I had fun text conversations with some friends. This is nothing new, but it’s still awesome.

Now, let’s see what tomorrow brings! Hopefully, more of the same.

En Français 202, nous étudions les Moyens Ages. Aujourd’hui, nous avons discuté Charles d’Orléans et sa poésie. Son poème, “Le Printemps”, est un rondeau. Ils sont faciles à identifier, parce que il y a un refrain, et le première et dernière lignes répètent.

Le temps a laissié son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye,
Et s’est vestu de brouderie,
De soleil luyant, cler et beau.

Il n’y a beste, ne oyseau,
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie :
Le temps a laissié son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye.

Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent, en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfaverie,
Chacun s’habille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissié son manteau.

De tout façon, en groupes, notre classe a écrit des rondeaus d’une saison. C’est ce que notre groupe a créé. Ils m’ont fait écrire et lire à haute voix. J’étais très nerveuse:

Les arbres se déshabillent
Les feuilles tombent lentement
Le terre accepte les vêtements des arbres

Les enfants jouent dans les feuilles
Il pleut avec rouge, orange, et jaune
Leurs joues deviennent rouge

Le soleil se couche
Tout le monde est tranquille
Les arbres se déshabillent

La classe a applaudit, parce que nous sommes génieux. Bien sûr.

silver rind hangs from a sparkle
suspended in dark blue gloaming
that bleeds onto imposing indigo shadows
casting upon glowing pinkish silence
that will progress to a crunchy white
and reflect clarity
amidst brown bright noise
drowning frosted sighs
that wait
and dissipate
to answer to
the pallid pendulum
of that eternal
chromatic clock

at 2:48 am
this dark valley hears
fingers tapping upon
this keyboard and
my breathing

then John Donne’s wispy
pages turn
slitting the air
dripping
metaphysical blood

I inhale deeply
this ether
unsedated
cutting neatly
another psychic gill

I didn’t want to disturb you
You looked so peaceful
Full of dreams and eyes half-smiling
Smiling as if nothing mattered
Matters dissolved and cares without
Without staring I watched you nod
Nod at someone no one could see
Seeing is knowing
Knowing without seeing
You wake,
Because Sunday School is over.

From Alexander Pope’s Essays on Man, Epistle I:

“May, must be right, as relative to all.”

Sure, the punctuation is a little bit wrong, but the dead man is surely onto something.

You should listen to him.

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