Category Archives: Uncategorized

The World Arranging Itself

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“It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.” –Wallace Stevens

 

Yes, yes, it does, this spinning marble of a rock, watery

Outside, fiery inside, hurtling through ice-cold space

As if nothing could stop it. And somehow the oceans,

Waxing blue as the sky, waning green as an emerald,

Flashing in the sun, foaming–fiercely, furiously—

Never peel off and sail away into the dark and sparkling

Blanket of space. Why not? Beauty holds together

The way life, once it has ended, keeps on beginning,

Day after day, century after century, aeon after aeon,

And if that’s not poetry, Mr. Stevens, I don’t know what is.

St. Patrick’s Day Concerns

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That moment when you look in your closet

For the only green shirt you own and even

Consider wearing all red and hoping to run into someone

Colorblind. That daft hope that someone, anyone

Will say, “Top of the morning to you!” just

So you can reply, “And the rest of the day to you!”

That memory of being able to wear a green sweater

To school instead of the uniform cranberry, because

Irish Americans are exactly that weird and yes, we did

Go to Catholic school. That craving for corned beef,

With or without the cabbage and Guinness. That dread

Of someone spelling it St. Patty’s as if the bishop was

Named Patricia. That memory of the one single time

You ever drank green beer, and that quizzical look

People give you when you have a Polish last name.

 

Illustration by Sandra Boynton.

That Poem about the Quokka

A friend in need, Mike Allegra, heylookawriterfellow, recently gave me a writing topic when I was sore in need of ideas. He wrote, “Aw! Blockage stinks. But I’m here to help; write about quokkas. You’re welcome.” I had never heard of these, but when I Googled it, here is the picture that looked back at me.

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The kangaroo’s cousin, cute little quokka

With teddy bear eyes and a winning small smile,

Nicely nocturnal you feed on the seedpods,

Leaves and soft bark by the light of the moon.

 

Quick! Make a wish! A big steaming mocha

Or peppermint muffins stacked up in a pile:

Some sign that you haven’t been mocked by the food gods.

The Nightblooming Rainbow will bring it right soon.

Squirrel Revolution

Girl on the Contrary is predicting that the squirrels in her neighborhood may be plotting a revolution. Until I read this, I did not understand the Sandy Skoglund installation/photo entitled “Squirrels.” Now, however, I am beginning to get it…

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They are in fact everywhere, probably

Watching us through our windows, looking

Innocent and fuzzy as they scamper up and down

Trees in the park. Only the big black dog knows

What they are up to and chases them at top speed

Leaping easily over the fence and trying to follow

Them up the tree. But paws like his were not made

For vertical climbing. So the ides of March comes

Closer every day, the revolution comes disguised

In soft greys and browns, with beady black eyes and

Fluffy tails twitching in Morse code: Soon. Very soon.

Response to Robert Okaji’s “How to Write a Poem”

Response to Robert Okaji’s “How to Write a Poem”

 

How to Revise a Poem

 

Having learned to make a toast in nine languages

And setting aside the chainsaw with which I carved

 

This poem out of a block of fresh ice, I take up the scalpel,

Heated over the blue flame of the gas stove. I stand

 

For a moment like a conductor in white tie and tails,

Waiting for the crowd to fall silent, and make the first cut

 

Into the heart of the poem. Does it bleed? Do the words

Fall to the dirt among the pigeons? Do the courtesies

 

Sound hollow or sincere? The moon pulls at my arm

Like a cat in search of dinner or a playmate. I accept all:

 

Love, envy, ambition, and drive the wrong way down

One-way streets. They won’t catch me. They will

 

Park their Black Marias on the sidestreet, dig in

To the bowls of chili I provide for them while I steal

 

The bullets from their guns. Finally! At last! Just exactly

What I needed for the new ending to the poem.

 

Another Poem Commemorating My Writer’s Block

The block on my desk, gargantuan piece of

Imaginary marble, streaked through with veins

Of imperial purple to show the unwary

 

Just how important! how crucial! such a lack

Of ideas can be to a quarry artist, to a master builder,

To a poet with a tiny little bit of vacations time

 

On her hands and absolutely no topics

For potential discussion. Such is the way of the rhinocerous-

Skinned writer. Cut yourself. Write truth in blood.

Rooting for Root

Great thoughts by Cassandra on one of my favorite pop culture heroines! Thanks, Geeky Voyage!

Cassandra's avatarGeeky Voyage

Over the summer, I discovered a television series that blew my mind and changed my perception on modern television. Said series is Person of Interest.

Until I had subscribed to Netflix back in June, I hadn’t heard much about the series. I knew of the two main female characters, Root and Shaw (their portmanteau pairing name being the apposite “Shoot”) and that was as far as my knowledge on POI stretched. Sadly, the series receives next to no promotion in the UK so it is largely unknown to the majority of British audiences.

I had been fresh off an Angel binge at the time and I was dying for some more Amy Acker in my life. So when I saw an advertisement for POI on Netflix—its title card blown up in all of its deceptively subtle glory— I bit the bullet and loaded it up.

The first thing that I…

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Why the Dream of the Sandwich Never Dies

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Since the dawn of lunch, roughly the mid-eighteenth century, when John Montagu, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, too busy gambling with his friends to eat a real meal, asked his valet to bring him some meat in between two slices of bread, people have appreciated the portability of the sandwich.

The two places where I work are both nearby a Rebecca’s and an Au Bon Pain, so you can imagine that I have been eating a lot of sandwiches recently, some of them remarkably better than others. And just when I finally find a sandwich I can fall in love with, the place changes the menu, and not for the better. And even when you get the same sandwich on Friday, for example, that you also got on the previous Tuesday, the person who makes it can make all the difference. (Note to Au Bon Pain: mustard is a condiment, not a soup. The same goes for lemon aioli.)

Disappointments abound, but humans are aspirational creatures. If we weren’t, the species would have pretty much petered out by now, given how often love fails. And we can’t even blame Disney for our apparent optimism. When was the last time you heard a bunch of forest animals singing about the happy ending that was surely in the human characters’ future: to wit, a perfect sandwich? (Okay, the closest thing I can think of to this would be the animated film, Over the Hedge, where the animals go through the humans’ trash like connoisseurs.)

And I just discovered that “Club Sandwich” means that there is an extra piece of bread in the middle, a hundred needless calories where there could be Meaningful Filling of Actual Substance. Harrumph.