Tears Navigating Seas of Laughter

The stale but sovereign solstice
Failed to tell the tale unspoken
And derailed the frail atonement
Such to sail the sea unbroken
But the sea is set in motion
Thus to be the needless notion
Means you free that seedless potion
And release diseased commotion
In a second of revival
Where it's reckoned that denial
Has been beckoned by the style
Of the lessons learned through trial
Thus the sea is rendered ruthless
So to sow the seed is useless
Now neglect the needy nuisance
For the free will be so fruitless

Freedom's guile
Formed this isle
Atop tearful, tilted
Smiles

A Thought on Sharon Olds

In Sharon Olds’ “Photograph of the Girl” and “The Food-Thief”, Olds provides the reader with a momentary glimpse into the life of a single individual in a third world country. I use the word “momentary” very specifically here because it seems as though both poems were written in response to a moment in time captured within a picture. Therefore, even though these poems each take up about the length of a page, all Olds’ description and emphasis within each simply covers the span of a millisecond. Her ability to evoke such emotional distress not only in the main characters being described but also in the reader within such a limited time frame only confirms her mastery of the art.
These two poems work well for comparison. “Photograph of the Girl” is about a girl (obviously) in Russia during the drought of 1921. “The Food-Thief” is about a man in Uganda also during a period of drought though it’s hard to say when or which one since Uganda is historically famous (or infamous) for its intolerable living conditions. Despite the difference in location, Olds uses specific language and diction in each poem to illustrate the point that it doesn’t matter where you are or when, people (men and women) suffer alike under relatively same circumstances. It is this language and diction that gives life to the pictures making the intangible tangible for the reader allowing for the message to hit home.
It is Olds’ description of the bodies of the male and female character that truly provoke the senses. She carefully manipulates words so that, at least in the cases of these two poems, the human body, though dying in front of her, in front of the reader, is still portrayed as this amazing work of art … Almost as if they weren’t dying at all. She reveals a strange beauty within the decay.
For example, in “Photograph of the Girl”, and speaking of the girl, Olds says, “She cannot be not beautiful, but she is starving” and later in the poem she describes eggs from the girl’s ovaries as “golden as drops of rain.” There is so much life in these statements because of the way in which Olds words them, but they are essentially informing the reader of the death of something beautiful. Likewise, in “The Food-Thief”, she exemplifies this concept when she says, “He turns to them with all the eloquence of the body, the wrist turned out and the vein up his forearm running like a root just under the surface” and later in the poem when she says, “His lips are open to his brothers as the body of a woman might be open . . . the lines on his lips fine as the thousand tributaries of a root-hair.” This last line which equates the male and female body in the same context further provides substance for the beauty within men and the struggle for survival which escapes neither man nor woman.

Boxed Wedding Photos
(The simplicity of chemical absolutes)

No one ever loved a mountain
We would rather stake the plunge
Way too high to take the picture
Far too frail to fake the lunge
I am something much like cardboard
I'll suffice for life’s decree
Mountains crumble stumbling saviors
Favored not by water’s plea

--that brittle girl
who pierced the stagnant surface
now peers within
to jeer At whoM she Purchased
now steals me near
to fear my feel forever
by Kissing me
goodnight to off endeavor
now breathes for me
inhaling this misfortune
exhaling bliss
with Listless Sign Distortion
now feeds herself
the tales Of temPting tourIsts
then vomits
verbal veils of stale abhorrence
now clothes me with
My DoMinant Affection
to sever
Phallic Constructs of Perception
now COnCentrates
with me without the science
To Hasten Christ
but designate defiance
now wounds my will
to ill tHe still annoyed
revealing thus
a fussy little boy –

Cardboard cannot breathe like pictures
Pictures only render seas
Seas I fear reflect the mountains
...
picture Drowning Midst the Tease

In The Beginning (Part III)

. . . Oh Lord of Thorns
I beseech Thee
As Thine inborn
Prithe teach me
‘Bout Thine other
Doubt deformed.
Denounce the Colours
Man has scorned.”

In The Beginning (Part II)

T’was truly cold
As I recall
The newly old
Was duly bold
And long before
The terror, Earth
Did there abscond
With fairer mirth
To cast it vast
Amidst the shit.
Iconoclasts
Were we with whit.
But, watch Thee whit
For it is sly
And with the shit
Can waive the cry
That pleads it ‘pause’
Till clause provides
Competing loss
To cause demise

In The Beginning (Part I)

“Man of Colours
I beseech Thee
As Thy brother
Prithe teach me
‘Bout the fossil
Doubt forewarned.
Recount the hostile
Lord of Thorns . . .

Her Eternal Love Prevails
(For the self-defeating mechanisms)

In this vintage one room apartment –
Morrison’s carried away
By a caravan in the background
Live in Philadelphia
On vinyl
The voice, the mind,
The space cadet
Launching, reiterating
From smoke-glossed, once off-white
90 degree angles
At some strange, majestic,
Alcoholic end:
Concept far overdue

(Fading up)

Thompson stares
From behind his trademark
Aviator glasses
Plastered posthumously
On the Rolling Stone cover
Sometime 2005
Fastened crookedly
To the confined, dividing
Clarity
That separates time,
Distance,
And a fatal shotgun
BLAST
To the head
Trigger pulled by the toe:
Concept far overdue

(Fading left)

Bush’s smirking towards Heaven
On 8 1/2 x 11 inches of remembrance
A memento from
Some sarcastic acquaintance
The lyrics of
Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta
Copied, pasted, printed,
Cut, then re-pasted
The verse
“I’ll send a million troops to die at war”
Bolded,
Emphasized:
Concept far overdue

(Fading right)

Barrett’s on the television –
Documentary film
DVD
The new vinyl (with pictures)
Leary never saw it coming
Dropped out too soon
Some Futurist –
The “Vegetable Man” himself
Insane:
Concept far overdue

(Fading back down)

Her voice reverberates
Through a landline telephone
Long since handed to the floor
“I love you” . . .
And he’s simply sitting here
Medicated
With a thought
Much like Dwyer:
It’s a concept far overdue –
In this vintage, one-room apartment

Portion of Final Podcast

In my final research paper, I addressed the psychosocial attributes of personal poetry blogging. One aspect of this ever-growing form of self-publication and social interaction that I neglected to incorporate in this paper, however, is that of video blogging, a fairly new subset of personal poetry blogging. Video blogging is unique in that it allows for a viewer to not only examine the blog post from a reader-response perspective, but also to make rather precise assumptions about the author’s intent. This is possible because a viewer is not only a recipient of an intended message, but also an active element in the social exchange. By examining (or scrutinizing) a speaker’s body language, intonations, or otherwise unrecognizable peculiarities, a viewer can discern more accurately the intended interpretation. These same elements, though, can also beget negative repercussions because a viewer can all at once witness the author’s physical, mental and emotional states which may overexpose the author’s self and encroach on his or her privacy. Therefore, a video blogger (just like a standard blogger) must always keep in mind that his or her security could be at stake at any point in which the exposition of self is evident.
Video blogging is a rather simple process if one has a video camera, a previously established blog domain, and of course, internet access. When setting up a blog, there are several applications one can choose to apply to it which are provided by the blogging site such as Blogger. One of these applications is entitled “Video.” One merely needs to click on this proposed application whereby the site will automatically alter the individual’s blog, making it ready to post videos. All that’s left for the individual to do from there is to shoot a poetry video and save it onto a file in his or her computer. From there, the file can be uploaded onto the blog for all to see. Adding a podcast to a blog, such as this one, in addition to video, requires the same basic tenets to function correctly.
Adding an audio poetry podcast, whether personal or informative, to a blog is another method of social interplay not discussed in my research paper, but is definitely one to take note of. Poetry podcasting carries with it all the same advantages of interpretation as a video podcast except, of course, for the visual factor. This is okay, though. In fact, it’s probably better than okay for privacy reasons as well as for interpretive technique. When removing the visual component from the process of signification all that remains to convey the message is the interpretive value of word choice combined with the changes in pitch and tone. Without the visual component, a listener is forced to hone in solely on the audio which could be argued allows for the listener to create his or her own visuals, thereby helping to structure the interpretation , and in so doing, creating an image of self.

A Response To Komunyakaa

We, as writers, are always reminded, from one established poet to the next, of the arduous path once forged by those whose writing is simply a completion of prior, established experiences. It is this experience, unique to the individual but attainable by the masses, that fosters the creation of thought, and later, its interpretation. Komunyakaa has established himself among these elite “thinkers” by introducing his own experiences as a soldier in Vietnam to a literary world perhaps unready for such raw images of reality. I suppose the poem that most caught my attention is “Tunnels.”
“Tunnels” takes the reader into the mind of the speaker who is alternately in the mind of the subject of the poem. It’s a strange view to navigate, but ultimately you, as the reader, because of the speaker, are projected into the view of someone burrowing alongside the subject, experiencing his daily routine as the “good soldier.” This maneuvering view is evident in the opening four lines wherein the speaker says, “Crawling down headfirst into the hole, he kicks the air & disappears. I feel like I’m down there with him, moving ahead, pushed.”
From here, and with intricate use of imagery by Komunyakaa, the reader is taken down into the manmade tunnels the North Vietnamese had created to navigate battlefield locations undetected. For instance, the speaker likens the tunnel to “a river of darkness,” which alternately functions to support the ominous overtone the poem implies. He then begins to describe the perils of the man, the “tunnel rat” in his platoon. The speaker says, “He moves as if trying to outdo blind fish easing toward imagined blue, pulled by something greater than life’s ambitions.” Metaphorically speaking, it seems as though the “blind fish” are enemy combatants who are “blind” because they are in complete darkness and are attempting to reach the “imagined blue.” This “imagined blue,” of course, refers to the sky which, for either a tunnel rat or enemy combatant, would be the first thing (color) he would see when exiting a tunnel, when returning to this world. The last part of that thought is interesting as well. The tunnel rat is “pulled by something” acting as a force that strengthens his will to continue, “something greater than life’s ambitions,” which I interpret as possibly adrenaline due to overwhelming fear, or possibly some supernatural essence. It has to be something that supersedes the will when the will is weakened beyond its own self-reliance because the situation seems futile.
Komunyakaa uses a well-placed, thought-conjuring simile that utilizes the predisposed fear and mysticism, historically speaking, of humans towards bats to emphasize the image he’s creating of conquering the unknown. He writes, “He can’t . . . care about bats upside down like gods in the mole’s blackness.” This is so good because on one hand, the reader notices the bravery of the tunnel rat to traverse amidst these, figuratively speaking, demonic beasts. These demonic beasts are representations of the enemy combatants who are also, in a way, demonic beasts so to speak. On the other hand, we are given the image of a mole, blind to the world around it, and therefore having no further concept of that which is greater than itself except for that which its senses allow it to know. It’s a form of preternatural faith which, when combined with the whole image, lends to a faith instilled in the tunnel rat which allows him to tap into that element that is “greater than life’s ambitions.”
Another profound image is created in the mind of the reader when the speaker says, “A web of booby traps waits, ready to spring into broken stars.” Here the reader can picture the tunnel as a different world completely, void of anything really, un-birthed. If the tunnel rat were to trigger a booby trap and it were to explode, then you would see something much like “broken stars” in the form of flying shrapnel. Something designed to literally create death, alternately creates life in this netherworld with a big bang. The concluding two lines basically sum up not only the poem but also the mood surrounding the poem, the mood the reader is to exit feeling. It is written here, “[He is] loving the weight of the shotgun that will someday dig his grave.” Again Komunyakaa provides the reader with a strange duality. The shotgun is both the life-sustaining element and the consummator of death. It is this mood of death that pervades the different elements of this poem and ultimately comes full circle to complete the ominous cycle.

A Thought on Dougherty's Poetry

Poetry is an odd discursive mechanism that seems to incorporate almost every different style, genre, aesthetic value, and interpretive potential possible when a message is transmitted and received. The one definitive differentiation we (as students) are taught to make in literary discourse is that between poetry and prose. However, the fine, dividing line that once fostered this differentiation, partially due to the influence of literary theory, has all but dissipated in recent years. A prime example of this once taboo convergence is evident in Sean Thomas Dougherty’s collection of poems aptly named Broken Hallelujahs. Having said this, it’s important to understand that Dougherty’s poetry is best experienced through his dramatic readings (much like Ginsberg) which expose him as a modern beatnik. One poem in particular which espouses these sentiments is called, What We Keep.
What We Keep makes use of punctuation (in particular periods) to separate different thoughts like prose does, but most of these “sentences” are actually incomplete and therefore sentence fragments which is common to traditional poetry. Also, the construction and appearance of the poem is reminiscent of a short essay or long paragraph which students would usually associate with prose writing and aesthetics since traditional poetry is often written in relatively short lines that have purposefully large spaces between them. Therefore, simply based on appearance, it would be difficult on first glance for someone not knowing that this is a poem to definitively say it is one since it incorporates characteristics of both prose and poetry.
The beneficial aspect of Dougherty’s modern beatnik style is that it allows him to use vivid imagery in what is essentially a single stream of interrelated thoughts. When a reader reads through What We Keep, then, he or she is practically bombarded with visual images (some straightforward, some more ambiguous) from beginning to end, and therefore, once concluding the poem, must piece all the images together in order to grasp the overall picture. It is as if Dougherty is painting a verbal mural on the mind of the reader in what could be synonymous with modern art. This sentiment is evident in the following line: “To swing against slag, the purple hills of mid-autumn outside the city of bridges and blue sun, the distant tintinnabulations of church bells, blur of twilight, candles lit by widows in the windows of old farmhouses.” Within this single stream of consciousness, and this is only one of many, there are at least five (arguably more) visual displays of description which all at once evoke an emotional and mental response to a place the reader may not fully understand but can relate to because of the imagery involved. This aspect of relation is paramount in poetry because once a poet loses his audience to the unknown; the audience becomes bored or simply detached and ultimately loses sight of the overall picture.
Now, I mentioned earlier that Dougherty utilizes ambiguous, metaphorical imagery which he intersperses throughout literal images in order to paint the overall picture. For instance, he says, “I sip glasses of harsh gold” which I interpret as a metaphor for drinking rum which he references earlier in the poem. This would also explain the use of the adjective “harsh.” Another example of this would be the line that follows: “What keeps us from worms is this tough, rough-handed kiss.” The “tough, rough-handed kiss” I interpret as a metaphorical embrace between two lovers who are/were going through a rough patch in their relationship. Yet, it is this embrace which sustains them keeping them from death which is alluded to in the beginning of the poem when Dougherty references a “graveyard.” This foreshadowing is what allows Dougherty to paint an overall picture from beginning to end.

Portion of a Podcast

Poetry is a pervasive element within the mechanism known as blogging. For all those disgruntled with or oblivious to the concept of professional publishing, blogging allows for an individual to, in essence, circumnavigate the rigors of submission and the sometimes excruciatingly long wait that follows, by simply posting his or her literary work in an open forum for all to see. Of course, there are no particular awards of prestige to be attained by this method, but this aspect, to some, is counterbalanced by the relative ease blogging provides. Also, when a poem is posted to a blog, it can be read by anyone in the general public who has internet access, whereas professional publishing is only read by a certain amount of eclectic followers of that particular literary text. The final aspect of poetic blogging which, to some, may also be the most pertinent is that when an individual posts a poem on his or her blog, he or she has full access to the rights of that poem. Let me reiterate this aspect. When an individual submits a poem to a professional publishing domain, that individual basically forfeits the rights of that poem to the company, who at that point, is legally allowed to change what they deem fit. When an individual posts a poem to his or her blog, the rights of authorship remain with the poet, and the poet can at any time access his or her poems and make changes as they deem necessary. There are, therefore, positive and negative elements in both professionally published works and self posted works that a poet might want to keep in mind before he or she decides to take that next step. Of course, ideally, a poet should attempt to bridge the gaps between both of these mechanisms, and it can be done. What I mean by this is that, when an individual decides he or she would like to submit a poem, one of the prerequisites is that the poem must not have been published before. In essence, publishing companies are constantly searching for new and unique works. Here’s the interesting part, though. Posting to a blog is not technically considered “publishing” in the sense of a reputable source, so an individual who chooses to post a poem on a blog can alternately use that same poem in submission to an online (or other) professional publishing company. Thus, to achieve the best possible outcome, notoriety, an individual would do well to make every sort of concerted effort possible in getting a work noticed.

A Portion of My Podcast

This is a poem I recently wrote called “Her Eternal Love Prevails” which is dedicated to the self-defeating mechanisms who have, in one way or another, influenced the lives we now lead. All in all, the poem, though seemingly happy and upbeat when one first reads the title, is actually a sarcastic jab at the essential self of those mentioned in the poem as well as the reader. Basically, the gist is that if we strive too intensely to discover that which cannot be tamed, we ultimately lose ourselves because the essential self is bullshit and because there always exists, even if it’s not appealing, choice to do one thing or another. This, what could be described as an ominous tone, is merely a simpler sub-group to a greater genre of literary discourse perhaps most devoted to the beatnik style. There are copious genres that pervade the literary world, and there numbers grow (seemingly daily) as individual poets introduce a unique twist on an already established genre. This slight deviation allows for a different and unique form of interpretation which ultimately determines the newly established genre. So what effect does this have on online poetry blogs?
Poetry blogs seem to be set up in one of two different ways. It differs slightly from one to the next to be honest. The first method is for a blogger to stick to one particular genre within which he or she can incorporate many different styles. A blogger can choose, as many do, to introduce a subtitle to their poetry blog which informs the reader as to what sort of poetry, what genre the blogger is attempting to write within. In this manner, when an individual is searching through poetry blogs, he or she can determine immediately if the genre posted fits their taste or the particular mood they’re in at the time. If so, the individual can choose to read through the posts and interpret for himself if this blog contains something unique and relatable. If not, the individual can easily navigate away from the blog and start browsing through the next. Often times, poetry bloggers will add their site name to a list on a search engine dedicated strictly to online poetry. Often times, these search engines will ask the blogger to choose a genre making the process described earlier easier for a potential reader.
The second method is for a blogger to incorporate random genres throughout the blog from post to post depending upon the poet’s particular emotional state at the time of conception. This method would best describe my approach to poetry blogging since my mood tends to swing from one end of the spectrum to the next at any given moment. Posting in this manner may not be as appealing for potential readers simply because they aren’t sure what they’re getting themselves into, and because they may have to potentially read through several poems (instead of just one) to determine whether or not your approach is beneficial for their interpretational needs. At the same time though, the simple fact that a reader may find himself scanning multiple poems in order to make this determination, means that you, as the poet, are becoming noticed, no matter how miniscule the effect. You will find these “random genre” poems interspersed throughout other more methodically based blogs in online search engines, but possibly the best way for someone to find blogs such as these is to merely stumble upon them in the search literary wisdom.

A Thought On Poet, Mark Strand

Mark Strand possesses a unique style of writing poetry whereby the reader’s focus is directed more toward the subliminal, symbolic meaning behind the words than the imagery the words convey. For instance, the poem My Life By Somebody Else is rather simplistically structured and worded, yet a more in-depth analysis reveals that the poem’s intentions are of a much more profound nature: the conflict (or at least separation) between author and speaker. The outcome, then, exposes the semi-schizophrenic duality of a poet in relation to his work.
There is first a (possibly obvious) distinction that must be made between the “self” and the “other” which is constituted by the proverbial “I” and “you” in the poem. It could easily be mistakenly interpreted, then, that “I” refers to the author, Mr. Strand, and “you” refers to the speaker, his creation. On closer inspection though, I believe it becomes apparent that the opposite is actually the truth. However, I do believe Strand is the one telling the story. Basically, then, the poem is being written and told by Strand to his audience (the reader), but the speaker is the element interpreting the process which binds the two, and in doing so, exposes Strand the tangible element. This is the abridged version of the duality complex of a poet.
The speaker first exposes the other by saying, “I left a bowl of milk on the desk to tempt you.” In this manner of personified seduction, the speaker is equating Strand to a cat (the relatable element). In a strange twist, the speaker then says, “I left my wallet there full of money . . . You never came.” By making this antithetical juxtaposition (all in the first stanza), the speaker tempts Strand first in an innocent nonhuman manner, then immediately after tempts him in a more devious manner in order to evoke his humanness. As I mentioned before, the reader needn’t gaze long at the particular words or their structure because the meaning lies in the symbolic interpretation not obviously evident.
In the next stanza, the speaker increases the temptation factor by offering himself and his wife to Strand in a humorous fashion by saying, “I played with myself just to arouse you . . . I offered you my wife. I sat her on the desk and spread her legs.” The first noteworthy element is the play on words in the first sentence which connects the “self” and “other” elements by way of sexual allusion and cleverness on the part of the speaker. When those two elements fail to sufficiently satisfy each other, the speaker reverts to pimping his wife out to the “other” (still essentially himself though) with hopes of returning the notion of personhood and the ultimate achievement, idea. Again the reader witnesses a strange juxtaposition of elements all in the same stanza: that of the male ego (signified) and that of the female image (signifier). There exists here a temptation of the “self” and the temptation of that which lies outside the other (reality in essence).
The third stanza deviates from the previous ones by exposing the inner-workings of the “self” in relation to the “other.” Here the reader becomes aware of the sick sense of despair the duality has created in the mechanism evident in the text by extensive questioning. The speaker says, “Is it because I am ugly? Was anyone ever so sad?” This is simply the pitying factor that is a forerunner for something predominantly worse. He continues by saying, “It is pointless to slash my wrists. My hands would fall off. And then what hope would I have?” This is, to be more precise, where the sick desperation becomes evident with overtones of ego-frenzied sarcasm and self-defeating indulgence prevalent throughout. There is no strange juxtaposition in this stanza really (aside from the switch from pity to sarcasm which is rather expected), only the elemental breakdown of a stranger who is the “self.” It’s awkward to think of ourselves this way, but Strand in relatively simple terms breaks it down for the reader.
The fourth and final stanza concludes itself at the peak of the poem’s disillusionment. The reader sees more desperate but very revealing questioning from the speaker when he says, “Must I have you by being somebody else? Must I write My Life by somebody else? My Death by somebody else?” This is very important because the “self” is beginning to realize that the “other” has become insufficient and that a possible substitute “self” may be required though he says it so as not to expect it to get to that degree of severity. Then there is a single question posed to the author (the “other) which is of extreme importance because it sets the entirety of the poem before this point apart from the concluding thoughts. The speaker says, “Are you listening?”
Something was listening, but my interpretation is that it is not the “other.” The speaker concludes the poem by saying, “Somebody else has arrived. Somebody else is writing.” This “Somebody else” is a new element that has replaced the “other” and has therefore become the author of that which the speaker will now interpret or intercede for. In this manner, a sufficient “other” was found, but this “other” is new and strange to the “self” and he appears wary of him. The duality is sustained.
This is an odd conclusion because the reader is left to wonder about the fate of the “self” in relation to the “other,” or put another way, to wonder about the fate of the man (the author) who possesses these two estranged yet interworking elements. I suppose the overarching theme of the poem is to express the duality in nature that occurs for people like poets who are able to view things outside the box. An author must be aware of those places he goes and those people he becomes lest he find himself caught within his own head. This is a very cognizant statement, and one to be remembered by those who write themselves through others.

Her Everlasting Love Prevails
For the self-defeating mechanisms

In this vintage one room apartment –
Morrison’s carried away
By a caravan in the background
Live in Philadelphia
On vinyl
The voice, the mind,
The space cadet
Launching, reiterating
From smoke-glossed, once off-white
90 degree angles
At some strange, majestic,
Alcoholic end
Concept far overdue

Fade up

Thompson stares
From behind his trademark
Aviator glasses
Plastered posthumously
On the Rolling Stone cover
Sometime 2005
Fastened crookedly
To the confined, dividing
Clarity
That separates time,
Distance,
And a fatal shotgun
BLAST
To the head
Trigger pulled by the toe
Concept far overdue

Fade left

Bush’s smirking towards Heaven
On 8 1/2 x 11 inches of remembrance
A memento from
Some sarcastic acquaintance
The lyrics of
Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta
Copied, pasted, printed,
Cut, then re-pasted
The verse
“I’ll send a million troops to die at war”
Bolded,
Emphasized
Concept far overdue

Fade right

Barrett’s on the television –
Documentary film
DVD
The new vinyl (with pictures)
Leary never saw it coming
Dropped out too soon
Some Futurist –
The “Vegetable Man” himself, insane
Concept far overdue

Fade down

Someone’s voice reverberates
Through a landline telephone
Long since handed to the floor
“I love you” . . .
And he’s simply sitting here
Medicated
With a thought
Much like Dwyer
It’s a concept far overdue –
In this vintage, one-room apartment

The Chaplain Genocide

Seething bastards
Bleed the captured
Pleading pastors – “Pray!” – But
Him the Sender
Heaven’s lender
Renders not this day
A tender loan
For gendered bones
Unknown to splendor faith
That Him who is
In whim relives
A grimmer concept – Wraith
What Wraith defies
Our God denies
Repugnant puffs of breath
For hindsight spells
Itself in H-E-L-L
Compelled to dwell in death –

“And as the setting sun
Shall run
I’ll run
We’ll runtogether
Sketching memories
(mirrored Sonnets)
Oh what fun
What fun is – Tethered –
Is again redeemed
Upon remaining
Esteemed life
Not severed
Thoughts endangered
Ought be stranger
And retreated from
Until the Son
Repeated comes”

When hindsight grows
Then blindness stows
A prose, progressive stench
Like remnants strewn
On dunes in June
With fervor firmly clenched

Audacity practice recordings response

Thus far, it doesn't seem as though I can get into the majority of the Audacity practice recordings on Blackboard because people haven't converted said recordings into MP3 formatting. For the majority, I will respond to your recordings as soon as I my computer will allow me to open them. For the minority, there were some intellectually provoking recordings and some humorous ones and a cute one. I liked Kaitlin Tito's reading of Benjamin Franklin. It is most definitely not an easy read, and yet she read through it quite well. Also, her voice's pitch and tone worked well, along with a very clear recording devoid of background noise, to allow for a pleasant rendition of the good ole man. I found Frank's recording to be humorous until my ears damn near bled from the monotony. I may have suffered a seizure Frank, not sure, but permanent damage may have been inflicted. On a serious not though, I liked the echo Frank added to his recording to give it a unique and catchy sound. Someone else, I cant remember who, recorded her and her 3-year-old niece reading a children's book together. I suppose the word, though awkward, is "adorable" . . . Yeah it was adorable. I see now how Audacity (or programs like it) can be used for posterity and remembrance. I suppose you could map your child's linguistic growth as they age from the infant to toddler phase and such. Anyway, I enjoyed listening to your recordings. Later people.

Technology Narrative

In general, or in accordance with the technological status quo of my generation, I’m what one would consider technologically illiterate in most circumstances. I can use a cell phone to make calls, but aside from this very basic function in this not so basic device I’m completely lost. Sure I can figure out how to use my applications after playing with the phone for a while, but I don’t even have internet service with it for the simple reason that it complicates things further – more jumbled space in a 3” X 5” screen. My knowledge of computers is quite limited as well.
The only software I use on a consistent basis is Microsoft Office Word. Since I’m an English major, practically all I ever do is read and write. I read information from textbooks or on the internet and I use Word to type them up. I’ve used PowerPoint and Excel as well, but not since high school, so I would probably be a bit rusty if one were to ask me to use either of these programs efficiently. To give myself a little credit though, I’m a huge fan of iTunes and the myriad of applications therein that are of high quality.
I understand the internet well enough to navigate through it in part due to navigation tools such as Google (which I use most often) or Ask.com. My personal disgruntlement with the internet is that, when searching for scholarly information to cite in essays and such, it’s difficult to get exactly where I want to be when I’m not quite sure where that is and when so much of what is on the internet is nonsense. That statement may expose my lack of understanding to someone who is internet savvy, but I’m well aware that I’m slightly behind the times. Sometimes, for a brief second, I feel as though I’ve almost caught up until something new is created and I’m completely lost again. This, though, is the nature between man and technology I suppose.
I’ve never created or posted a blog and I honestly haven’t the slightest clue as to what a tweet is, or the concept of twitter in general. However, I’m familiar with social networking sites such as Facebook and MySpace, and how the applications within these sites work. The ability to communicate several levels from location (site) fascinates me. Since the internet (and therefore E-mail) has basically been created in my lifetime, I’ve been able to watch it grow and evolve just like myself up to the present. I remember dial-up internet connection and how inefficient that was. I would send out an E-mail, and since it wasn’t used as a primary source of communication, would wait a few days and check for a reply after waiting for the thirty minute connection to finally take place. Now everything is high speed. If I’m sending out an E-mail, you better believe I’ll be checking for a reply within the hour (or less).
When in school, the ability to communicate with teachers through E-mail is a saving grace. The discussion board on Blackboard can also be a very helpful communicative tool. Several professors have used this in their curriculums as a way for the entire class to participate in discussion when not in the classroom together, including the professor himself or herself. No matter what method or device one chooses to accomplish it, the ability to communicate quickly is essential in school, in life.

PRIOR TO WINE

Beist thou the tendril
T’wich adheres my veiny grasp
Strengthens thus my being
Such that freeing would perhaps
Subtly but surely
Find me prostrate at thy base
Wilting whilst I spoil
Into soil-laden waste
There succumbing promptly
Midst the sepulchre and stone
Yearning yet again to clasp
Onto thy placit – Grown.
Thoroughly complacent
Whilst adjacent to thy brawn
Steadfast with ambition
To position myself on
Thy sturdy sense of solace
That which carefully consoles
And bids me climb thee higher
To desire skyward strolls -

Hold me lovely
I’m becoming
Unbecoming fast
In the sanctum
Reels this rancor
From the anchors of our past
As an answer
To the question
I now bring myself to (t)ask
Like the question
As an answer
In suggestion wears its mask

- Thus hexed by intuition
And perplexed by death instilled
I’m vexed by this next question
. . . Beist thou my tendril?

Letter to the Corinthians

Porcine posits
Forced in closets
Built to bind such “beasts”
Remain detained
Innately feigned
By peace-believing priests

For fear of God
Or sheer façade
In odd symbolic lure
Is grace enough
To waste rebuff -
Embracing chaste manure

And what of fear
For God – Career?
Or fodder for the crowd?
Or both? – Who knows
When swooned repose
Bestows the blows allowed

Will paddled ass
Or straddled class
Or raddled knuckles save
A wayward yearn
Or mental churn
Determined to deprave?

And if depraved
Or stone-engraved
Like turbans torn to hell
Before the chance
Bore circumstance
To hem the foreign fell,
Then save me not
A pavement lot
Embroidered to the hilt
With gilded guise
And wilted eyes
For temples tempting guilt

Suburban cross
And turbaned loss
Exist betwixed these realms:
Of that which hurts
To stitch the flirt
And that which skirts the helm . . .

When symbols sign
A simple line
And holy ground secures
Well then my friend
The pen you tend
Breeds “beasts” like you and yours

Amen