Masked under matching dresses,
layers of velvet and tulle.
Three girls in a row
eyes fixed forward.
Remember,
God loved the world – so don’t
fidget and put a
run in your stockings.
I sat in the pew.
Clicking heals together,
playing Hangman,
crinkling candy wrappers.
Until my father looked down from the pulpit.
Jesus with the kind eyes, the only son
staring behind him.
The two of them, a moral force
with carefully crafted beards.
If the world ended today Elise
would you want God to see you in jeans?
What if I believe in sweatpants,
disheveled hair and
dirt under my fingernails,
my soul?
Does my penance, my tithes, my obedience
not count?
I did not perish in the pool.
Didn’t even discover Jesus.
Though I encountered bats
during hide and seek,
disturbing their anointed slumber.
I would have fed them the body of Christ;
but I ate the last of the Wonderbread.
John, Paul …. George & Ringo?
Two out of four isn’t bad.
I memorized verses for stickers.
I forget most of the words; I remember the stickers.
Bows in hair, socks cuffed,
clean underwear will lead you into everlasting life.
~Elise Renz
1/29/06
1/27/06
NPR interview with Frieda Hughes
Given that we're reading some Plath poems this weekend, you may be interested in an NPR interview with Frieda Hughes, Sylvia Plath's daughter, talking about Ariel: The Restored Edition (the collection in which "Daddy" & "Lady Lazarus" appear) and her mother's legacy. The interview can be heard here. It includes a recording of both Sylvia herself reading as well as her daughter in a rare reading of her mother's work.
1/25/06
This is a poem Professor Martinez-Saenz used in one of his presentations. I thought it was cool.
-Matt Argalas
Continuing to Live
by Philip Larkin
And once you have walked the length of your mind
what you command is clear as a lading-list.
Anything else must not
for you
be thought to exist.
And what's the profit? Only that
in time
we half-identify the blind impress All our behavings bear
may trace it home.
But to confess
On that green evening
when our death begins
Just what it was
is hardly satisfying
Since it applied only to one man once.
And that one dying.
-Matt Argalas
Continuing to Live
by Philip Larkin
And once you have walked the length of your mind
what you command is clear as a lading-list.
Anything else must not
for you
be thought to exist.
And what's the profit? Only that
in time
we half-identify the blind impress All our behavings bear
may trace it home.
But to confess
On that green evening
when our death begins
Just what it was
is hardly satisfying
Since it applied only to one man once.
And that one dying.
1/24/06
Bamboo plant (this is not for the assignment)
Hi all,
I wrote this poem recently, and I just had a revelation: perhaps it would work better as a prose poem or short short than an actual poem. I wondered if anyone could provide feedback on which version they like best (or none at all!). There are 2 versions below; in the first version, please imagine each section as an indented paragraph with no double space. I couldn't get it to indent, so I double-spaced each paragraph. Thanks for your opinion!
WHAT I DID TO MY BAMBOO PLANT (each section is meant to be a paragraph, not a stanza)
It was a slow killing process, really; not like the quick whap of newspaper crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings, but more like gentle evaporation of life.
It was unintentional; well, at first anyway. I got busy and forgot it needed a weekly drink, but life interfered.
I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—fascinating how the green filled with fine veins of darker green, which withered into the wrinkled skin of late life. The truth was, I liked watching it, watching the strong fibers dry up, wondering what stage would come next in the slow process of losing life.
At the first prick of regret, I moved it into the sun, expecting that great effulgence to beam energy into the yellowing death of a pathetic life. By the time the once-green stalks became parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient, a strange thing happened: I felt panicked.
I so badly want to save it now that I will tend it ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up for all the weeks of missed life.
But I know I can’t.
It is nearly gone, so I don’t bother to water it as it thirsts by the window sill and shrivels to nothing more than a shell of lost life.
What I Did to My Bamboo Plant
It was a slow killing process, really;
not like the quick whap of newspaper
crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings,
but more like gentle evaporation of life.
It was unintentional;
well, at first anyway.
I got busy and forgot
it needed a weekly drink,
but life interfered.
I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—
fascinating how the green filled with
fine veins of darker green, which withered
into the wrinkled skin of late life.
The truth was, I liked watching it,
watching the strong fibers dry up
wondering what stage would
come next in this slow loss of life.
At the first prick of regret, I moved it
into the sun, expecting that great
effulgence to beam energy
into the yellowing death of a pathetic life.
By the time the once-green stalks became
parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead
leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient,
a strange thing happened.
I felt panicked. I so badly want
to save it now that I will tend it
ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up
for all the weeks of missed life.
But I know I can’t. It is nearly
gone, so I don’t bother to water it
as it thirsts by the window sill
and shrivels to nothing more
than a shell of lost life.
I wrote this poem recently, and I just had a revelation: perhaps it would work better as a prose poem or short short than an actual poem. I wondered if anyone could provide feedback on which version they like best (or none at all!). There are 2 versions below; in the first version, please imagine each section as an indented paragraph with no double space. I couldn't get it to indent, so I double-spaced each paragraph. Thanks for your opinion!
WHAT I DID TO MY BAMBOO PLANT (each section is meant to be a paragraph, not a stanza)
It was a slow killing process, really; not like the quick whap of newspaper crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings, but more like gentle evaporation of life.
It was unintentional; well, at first anyway. I got busy and forgot it needed a weekly drink, but life interfered.
I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—fascinating how the green filled with fine veins of darker green, which withered into the wrinkled skin of late life. The truth was, I liked watching it, watching the strong fibers dry up, wondering what stage would come next in the slow process of losing life.
At the first prick of regret, I moved it into the sun, expecting that great effulgence to beam energy into the yellowing death of a pathetic life. By the time the once-green stalks became parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient, a strange thing happened: I felt panicked.
I so badly want to save it now that I will tend it ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up for all the weeks of missed life.
But I know I can’t.
It is nearly gone, so I don’t bother to water it as it thirsts by the window sill and shrivels to nothing more than a shell of lost life.
What I Did to My Bamboo Plant
It was a slow killing process, really;
not like the quick whap of newspaper
crushing unsuspecting mosquito wings,
but more like gentle evaporation of life.
It was unintentional;
well, at first anyway.
I got busy and forgot
it needed a weekly drink,
but life interfered.
I can’t say I felt guilty, not at first—
fascinating how the green filled with
fine veins of darker green, which withered
into the wrinkled skin of late life.
The truth was, I liked watching it,
watching the strong fibers dry up
wondering what stage would
come next in this slow loss of life.
At the first prick of regret, I moved it
into the sun, expecting that great
effulgence to beam energy
into the yellowing death of a pathetic life.
By the time the once-green stalks became
parched brown, and I had trimmed the dead
leaves so it was bald as a chemo patient,
a strange thing happened.
I felt panicked. I so badly want
to save it now that I will tend it
ten-fold, give it drinks daily to make up
for all the weeks of missed life.
But I know I can’t. It is nearly
gone, so I don’t bother to water it
as it thirsts by the window sill
and shrivels to nothing more
than a shell of lost life.
Work in Progress
cutting tile
your bathroom
on my knees, coughing on drywall dust
the toilet’s working now
the empty coke can a remnant of celebration
attempting to ignore my stench
[can we fix the shower next?]
so this is what love is
our first date was a week after we were sleeping with each other
best sex of my life
your touch i blush
wax
and my cheeks won’t stop flexing
you mentioned forever a few days ago
my bullshit answer meant to cover
outright fear
spoiled plans
panic could i let myself be
happy?
holding you at the waist [thank you]
the sweet clean is not what i notice
nor the new shower door,
skillful tiles,
my dry hands
but you
different
than expected
please
ignore bullshit
your bathroom
on my knees, coughing on drywall dust
the toilet’s working now
the empty coke can a remnant of celebration
attempting to ignore my stench
[can we fix the shower next?]
so this is what love is
our first date was a week after we were sleeping with each other
best sex of my life
your touch i blush
wax
and my cheeks won’t stop flexing
you mentioned forever a few days ago
my bullshit answer meant to cover
outright fear
spoiled plans
panic could i let myself be
happy?
holding you at the waist [thank you]
the sweet clean is not what i notice
nor the new shower door,
skillful tiles,
my dry hands
but you
different
than expected
please
ignore bullshit
-A.j.kessler
1/23/06
Shards
I suppose it was the geography
of my Dad’s new life
that made my brain register
the words
“broken home”
(when I was eight,
a hurricane called Andrew
went through theCarolinas
chewing up houses and spitting
them into their neighbors yards,
and I felt sorry for all the people
from broken homes).
My mother certainly seemed broken;
she spent most of those
first months
in her bedroom, sleeping
and staring out windows like
a stoical, department-store
mannequin
(I would leave cold
peanut butter sandwiches
on her bureau,
not knowing what else to do).
And home,
which had always been
warm brown & full of good smells,
was now cold
(because we couldn’t afford heat),
and empty
(like the ruts in the driveway
where my father had parked his car).
The postcards and pastel packages
began arriving for me two months
after he left:
“I miss you, baby” from Tahoe
and San Francisco,
free pens
taped inside cards from ski lodges
in Virginia and Michigan,
and a hand-blown glass sunfish
from Naples, Florida.
(It was clear, with
dots and ribbons
of colored glass
netted through it.
I put it on my bookshelf
and never looked at it)
Three months later, I made myself sick
on Halloween
so I wouldn’t have to see him.
When I called, he answered the phone
in a spoofy vampire voice
full of mischief & fun.
Then, his voice sobered
and I asked him if he was mad.
“No,” he said, “just disappointed.”
Back in my room, my vision
starred at the edges,
and I felt my tongue tingle
like it does before I puke.
Disappointed.
Disappointed.
Dis-appointed.
My father.
(There was a throbbing in the corner,
a noxious essence—
like the tiny radioactive ball bearing
a little boy finds in a junkyard,
and then carries
with pennies
in his pocket
until it kills him)
I don’t remember running out the door
or joining up with the thin, dog-path
into the woods.
But I do remember how my fingers curled
around the nodes of glass
perfectly.
I used the follow through
my dad taught me when I was nine,
and watched the sleek fish
somersault
through the old oak trees
until it collided with one,
and broke,
little shards lit & arching
like firework strands
across the wide autumn sky.
-Sabrina Renkar
of my Dad’s new life
that made my brain register
the words
“broken home”
(when I was eight,
a hurricane called Andrew
went through the
them into their neighbors yards,
and I felt sorry for all the people
from broken homes).
My mother certainly seemed broken;
she spent most of those
first months
in her bedroom, sleeping
and staring out windows like
a stoical, department-store
mannequin
(I would leave cold
peanut butter sandwiches
on her bureau,
not knowing what else to do).
And home,
which had always been
warm brown & full of good smells,
was now cold
(because we couldn’t afford heat),
and empty
(like the ruts in the driveway
where my father had parked his car).
The postcards and pastel packages
began arriving for me two months
after he left:
“I miss you, baby” from Tahoe
and San Francisco,
free pens
taped inside cards from ski lodges
in Virginia and Michigan,
and a hand-blown glass sunfish
from Naples, Florida.
(It was clear, with
dots and ribbons
of colored glass
netted through it.
I put it on my bookshelf
and never looked at it)
Three months later, I made myself sick
on Halloween
so I wouldn’t have to see him.
When I called, he answered the phone
in a spoofy vampire voice
full of mischief & fun.
Then, his voice sobered
and I asked him if he was mad.
“No,” he said, “just disappointed.”
Back in my room, my vision
starred at the edges,
and I felt my tongue tingle
like it does before I puke.
Disappointed.
Disappointed.
Dis-appointed.
My father.
(There was a throbbing in the corner,
a noxious essence—
like the tiny radioactive ball bearing
a little boy finds in a junkyard,
and then carries
with pennies
in his pocket
until it kills him)
I don’t remember running out the door
or joining up with the thin, dog-path
into the woods.
But I do remember how my fingers curled
around the nodes of glass
perfectly.
I used the follow through
my dad taught me when I was nine,
and watched the sleek fish
somersault
through the old oak trees
until it collided with one,
and broke,
little shards lit & arching
like firework strands
across the wide autumn sky.
-Sabrina Renkar
What She Never Told Me
I was dumbfounded
when my grandmother
made a point
every day
for two weeks
to tell me it was all right
if I decided not to.
After several calls,
and strange exchanges
my irritated mom
explained
her mother’s behavior:
“She’s only saying
what she never told me”.
Surrounded by bridesmaids
nosey aunts peeking in
I only hear
my muddled thoughts
with a numb body
blank stares
and fake smiles.
Dad comes in
and I consider
how lucky
I am
that mom
was too chicken
to admit she didn’t want to.
Dad says,
“It’s time”
and sets off
a frenzy of
last minute touches.
The girls swarm me
like bees
Veil
Garter
Old
New
Borrowed
Blue
I do.
-Erica Wendt
when my grandmother
made a point
every day
for two weeks
to tell me it was all right
if I decided not to.
After several calls,
and strange exchanges
my irritated mom
explained
her mother’s behavior:
“She’s only saying
what she never told me”.
Surrounded by bridesmaids
nosey aunts peeking in
I only hear
my muddled thoughts
with a numb body
blank stares
and fake smiles.
Dad comes in
and I consider
how lucky
I am
that mom
was too chicken
to admit she didn’t want to.
Dad says,
“It’s time”
and sets off
a frenzy of
last minute touches.
The girls swarm me
like bees
Veil
Garter
Old
New
Borrowed
Blue
I do.
-Erica Wendt
Numb
My eyes lie
abreast
with hers.
I fall back,
rehearsed,
met by iron, cold
pillows.
A smile,
hers,
wide, wet, wanting.
My fingers
taint
where she likes it.
The Moon,
crashing in,
squirm and slither
over her chest.
My hands are numb.
Wide expanse, cotton
shackles,
legs bound.
I quaff,
girl from my mind…
She collapses,
quivering,
same as I.
-Bob Richardson
abreast
with hers.
I fall back,
rehearsed,
met by iron, cold
pillows.
A smile,
hers,
wide, wet, wanting.
My fingers
taint
where she likes it.
The Moon,
crashing in,
squirm and slither
over her chest.
My hands are numb.
Wide expanse, cotton
shackles,
legs bound.
I quaff,
girl from my mind…
She collapses,
quivering,
same as I.
-Bob Richardson
Religion
As you casually trickle your hand up and down
my back, you ask, “How did you find Jesus?”
And it is one of those moments in which
I feel guilty for not having an answer formed
ready-made to evangelize one such as you. But I think
of apple juice and graham crackers served
in tiny Dixie cups and homey napkins
down in the church basement. In front of me
a leaflet, telling a story that will save my soul
when I am dead, but for now my biggest question
is what color to make Jesus’s robe. Crayola gives
so many options. Christ’s words in red.
And on the wall, a chart with the doxology
and the Lord’s Prayer. Next year
I will learn those. For now I am told
Jesus welcomes children, so I brush the crumbs
from the table and almost smile back at Jesus,
who is beaming up at me from behind a cloud of cartoon beard.
Perhaps you think I’ve fallen asleep,
never imagining how happily I am dreaming
of those early communions of
graham crackers and apple juice.
-Elizabeth Eshelman
my back, you ask, “How did you find Jesus?”
And it is one of those moments in which
I feel guilty for not having an answer formed
ready-made to evangelize one such as you. But I think
of apple juice and graham crackers served
in tiny Dixie cups and homey napkins
down in the church basement. In front of me
a leaflet, telling a story that will save my soul
when I am dead, but for now my biggest question
is what color to make Jesus’s robe. Crayola gives
so many options. Christ’s words in red.
And on the wall, a chart with the doxology
and the Lord’s Prayer. Next year
I will learn those. For now I am told
Jesus welcomes children, so I brush the crumbs
from the table and almost smile back at Jesus,
who is beaming up at me from behind a cloud of cartoon beard.
Perhaps you think I’ve fallen asleep,
never imagining how happily I am dreaming
of those early communions of
graham crackers and apple juice.
-Elizabeth Eshelman
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