POEMS for LENT • THE TOWERS

"The Towers" by Troy's Work Table.

Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, and charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.

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“while others walked dead / into a fiery brisance, lost / in an eternity of Vermeer.” and “Apollo was at Ground Zero / because he knows everything / about bandaging up wounds. / Men dug hands into quavering / flotsam, & they were blinded by / the moon’s indifference.” and “your wings of beeswax & crepe singed beyond belief.” —from “The Towers” by Yusef Komunyakaa, as found in Warhorses

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As far as I am concerned, Anne Carson’s poems in Red Doc> are hampered by form. In Yusef Komunyakaa’s “The Towers,” form helps to confine the poem and give it life.

There are two columns of poetry. The left “tower” begins with the word “yes,” while the right “tower” starts with the word “no.” Both reflect upon the everyday and ordinary lives of the men and women who died on 9/11 in the attack on the World Trade Center. Both reflect upon those of us who are mere mortals trying to reach for the realm of the gods—whether victim or infidel; whether working in the tower of Babel, striving for greatness in the afterlife, or attempting to touch the sun like Icarus.

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There are so many poems in Warhorses that I could have chosen, but this is the one that speaks most fully to my heart.

It is a marriage of form and language. It is a marriage of contemporary America and ancient Greece. It is a marriage of questions and answers. (And then more questions.)

Ultimately, the poem feels holy to me. Sacred space on the page for now-hallowed ground.

POEMS for LENT • NOT the FORSYTHIA

"Not the Forsythia" by Troy's Work Table.

Sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, and charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.

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"he doesn't let the herd eat the forsythia but / knows they like to be / amidst its blazing yellows." and "A / lone white one (Io) glows / like an idol and is Ida's / favorite." —from "Not the Forsythia" by Anne Carson, as found in Red Doc>.

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From yesterday's dead goat to today's live musk oxen.

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When Red Doc> was released, I ran and and bought it immediately. I was looking forward to it because it was promoted as a sequel to Anne Carson's earlier novel in verse, Autobiography in Red, which is one of my favorite books of poems. And then I opened the book and encountered its layout and form.

Supposedly, the format was "randomly" selected by the word-processing software that Carson was using and she was so enamored with the form that she kept it. In fact she dedicates the book "for the randomizer." I was angry at what I saw as the clunkiness of the form and what I perceived as the laziness of the poet.

With all of that being said, I recently decided to try my hand at reading the book again. It's a bit of a difficult read at times because the line breaks don't really follow the rhythm and meter of the words on the page. In other words, I have to read slowly and deliberately and "against the grain" to hear what is there. There is reward in such slow and attentive reading. It opens up the text despite the "randomizer" and the poet "getting in the way."

(Let's just say that I'm learning to like Red Doc>.)

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I love the simplicity of the scene of "Not the Forsythia." G (formerly known as Geryon in Autobiography of Red, as well as in the poem by ancient Greek poet Stesichorus that was the inspiration for Carson) and Ida (a character new to these poems) are standing in a field as G watches his herd of musk oxen and Ida sketches them.

It is a scene of observation and beauty, of watching the world and being in it. Meanwhile, there is a simple conversation going on between G and Ida, and then misunderstanding perhaps. Or something else?

POEMS for LENT • BUZKASHI

"Buzkashi" by Troy's Work Table.

Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, and charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.

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"She knows / not to be devoured is a perfect sentiment" and "He turns her face to the window: mountains / oddly still in the milk broth of oblivion." —from "Buzkashi" by Diana Khoi Nguyen

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For me, this poem is a punch in the gut. It's imagery is both brutal and beautiful. It is about existence.

I don't completely understand the poem, which is why it intrigues me. There is a cultural barrier. There is a sports barrier. Until I knew what buzhashi was, I misunderstood the poem to be about the preparation of an animal for a meal. Now that I know it is not, the loss is tempered a bit by a potential win.

There is beauty at the edge of the abyss. There is longing for more time.

POEMS for LENT • ASH WEDNESDAY

"Ash Wednesday" by Troy's Work Table.

Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, charcoal, and chalk pastels on 12" x 12" concrete board.

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"By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return." —GENESIS 3:19

"Teach us to care and not to care / Teach us to sit still. // Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death / Pray for us now and at the hour of our death." —from "Ash Wednesday" by T. S. Eliot

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I've never really been one to give up something for Lent. Instead, I am more inclined to add something, usually an in-depth study of sorts.

This year, I have decided to delve into a new poem for each day of Lent. Two years ago, I spent my Lent in the poems of Robinson Jeffers. This year, my plan is to work through different poets and spend some time with each of them, and one of their poems that moves me, for a full day.

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It seemed appropriate to start this Lenten journey of poetry with a poem about Ash Wednesday, so I turned to T. S. Eliot. "Ash Wednesday" wrestles with faith in the language of holy text and in the rhythms of ritual and rite. There is a "turning back" (repentance) and a bursting forth toward God and the holy. There is the collapse of one's self in the acknowledgment of one's sinful self and moving into the grace and mercy offered by the divine.

"Lord, I am not worthy."

GILBOA

Troy's Work Table reads new poem "Gilboa" at the Creative Colloquy open mic. Photo by Jackie Casella.

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A few lines from section five (of seven) of the early draft of "Gilboa."

Saul stands atop Gilboa

and Samuel’s words clamber
up the mountainside

following its rivulets and ravines

like dark demons summoned
forth from the land of the dead

seeking the retreating king.

Copyright © 2017 by Troy's Work Table.

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At tonight's February Creative Colloquy Gathering, I read a rough draft of my new poem "Gilboa" during the open mic. I've been trying to write this poem off and on for the past five years, but was unable to find a form that worked. I may have finally found its form.

I think it mostly worked, but it felt really rough. There is a line that is repeated in five of the seven short sections, and then echoed in the final section to end the whole thing. When I read the last line for an audience, even though I had read it aloud for myself multiple times at home, all I could hear was the rhythm of the last line of each stanza of Poe's "The Raven," although "slant-wise" (as Emily Dickinson would have it).

The last time I uttered "Gilboa" I could only hear "nevermore." It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, although I felt a bit stunned by such a revelation. The seven syllables of the echoed lines in "The Raven" and "Gilboa," similar consonant and vowel sounds in each, and a similar rhythm caught me off guard at the microphone.

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Before each open mic or reading in which I participate, I listen to music that I listened to while writing the poems I intend on reading or songs that feel of a same spirit. For instance, whenever I read any of my "Black Psalms," I listen to songs by Kvelertak. When I read poems influenced by Moby-Dick, I listen to Leviathan by Mastodon and/or sea chanteys. As I drove into Tacoma to read "Gilboa," I listened to "Superunknown" by Soundgarden over and over.

So I started the evening with "Superunknown" playing in my head and ended it with "The Raven" crying "nevermore."

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The next step for "Gilboa" is revision. We'll see what stays and what gets left behind in the next draft.

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Tacoma poet Michael Haeflinger reading poems, some of which also appear on his spoken word album Let's Don't Be Crazy, which you can listen to at https://michaelhaeflinger.bandcamp.com/

PRESIDENTS DAY

"Portrait of George Washington," oil on canvas, circa 1797, by Gilbert Stuart. Public domain. On display at Tacoma Art Museum, as part of the Haub Family Collection of Western American Art.

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Happy Presidents Day. I was privileged to spend some time with this painting last week.

I'm always amazed at what art looks like in real life. When I get to see it as a reproduction, I always try to imagine what the original is like.

The original is always better. The colors are richer. The brushstrokes and texture of the paint can be seen.

But I always imagined this canvas larger and grander. It's smaller size and the fact that it is swallowed by its frame appeals to me.

HOPTOPIA

Scuttlebutt Hoptopia Ale, an Imperial IPA by Scuttlebutt Brewing.

On tap, served in pint glass.

8.0% abv.

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The pour is a clear yellow with a finger-thick white head.

The nose is clean, with an almost saison-like leaning. Some of the notes in the aroma are sage, flower petals (rose?), and perhaps a light yeastiness.

The tongue is sage, a piney/resin bitterness, and butterscotch/toffee, with a light hint of flower petals (rose?).

The mouthfeel is medium. The finish is medium-long, which is mostly sage/vegetal and pine/resin. As the beer warms and I get deeper into the glass, there are hints of lemon zest and paint thinner.

It seems like a hybrid of a saison and an IPA, which is not a bad thing.

This is very enjoyable, and it accompanies a Tacoma Dog quite well.

PLAYLIST (MIXTAPE)

In my day, we called them mixtapes and they consisted of songs recorded from vinyl albums, cassette tapes, or the radio that then made their way onto cassette. They were often given to a friend. There was something communal about these groupings of songs.

In the day of The Child, they are called playlists and they end up in digital form from wherever they originate. They seem most often built for one's self to listen to. They end up as somewhat individual soundtracks.

I'm building this playlist/mixtape as a way of trying to bridge the gap between the two worlds, in the midst of the mess that is our current culture.

(I've been introducing The Child to various albums, trying to share songs that help define who I am.)



Playlist for 02/07/2017

[1]
“Young Man” by The Blackouts
1981, History in Reverse (2004 compilation album)

[2]
“Just Got Paid” by Mastodon
2009, Transformers: Dark of the Moon — The Album (2011), ZZ Top cover

[3]
“Joy” by Lucinda Williams
1998, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road

[4]
“Peek-a-Boo” by Siouxsie and the Banshees
1988, Peepshow

[5]
“Antiworld” by Nina Hagen
1982, NunSexMonkRock

[6]
“Deus” by Sugarcubes
1988, Life’s Too Good

[7]
“I’m Afraid of Americans” by David Bowie
1997, Earthling

[8]
“It’s Never Over (Hey Orpheus)” by Arcade Fire
2013, Reflektor

[9]
“See That My Grave Is Kept Clean” by Laibach
2014, Spectre, Blind Lemon Jefferson cover

[10]
“New Slaves” by Kanye West
2013, Yeezus

[11]
“Walk Us Uptown” by Elvis Costello and The Roots
2013, Wise Up Ghost

[12]
“Out Go the Lights” by Spoon
2010, Transference

MOONSCAPE

"Moonscape" by Troy's Work Table. Snow day chalk painting for Monday 06 February 2017.

Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, candle wax, and white charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.

Experimenting with some abstract "landscape" chalk paintings.

SNOW

Waiting for Mr. Tumnus in Puyallup's Pioneer Park.