Greetings from the Green Planet

I am delighted to be a part of the bright and dizzyingly happy festivities here at A Bonney Blog. I am not only Anna Beth's biggest fan, but if you're also a fan of Anna Beth, then I'm your biggest fan, too. Cheers all around.

[Unless you claim to be Anna Beth's biggest fan. In that case, I challenge you to a thumb war. I've never lost.]

A few notes on the following poem are in order. In keeping with the general tone of this place, I decided to try my hand at a poem about what you might call "universal" love. That is, the love we are capable of holding towards all people at any time—the Greeks would say Agape (since I know so much about Greek and stuff). I am satisfied with how I treated my theme, but now that it's finished it reads a bit darker than what you're probably accustomed to finding around here. But it ends well.

Another thing. This poem is heavily influenced by the rolling style of Bob Dylan's epic Americana poem, "Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie." Dylan's poem is very, very long. Mine is only pretty long (I'm twelve words shy of a thousand). His, of course, is much better.

This poem is meant to be heard rather than read. So, here is a recording, followed by the text. That way, if you want, you can feel free to read along with this thing, here.

I Guess

There's a funny feelin' in yer fingerbones

And a tightness in yer head

And you can't remember how yer chest

Got filled up with all them heavy chunks of lead

And yer knees are wobblin' and yer eyes are saggin'

And yer skin is rubberin' like it does when you're dead

And you suspect it's been a long time, but you don't really know

Since the last night you spent sleepin' in yer own room and bed

"It's time to get movin'," you keep sayin' to yerself

Time to start actin' on all them feelin's you've felt

You were gonna meet strangers with stories to tell

And read all them books still settin' up on that shelf

You were gonna write movies, you were gonna save lives

You were gonna take this old world and cut it down to size

At least you were gonna try

You say with a sigh

And you put yer head back down to work until five

Thinkin', "Jesus Christ, I know I used to be alive

I used to wear clothes that made me feel smart

I used to have controversial thoughts about art

I used to drink milkshakes and sing songs and play pranks

Clamoring around in my small, noisy car

What happened to me? Am I failed this soon?

Am I trapped in this white, uncarpeted room

Sweepin' with no straw on my broom?

Spinnin' with no yarn in my loom?

Singin' with no words for my tune?

Lookin' at my hands, wonderin' what they've done

to deserve this early, special kind a' doom?"

It's like yer whole body's been hangin' from a concrete chain

Wanderin' around on the streets that way

Then your head starts noddin'

And your mouth starts yawnin'

'Cause you feel like sleepin' even though you're out walkin'

But, what if, you then think, that's what you're already doin'?

It's a nightmare, alright,

This lonely newspaper world

And you're mad at yerself for givin' it a whirl

And yer mother writes you letters

That you've learned to ignore

And yer father's upset that you don't call anymore

So you eat noddles for dinner and you think it's the end

But you wake up again

Like you always do, my friend

You don't know what you're missin' and you don't know how to get it

And you're sad 'cause you didn't even know it back when you had it

So I want you to hear this

I want you to listen

Because I'd be cruel to keep it

It'd be rotten to hide it

And besides, it'd take root in my head and start growin'

Twistin' and turnin' until it was bigger than me

And I don't want to feel my skull all of a sudden

Flowering out like a mushroom explodin'

So I just gotta say it, and get you to hear it

Get some a' these plants into some other garden

Get some a' these cards into some other deck

Get some a' this whiskey into some other glass

Get some a' these zeros off of my bill

Put one a' these pies on some other folk's windowsill

Where it'll get a fairer chance at bein' served up on a plate

On a proper table, with a fork and cold milk

And that's really what I want, I guess

I want you to smell it, I want you to eat it

I want you chew it up with your teeth

And feel all them grainy bits up in your gums

In the back of your cheeks, and under your tongue

And I want you to savor all them funny strings and lumps

'Cause I know the problem that's got you and me

I've seen the dog holdin' on with its teeth

I've seen that gun drawn out of its sheath

I've felt them sweats at a quarter to three

When I'd wake up at night, and it was always just me

And that's it right there, to sum it up in a line

It ain't that you're scared

And it ain't that you're tired

It ain't that you're poor

And it ain't that you realized someday soon you won't be around anymore

No, what's hurtin' yer heart is that there's nobody with you

To make it hurt more

Which is easy to say and you've probably even thought it before

But you didn't wanna admit you can't make it alone

Through this shattered glass world

Of asphalt and bone

And maybe talk is cheap but I'm tellin' ya you can't

There ain't any water where you're tryin' to swim

There ain't any words where you're tryin' to read

The car that you're drivin' ain't got any gas

And you're hopin' that next hill's momentum'll last

To take you up the one after that

And I'm tellin' you, friend, that's gonna end bad

'Cause there's only one bottle you can pull from

There's only one tunnel you can go through

And it ain't on a highway

And it ain't in film

And it ain't in a coffeehouse

And it sure as hell ain't never found comin' out of no politician's mouth

It's simpler than that, and it's probably nearby

And yes I mean someone

But I don't mean your friends

You need a whole lot more than just them

You need someone who won't thank you for carin'

Someone who, when it's found out you been helpin'

Will raise the eyebrows of both of your parents

Someone who hates you

Someone who'd kill you

Someone who'd treat you like you were a child

And noone would notice when you just replied with a smile

And maybe I'm wrong, and maybe I'm dead

But if that ain't love

If that ain't what it is

Then what else could I, or you, or anybody at all

If that ain't love

What else could I a' said?

Anticipate Tomorrow!

My bonny readers, get excited; we have a published writer joining us tomorrow. After my Ode to Walker (see below), Mr. Pfost and I decided to have a blog swap on Tuesday.  While he posts here, I will write for the always-enticing "Justice Avocado." What an adventure for the word nerds! 

Whatever Walker creates is sure to be quite a treat, so check in tomorrow!

Ode to Walker

Since my dear friend Walker has been missing my posts these nine days, (see comments on my April 5th post for reference) I thought I would throw him a proverbial bone. So, without further ado, my Ode to Walker.

Walker, Walker, walky Pfost,

Out of all my guy friends, you are the most

clever with words, I do believe!

Your poetry blog is the bees knees.

You live in Korea, oh so far away,

A place with some snow (who knew?!) where you play

with kids! And teach them English, to boot,

Oh, WPf, you are such a hoot.

I visited your old home last weekend, it's true,

The Vista House is bursting with vibrant hues,

The colors of spring! Pink, periwinkle, and green,

So deeply peaceful. You know what I mean.

I was reminded of the time when you fixed my car,

I had left the top down and it rained so hard

My seats were soaked! You found a fan in a blink,

If not for you they'd still be damp, I do think.

Oh, WPf, what a pal! What a guy!

Watching Kite Runner, I thought I was sly,

As I slept through it all! But you knew, yes you did.

A friend like you really flips my lid.

It's been too long

Since I have posted! Bah!

I promise more this week.

What I Think About

Hello, readers. In the name of keeping all things bonny around here, I thought I would share some amusing facts I learned this week. I received an assignment at my job (you know, that little distraction that keeps me from writing nothing but bonny blog entries all day) to write a promotion for a zoo. Included in the project brief was a handy dandy printout entitled, “Animal Collective Names.” And while it did little to help me with my project, it has provided hours of amusement as I sit at my wee little desk. In the name of humor and hilarious visuals, I have decided to share some of the words that have kept me going this week.

 

Animal           Group Name

(singular)            (plural)

 

Alligator             Congregation (“I call this meeting to let you know that there are too many wildebeest thriving these days.”

Bat                      Cloud (If you are fortunate enough to see a group of bats in flight, they do resemble a cloud!)

Cobra                 Quiver (Now, who would really quiver in this situation? My call, Indian Jones.)

Cockroach         Intrusion (Indeed!)

Elephant            Memory (Elephant, memory, AHH HAHAHAHA!)

Emu                    Mob (“So listen up, pal. You have three seconds until I steal your wool and take     over your side of the grazing hill!”)

Ferret                 Fesnying or business (What the hell is a “fesnying? Also, imagine a ferret in a          business suit, just for a moment. Please.)

Flamingo            Flamboyance (Clearly.)

Giraffe                 Tower (Also, clearly.)

Guinea Fowl      Confusion (“Wait. Let me get this straight. You are a what? From where? G…?        I am just… wait... oh...)

Jellyfish            Smack (I always imagined the funny sound they would make if I were ever brave    enough to take a whack at a jellyfish. Or… smack.. rather.)

Nightengale      Watch (but what? I can not see! It is at night!)

Rattlesnake      Rumba (“Would you like to dance, RLes?” Actually, rattlesnakes are solitary          creatures. I know because I live in Texas. So having a dance party would be              difficult. But if you are ever lucky enough to come upon one of these fabulous          rattler parties, please let me know!

Rhinoceros       Stubborness (“I’m telling you for the LAST TIME, Ino! You hear me? The last         time!”)

Swallow            Gulp (“No, no, no. Gulp, then swallow. Then swallow!”) 

 

I kill myself.

 

Also, this informative print out ended with this note; “Another animal group that you may consider is a nag of wives and a jerk of husbands.”

 

Happy Friday. I am going to finish my work beer and go home. 

Wedding 1

Well, I am totally off kilter already. Thursdays were supposed to be my day for posting about weddings... or was it Saturdays? I am currently sitting in my office after having done five hours of work today, Sunday, so please forgive me. I will get back on track this week. But do not despair! I have a wedding for you today! 

This wedding comes from a fabulous website, Style Me Pretty. If you are engaged, in the wedding industry, or just style obsessed like I am it provides hours of pretty, stylish bliss.  The site is clearly aptly named. This wedding is DIY fabulous. It has the most beautiful use of paper, of all things. A smorgasbord of color! Hurrah!

Love those kiddos. 

Paper! I love creative use of paper!

Siiiiiiiighhhhh.

John and Gil

On the onset of this blog, I swore I would mention no personal details of my life. And while what I am about to say is not terribly personal, I fear I am beginning to slide down the slipperiest of slopes. Ready for my revelation?  

I was once a college student. Shocking, no? I attended Furman University and delved in the humanities for four glorious years, learning a little of philosophy, film, theatre, music, history, and writing quite a bit about it along the way. Pages and pages and pages of words flew (and sometimes oozed) off my fingers during my time there.

 And when I was in my senior year, after all that structured writing, I took a poetry class thinking, "Oh I have this in the bag.  Anna Beth Bonney = Prose Champion of the East. I'll have 'em weeping." What a little schmuck I was.  However, pride always cometh before a fall, and upon my first day in class, I realized two things. 1. I was nowhere near as awe inspiring as my professor, whom I adored from the first moment I heard him speak of how much he loved poetry. 2. I had no real conception of what poetry actually was, much less how to write it. Unfortunately, this knowledge swiftly spiralled into a dehabilitating inferiority complex that I wrestled with throughout the course.

My professor, a wise man, surely had seen other students make the overwhelmed and shamed expression I did during a particular meeting in regards to my poetry. "Dr. Allen!" I exclaimed. "I never like anything I write! My thoughts feel beautiful and original as they swirl in my mind, but when I try to word them out on paper every word seems ugly and cliché."

In response, Dr. Allen wordlessly stood. Walked to his considerable bookshelf. Selected a slim volume which turned out to be M.S. Merwin's Flower and Hand: Poems 1977-1983. He said, this poem may help. Of course a poetry professor would know the correct poem for every occasion, especially an exasparated student. He read, in his soft voice, through his bushy white mustache:

Berryman

I will tell you what he told me


in the years just after the war


as we then called


the second world war





don't lose your arrogance yet he said


you can do that when you're older


lose it too soon and you may


merely replace it with vanity



 

just one time he suggested


changing the usual order


of the same words in a line of verse


why point out a thing twice



 

he suggested I pray to the Muse


get down on my knees and pray


right there in the corner and he


said he meant it literally



 

it was in the days before the beard


and the drink but he was deep


in tides of his own through which he sailed


chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop



 

he was far older than the dates allowed for


much older than I was he was in his thirties


he snapped down his nose with an accent


I think he had affected in England



 

as for publishing he advised me


to paper my wall with rejection slips


his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled


with the vehemence of his views about poetry





he said the great presence


that permitted everything and transmuted it


in poetry was passion


passion was genius and he praised movement and invention

 



I had hardly begun to read


I asked how can you ever be sure


that what you write is really


any good at all and he said you can't



 

you can't you can never be sure


you die without knowing


whether anything you wrote was any good


if you have to be sure don't write



 

W. S. Merwin, Flower & Hand: Poems 1977-1983
Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, WA (1997) pp. 155-156]

Now, the writer and academic  who inspired Merwin's "Berryman" had a fascinating life, one I will address at a later date. But Gil Allen did not need to explain the history of John Berryman's life to me that day.  The lesson was learned. And while I still have not mastered or even begun to skate across the surface of the wide world of poetry, I am still writing.  Thank you, John and Gil.