I just read "The House on Mango Street."
Sad book. Sad, sad, sad book. Made me cry almost. The language was breathtakingly beautiful throughout. I don't even know what I am typing, or why, or for what cause. I just feel like I need to write something, and this is what it will be. I am going to just write a poem. No pre-notes, no outside sources, nothing. I just want to write, and you can listen if you feel like you need to, or you don't have to.
It is like the echo of something soft against a cold wall
By: David Mathis
I don't always feel like when I sit in a chair, I should be attentive--I've fallen asleep in many a chair, tipped back, cowl over the eyes, or not--lamp blaring, headphones over my ears with music streaming into my head at odd angles; I would say mostly the obtusely angled music gets through to tamp my dreams when I am asleep, tamping them into soft earthen mounds like the kind that the Native Americans used to bury their dead in. I like to think that I don't need sleep, like I've somehow transcended normal human behavior and that I could stand for days in the same spot, like a tree--they always cast the same exact shadows every day, in the same pattern, their elongated forms wrapping around like the hands of a clock, and you could probably even tell time by them if you were so inclined; the problem with telling time by a tree is that it is a lost art, and nobody even wants to take the time to read a tree like a clock anymore. Mostly, these days, people make trees into clocks in a different way.
I went to the petrified forest once. It was the same day that I visited the painted desert, may have been the same day that I went to the grand canyon, saw Earth's largest battle scar which was carved an inch at a time by a tiny river down at the bottom of the gash--if it were dammed, it is probable that the entire ordeal would never have happened, and people from all over the world would have simply never come to the spot with the dam and I wouldn't be staring into the biggest gash on the face of the Earth. Interesting when you imagine things without rivers. I imagine things without rivers sometimes, wonder how Egypt would fare, how the water would taste if it was all salt, and if perhaps people would drink salt water, or if those rare lakes without rivers would be the best source of water, if humans would have adapted to higher salt intake, and if the concept of evolution even really matters at all in the first place--if it does, I might want to know if it would apply to drinking salt water, and if it wouldn't, I would ask it what good it does. Evolution that is. I imagine it doesn't matter in the end.
I'm sure you know this, but be wary of prefaces like the one you have here. They tend to come off as sophomoric and, really--no hate, just plain juvenile.
ReplyDeleteAlso, I think this may be one of the more interesting things you've offered thus far. Normally, I'm not so much a fan of the ranty tone, which free association, such as I believe this is, will unavoidably become, but I like some of the moves you make, here. I'm not going to list them--partly for space and partly to keep you in suspense as to whether or not I actually read this, but I think this massive block of text is worth mining. First of all, machete, now. Look for bald-faced cliches--is that a cliche?--and other hackneyed paraphernalia and get rid of it. Second, attempt, emphasis on the uncertainty of the verb, a new amalgamation, something pulling these various seams together. Third, realize that, invariably, other things will have to be cut/altered/changed. Essentially, I'm advising you to do just what Dr. Davidson requests of you guys with your journal entries, though, and, for some reason, I think this's important, I'm spelling it out a bit to emphasize the necessity of your doing so. Don't just let words die.
Thanks for the love on my prefaces. All joking aside, I should probably have left this preface off. Sounds too emo as you've lovingly implied.
ReplyDeleteThis was pretty raw, I do admit that. Thank you for the advice--I plan on thoroughly mangling this soon. After rereading it, I am already seeing what you mean about cliche and where that cliche should just be removed from the equation. Perhaps this will yet see the light of day in a new way.
I am still learning about the verb. I hope by the end of the class, I will have a better control over it. Or maybe a better understanding.
Again, I appreciate the input and plan to put it to good use.
I don't really see the problem with someone having a preface. I personally don't use them to great extent, but I'm not exactly sure why it should matter. Is it just me, or is the poem itself the important part? Isn't that the reason for the course--to better adapt and evolve as writers, not bloggers? I find it ridiculous to critique anything other than the poem. He may seem "juvenile" and "sophomoric" for including the preface, but you seem pretentious and condescending. After you write that, all the compliments that follow become disingenuous.
ReplyDelete...or perhaps I'm sophomoric and juvenile in the eyes of an expert poet like yourself?
With that said, David:
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed this piece. I have one critique, though. I read the opening line several times out loud, and something about it seems choppy. I can't quite pinpoint the cause, though it may be the prepositional phrase "when I sit in a chair." Like I said, I'm not entirely sure if it's just me that thinks this, but it's something to consider. I could be completely off and the only one who thinks so.
Also, I really love the final line--"I imagine it doesn't matter in the end." How much more postmodern can you get? You actually ended a poem with "in the end." I also like the way the phrase plays off "I imagine." The end of the poem is literally "the end," yet you "imagine it doesn't matter." I know I'm pulling these out of context, but I find it fascinating to think about the line separate from the rest of the poem.