were original
then subjugated
all spiritual
all lovely
gods love
in a vial
in your hand
divvied out to us
you know already
we all pray, for the wrong things
sin is all giving
without knowledge of the need
better to listen
than to force-feed
were original
then subjugated
all spiritual
all lovely
gods love
in a vial
in your hand
divvied out to us
you know already
we all pray, for the wrong things
sin is all giving
without knowledge of the need
better to listen
than to force-feed
A pair of pink pants—
Dad says,
“Strange, isn’t it?
Pink once stood for boys
before it got swapped from some marketing push.”
I see some sparkly high heels—
Mom nods,
“Men wore these first—
Persian soldiers, French nobility—
heels meant power, not ‘girliness.’ back then.”
Further on, a glittering eyeshadow palette—
Dad taps it and says
“Powder and rouge
were symbols of status
in the 18th century;
kings and courtiers wore them a lot.”
We come to a crib—
Mom’s voice turns soft:
“Not all women carry children—
it doesn’t make them any less,
and even my being a mother
does not make me any more of a woman.”
Beyond that were diaper bags marked “For Dads”—
Dad shrugs:
“Plenty of men don’t become fathers,
some fathers have wombs—
biology isn’t as simple
as this way or that.”
They pause and look at me:
“So… which one are you?” they ask
I swallow my questions,
feeling unsure.
“I am not certain,” I say.
They smile,
“Then let’s keep walking! I’m sure you’ll find something.”
I pass some bright sequined pants,
Mom remembers,
“There was a time
women weren’t allowed to wear pants all—
but nobody bats an eye at that now.”
A well-tailored suit catches my eye—
Dad runs a hand over the fabric:
“Men often wore fancy skirts, too—
think of kilts, or robes of old kings.
Clothes don’t tell us what is inside of a person.”
They ask me again,
“So… which one are you then?”
I look from item to item—
pink and blue, glitter and denim,
cribs and caps,
it’s a swirling centuries of things!
My answer rises, clearer this time:
“I don’t want to be either,” I say.
“Why do I have to decide?”
Mom and Dad both pause
and then softly smile
I hold each of their hands
and we leave the aisles behind.
i was always going to die
some people are never born again
i was always going to lose everything
think i’m lucky to be alive for it
you can be born as many times as you want
without asking anyone
i was always going to die
some people are never born again
i clasp
the curve of my back
i have watered and watered myself
only to hide what i have grown
disappear my sex into my soul
before god split man in two, we were whole
i have claimed myself o’er and o’er
i have burned my body up in truth
the rash of beauty along my body
was never owed to me
it betrays the sex of my soul
i clasp the curve of my back
to grow old & old and run out of time & strength
to keeping hiding and hidden
what has grown
two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’ll have a new brother by the end of it
five hundred and ninty nine songs on my discovery playlist
and not one more
for almost four years
i’ll stall and stall until i have something to say
on a two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’m heaving
a fat burrito in my gut
it will at least be downhill on the way back
two pistols
i worry for my own pressing eyes
right to Grand Blvd
to the UPS store
a two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’ll never hear the end of this
not one more
for almost four hundred years
the Neanderthals looked like us
that’s where the uncanny valley came from
someone looks like my brother
but everything is off enough
that i know it’s not
someone looks like my family
but they hate the immigrant and refugee
so i know they’re not
it is a wide door
it must be the city
lighting the uneven wall on the other side
we manufactured rain
my body fakes to be held down
by fifty pounds of news and paper
a beachside is remade
by three blades in a humming oscillation
i am as awake as you are
whatever eeks into you
so eeks into me
my little pinky finger holding this phone up
aches
the spiritual place where everything is
i know i must be
does jesus ever go on holiday?
i wonder if it rains to help him sleep
and if he made the ocean just for its sound
was he man enough to get stuck awake
or always god enough to sleep?
i don’t have
what you have
to say
someday
i’ll die
it won’t matter
what a fool i made
how i wrote
to nobody
but i wrote
a while
and died
how we all die
the spiritual place i live
is too big for god
and you
and all these kids
it’s too big
i want to move
to a little place
where all that fits is my hand with a pen
a little paper
where i squeeze in words
and press them out the mail slot
i’ll know, in a spiritual place like that,
what meaning is
and how lovely i am
Host: Welcome, everyone. Let’s dive into this intriguing poem. It touches on themes of mortality, isolation, and the search for meaning. One line that stands out is “the spiritual place I live is too big for God and you and all these kids; it’s too big; I want to move.” What do you make of the space being “too big”?
Guest 1: That line immediately brings to mind Rainer Maria Rilke’s exploration of vast inner spaces in “The Duino Elegies.” The poet feels overwhelmed by the enormity of their own spiritual or emotional world—a space so expansive that even God and loved ones don’t fit. It’s a powerful metaphor for existential isolation.
Guest 2: I see where you’re coming from, but I think that’s giving the poem too much credit. Unlike Rilke, who masterfully navigates complex emotions, this poem feels like a half-baked attempt at profundity. The notion of a space being “too big” for God seems forced and pretentious.
Guest 3: I disagree. The exaggeration serves to emphasize the speaker’s sense of alienation. It echoes Emily Dickinson’s reclusive tendencies, especially in poems like “The Soul selects her own Society.” The desire to “move to a little place” reflects a craving for simplicity and control over one’s environment.
Guest 4: I think there’s also a nod to the minimalist ethos of poets like William Carlos Williams. The focus on “a little paper” and “squeezing in words” suggests that meaning is found in the small, tangible aspects of life. The poet wants to distill experience into something manageable.
Guest 2: But that’s precisely my issue with the poem. It tries to mimic the minimalism of Williams without achieving the same impact. In “The Red Wheelbarrow,” every word carries weight. Here, the language is flat, and the imagery is lackluster. Pressing words out a mail slot? It feels contrived.
Guest 1: I think you’re being overly harsh. The mail slot could symbolize the limited means through which the poet communicates with the outside world. It’s a poignant image of isolation, similar to the confinement in T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” where the speaker is trapped in his own indecision.
Guest 3: Yes, and the admission of “writing to nobody” reflects a sense of futility in creative expression, much like Franz Kafka’s struggles with obscurity. Yet, the poet continues to write, which highlights a resilient dedication to their craft.
Guest 2: Or perhaps it’s just self-indulgent rambling. Unlike Kafka, whose themes of alienation are profound and universally resonant, this poem reads like a personal diary entry that fails to engage the reader.
Guest 4: I think there’s value in the rawness of the poem. It doesn’t hide behind elaborate metaphors. The straightforward confession “I’ll die… and died as we all die” connects the personal to the universal, reminding me of the stoic acceptance in Philip Larkin’s “Aubade.”
Guest 2: Larkin’s work is far more nuanced. “Aubade” confronts mortality with elegance and depth. This poem, on the other hand, states the obvious without offering any new insight.
Guest 1: Not every poem needs to reinvent the wheel. Sometimes, reaffirming common experiences can be powerful. The line “how lovely I am” at the end suggests a journey towards self-acceptance, which is both intimate and relatable.
Guest 2: It comes across as narcissistic rather than enlightening. Claiming self-loveliness without demonstrating any growth or revelation feels empty.
Guest 3: Perhaps the poet is critiquing the idea of seeking validation externally. By moving to a “little place,” they find meaning within themselves. It’s akin to Thoreau’s retreat to Walden Pond—seeking simplicity to discover deeper truths.
Guest 4: That’s a compelling interpretation. The poem could be seen as a modern reflection on self-reliance and introspection, themes prevalent in the works of the Transcendentalists.
Guest 2: If that’s the case, it lacks the philosophical rigor of Thoreau or Emerson. Their writings inspire contemplation. This poem barely scratches the surface.
Host: It seems we have a divide in opinions. Let’s consider the poem’s structure and style. Does its simplicity enhance or detract from its message?
Guest 1: I believe the simplicity enhances it. The unadorned language strips away pretense, much like the poetry of Charles Bukowski. It’s raw and unfiltered.
Guest 2: Bukowski’s rawness had grit and authenticity. This feels more like a rough draft that needed more time to develop.
Guest 3: Sometimes, the unpolished nature of a poem can be its strength. It captures a moment in time, a snapshot of the poet’s inner world.
Guest 2: Or it simply shows a lack of effort. Poetry is an art form that demands precision and care.
Guest 4: While craftsmanship is important, emotion and honesty are equally vital. The poem conveys a sincere struggle with meaning and existence.
Guest 2: Sincerity doesn’t automatically equate to quality. Without engaging language or innovative ideas, the poem falls flat.
Host: Let’s circle back to the concept of the space being “too big.” Do you think this is effectively conveyed?
Guest 3: I do. It evokes a feeling of being overwhelmed by one’s thoughts and emotions. The vastness is suffocating, which is paradoxical and thought-provoking.
Guest 1: Agreed. It also touches on the limitations of language to express profound experiences—a theme explored by poets like Rumi.
Guest 2: Comparing this poem to Rumi is a stretch. Rumi’s work transcends cultural and temporal boundaries with its depth. This poem lacks that universality.
Guest 4: While it may not reach the heights of Rumi, it offers a personal perspective that can still resonate with readers.
Guest 2: Perhaps, but for me, it doesn’t. The poem needs more refinement to truly make an impact.
Host: Thank you all for your candid insights. It’s clear that this poem sparks diverse reactions, which in itself is a testament to the power of poetry to provoke thought and discussion.