i know we like looking forward to —
and what of
when we don’t?
a force
to wonder what is here
worth living for
and when we wonder
what may we find?
i know we like looking forward to —
and what of
here may we find?
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.
why would i ever share me — with you?
i know what you say about people like me
why would i ever let you close — to me?
i know what you do —
why would i ever call you — family?
i know —
when i became a christian
i was born
and the world shown in lumination
all the love i had for it
and when i was born
i was whole
and all my parts fit together
and did not enjam at all the world
and when i was whole
i was told, i was not
and i believed them
and when i believed them
my parts ajar’d, just like they said, and got lost
the world got grim and dull
and the womb of love i always felt i was in
enclosed
without me in it
when i became a christian
all the christians said, loud and for a long while, i was not and am not and will not be whatever it is i think god says i am to be
it was jesus and the rest of em
tooth-eyed for the cinema
gory jesus pulling his punches
along the jaw of the capital
we don’t care who the hero is
we just need to believe there even is one
and don’t get us started on the enemies
if it’s one, then it’s all of us,
i won’t take the heat for what we all done
it’s jesus at the cinema
as gory as before
and christians watch it annually
because they can’t just get enough
all the services mock the mockers
and every one of them
is no different
when i was born the umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck three times
the doctor did a spin
i always wonder what did not oxygenate
in me, while it was happening
and if that is the reason
i am the way i am
or maybe it was the car accident
both our cabins rolled up with my plans
i was thrilled that we all survived
but made it was then
or maybe it the loss of my friend
or the time he smiled, toward the end, and i saw how few teeth he had left
or maybe it was the coffee we had
so raunch i had to spit it out – maybe he poisoned it
or maybe every time it is cloudy but doesn’t rain
my skin reacts and mutates my brain
maybe i am the way i am
because of my toes against the corner of the bed so many goddamn times
i think there are a lot of nerve endings in the toes
whatever the reason
i don’t know why it matters so much to you
here i am
after all
here i am
“you know what assuming does…”
but people do not like when I don’t assume
I must assume what they mean with every word they say
I must assume what they will think when I say what I say
“you know what making the wrong assumption does…” should be the phrase
when you speak a clock begins
I only have that barely window
to speak again
in kind
so I have to guess
I have to guess what need was motivating what you said
I have to guess why you said it the way you did
I have to guess, based on that, what I should say
and become aware of what is going on in me
I have to guess how what I will say will move both you and I in different ways
and when I find a thing that is right to me but, I have to assume, will stir a pain in you
I have to start it all again, but I’m still on the clock
the window narrows before you wonder why I won’t respond
before you wonder what is wrong
before no one’s brain almost ever thinks “oh it’s okay, he’s just different than me” — brains seem to insist
something must be wrong with me
and the shutters of the window close
so I have to, now, squeeze my responding words through those
and when I have tried and tried for this long while
to respond in kind
so often, but not so often that anyone seems to really keep it in mind, but still quite often enough
I get the calculous tremendously wrong
and they say
“don’t you know what assuming does…?”
but I do
I do know
but you don’t
Christ was a child
we know for sure
I hope he was the riley one
made to rule when all they begged him
was to listen
I hope his cries shined and shined
mocking every plan his parents had
I hope when they knew
they looked back
and knew
he was just like James, and John
and all the boys they knew
but now, they knew, which parts were God in them
and which parts
were God’s parts too
time is fingers between fingers
locked in a praying fist
one hand is the present moment
the other is experience
consciousness is a finger trap
between all the fingers all at once
so that what should always have been separate
we know, for us, never is
memory is a stencil print
on three pounds of fatty roads
we can always run the traffic back
through resulting craggy molds
but we are winter and harsh weather
in our fight to have it back
and — have what back? after all,
walking the fatty paths
was never ‘what we had’
what we had was always fingers between fingers
wishing to be separate
it was palms sharing sweat and us unable to tell the difference
between the present moment
and our experience of it