this morning

I went to Jesus’ room
to wake him for church
bur he was already up.
I could hear the shower
running—steam was
pouring out from under
the bathroom door.

by Belz

(link)

The Artisan

A Jazz Poem by Dan Robinson
performed at the Cherry Street Artisan, May 4, 2007
(Italicized portions are sung; the rest is spoken.)

There’s little place I know
on Cherry Street.
It’s a place where people like to go,
where people like me like to meet.

I’m partial to this particular place.
You might even say I’m partisan.
It always brings a smile to my face.
It’s the Cherry Street Artisan.

The Cherry Street Artisan:
it’s a place that reminds you
that walls exist to hang art on,
that a stage just a foot off the floor
can consecrate a space
and create a place
where something magical happens.

Live music at lunch?
Too much of a luxury?
It makes you feel like you live
in a civilized country.

Cherry Street
is where people meet
and it’s very sweet
and you can even eat there.

They make the most amazing hummus
Better get you summus.
I like the green machine
if you know what I mean.
And I’m a big fanada
O Canada
pizza, but my favorite is
the turkey apple and brie
got to get that sandwich inside of me
at the Artisan

Students hyped up on caffeine
devouring their books
they’re flirting, they’re blogging,
they’re surfing the web
they’re planning how to change the world.

Artists and philosophers make coffee behind the counter
and future mathematicians sweep the floor.
There’s a huge ungainly object attached to every key
that you need to unlock the restroom door.

Who’s the boss at the Artisan?
It’s not a person. It’s a sandwich.
At the Artisan, you eat the boss.
That’s what we think of hierarchy here.
There are bearded revolutionaries at every table
plotting the overthrow of capitalism.

Don’t you know,
we’re talking about a revolution
that starts at the Artisan
Finally the tables are starting to turn
Talkin’ ’bout a revolution...

I’ll always remember
that night I walked in from the rain
and it was a jazz jam,
musicians of all ages onstage,
people smiling at every table
and I felt like I was home.
It’s that kind of place.

You’ll always find a friendly face at the Artisan.
You say, there’s Jeremy
he’ll take care of me
he’ll make me feel at home.

There’s Andrew, and Alex, and that cute girl
who always makes me laugh.
When you come and see those familiar faces,
you feel like all’s right in the world.

At the Artisan, there’s a bronze tiger
you can drape your scarf over.
There’s a clock on the wall
that always says it’s later
than you want it to be, because
when you’re here
with the people
you love to be with,
you want now
to last forever.
And my favorite time of all
is when the little chalk board says
“Poetry Jam Tonight!”

I love to see the poets step up to the mike:
Steven and Carmen
and Amy and Seth
and Shane and JaKeitha
and Korey and Beth
and Barret the gentle giant
with his tales of lost love
and yearning
and breakups done by text message.
And when I step up on the stage,
my friends are looking back at me,
and there’s no place on earth I’d rather be.

That’s right, it’s the Artisan...

Where all the poets
wear their souls on their sleeve
and make you laugh with them and make you grieve
and break your heart with beauty
then it’s time for a little break:
Alex puts on some Death Cab For Cutie,

The musicians go outside to smoke their cigarettes.
You step out with them,
the cold is delicious,
the sky is a shiver of stars.
and you suddenly realize how exciting
it is to be alive.

The other night, I came in from the cold and damp,
sat down, and the couch was already warm.
I thought, “That’s just like the Artisan.”
You can go away for a day, you can go away for a year.
They’re going to keep it warm for you.

Now it’s time to say good-bye.
I won’t cry if you won’t cry.
Good-bye to every poet—
you’re beautiful, I hope you know it

When I get down from this stage,
I’ll wipe the tear from my eye,
hug my friends,
I’ll divide tips with the musicians,
I’ll say “see you later” to the cool bass player
and Alex the light & sound man
(coolest guy around, man).
I’ll say “hasta la vista”
to the barista
and I’ll slip into the night.

Good-bye is hard to say,
wish I could stay,
but I’ll be back someday.
Good night,
Cherry
Street
Artisan.
Good night.

(link)

Ode to Rochester, MN:

A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

James Wright

Missouri Poet Laureate: Walter Bargen

Woo! Missouri finally has a poet laureate (by the way, that's a really fun word to type - laureate), Walter Bargen (here's his pathetic website). Well, with Gov. Matt Blunt not seeking reelection, at least he left something for us to remember him by. He was so cute, too.

Press release announcing Walter Bargen as Missouri Poet Laureate.

Bargen's from Ashland, too, which is about 20 min. south of Columbia. I have fond memories of Ashland, both from Young Life and driving past it (the overpass signaling us to start praying for club or whatever we were going to in JC) and from when some friends and I went to a real live rodeo there. It was out of control. Definitely one of the the strangest cultural experience that I have ever had.

Here's some of his prose from his book "The Feast"

"This is what happens when he stands face to face with no, and no the true genius of the world. No, he won't sit on the potty, and so he sits wrapped in his mess for the rest of the day. No, he won't struggle with putting on his galoshes on a rainy morning, and so he walks to school barefoot, all the other kids laughing. No, he won't stand on the chair, lean among the flowers to kiss the face of someone who once loved to playfully cheat his at cards and torment him in other small delicious ways, then his frightened face is shoved up against death. No, he won't give the older boys his jacket, and after school is chased all the way home, barely staying ahead of the heavy swinging belt buckles. No, he won't eat his broccoli or spinach, or anything green that looks like the squashed insides of a caterpillar, and he falls asleep at the table, then falls out of the chair. No, he cannot say no, but he does. No, he won't to the barbarous city Nineveh, but instead heads for Tarshish, across a storm-riddled sea where he draws the short straw and is thrown overboard for God-only-knows-what-reason, and ends up living inside a great fish. Yes, no is the genius of the world."

Silly Mizzou.edu article on Bargen: "Poetry gets Wings".

Favorite quote last night:

"True love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and border and salute each other." - Ranier Maria Rilke

Marta's Guide to Herself

(from Sasha Frere-Jones)

I have a working word document on my computer called "Marta's Guide to Herself" and in it I have a list of things that I've learned about my emotions, my skin type, what kind of beer I like, etc.

All things were at one time breakthroughs, but by the time a year has passed and the information is useful again, I forget it.

Here are recent additions:

Remember that when the world looks awful and everything seems to have no beauty at all, look at art. Go to a museum. Look at glass sculptures. Read poetry. Look to God.

You like pilsener beer, you do not like porter.

Belz @ The Artisan

I went to a poetry reading tonight at the Artisan of my old Worldviews teacher, Aaron Belz. It rocked my face off. Awesome and Julie were a little less enthused. I thought the three poets who went ahead of Belz were really good and some were funny and many of the poems were really beautiful.

Belz gave a discount to his students in the audience (two of whom I knew...where else did he teach? Or...Belz, if you read this: where else did you teach?) if they bought his book, and so I did. It's called The Bird Hoverer and it's on Mondo's favorite books list even though HE HASN'T READ IT.

My favorite poem of the night was the first one he read:

"Among Birds"

Having spent the better part of the morning
among birds, having heard
what they whisper
to each other as the sun comes up,

having noted how they name their offspring,
with names like Fuzz Packet and Mr. Charming,
Devily Doo and The Potato Famine Boy,

having observed, if momentarily,
as they begin to glide, their haughty eyes
and knife-like toes,
I hereby reject birds
and not only birds but
the places where they dwell, the patterns
of their lives, the very cosmic instinct
that brings them into being—in fact, the skies;

having been raised by birds and
having nursed at their impossible teats
and been subjected to their whimsical
sarcasm, also having been approached by
them on several occasions—

when my star had risen and theirs perhaps had not—

in the name of
neighborliness or good citizenship and having
politely asked them to step off,
can't you see
I'm busy, type of thing, and having quietly
informed them that I no longer belong
to their so-called tribe,
I hereby request
that they wipe the silly smirks off their faces
and find other people to circle, other places
to drop their glob-like feces, and that is all
I ask of them, not that we can't exist on the same
planet, free-thinking individuals,
in equal

if separate and clearly demarcated communities.


Poem that should have been read Mitch Hedberg-style:

"Hidden Microphones"

I am all about hidden microphones.
If you pay me a certain amount of money,
I will plant a certain number of microphones
around your home, or a friend's home.


Conclusions from the night (mostly based on the readings of the two female poets who went ahead of Belz):
- If I ever become a poet that people come to hear read my poetry I will be a lot more expressive in my voice than they were, with hand motions and rhythm in my voice.
- I think Belz's poems were ten times more funny if you had him for class.

"So Edgar Allan Poe is in this Car" by Terry Jacobus

So Edgar Allan Poe is in this Car

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Missouri's Poet Laureate

Capital Building in Jeff City

Missouri's getting a Poet Laureate. About freaking time. I didn't know we didn't have one. That's embarrassing. Well, good job Matt Blunt for getting the ball rolling.

You can see the official notice here.

Yes, we are the home of Mark Twain, T.S. Eliot, Maya Angelou, and Langston Hughes.

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole

--Mark Strand

High Tea

High Tea

While I was a L'Abri in England, every Sunday night we would have High Tea where one of the workers would make a light meal and we would all sit around and share some kind of art. Usually it was a piano piece or poetry read aloud. It was one of my favorite things of the week there. A guy named Justin read a poem aloud one night that I adored. I asked him what it was and immediately forgot. Today in my Postmodern Poetry class we studied it. Here it is:


A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

James Wright

Greatham, England

Bill and Flossie Williams' Refrigerator

I love the poem by William Carlos Williams "This is Just to Say." I printed it out and put it on our refrigerator. I love WCW, he's simple and succinct and beautiful. I found out today in my Postmodern Poetry class that his wife Florence (Flossie) wrote him back. Here are the two poems.

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving

for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.


Reply

(crumped on her desk)

Dear Bill: I've made a
couple of sandwiches for you.
In the ice-box you'll find
blue-berries--a cup of grapefruit
a glass of cold coffee.

On the stove is the tea-pot
with enough tea leaves
for you to make tea if you
prefer--Just light the gas--
boil the water and put it in the tea

Plenty of bread in the bread-box
and butter and eggs--
I didn't know just what to
make for you. Several people
called up about office hours--

See you later. Love. Floss.

Please switch off the telephone.

Baraka recap

Well, he was a very angry black man. I may or may have fallen asleep through parts of it; that head-jerky church sleep. Here's what he talked about:

• He went off on Colin Powell and Condoleeza Rice while I was out. Nina summarized for me.



• "You're in college because some people love you and those people who love you, that's who you serve."
• He brought up the idea of having a sort of united black political party a lot.
• He referred to white people as "our enemies" throughout the talk.
• "skin is thin, class with kick your ass"
• a beautiful bit of a poem, something like: "was it ever so quiet that the room started asking you questions"
• Lauryn Hill and his son, Ras Baraka have collaborated on a couple songs.
• recommended this guy: Sekou Sundiata, The Blue Oneness of Dreams
• Nina's note: LOTS of anger/conspiracy theory

Well, I'm glad I went. The audience was about 1/3 white. There were about 150 people there. He ended the evening by reading his super-controversial poem "Somebody Blew Up America" (read it here) He introduced it by saying "Let me read this poem that got me thrown out of being a poet laureate of New Jersey." And, he said later, that they didn't technically throw him out, but actually removed the position. So, right now, New Jersey is the only state that doesn't have a poet laureate. Haha. Hearing him read the poem was amazing. There's a section where he asks "who? Who? WHO?" and he read it like I read a Dr. Seuss book. He was almost sing-songy in parts and shrieking in others.

JOHN ASHBERY ON MTV-U

What this means, I don't know. But I think it's a good thing. What's funny is Slate.com's write up about it:

John Ashbery wrote his first poem when he was 8. It rhymed and made sense ("The tall haystacks are great sugar mounds/ These are the fairies' camping grounds") and the young writer—who had that touch of laziness that sometimes goes along with precocity—came to a realization: "I couldn't go on from this pinnacle." He went on, instead, to write poems that mostly didn't rhyme, and didn't make sense, either. His aim, as he later put it, was "to produce a poem that the critic cannot even talk about." It worked. Early on, a frustrated detractor called him "the Doris Day of Modernism." Even today a critic like Helen Vendler confesses that she's often "mistaken" about what Ashbery is up to. You can see why: It simply may not be possible to render a sophisticated explication de texte of a poem that concludes "It was domestic thunder,/ The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched/ His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country."

Bahahaa...And then, this is the most helpful thing I've heard said about poetry:

The best thing to do, then, is not to try to understand the poems but to try to take pleasure from their arrangement, the way you listen to music. It's only then, for most readers, that the meaning begins to leak through.