Monday, October 6, 2014

The Beauty of the Bead

I've been back in the good old USA for two weeks now, and so far I haven't gone completely broke.  Living off the kindness of my friends and whatever cash I could claw out of the Republic of Korea prior to my premature departure has been less stressful than I'd imagined.  Part of it is the comfortable surroundings: being back in the old college town, eating at all my favorite places, and luxuriating in the glorious ease of my native language.  You can forget yourself in a little "vacation" like this, which is a shame because in a week I will pull up stakes once more and try to get my feet on the ground with my folks in San Diego.

For better or for worse, living in Eugene, Oregon has more or less shaped my understanding of what adulthood is like.  That understanding probably includes a lot more sitting around in basement apartments that smell like weed and cats while watching anime than what some other people might pick up.  It's certainly included a lot less gainful employment.  But eight years in this town have definitely affected my expectations of where I can go and what I can do.  Despite growing up in Southern California, and visiting home for Christmas and summer breaks, Eugene has come to feel like a more natural environment.

As I am about to hit the road again, however, I can't help but notice how Eugene has changed in such a short time.  When I left Eugene last summer, downtown was undergoing a major phase of gentrification.  The area around Kesey square had sprouted new restaurants, brewpubs, and other businesses, often in spaces that had been vacant or under construction for a very long time.  I'm a little too politically aware to call this an unambiguously good thing.  A cursory glance is enough to tell that "improving the neighborhood" has not solved Eugene's homelessness or unemployment problems.  Installing trendy shops and increasing police presence is not the same thing as giving people a place to sleep.

The city's transformation has accelerated since I've been gone.  However, I find it hasn't been limited to downtown.  More and more apartments for University of Oregon students have popped up in all directions.  New construction is everywhere.  And amidst all the new business are a few empty units where old businesses died and none have dared to take their place.  Eugene is growing, "developing" as some might say, but I wonder how much of it is actually getting "better".

As a young white man with a few dollars in his pocket, Eugene's new face certainly holds attraction for me.  Since I took a break from booze, I can't derive quite as much enjoyment from the seemingly dozens of new breweries and beer supply outlets that have seemingly sprung from the very Earth itself.  But I have a weakness for the Golden Needles at Townshend's Tea House, and I bought myself a going-away tin today.  The new downtown Bijou theater is showing Stop Making Sense this week, and I think I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't go and see it on the (biggish) screen before I left.  The most gentrified areas of Eugene just feel like a pleasure to walk through, more so than they were a few years ago.

But if I take a step back, I see that the charms of the new Eugene don't far exceed the charms of the "old" one.  We already had tea shops.  We had art theaters.  We still have the same embarassment of lush parks and walking/biking trails.  More nice things is fine, but where's all the investment that could be going toward finding shelter for the guys in sleeping bags over by Circle K?  For that matter, how fares poor Springfield next door?

Like I said, I'm out in a week, at least for a good long while.  I can't begin to imagine how little Poway has changed in nine months, but I'll see for myself soon enough.  When I find myself in Oregon again, I don't know what I'll find.  But I wonder if, as the time passes, the spirit of familiarity that binds me to this place will become unrecognizable.

Maybe it will, but nevertheless I had a very Eugene sort of encounter today.  Walking through Kesey square while munching on a wrap from Pita Pit, I was suddenly approached by a man who asked if I were a fan of good poetry.  I told him I was, and he offered to compose a poem for me on the spot, in exchange for a little money.  It sounded fair to me, so I agreed.

He asked me to come up with four words to get him started.  I told him I couldn't really think of any, which wasn't strictly true, but most of the words I was thinking of were sandwich-related and I didn't want to insult him.  So he suggested I give him a phrase instead, and the first, most poetic thing that popped in my brain was "the bead on the necklace".

I can tell you, this streetcorner poet was no bullshitter.  His flow and his meter were all on point.  In a way that I (a fairly terrible improviser at anything) can only marvel at, he unspooled a structure and and loaded it with meaning, as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do.  He modified my phrase somewhat into a refrain, and spoke about "the beauty of the bead" as a timeless property, undulled by wear and use. 

I couldn't quote any of it to you (I have a bad memory for phrases), but I can tell you the immediate effect it had on me.  Bright as it was today, watching this man speak poetry made me feel like I had to take my sunglasses off.  I felt painfully aware from the first few lines that I was walling myself off from him by hiding my eyes.  And I felt ridiculous for holding a pita wrap in my hand the whole time, but there wasn't much I could do about that.

I didn't know much about this guy.  I didn't know his name or where he came from or what he did when he wasn't hanging around downtown in  the afternoon.  I knew he was black and I was white.  I knew he had a passion for poetry.  It seemed like he could tell I had more than a passing interest in it too.  I knew he was talented, and that he tended to spit a bit at the really emphatic parts.  But I didn't really know what to pay him when he was done.

So I opened my wallet, and I ended up settling on four dollars.  He smiled and said "thanks man, that'll help me get a slice".  Then he walked over to Sizzle Pie to purchase said slice, and I went back to eating my wrap.

I thought about what he and I had in common.  We both wrote poetry, but he did it for money: despite my recent financial misfortunes, I was the one in a position to pay him for it.  It was an ordinary occurrence for him, but a rare and singular experience for me, the sort of thing a person with no real understanding of how the world works might go home to blog aimlessly about.  I'm still trying to work out what exactly I should take away from the experience, how I should handle the memory.  It just seems really important to me that I heard spontaneous poetry in Kesey square, addressed directly to me from a poet who wasn't just fucking around.

I think there was something of the spirit of Eugene in that interaction.  It was fun, pleasurable, and possibly expanded my consciousness.  It certainly made me feel more self-conscious.  But it didn't make me any more articulate: even now, all I can really do is point emphatically and insist that it was very, very important that it happened.  Only in Eugene.

That's how I started my last week in my second home.  Already, I'm apprehensive about leaving it.  I don't think I'm done with this town yet, but I can't be sure I'll ever really "live" here again.  I just hope I'll carry some of its beauty with me when I leave.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Poetry Jam #16

In less than twenty four hours, I'll be on an airplane back to the United States.  And yet, in the nine months I've been in South Korea, I haven't posted any of the poems I've written in this country.  Now, that's no good!

So in the interest of whittling down my backlog and putting a little cap on whatever the hell it is I've been doing here, I present another jam of poems.  Enjoy it with toast, or perhaps hotteok?  If we're going with a Korean theme, that is.  These poems date from December 2013 to March 2014.  Not every random scribble from that time made the cut, so here's the best I could muster.

Venus and Diana

Look at the moon!
You can see its darkness
Look at Venus,
is that why?
Maybe something in the way
she (shrieks)
across the empty space,
as silently as diamonds in the
jaws of Earth at night.
Why suffer in silence,

Sudden Snow

Almost rain and almost freezing,
falling sparsely down like something
from a dirty dream;
precipitation in my hair,
evaporation on the stone
before the cold kicks in, and then it's
it's snow, it's snow,
as many flakes of snow
as clouds can drop
before they're weary
of the cold,
and clouds are hardy creatures
in the months when we have snow.

Stranger's Land

A stranger sits
in another stranger's land,
living off their fruits
and vegetables,
and trying not to seem intrusive
when they sneak a slice
of sweets
from the fridge;
bowing politely,
saying all the politest words
they can remember,
speaking softly so
they can't be heard distinctly,
taking what they need.


The pale sun is hidden by a cloud,
and Buddha's face is hid behind the trees.

The mountain trail, obscured by winter's forest,
winds above the temple in the breeze.

"Look how pale the sun has grown", I said,
and pointed to the sky; but when you turned,

it was too late, because he pale disc
was out of sight, behind the clouds it burned.

Love Thy Friends

Love thy friends,
it's not as easy
as the Bible
reckons it.

Love thy friends
with burning rags
and keep the cocktail
always lit.

Love thy friends
because they need it,
even if
they're full of shit.

Princess Adventures

The magic chest
is in the dungeon,
in the room
beneath the stair;

Just break the wall
behind the mirror,
light the candle
if you dare.

Then fight the fifteen
Stalfos Knights,
and lay a bomb
to blast them bare,

Before you force
the lock and lift
the gauntlet, gleaming,
in the air.

To claim the power
of the gods,
you have to creep
the whole way there.

Portraits of Sound

Let me wax on about the
portraits of sound I hear you
painting at the summer's end -
pointilist notes of blue ascending
from a brush of your fingers
on a most receptive, musical neck,
the countours that you pick and peck,
staccato, silent as the singers
at the span before the bridges
drop, the autumn's brown and purple
lines a counterpoint, a frame
of reference for a portrait,
landscape, treasure map, a concert
of red and gold and violins.

Molten Possibly

The molded plastic in my hands is hot,
molten possibly; if I had time
to check it out I could confirm it, but
there is no time, there is no chance, my eyes
are fixed inside their sockets, only staring
straight ahead.  Their lids are likewise kept
from blinking by this ceaseless stimulation,
mind monopolized by color,
brain distracted by the calculations,
nose unheeding of the burning flesh
(if anything is truly burning now).
The only taste of touch I feel is dull,
no pain, no savor, only dull and warm
against my palm and through my fingers, and
the memory's distinction fading out
the more they twitch, the more the buttons click.
As hours fall between the minutes and
the gap between the present and the time
on the alarm is shrinking, I am sure
that I can stop at any time I choose;
but I do not, because it's Sunday night,
not Monday morning, and besides, I haven't
heard a fire alarm, so there's no proof
the plastic's melting: don't you think I'd notice?

I Still Remember

I still remember throwing up,
I still remember thinking things
I'd be ashamed to fess up to now,
the words to songs I hate,
those songs I used to listen to
without complaint.

I still remember hating people,
being wrong
and swearing up and down
that you were wrong goddammit.

I still recall a few of the lawns
I mowed that summer
and the finishing touches
of a multimedia project for
sixth grade social studies;

so why the hell am I always
looking the same things up in Google?

The Sailor's War

I was a sailor in the war
because they couldn't burn the sea,
and every strip of land, they swore,
would smolder for eternity.

It was no navy's clothes I wore,
or battleahip that carried me;
for fire screams from cannon's bore
and water beckons to the free.

My boat was mine, and nothing more
but salt and fear and memory,
some fish to catch and cans to store,
a motor and a rusted key.

I didn't seek a peaceful shore
to build a mansion in a tree,
but watched the people I adored
expire from the shallow sea.

With dread I heard the rattling scores
of bombs reduce them to their knees,
and on the people's heads they poured
a toxic stew of misery.

And thusly I survived the war
until the day they burned the sea,
and all of planet Earth (and more)
was broiling with humanity.

Now dying, seared and aching sore,
I scan the flames, and I can see
one sailor's life is nothing for
a final act of liberty.

Refracted Heart

O refracted heart,
an arrow passes through you
in discontinuity,
embarassin the angels,
shaming Eros
(who never learned the science)
and confusing lovers for want
of a straighter shot.
How did you accomplish this,
O heart,
and are you as frustrated
as the arrow looks?

The Fire and the Heat

Let's talk about John Lennon,
talk about the guy
who spent his life in search of saints
and ended up a chintzy saint himself.

Do you love the songs he sang
about his broken heart,
or did they all get lost among
the people-power, hippie-anthem stuff?

And what about the famous one
about the girl he had,
or had him, so he burned her flat?
You know he beat a few in real life

"because he was a jealous guy",
or words to that effect,
a child of nature, lost, and longing
for his mother, for a ticket out.

Would he want to be the man
on every hippie's wall,
forgiven for his cruelties
because he was against a fruitless war?

I know he tried to make it better,
and I love him for it,
like I love that famous song
about the girl he had, whose flat he burned,

because she had the nerve to laugh,
because she wasn't his.
I don't believe he ever lit
that fire, but I know she felt the heat.

Terror Tea

I want to drink a tea,
steeped in the salty ocean,
and hallucinate from all that garbage.
Not the small, safe visions
of a drug like LSD
or PCP,
but the ugly, mind-fucking terror dreams
that plague the minds of those who dare
perform incredibly stupid acts.
I want to drink the tea
and smile,
blog it on my tumblr blog
along with all the illustrations
of the goblins in my eyes
before I die.

Something Useful

An artificial reef,
a murky place of refuge,
somewhere new to swim;
a hipster affectation
of sophistication,
something that the neighbors
hadn't thought to flaunt.
- What are ways a fish could use a bicycle?


Venus and Diana should have been in the last poetry post, I guess.  It was the last poem I wrote before I came to Korea.  The subject matter reflects my reading material at the time: I was speed-reading The Golden Bough so that I'd have one less book to pack.  So, that explains that.

Sudden Snow and Stranger's Land are exactly about what they seem to be about, and I don't have much to add about that.  They have similar free-versey tics, and I'm sure I had a very good reason for that.

Gakwonsa is a Buddhist temple, and I wrote Gakwonsa after visiting it.  It was the first big touristy-thing we ever did in Korea.  It is in iambic pentameter, so I guess that means I was actually trying.  More white space between lines definitely makes for a nicer read.

Love Thy Friends and Princess Adventures were both written at work, when I should have been working, but I don't feel guilty because that job was a total scam, yo.  Sometimes I like to experiment with very short lines.  And yeah, Princess Adventures is clearly about The Legend of Zelda.  There was a rumor around that the next Zelda game would star the princess as the heroine, and I sort of wrote it with that in mind.  As for Love Thy Friends, I tried to express succinctly my thoughts on loyalty.

Portraits of Sound is kind of pretty, and Molten Possibly is kind of a mess.  Both are kind of hard to read without stanzas, I suppose.  I think I like what they are about more than I like the poems themselves.  This blank verse, non-rhyming stuff always seems like a good idea at the time, but I never seem to execute it gracefully.

The Sailor's War was a very self-conscious attempt to write something longer than usual that didn't suck.  I even ran it by some of my friends to ensure that extra level of not-suck.  And it's an anti-war/environmentalist statement to boot!  Not too shabby.  Rhyming the same two rhymes over and over is tough, but also kind of fun.

I worked really hard on The Fire and the Heat.  Being a huge Beatles fan, and growing increasingly aware over time of the very glaring personality flaws of John Lennon, I struggled for some time to articulate my feelings about him.  It's hard to reconcile admiration for someone with the recognition that they've done some awful, indefensible things.  I tried to depict some of that tension.

Terror Tea, if memory serves, was motivated by my frustration in our attempts to leave our first job in Korea (which, you'll remember, was a total scam).  I just wanted to write something really grotesque.  Fortunately, we managed to escape a very short while afterward.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Counting change

I'm going back to America soon, and my feelings are complicated. 

I can remember how eager I was to leave my country, to get away from all of its rampant injustice and hopelessness.  The endless political deadlock on TV, the oppressive weight of our defective economic and justice systems, and the media's clueless self-satisfaction are the sort of thing that really ought to be too much for a person to deal with.  Yet, people deal with it every day, as if it's actually survivable.  Maybe that is the worst part.

Now I'm happy to be going back.  Why?  It's not because I've learned to love America's racist hypocrisy or aggressive ignorance.  It's just homesickness, soothed with the promise of security and familiar faces.  Traveling long-term can be fun, but you really start to miss people.  You miss talking to people for reasons other than "because they speak your language too".  You forget about the big problems of society when you're all caught up in your own difficulties.

Going home to America doesn't really feel like going back to all the things I like least about it.  Thanks to the magic of the internet, I never really left those things behind.  When I started planning to go to Korea, the big story was the murder of Trayvon Martin.  Now that I'm coming home, the big story is Michael Brown and the protests in Ferguson, Misouri.  No matter how far I travel physically, it doesn't change what happens in America.  My absence doesn't make everything better.  And being a white man, I never even had to suffer the worst of it.  I'm no refugee, just a bleeding heart.

Going home to America really just feels like going home.  It's comforting to be around familiar things and right now, I could use some comfort.  I'm not exactly leaving on my own terms, but I'm satisfied with what Korea, as a country, has given me in terms of life experience.

My only real regret right now is that Tara is not leaving at the same time as me, and that she'll be spending the holiday season in Oregon with her family before she comes down to rejoin me in California.  Our successful partnership, living and traveling and working together, has been the absolute best part of our tragically abbreviated foreign sojourn.  I can hardly stand the idea of being apart for four months.  But in the end, we will be together again.  I can live with that knowledge.

In the meantime, I have a host of smaller problems to deal with.  Most of these involve moving my stuff.  I have slightly more books now than when I came here last December.  I have an XBox 360 that needs to be diaposed of (because I already have one at home) and a big bag of games that I still want to play.  I bought this teapot that's really cute and asymmetrical and probably really fragile.  I knew I'd acquire more material goods before I had to pack up for home, but in fairness to me I really didn't think I would have to deal with that until next March.

And I've got these coins.  A big pile of coins, because from the moment I landed in South Korea I developed a strong preference for paying in cash, yet rarely bothered to carry exact change.  Being bored and unoccupied the other day, I counted out the value of of all this spare change, plus the few coins I happened to have in my wallet: ₩38,080 (plus seventy three cents that somehow made the transpacific journey all those months ago).

The great little speaker system I bought in April got jostled a little while ago and now it makes a high pitched tone whenever it's turned on.  I could fix it, or buy a new one for ₩38,080.  But since I'm going home, I guess I don't have to!  Instead, I'm using it to buy groceries.  I'm turning into the kind of person who goes to the grocery store to buy one or two small items, and pays in dimes.  It's fantastic.

My plane for Portland by way of Dallas (?) leaves on September 22nd around five o'clock.  Due to time zone shenanigans, it will arrive on the same day, about two and a half hours later.  Technology is truly a wonderful thing.  As for now, I'm counting the days and tryingnto get myself ready for being home.

Monday, September 1, 2014

New Blog, New Life

Well, it's been a while since I posted on here, hasn't it?  Up until very recently, I have been quite busy.  Much as I dream of regular updates, my life always seems to get in the way.

Anyway, I'm not really so busy anymore.  As those of you who read my travel blog know, I recently lost my job.  Being laid off from an unsustainable, doomed business is probably not the worst thing in the world.  But I miss my students and I miss doing the things I was doing, and to put it mildly the ordeal of losing the job was not good for my self-esteem. 

Consequently, Tara and I had to move to a new (smaller) apartment in Gangbuk, in northern Seoul.  It's not so bad, really.  It has a lovely view of the city and the mountains.  With a little luck,  I can pick up some part-time work and make a little money to save before we head back to America next March.  I am trying to be an optimist, because I understand that it's good for you.  Either way, it's been nice to kick back and play house husband for a bit.

What I really want to tell you, the wandering readers who pass through this page now and again, is that I have a new, new blog!  It's not really "my blog" per se, but rather a collaboration between myself and six of my good friends.   So even when I'm being lazy and unproductive, someone should be making updates!   That's the hope anyway.

The new blog is called First and Last Album Music Review, and you can credit my friend Bau for that creative name.  It's basically what it sounds like.   The seven of us will write articles wherein we review/discuss/praise/condemn the first and last albums of a particular band or recording artist.   The plan as of now is for each of us to write about seven artists each, but the project is very open ended.

As of now, there are only two posts up: my inaugural review article (on the Beach Boys), and Bau's somewhat deranged introductory post.  I don't really know what to make of it, but it's there.  My friends and I will soon be churning out lots of fun music content, just as soon as we've stopped being lazy.

I'm happy to write about these sorts of things for free, because it really is a lot of fun.  But my situation being what it is, I don't mind throwing out there that, if somebody ever wanted to pay me to write something for hem, I probably wouldn't object...

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Poetry Jam #15

Sometimes I forget how long I've been at this blogging game.  15 batches of poetry (amidst my other scribblings) and getting better all the time, if self-evaluation is any measure.  I think it's a little bit remarkable, even if no one's reading it.

Just kidding.  I know someone's reading it.  I have the page views to prove it.  Unless they're just stumbling in here by accident, taking a quick look, and running like hell.

I've been thinking lately about why I allow such a large backlog of poetry to build up before posting it on here.  I think these thoughts a lot, usually when I go through a period of writing a lot of poems.  I always come back to my usual excuse that writing a poem, and then ignoring it for nearly a year, allows me to view it later with a critical distance.  Is this necessary for quality control?  Maybe.  I don't even know.  It's just what I do.

These twenty (twenty!) poems date from July to November of 2013.  Future biographers will note this as my "waiting to go to Korea" period, and some of these poems are sort of about that.  A few of them also contain references to death and violence, so be aware.


No less a man for being filthy,
no less honored for his shame,
and nothing more and nothing less
than human in the face of death,
or wrapped in the embrace of living.
That is what he'd have them write
before they cleaned his filthy corpse
and put his innards into jars:
no more a corpse for being filthy,
no more honored for his tomb,
and nothing less the loss of someone
human to a mausoleum,
lost in the pursuit of living.


Have a look at your city
through the window of a bus.
See the people of your city
in their comings and their goings,
all these people of your city
through the windows of a bus,
see that face of yours in
need of shaving, faintly,
in the window of a bus.
Find the driveways and the
stones of houses in your memory,
buildings from another time
that linger in these windows,
trees from other times before.
Have a look at your city
through the window of a bus
and see it like it's new again,
and never forget it.

The Role of the Praetorian Guard

Waste your day in vain ambition,
dream of rule and wake in ruin;
so the princeling's guard had said
before they dragged him from his bed,
and dashed a club against his head
and, joyless, watched him as he bled.

Thus the realm was saved from ruin
through the princeling's wild ambition;
so the younger princeling said,
a crown of laurel on his head
and bodyguards around his bed,
the wardens of the walking dead.

Clay Castles

Whenever I could manage,
I would build my castles
out of clay,
so the sea would have a
more difficult time
in taking them away.

But when I came back to
my little kingdom,
I never found my castles
made of clay;
thicker sand won't coax
a work of life to stay.

Magic Love

I don't know magic in this life
but when you speak, your tones,
your precious words that move me
with your sorrow and your crying joy.

With all my doubts dispelled, my love,
my heart embraced with silks,
the charm is truly cast,
my love, I need to hold you in my arms.

So summon me, across the sky
and to your bedroom, love,
so I might comfort you
tonight, before you make your sleeping spell.

Science Love

If there's a force that could keep us apart,
I know I've never weighed it on a scale;
they don't make a scale big enough to measure
all the weight they'd need to hold me down,
to keep me here, to stop my arms from finding you
and holding you before you fall asleep,
to hold you up from falling.

Elisabeth Sullivan's Parrot Paintings

The lady found her theme, and it was
parrots, clutched intently
on the tips of boats and surfboards,
sinking in the water, never sunk
while wings could soar;
parrots, perched in waters
where the colors never faded,
parrots on the shore
and parrots where the people
never go anymore.


What time awaits me, I will never learn
until that time remains with me no more,
escaping me, but granting me in turn
the awful knowledge of that open door.

The wisdom of the living for the night
will have no business on the road with me,
wherever roads may lead, whatever light
may shine, wherever my arrest may be.

I would depart in love, and I would choose
to shed the weight that rests upon my brow
before I close my eyes, if I could lose
the fear that holds them open even now.

And if I had a choice, I would forget
the limits of our words, and be at peace,
if time would grant the courtesy to set
a warning of the day of my release.

Beach Bones

Beach bones broken by the sea,
scattered, lying next to me;
beach bones built of burnt-out wood,
leaving roots where once they stood.
Beach bones bitten by the breeze,
Bony husks of weathered trees.
Beach bones barely passing by
the hours of the ashen sky.

Campfire in the Light Mist

I like the way you build
the fire.
I like the way you build
my dangerous tendencies,
the way your fingers run
along me,
the crackle and the
hiss and pop,
the soft implosion, pulsing flame,
the way the sturdy log is thus
the way the water sizzles
in the heat of you,
the mist upon the fire,
the glow,
the burning want.

Document Based Question

The first quote is from someone who
describes history;
the second is from somebody who
makes it,
shapes it,
lives it,
dies alone with it.
As you can see, they are very different.

Magic Potions

If you want to talk about magic potions,
I can buy them at the grocery store
in packs of six, or more if I choose,
in handsome marketer's packaging.

These potions are of limited uses,
but I'll take them over spells of love
and draughts of shrinking land, until
such time as they are brewed like beer.

Untitled October Second Poem

My lungs and your heart,
somehow working apart
from each other, in spite
of how we miss each other,
no matter how hard I breathe
or how few steps there are
from here to your door,
no matter how I distract
myself, if it's you
I want then breathing is
unsatisfying to our hearts.

Letters of the Alphabet

Q looks like an alien letter,
like a body-snatcher,
standing in for K
(or maybe C?)
and hoping no one notices
or asks too many questions
that they aren't prepared
to hear the answers to.

But Q is not a foreign glyph,
at least no more than C
or G or even K
and long lost friends like Þ.
Our symbols have a history,
a right to be among us
and to spell our words
as well as they are able.

Q is not a body-snatcher,
Q is not a rank impostor,
Q does not have to answer to U.

Summer Sun

Like a summer sun on winter mornings
you are here,
waking me with brilliant warmth, and
you are here
because you want to be here,
nowhere else, my miracle, my paradox,
my crisp summer sun.

Tea Time on the Edge

On my right, a steeping mug
and on my left an oily plate,
but one of these is finished;
ten fifteen, it's time to start,
there's so much time I have to fill,
but I am tired of filling time
with tea and Thai food, yeah?
In front of me, a puzzle,
mostly empty, getting fuller,
waiting for the ink to fill the spaces,
but my inspiration struck (or did it?)
and the tea is steeping hot
and I just want to drink my mug, yeah?
before I get caught up in something big.

The Language of Ice

The ice is talking to me,
speaking through the water,
every crack a verb
and silence an imperative:
"get out, get out"
you fool, (it says)
"get out,
and take your little ideas with you."
I can hear it growing softer
as the ice's edges melt,
but if you listen very closely
you might just make out the mockery
inherent in its accent,
defiant to the last
of its most treasured independence,
before my thirst negates it.


I don't want to be a king,
a ruler of the boardroom
or the bedroom,
emperor of some new money manse
or legislator;
not without your wisdom,
not without your sovereignty
exalted up with mine,
so glorious,
abolishing the very thought of sovereignty
with all the tenderness of common sense,
my love,
the only rule we'll know is kiss
and pray for rain,
and make the most of weather
when it snows.

The Victory of Music over Painting

Sound is sight-deprived
and sight is silent, hollow,
cracking through the skull
like ripples in the frost.
But sound is free from sight,
so sound is warm and comely
as a body's heat;
this sound is just as much
a spike in temperature
as echo in the ears,
a triumph over eyes,
and ice, and window glass.
a sound can melt your heart
before a sight can make
you want to change your mind.

The Bear

The bear who came to life to hold your hand
when you were crying on your bed, alone;
his plastic eyes, his fur of ruddy sand,
the way his empathy has always shown
when no one else could look you in the face -
would you trade him for a cigarette,
a carton-full, a bottle (or a case)
if anyone could make that bear forget?


Let the commentary begin!

Epitaph puts us off to a nice, morbid start with a consideration of what it must be like to be a corpse.  I don't remember why I wrote this, exactly, but it's confusing and provocative and I like it.

At the time I wrote Omnibus, I was in the process of moving out of Eugene, Oregon.  Having lived there for the better part of eight years, I was putting things in storage, getting packed for a quick jaunt to San Diego to visit my family, and preparing to subsequently live at my girlfriend's house in Canby until our flight date was set.  I found myself riding the bus home from downtown one day, and feeling all nostalgic.  So that's what Omnibus is: blatant nostalgia with some little repetition tricks.

I wrote The Role of the Praetorian Guard while reading A Game of Thrones.  This cultural phenomenon was in fact a series of books before it was a popular television series, and could easily have been retitled "A Series of Horrifying Murders."  Somehow, it got all up in my poetry.

Magic Love and Science Love are in fact a pair, though I don't remember if I planned it that way before I'd started writing the second one.  In fact, it was probable a happy accident.  Magic Love has a fun little 4/3/3/5 metrical scheme, though I clearly cheated on the second stanza with those gratuitous "my love" insertions.  Science Love has a really wonky meter and I'm not sure it's actually good.  But dammit, these two are meant to be together.

Elisabeth Sullivan's Parrot Paintings is about exactly what it sounds like.  The artist, Elisabeth Sullivan, was at the San Diego Art Walk in August last year, and so was I (as a booth wanderer, not an artist).  I thought her work was lovely, and something inside me really appreciated the liberal presence of parrots.

My return to San Diego came with a very unexpected emotional impact.  Shortly after my arrival, my dad told me that members of the extended family were gathering for a memorial service.  My cousin and two of my uncles, all of whom had died in recent years, were going to have their ashes interred together at the San Luis Rey Mission.  A few days before the service took place, my aunt (who was conducting the event) sent out an email to invite any of us to prepare a speech or poem if we would like to.  This prompted the writing of Preparation, though I was too shy to read it at the time, or to show it to anyone up until now.  The service was very emotional, both for its suddenness and because I remembered that the last time I'd been to San Luis Rey (2007?  2008?), my cousin and my two uncles had all been all been alive and present for the interment of my grandfather's ashes.  Anyway, I'm proud of Preparation, and I wish I'd read it then.

Beach Bones and Campfire in the Light Mist both came out of a weekend with my best buddies on the Oregon coast, as the countdown to Korea began.  The first is about driftwood and, yeah, driftwood, whoo.  The second is about our campfire, which we somehow kept alive through the Oregon coast's notorious and incessant rain.  It somehow spun into something disturbingly erotic.  Don't read too much into that.

Magic Potions is really funny to me now that I've quit drinking.  Aside from the obvious, I got to use the phrase "draught of shrinking land" in a poem about beer.  I am and will always be a huge nerd.

I have no idea what's going on with Untitled October Second Poem.  I read it today, blinked, and counted out the meter:
-/ --/
--/ --/
--/ --/
-/ -/ -/-
-/ --/ -/
-/ -/ -/
-/ --/
-/ -/ --/
-/ --/
-/ -/ --
-/ -/ -/ -/
What the fuck is this shit?  Is this free verse?  Is there any sort of plan here?  I didn't even remember writing it.  But I liked it, so it's here.

Letters of the Alphabet is probably really stupid, but I like it so I will subject you all to it too.  To read it properly, recall that the letter Þ is called "thorn".  If you read it in your mind as "P", you are a very silly person.

Summer Sun and Royalty are about Tara, and my feelings for her in the time that her parents were gracious enough to allow me to live in their house indefinitely while we waited months for our Korea departure.  She likes it when I write her poems, and she is a wonderful muse.

Tea Time on the Edge and The Language of Ice are documentary evidence of what an exciting time that was.  When you're writing about the way ice cracks in water over time, you know you need to go outside.  I kind of miss Thai food, actually.  I think I've only had it once since I got to Korea.

Lastly, The Bear is a poem for making people feel bad about smoking and drinking by invoking the memory of their childhood stuffed animals.  That probably makes me terribly square.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

The Ways of the Poem

A friend of mine recently asked for some instruction in the arts poetical.  Being something of a poet myself, and otherwise stuck for ideas of what to actually write on this old blog of mine, I thought I'd write him a primer on the subject of writing poems.  If you too have an interest in this most venerable of crafts (and likewise have no real background in it), I hope you'll find the following helpful.

I personally think it's a shame that the basics of poetry aren't more widely known.  On a rudimentary level, poetry is very easy.  The only necessary equipment is the ability to speak a human language (and yes, sign languages count).  You'll need a pencil and paper, of course, if you want to actually write it instead of just memorising verses like the bards of yore.  But most people these days have those lying around, or the digital equivalents anyway.  Just add an idea, and there's no real barrier between doing nothing and writing a poem.

So most people have the tools ready to go.  They just don't quite know what to do with them.  Some people might go their whole lives knowing nothing about how to put together a decent poem, except that it ought to rhyme.  There are some exceptions: certain jokey forms like limericks or haiku (a serious form in Japanese, in my experience usually comical in English) seem to get in people's heads in a way that they can use, even if they can't explain it in technical terms.  What I want to do now, more or less, is root around in the toolshed, and give names to all those pointy things you've always noticed but never used.

Poetry: What It Is

In simple words, stated to be as broadly applicable to as many languages as possible, poetry is the art of organizing words for aesthetic effect.  In a limited sense, this is applicable to prose as well, but there is a key difference.  Prose is ordinary writing that can borrow poetic techniques to imbue a message with feeling.  Poetry is as much about the feeling as it is about the message.  It's about trying to take a message and make it as beautiful, or as ugly, or as much of any other desired effect as you can.

There are a million different ways to do poetry, especially if you're not limited to a single language.  But if English is it for you, it doesn't mean there is only one way to write a stanza.  There is a long line of tradition and convention to draw from, but ignoring the parts you don't like is an acceptable practice.  After all, it's only words in the end.

Much like in music, the most central property of poetry is usually rhythm.  Rhythm means something a little different in different tongues, but in English the primary rhythmic element is syllabic stress.  For most poets in English, the location and number of those stresses in a line is of primary importance.  Building a decent poem out of them means keeping track of their arrangement, and using it fo the advantage of the poem's feeling.

Other essentials of poetry include phonics, vocabulary, and a willingness to disregard "essential" things when they are massively inconvenient.  You can go surprisingly far, however, with rhythm as your primary guide.

Before You Can Write A Poem, You Have To Write Lines

Rhythm is fundamental on at least two levels: within the lines, and between the lines.  The former is the domain of meter, while the latter is what we might call form. 

Meter is basically a scheme for organizing the rhythm of a string of words that has been placed in a line of poetry.  In English the rhythm is defined by patterns of stress.  Thus, meter in English usually consists of counting out stressed and unstressed syllables.  A poet may write a line like this:
A happy rodent playing with the cats
and the pattern of stresses will look something like this:
a HAPPy ROdent PLAYing WITH the CATS
More abstractly, the line could be rendered like this:
-/ -/ -/ -/-/
where "-" indicates an unstressed syllable and "/" indicates a stressed one.  You can use those symbols for your own purposes, but you don't have to.  I just like how they look.

"A happy rodent playing with the cats" happens (by stunning coincidence) to be a line of iambic pentameter, the classic embodiment of formal English meter.  "Iambic Pentameter" is an awful lot of Greek to throw into a discussion of purely English poetry, I know, but most of the technical vocabulary of poetry is Greco-Latin.  It's better to just get used to it.

The form of a poem largely consists in how its lines are arranged in reference to one another.  The lines might all be metrically identical; pentameters marching endlessly into the distance, as it were.  They might also vary in length or type.  "Free verse" consists in telling form to go to hell, which is a valid lifestyle choice but also requires more unconventional and advanced ways of thinking about rhythm.  I wouldn't recommend it for beginners who want to avoid learning about form.  You're better off mastering the writing of metrical lines until you can toss off a line like "a happy rodent playing with the cats" like it's no big thing.

The Wide World of Feet

A line of poetry is measured in "feet", a term that is less reassuringly simple than it might appear.  The word "pentameter", for instance, indicates a line of five feet.  Recall that "a happy rodent playing with the cats" was rendered abstractly above like this:
 -/  -/ -/ -/ -/
The unit "-/" (an unstressed syllable followed by a  stressed syllable) is a kind of foot known as an iamb; hence, a line of iambic pentameter.  This brings us to the point of this section: there are many kinds of feet, and they all have Greek names.  Here are four of the most common/useful feet:
The Iamb (-/): an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one.
The Trochee (/-): a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed one.
The Anapest (--/): two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed one.
The Dactyl (/--): a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones.
And here are two more with a more specialized use, usually as convenient substitutes for an iamb or a trochee:
The Spondee (//): two stressed syllables.
The Pyrrhic (--): two unstressed syllables.
There are dozens more feet like this, and they're all mostly impractical for writing at length.  Those six will carry you a good long way.  Memorizing their Greek names is useful for technical analysis, but the most important thing is to remember the stress patterns.

Feet and words are both composed of syllables, but they are not the same thing.  "A happy rodent playing with the cats" is ten syllables, seven words, and five feet long.  The first foot consists of the word "a" and the first half of the word "happy".  There is no cause to build a line of iambic pentameter out of five words with a natural "-/" stress pattern.  You probably shouldn't do it, unless you've found five words that sound awesome that way, in which case you should absolutely do it.

Finally, remember that words like "trimeter", "tetrameter", "pentameter", "hexameter", "heptameter", etc., refer to numbers of feet, not syllables.  A line of anapestic pentameter like this:
But they fled the unstoppable army of ravenous bats
has the same number of feet as "a happy rodent playing with the cats", even though it has fifteen syllables instead of ten.  It's also significantly harder to write five anapests in a row over and over, so you know.  Trade off.

Little Rhythm Things

Stress in English does not exist as a yes/no dichotomy.  Words of three or more syllables typically have more than one stress, with one syllable receiving most of the stress and another receiving less.  Depending on the tone of a sentence, syllables that would typically be unstressed can suddenly reverse their roles.  "Put the markers IN the basket," said the stressed-out teacher to the student, investing more weight in the word "in" than any other syllable in that sentence.  In poetry, this makes a world of difference.

Stress is always relative.  A lightly stressed syllable can appear to be unstressed in the right context.  Consider the word "ravenous."  The big stress falls on syllable one, but a smaller, secondary stress falls on the third.  In the line " of ravenous bats," the meter treats the second stress like it's no big thing.  Either I'm just a sloppy poet, or the stress is all a matter of perspective.

Pausing a line, either with a comma or a period, interrupts the flow of the meter. If the natural expectation of an iambic pentameter is to pause every fifth beat, then shortening and lengthening the period between pauses defies expectations in all the right ways.  The proper name for pausing in the middle of a line is cesura; the term for connecting two lines without a pause is enjambment.  Hand in hand, they make poetry seem less artificial and more like the natural, irregular rhythms of speech.

All of this affects the overall rhythm of a line in a way that's deeper than meter.  To a sensitive ear, a metrically perfect line can still sound slightly off if these micro-rhythmic factors are undermining the regular march of stresses.  But with skill, these effects can be put to work in creating a richer and more interesting rhythm than the simple baBUM baBUM baBUM baBUM baBUM of iambic pentameter.  Above all else, poetry is about making the language work for effect.  Play with rhythm, and you are bound to discover all sorts of interesting tricks.

 Phonics Effects

I went a long way with no mention of rhymes, but the time has come.  As everyone knows, the art of poetry calls for more than hypnotic, mesmerising rhythms.  People want the old razzle-dazzle.  They want some rhymes.

Rhymes, alliteration, and other trappings of euphonia make for more colorful poetry.  They also run the risk of looking cheesy, clichéd, and contrived.  But when they work, they really bring the pretty.  If it's pretty you're after, then rhyming is worth the effort.

The rules of rhyme, much like those of meter, are elastic.  Depending on your chosen form or your own personal taste, it can be anything from an exact correspondence in vowel and consonant sounds (bold/gold, free/sea, day/play) to a looser kind of family resemblence (bold/goal, free/scene, date/played).  Near or "slant" rhymes may not always satisfy a purist, but they are valid poetic techniques and can introduce a bit of extra texture.

I'm not much of a rhymer, myself.  I do rhyme, from time to time, and it usually comes out about as well as that.  I'm personally more fond of alliteration as a grace note in my poem.  It's an aesthetic preference and not a recommendation.  Most established poetic forms assume an effort at rhyming, so if you want to try your hand at sonnets or ballads or what not, you'll need to make that effort.

Rhymes and alliteration always tend to work best, in my opinion, as reinforcing elements of the rhythm, highlighting beats with their special ability to draw attention to themselves.  It all comes back to rhythm in the end, because rhythm is the life of poetry.  It's the reason people do poetry at all.  

A Voluminous Vocabulary

The poet trades in words, and a clever or unexpected term can easily turn a dull line into an interesting one.  Blessed with a lexicon like ours, an embarrassment of synonyms and rarities, one could say that English-language poets have something of an obligation to reach for the stars and pluck out some choice novelties.  Mindless repetition, after all, is no path to greatness.

Sturdy, common monosyllables are an indispensable part of any English writing.  However, the interesting stress patterns of polysyllables can improve a poem's rhythm.  Rare words can also introduce new possibilities for rhymes when you've grown tired of the obvious ones.  The more words you know, the more choices you have in meeting your poem's peculiar needs.

The inevitable downside?  People don't talk like thesauruses.  That's the reason we have thesauruses in the first place.  If you stuff every line with rare and unwieldy words, your potential readership will dwindle.  If you care about your potential readership (even if it's just you), be sure that your poem is never missing he kind of words that they can actually relate to.

After all, poetry is not just about putting the words in the right order.  Even more basic than that is finding he right word.  Whether it's love or infatuation, you'll want both in your toolbox for the big jobs.

The Personal Touch

English is an international language with a long history.  There isn't anything like an authority on how to pronounce every little word in the language.  And with every language, there is always variation between even individual speakers.  Sometimes you're going to wonder about a word, even on something as basic as the number of syllables.

One ambiguity that I often encounter (and exploit) is "R-breaking".  This is the tendency to pronounce words like "fire" as though they were two syllables.  The trouble is, when I consider the word "fire" in my mind, it doesn't really feel disyllabic. Depending on the circumstances of the poem, I feel perfectly comfortable treating "fire" as either one or two syllables.

These ambiguities extend to things like rhyme and stress.  Does "maw" rhyme with "ma"?  It does if you're me, but the assertion would puzzle many people.  What about the stress on the word "guitar?"  I stress the second syllable, but in some dialects it's common to stress the first. 

Since poetry is perceived as a formal exercize, it is tempting to agonize over proper pronunciations in the pursuit of a perfectly executed meter or a flawless rhyme.  Don't do that!  The best poets write in their own voice, and consequently their usage is always informed by their own dialect.  If a certain pronunciation or grammatical quirk sounds right or natural to you, it is not necessary to break your back in avoiding it.  If you are deliberately writing in a "Standard English" sort of way, it's another story.  But I suspect you'll have more fun with poetry if you write in your own style.

Alternative Approaches

The kind of poetry I've been describing, with meters organized according to stresses and syllables, is not the only kind available.  Bucking this paradigm does not make you an unpoet, nor does it automatically mean your work is worthless.  It just puts you outside the tradition.

The Anglo-Saxon bards, between their hearty quaffs of mead, considered a line of poetry to be well done if it had four prominent stresses, with the first three emphasized by alliteration, and syllable counts be damned.  Conversely, there are poems in Modern English that derive their metrics solely from counting syllables, with little heed to stress.  And of course there's free verse, where everything is made up and the points don't matter.

The point is, despite all the blathering I've done thus far on the technical aspects of poetry, you can pretty much do whatever you want.  Other people may not like it, but that doesn't mean it's not poetry.  Bad poetry is still poetry, and since you can follow all the rules and still produce monumentally awful verse, you might as well take some time to test out the boundaries.  

And Now, The Method

There actually isn't any one method I adhere to with any regularity when it comes to writing poems.  Sometimes I just write lines until something like a theme emerges.  Sometimes I build up a structure and fill in the blanks.  Sometimes I just freestyle and hope that no one gets hurt.  

Once you have established your relationship with things like rhythm and form, writing poetry is much the same as writing anything else.  If you have a big message to share with the world, bend the rhythm to suit your message.  If you're only concerned with the rhythm, then don't fret about not having anything deep to say.  Sometimes poetry is about deep thoughts and philosophy.  Sometimes it's about stupid dirty jokes.  Both are fine uses of your time and energy.

Writing poetry is an excellent opportunity to express yourself creatively and to learn more about your language.  There is a lot more to discuss on the subject than the quick and dirty notes I've jotted down here.  For a more competent how-to guide, I recommend Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Traveled.   For advanced studies, of course, there is actual poetry to explore.  Read with your ears, then give it your best shot.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Why I'm quitting drinking

Sure, everyone says it when they've got a bad hangover.  But I'm hoping that by putting it down here, I can demonstrate that it isn't just the hangover talking.

People drink alcohol for a lot of reasons.  Fun, flavor, and chemical dependency all play a role in it.  Another factor is social pressure.  Drinking alcohol is not just something one does in response to one's own body.  It's a performance for an audience.  What and how much you drink is socially determined as much as it is chemically determined.

For a long time, I was very worried that I would become addicted to alcohol.  I grew up with visible examples of alcoholism in my family, and I knew exactly what I never wanted to be.  I passed my 21st birthday with only a few curious sips, a customary can of budweiser (or something), and a sense of moral superiority.  Then came 22, and I compromised.  I learned to drink, and in time I learned to genuinely enjoy it.  But all the while, I worried about what would become of me if I lost control.  And when I did lose control, I spent the next mornings feeling guilty and sick.

As it happens, I became a drinker while living in Oregon, nestled among a fine collection of craft brewing houses.  I learned to savor good taste in beers, and to listen to my body when it started sending me negative messages.  I cut out hard liquor.  I tapered my drinking so that I could enjoy a buzz without succumbing to oblivion.  I did what I could to establish good drinking habits.  Everyone who drinks should do that, but in my case I was motivated by a very immediate kind of fear.

Just as there were alcoholics among my family, I found them among my close friends.  I didn't count myself among them, and I still don't.  But I was afraid, and I started drawing lines in the sand for myself.  I thought I would be safe as long as I observed certain basic rules.  Beyond that, I knew I would be safe if I stayed in control of my drinking.

I've been in South Korea for six months, and right now I don't really feel in control of my drinking.

At first, I thought I could retain control easily enough.  South Korea's beer selection is light on the craft I enjoy and heavy on the cheap, watery business of getting hammered.  I spent my first few months more concerned that I would be deprived of good drink than that I would have too much. 

I found good, imported beer.  I've got four bottles sitting in my refrigerator right now.  They've been sitting there for months because I just don't want them anymore. 

Never undestimate the effect a culture can have on your behavior.  In particular, never underestimate a drinking culture.  This nation may not brew the best, but it loves to consume.  And frankly, the prevailing attitude in the drinking culture of Korea strikes me as suicidal.  When I go out with my boss and my coworkers, I am expected to hurt myself.  I am expected to drink until I can be confident I'll have to throw it all up in the morning.  The pattern has been set.

It is not as if I do this all the time.  In point of fact, I don't go out very often.  I've even been able to dodge these outings a few times.  But you can't dodge them all, and I'm so desperate to avoid offending my boss that I eventually find myself quaffing "somaek" (beer with a soju shot) in perverse tests of manly endurance.  Then I feel euphoric and profoundly unhappy.

This morning, I missed the toilet bowl by a few inches.  A glimpse at my employer's more guarded emotions was not really worth the accompanying feelings of shame and disgust or the fluid on my feet.

You can't just drink slower than everyone else when there's a toast every two minutes.  You can't limit yourself to the quantity you know you can handle when your boss puts a two half liters in front of you and says "one shot".  You can't take it back when you feel yourself cross the line of no return.  It's so hard to say no to a drink when the whole gathering revolves around chicken and drinking.

And to think, all of this is supposed to be a celebration of the end of a stressful week.

I no longer drink because it's been a long day and I'd like a little something to relax.  These days, I drink because a man I don't much care for is trying to raise morale.  And frankly, it's hurting me.  I don't know how else to get out of it except by not drinking anymore.

Last weekend, I went to the hospital for a mandatory examination.  The doctors read my blood, and told me my "liver index" was high.  A followup ultrasound indicated I have the beginnings of Fatty Liver disease.  Whether it's the drinking or my diet that's causing it, I don't know.  But I can feel the pain I'm putting myself through.  And if there's one thing I know I never want to be, it's a patient with cirrhosis or hepatitis.

I thought about moderation.  But I don't really feel like moderation is a valid choice for me here.  Maybe when I'm back in America, and I feel more comfortable setting my own pace, that could change.  Right now, I feel more comfortable going on indefinite hiatus.   I'll give my beers away.  I'll stick to tea.

I've been a drinker for five years because I compromised with social expectations.  Back then, I weighed the risks against a desire to be of the world, not left out of a more-or-less universal custom.  Now, I'm renegotiating the terms of that compromise.  I'm tired of being at war with my body.  I want some control back in my life.