Tuesday, January 29, 2008

that's the sun and you are holding my hand

i used to have no speech. i gummed my mother's nipple and the milk grew my brain and my lima-bean kidneys. i did not know what the letter A was. I had no understanding of torture or grief or bicycles. i needed first to be held. i needed to feel i also belong. i rocked against my father's body--but it was not my mother's--he sang different songs in different tones. but they sang similar lyrics. grow strong, i love you, don't be like them or you'll be a shitface. guess what my small baby body did? it rocked back. it heard or felt or smelt the song. i go to whitman now and he says yes you are always an old young witness:

"These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and all lands...
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing..."

as in youth as in poetry: if we're told too much "i love you" (like Billy Collins) we're not quite sure how to help ourselves uniquely. how to be bold and stand for own identity. the value of being included in life and poetry is that you're only told "i love you" after its been earned, worked for. as writers, as parents to our readers, how do we earn trust and requiting?

d. young confuses the reader. his exclamatory and seemingly random pathology disarms the reader to the dangerous point of mere entertainment. he's on the right track. he's got the powerful stride, but he has to pass the baton--and his teammates, us, have a hard time believing he wants teammates.

we have to infuse our art with the imagination of children. then translate it seamlessly into a broader, accessible world (without the sacrifice of ingenuity, freshness). remind me what the letter A is. Tell me how the church bell is a mushroom, the mushroom is a man with a ten-gallon hat, the man is a wall-street banker with an umbrella. the child's interpretation is important. there's a blurry yellow circle and a black snake on the five-year old's construction paper. the child says that's the sun and you are holding my hand. construction paper.

Instant Messaging

I want my mother back

I want her to know that

I tap my heels

I am wishing to come home but

I am not Dorothy

I am not a band not Toto

I am in high regard with courage

I am paying my regards to tin

I am not my machine

I am not a brain but that is all

I am thinking not well

I am immaterial me and my moat

I am impassable and unhinged

I am sick abasic other-absorbed

I not walking away too perfectly

I want my mother back

I want my mother’s immutability

I want you to grow strong

I want you to talk to me

I want you to talk to me even after

I am gone and she was

I am my mother leaving

I am her leaving

I am imbalanced

I ambulance

I amphora of nothing held

I umbilical tied to nothing

I amplify


Red Light! Green Light! said...

Very nice post. Assuming innocence then becomes the challenge. Dancing nude and ignoring the sex seems impossible -unless you do it all the time. The child's perspective. A misunderstanding of causal relation. The sense of wonder. Well noted! Call the stenographer! Manifesto:

1. A child's perspective!


1. subjects not limited to children's literature.
2. child does not develop oedipal fixation with mother concepts. (had to do it, man)
3. child may assume adult level abstract capacity.

its interesting that a child's rendering of realism reveals to us an abstract beyond our conception, untill we're informed of the child's intention.

that's the sun and you're holding my hand. you go to silken's blog at all? i think he's in solidarity with the writer's strike. go figure he aligns himself with dramatists. ok ok. i'll be nice. i like his work, so you know. i am an authority on the subject, of my opinion. hehe.

wolves-for-breakfast said...

We were not children together
but we are now. Every bird knows
only two notes constantly rerranged.

- d. young, from dear friend

dear friend was in the feb 2006 edition of poetry magazine. i'm not sure if it's in embryoyo though as it's in the back window of my car as it has been formonths and i've never finished it. i'venever finished some of my favorite books.

i disagree. love is never earned.

Red Light! Green Light! said...

what is it then, when a thing may not be earned, but lost? and recovery? what is that process? i think there's a poem there.