Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 15 of 17)

My Interview

July 24, 2006 / / 59 Comments

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When I was in film school, we would get movie directors and writers come to our class and show us their latest film releases. While it was fun seeing the movies, the post-movie discussions were usually as dull as hell. Students would ask the filmmakers stupid questions, and the professionals would respond with self-important answers.

Q: “What were your artistic influences in the cinematography of Police Academy 7?”

A: “I’ve always been a big fan of Godard… blah blah blah…”

I was recently interviewed for a new website called The Blog Reader. Luckily, most of the conversation didn’t make it on the site, because I would have probably come off as a pretentious blowhard myself. It wasn’t all my fault. The interviewer, a pleasant woman named Jessica, asked me those questions that I hated in film school.

Q: “In that post where you mentioned Emily Dickinson, were you trying to show the dichotomy between 19th Century Literature and modern technologically-produced writing?”

A: “You mean the one where I f***ed Emily Dickinson and then she started to stalk me?”

At first I giggled at her academic questions to me, but soon I became like a druggie on crack. Someone was taking me seriously! Yes, I did read Emily Dickinson in college! Yes, I do see blogging as a literary experience. Yes! Yes! Yes!!

To Jessica, I wasn’t just a trained monkey, entertaining women in the hope of getting some photos sent to me of their tits. To Jessica, I was an ARTISTE! I even discussed my talking Penis as a literary device.

“I’ve always been a big fan of Kafka,” I said.

What could be more ego-gratifying? Here I was, a former English major, talking about my literary influences. And now I was talking to some intellectual woman about how my own c**k was a piece of literary history, like Don Quixote, Jane Eyre, and Holden Caulfield.

Of course, I’ve now gained some experience on giving interviews. You need to be wary of blabbing about everything.  You’re never sure how the interviewer is going to portray you. That is why Tom Cruise interviews with his Public Relations person at his side.

After Sophia read the interview, she called me, not very happy. It seems as if I was quoted as saying “Sophia HELPS edit SOME of the posts” when in reality — she edits ALL of my posts and very often makes them much funnier. But I’m sure you can all understand how I made that simple slip of the tongue.

Now I’m waiting for someone to comment on this quote:

“You’re seeing a high school kid, [for example], writing for the first time,” he said. “I mean, when was the last time before blogging that people wrote anything? Now people are writing all the time. I think it’s great. There are some blogs that are far and away better quality than others. Some of them, my best friends online, may not have the best written blogs, but they have a lot of heart to them.”

After reading this, Sophia said, “You realize you just said that some of you best online friends have shitty blogs, don’t you?”

Interview on The Blog Reader (the interviewer was Jessica Strul, and she was actually a terrific interviewer!  She had a great sense of humor and I enjoyed talking with her).

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month: Stretching the Juice

Sex Advice for Men

July 20, 2006 / / 65 Comments

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This week’s challenge on Poetry Thursday:  Write a poem about sex.

Sex Advice for Men
by Neil Kramer

Problems in the bedroom?
Your lady unfulfilled?
Ask me any question,
And get her garden tilled.

Question: 

“I really like this woman,
She’s sexy through and through.
I always climax way too fast,
What’s a man supposed to do?”

Answer: 

“That happens very often,
When relationships are new.
So, here’s a tried and true technique,
Passed down from Jew to Jew –”

You entertain thy woman,
With everything you know.
You tell amazing stories,
From Dickens, Eyre, and Poe.

You paint a lovely portrait,
You wear an artist’s frock,
You balance twenty dishes,
You buy her penny stock.

You tell her she is gorgeous,
You tell her that is why —
Your passion rose so suddenly,
And hit her in the eye.

You kick and do a swing dance,
You cook her Cream of Wheat,
You promise her gelato,
You say you’ll sail to Crete.

You feel her being curvy,
You lick her little toe,
You spread her arms behind her,
You move her high and low.

You be an opera singer,
You be a Shakespeare bard,
You pray to God repeatedly,
“Please let me stay real hard.”

Soon she’ll be all ready
Her heatbeat all a rush
She’ll want to climb atop you
Her body all aflush

Of course, by now you’re tired,
From all that work and fun,
You still might be excited
But your c**k might say “I’m done.”

The Devil Wears Converse

July 6, 2006 / / 34 Comments

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Since I’m still in New York for the rest of the week, I decided to go into Manhattan for a job interview with Anna Wintour at Vogue Magazine.

Anna:  “So, Neil, how much experience do you have in the fashion industry?”

Neil:  “None. ”

Anna:  “None?”

Neil:  “Well, I did write two pieces about fashion.”

Anna:  “At which publication?”

Neil:  “It was on my blog.” 

Anna:  “I see.  Your blog.  And what were these “pieces” about?”

Neil:  “One of them was to call for a boycott of the fashion industry and the other was about some ridiculous jeans that revealed male pubic hair.”

Anna:  “And this is your ONLY experience with the fashion industry?”

Neil:  “Well, I read La Coquette.  I think she does something with fashion.  And a lot of female bloggers write about shoes, so I know a little something.  And Sophia has dragged me to a lot of stores where I’m bored out of mind.  Even Fictional Rockstar recently wondered on her blog, “Why do women torture men like that?”

Anna:  “Do you know who Jimmy Choo is?”

Neil:  “Of course.  Didn’t he played Bruce Lee’s adversary in “Five Fingers of Death?””

Anna Wintour sighs.

Anna:  “Do you usually come to an interview wearing torn jeans and a tee shirt that reads “I almost f***ked in a rowboat?””

Neil:  “I try to have my own style.”

Anna:  “And exactly why do you want to work for Vogue Magazine?”

My Penis interrupted me before I could answer.

Penis:  “Simple.  Have you seen the hot women who work here?”

Neil:  “Please, Penis, I’m in the middle of an interview.”

Penis:  “Neil, I just want to make sure that I’ll be comfortable working here.  Aren’t we a partnership?”

Neil:  “OK, Penis, go ahead.”

Penis:  “Ms. Wintour, I notice that most of the editorial staff  consists of women who are size 2 and under.  Do you have any women employees with a little more meat on them, maybe in the accounting department?  I prefer f***ing women with at least some tits and ass.”

Neil:  “Penis, can you act professional for once in your life?”

Anna:  “I think this interview is over.  How in the world did you ever think that Vogue would hire you as a fashion writer?”

Neil:  “Well, I saw this movie last night called “The Devil Wore Prada,” about a “serious journalist” young woman with stringy unwashed hair (but was a goddess after a fashion makeover) who got a job with a fashion magazine simply by walking in and mocking the the industry to the editor-in-chief’s face.  And this hard-to-believe movie was based on a hard-to-stay-awake-while-reading bestselling book that women just loved to read.  And the bestseller was based on the ungrateful writer’s own experience.  So, I figured, what do I have to lose?”

Anna:  “If I hire you, do you promise to write a roman a clef based on your negative experiences working here while portraying me as a crazed monster?”

Neil:  “Absolutely.”

Anna:  “You’re hired!”

The Ballad of Seth Blackwell

June 15, 2006 / / 17 Comments

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The Ballad of Seth Blackwell

When I was younger,
So much younger than today,
I had long hair and oval specs,
“Like John Lennon,” they would say.

When I got much older,
And started having dates,
“Hey, look at you, said women,
“You look just like Bill Gates.”

Now I’m old and grizzled,
I’m only known as Seth,
When people choose to see me,
They see a man near death.

(written in IHOP after this)

Poetry Thursday

Expert’s Seal of Approval

June 11, 2006 / / 73 Comments

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Today I had lunch with Miriam, an old college friend from my undergrad days at Columbia. She now has a PhD in Art History and is a curator at a major New York museum. She’s a great person, but she can also be a little snooty. But that’s OK. I like snooty. We haven’t seen each other in a few years, so we spent the meal catching up with each other.

Towards the middle of the meal, I suddenly blurted out, “Oh, I almost forgot one of the most interesting things going on in my life. I started a blog last year! And now I have all these people who come and read it every day!”

Her response was, “Why in the world would anyone want to read YOU?”

Now I know this sounds insulting. But I didn’t take it like that at all.  I knew exactly where she was coming from — academia. She has been taught the importance of cultural standards — the “great books” and the “great works of art.” In her world, only someone canonized by an authority is worthy of someone’s time. That’s why the paintings of August Renoir are studied in art history classes. The paintings of Tony Curtis are not.

This is a pretty common way of seeing things. I know many people who will not read a book unless it was already well-reviewed in the New York Times. Otherwise, what’s the point of reading it?

“I don’t get blogging at all, Miriam said. “If I wanted to read something interesting, why not read “War and Peace” instead of your blog?”

For a second, I sat there and thought, “You know, that’s not a stupid question. Why should I read Retropolitan‘s latest blog post when I could be reading “War and Peace?”

Of course, in my case, blogging hasn’t replaced my time reading “War and Peace.” It has replaced my time watching “The Apprentice” and socializing with real live human beings. But, I could be reading me some Tolstoy! Maybe Sophia could even read it to me in the original Russian!

Yeah, but then I would have to take Sophia away from watching her “24.”

But I do get where Miriam is coming from. I studied “the liberal arts” in college and grad school. But despite the years you put in, you’re never treated with the same authority as a doctor or a lawyer. Miriam told me that being a museum curator can be frustrating, because everyone thinks her job is mostly about placing the frames on the wall. I’ve heard similar complaints from web designers, where clients think they can just have their daughter do the job for free because she knows a little HTML.”

So, unless you go to law or business school, the only real pleasure you can get out of your expensive liberal arts degree is lording it over everyone about how smart you are.

Now that I’ve finally read half of one book by David Sedaris, I bring him up all the time in conversation.

“You mean you haven’t read David Sedaris?” I say, snickering.

It feels good to be part of the cultured class. I remember coming home during my freshman year in college and scolding my mother, “How can you read these trashy novels when you should be reading Plato’s Symposium instead!”

Almost all my friends from college now work as members of this cultured class –publishing, media, television, etc… the arbiters and critics of what we should watch, see, buy, and read.

But the internet is screwing things up.

The academic world does not prepare you to think of a housewife in Ohio as a “writer” or a blogger/fireman as having anything interesting to say. No one expect two teenagers from Taiwan to make a compelling video and put it on YouTube. Hey, they didn’t even go to NYU Film School!

I actually love this democratization of the media.  And I get something from blogging that I can’t get from a novel.  I can’t interact with Tolstoy.  And as long as I wait, he’s never going to write a snarky comment back on my blog, acknowledging my existence  — although he will probably do it before Dooce does. 

But many find the growth of the individual blogger as scary, especially those who already work in the media. Is a newspaper columnist really that much more interesting than some political blogger — other than the fact that one gets paid and the other doesn’t?  Should we depend on cultural arbiters to decide what is considered “worthy” of our time, or should we let the “American Idol” spirit of “Hey, let’s vote on the next superstar!” be the new ideal? And if everyone considers themselves a creative writer, videographer, cultural critic, etc. – what happens to the experts? Does what they say still count?  Or could a housewife’s blog be as worthy reading material as something published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux?

So, the answer to Miriam’s question to me, “Why in the world would anyone want to read YOU?” is obvious.

It’s shorter than “War and Peace.”

P.S. —

Immediately after writing this, Sophia tore apart my entire argument. She said that it’s human nature for people to want an “expert” to show them what to read, watch, and “what NOT to wear.” Look at the home design “experts” on TV. Look at all the “expert” advice given in magazines.  Look at all the blogging sites telling you what blog to read. 

Sophia even told me about this new ABC show, How to Get the Guy, where “love coaches,” will help single women meet men.

“Teresa Strasser is one of love coaches,” she said, knowing that she is on my short list of cute Jewish brunettes who appear on television.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, my eyes widening.  “Didn’t she used to be a home design expert on another show?  And a fashion expert on another show?”

“She must be very educated,” Sophia joked.  “But what makes this single woman a love coach? If anyone should be a love coach, it should be my mother. She’s been married for forty years!”

Sophia gave me one example after another of how Americans love to take advice from experts — even if these experts don’t know any more than anyone else.   Look how one word from Oprah can make a book an instant bestseller.  Or how people wait in line to hear advice from “experts” at seminars.

“Hmmm…..,” I thought to myself as Sophia spoke…

P.P.S. —

Announcing:  (from the producers of BlogHim)

Meeting Hot Women Through Blogging

A Three Day Seminar by blogging and relationship expert Neil Kramer

July 14-15-16

The Valley Inn
Ventura Boulevard (adjacent to Burbank Bowling Alley)
Burbank, CA

Cost: $4000

Special for readers of “Citizen of the Month”: $4500

Single women and previous “blog crushes of the day”: Free!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Online Dating Works for Some

Everybody Loves a Baby

June 1, 2006 / / 64 Comments

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This week’s Poetry Thursday assignment was to read your poem out loud. I read my poem to a few women in my neighborhood, and they all hated it. For some reason, it made me like it even more.

Everybody Loves a Baby

Everybody loves a baby
That’s the title of this piece
I heard this conversation (maybe)
While visiting my niece:

“Look at my little Beatrice
Isn’t she a gem?
She’s really quite angelic
She’ll surely voting Dem.

Her hair’s just like the hubby’s,
So fiery and red.
And don’t you love the Yankees cap
That’s sitting on her head?”

Now, as I watched this drama
I bit my lower lip.
I prayed for the overpriced stroller
To hit a rock and flip.

You see: I hate all babies,
And I mean every single tot!
All they’re really good for
Is dripping yucky snot.

That Beatrice, she looked stupid
I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.
And in that NY Yankees cap
She was ugly as Babe Ruth.

Babies are like homeless
They beg and beg for more
They don’t pay any taxes
They puke all over the floor.

I know I sound grouchy
With this tantrum, with my snit.
But my mother gave me formula
And this little brat gets tit.

The Poetry Reading

May 26, 2006 / / 74 Comments

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I had just taken a shower tonight and was toweling off when I heard his voice.

Neil’s Penis: “Where are you going tonight?”

Neil: “I’m going to a poetry reading.”

Neil’s Penis: “Aha! So that’s why you bought that beret at Macy’s yesterday! Hot babe?”

Neil: “No. Just going for the poetry.”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re really into this poetry crap.”

Neil: “It’s interesting. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything literary.”

Neil’s Penis: “Hey, I’m a poet too —

A girl might like a guy with wit,
But she likes it better
When he can find her clit.”

Neil: “Penis, that’s very immature.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ooh, big poet with the beret thinks I’m immature.”

Neil: “Penis, we need to talk. I think this might be the last time we talk on this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “What?!”

Neil: “I think it might be time to start making this blog a little more sophisticated. We have some poet-bloggers coming over here now, and they’re way classier than the perverts and crazy people who used to come to this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “Those are your readers!”

Neil: “Eh.”

Neil’s Penis: “What about me? You need me. I’m your bread and butter!”

Neil: “I can handle this blog on my own.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, you’ll be as good as Garfunkel after Paul Simon left.”

Neil: “Well, I’d like to try. I’m serious. This joke is getting old and a lot of people think this whole “talking penis” thing is very childish.”

Neil’s Penis: “They do not!”

Neil: “Listen, on Tuesday, I had coffee with Communicatrix at the Farmers’ Market.”

Neil’s Penis: “She’s really cool.”

Neil: “Yeah, but even she said she skips over all the dumb sex stuff here.”

Neil’s Penis: “Maybe she doesn’t want to fall under our sensual spell.”

Neil: “Penis, not every woman in the world is going to want us. You have to accept that.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, right.”

Neil: “Just focus on the blog. Think of my religious readers. I’m making them sin just by reading this stuff.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ha, where have you been? Those religious babes are the kinkiest ones around! Remember that rabbi’s daughter.”

Neil: “Let me try this another way. Maybe it’s just time to be practical. Maybe it’s time for this blog to go mainstream…”

Neil’s Penis: “I see. So, you’re selling out. To the Man. The emasculating Man. Soon, there’s going to be ads all over the page. And no more “dirty” words. And you’re going to be using fancy words all the time instead, like onomatopoeia. And the only people on your blogroll will be NPR, the New York Times, and Dooce. Well, cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock…”

Neil: “Stop it! Stop it!

Neil’s Penis: “OK, OK, I stopped.”

Neil: “If you thought about it for a second, you’d see that I’m right. What’s so wrong with wanting to better yourself? To climb the ladder of success. To wear a nice cotton turtleneck and brown tailored jacket. My hair trimmed and neat. A copy of David Sedaris under my arm. My beret on my head, tilted just so. Laughing heartily when my poet friend makes some inside joke about Baudelaire. Ah, yes, I read that in Harper’s last week! American Idol? What is that? — a euphemism for the Bush Administration’s idolization of Halliburton’s profits? Sophisticated humor.”

Neil’s Penis: “Neilochka, do what you want. If you want me out of the blog, I’ll do it.”

Neil: “That’s it? You’re giving in just like that? No more arguments?”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re the boss. The brains of the organization. The CEO of Neilochka. If you think you can “make it” out there alone, more power to you. ”

Neil: “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Penis.”

Neil’s Penis: “I care about you, Neilochka. I can see your point. You don’t want to go around the rest of your life known as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Exactly. I went to college. Even grad school, for god’s sake.”

Neil’s Penis: “OK, fine. So, from now on, I guess the world will know this guy as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Holy crap! Is it possible? This guy has a talking Penis, too?!”

Neil’s Penis: “What’s the big deal. If you don’t care…”

Neil: “How dare he! The son of a…”

My Penis chuckles.

Neil’s Penis: “Still going to that poetry reading?”

Neil: “Hell no!”

I tossed my beret onto the floor.

Neil: “We’re going back to the gym and lifting some weights. Both of us. We need to get into shape!”

Neil’s Penis: “I hear you, Neilochka! Cock fight! Cock fight!”

My Penis turns to the audience.

Neil’s Penis:

“Said Keats to Shelly on a warm summer’s eve
A truly great poet must always believe
As sure as a leaf will change in September
A man shalt always be a slave to his member.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: What I Had for Breakfast Today

Driving in LA – In Two Parts

May 24, 2006 / / 45 Comments

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Part One — Car Poetry

This week’s Poetry Thursday assignment was to be inspired by a single line from another blogger’s poem. I picked “A Morning By the Sea” by Susannah of Ink on My Fingers.

The line that inspired me was:

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

Why this line? Her poem is wonderful, filled with wonderful images. This is probably — content-wise — one of the least important lines. But that’s exactly what inspired me about it. Its importance is more than just the content, or the onomatopoeia of “hum” and “rumble.” I like the way the line rolls off your tongue, like a good song lyric.

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

I think one reason I find it poetry difficult is because I’m always focusing on the “meaning” of the words. Poetry, more than fiction, is about the music of the words themselves.

I have a comedian friend who is always rewriting his material to make it funnier by using “funnier” words. These are words that start with a “hard” letter. So, a “Crazy Cat” is theoretically funnier than a “Weird Worm.” It’s his own way of using the “poetry” of words to enhance his routine. In a way, Susannah’s poem helped me to remember my love of words — words for their own sake.

In my ideal world, Elliot Yamin would have won “American Idol,” not because he has the best voice, or a doting Jewish mother, but because he has the coolest sounding name.

Elliot Yamin.

Taylor Hicks? Not poetry.

As I was driving on the 10 Freeway today, I thought about how much the big auto companies must spend to come up with their “poetic” sounding names for their cars.

I wonder if they hire poets.

Chevrolet Cabriolet
Toyota Corolla
Ford Focus
Hyundai Santa Fe
Mercedes
Rolls Royce

I like the way all of these car names “sound.”

I’m driving on the freeway
In my Hyundai Santa Fe
Zooming past a Corolla
and a Chevy Cabriolet

I know my car ain’t a Mercedes
Or a beautiful Rolls Royce
But it’s better than that Ford Focus
Now that was one BAD choice.

I know, I know. A fourth grade poem. But it was fun.

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Part Two — Overheard in LA

As most people know, Los Angeles is a driving town.  What you drive matters.  Since I first met Sophia, she’s had four completely different types of cars — each one evoking a wildly different negative response from some other driver. 

1) 1996 —

As we entered the parking lot of Campanile Restaurant, an upscale restaurant, a friend told Sophia, who was driving a five year old Honda Accord:

“I’d be embarrassed to give this piece of junk into the valet.”

2) 1999 —

After a motorcycle cut us off in Beverly Hills, Sophia blinked her lights at him.  The motorcyclist turned to Sophia, who was now leasing a Infiniti i30, and yelled:

“Screw you, you rich bitch!”

3) 2001 —

As we left a coffee shop in Redondo Beach, an environmental activist was putting a flyer on a windshield of Sophia’s new Hyundai Santa Fe SUV:

“Do you morons know what you’re doing to the environment with this monstrosity?”

4) 2006 —

As (Republican) Sophia pulled away from an IHOP, after having breakfast with me, in her new Toyota Prius Hybrid, I heard two men talking about the special DMV stickers that allow some hybrid owners to drive alone in the carpool lane:

“What gives these liberal treehugging assholes the right to use the carpool lane when we can’t?!”

Moral of the story:  You can’t win driving in LA.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: 90 Million Women Wear Wrong Size Bra

Clock and Crow

May 17, 2006 / / 43 Comments

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I think I made a giant step forward in my appreciation of poetry today (as a participant in Lynn and Liz’s Poetry Thursday).  I was asleep this morning; it was about 6AM.  The morning light drizzled through the blinds and rested on my naked body sprawled across my bed like the Roman God of Virility announcing to the world, “I am Man.” 

“Damn alarm clock!” I said, as this annoying sound pounded into my ear.  I slammed the alarm clock into “snooze” mode.  But the sound continued.  It was not my alarm clock.  It was some stupid bird outside in a tree (a crow, perhaps?).

To me, this crow sounded like an alarm clock.

Now, what does this have to do with poetry?

On Monday night, I went to the Beverly Hills Library and skimmed through some poetry books.  I noticed that poets are always using nature as a way of describing their lives.

“She was as angry as a tornado.”

“Her green eyes were like leaves of grass.”

Etc.

Now, I grew up in New York, and spent much of my adult life in Los Angeles.   I love nature as much as the next guy (despite being allergic to most of it).  I’ve seen the greatness of Yosemite — and even got a cool Ansel Adams poster at the gift shop.   I love the sound of rivers flowing.  I’ve enjoyed Vermont and her colorful Fall.  

But I’m not really at home with nature.  It doesn’t really feel natural for me to describe Sophia as “a tiger in the bedroom,” because I have no idea what a real tiger would do in a bedroom.  I’ve seen tigers in the zoo.  I’ve seen tigers at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. I know a tiger mauled Siegfried — or was it Roy?

So, as I woke up this morning, I gave some thought to the statement:

“That annoying crow sounds like my alarm clock.”

I’m sure if Yeats was alive today and living in my crappy apartment instead of me, and the alarm clock would go off, he would have look over at the clock and say:

“That weird clock with a smiling face sounds just like a crow!”

He knows about crows, but nothing about alarm clocks.  I know about alarm clocks, but nothing about crows. 

Maybe I would enjoy poetry more if I can find some poems that related to me in a more personal way — more about how crows sound like alarm clocks rather than how alarm clocks sound like crows.   You know, the way women eat up all those chick lit novels because it relates to their own lives. 

So, today I searched around for poems that focused more on the urban experience, and I found quite a few.

I particularly liked the following poem by Amy Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925).  Lowell, was an American poet of the imagist school, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.  Many of her poems have lesbian themes, but this poem focuses on the darkness of Industrial Age New York City.

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New York at Night by Amy Lowell

A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.  I hear the sigh
The goaded city gives, not day
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man’s constant quest:
Time!  Joyless emblem of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.
O Night!  Whose soothing presence brings
The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night!  Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close that scars
Are hid from our own eyes.  Beggars
By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art not.
Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man-begot
And festering wilderness, and now
The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

A year ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Letter to Diane Keaton 

Archives now here.  Links now here. 

Poetry Scares Me

May 10, 2006 / / 52 Comments

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Denise Levertov – poet

My blogging pal, Lynn, from Sprigs, and Liz Elayne, of be present, be here,  have started something called Poetry Thursday.   Poetry Thursday “is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.”

I’ve never been a big fan of poetry.  It’s embarrassing to say, considering I was an English major in college and I like to read.  I think one of the reasons is that I feel most comfortable with traditional A-B-C storytelling.   Poetry is often about mood or language itself and it doesn’t always have the forward thrust of a narrative.  When Lynn asked if I was interested in getting involved, I sent her this email:

I’ll think about it.  To be quite honest, I do have an interest in poetry.   Maybe you can help me understand why this is, but I avoid poetry, because reading poetry frequently makes me feel nervous — almost anxious.  Is that weird to admit?  Maybe because I’m so used to words and sentences having a structure and making a concrete point – providing information in a story that I can focus on –  I’m not really sure what to do with just words and emotion?  Maybe it’s a male thing, like not asking for directions.  I mean, does poetry have tits I can play with?

Her response:

It depends on the poems. Some have tits and ass that don’t mind being played with, but others are terribly prude.

I don’t know how fully I’m going to participate, but I thought I’d take a cue from Sophia, and be brave.  Look fear in the eye.  And actually read some poetry.

I went to the Index of Modern American Poets and spent the next couple of hours just reading different poems. 

I wish I had the literary skills of an arts critic.  I’m terrible in explaining why I like one piece of art better than another.  Why do I love watching “24,” but fall asleep watching “CSI?”  Is there a specific reason I like one book over another?  Why do I relate to one blogger’s writing more than another, especially when I don’t know really know any of you.

Maybe if I keep on reading poetry for a while, I’ll be better prepared to explain why I liked this following poem the best out of the dozens I read.  It’s not particularly a “big” poem, or about anything dramatic.  It’s written by Denise Levertov, who died in 1997.  This is supposedly the last poem she ever wrote.

Aware

When I found the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I’ll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.

(Denise Levertov. “The Great Unknowing: Last Poems.”

Copyright 1999 by the Denise Levertov Property Trust. 
Publisher:  New Directions.)

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