Install me in any profession....

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing,
where one needs one's brains all the time.
- Ezra Pound's "The Lake Isle"

--

No kiddin', Ezra.

--

It's getting to that point in the semester when I'm looking at my to-do list and most of it involves writing. I have an explication essay for American Poetry due soon. I have a news script to write for Tuesday. I have a big research paper I haven't started, and another I'm not even going to attempt until a few days before it's due.

My brain is fried.

But, I keep chugging on. Sometimes all you gotta do is write anyway -- whether it turns into a masterpiece or just an Anne Lamott-style shitty first draft.


Here's to writing.




Lauren


Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts
Cross-train
Go get a life
Wishing writing could change me

Wishing writing could change me

Sometimes I think my writing can change me. And it always can, but only to a certain extent.

I want writing to bring me peace about a situation, but it's only temporary. I think of my smoking poem from last month. I used it to implore my boyfriend to stop smoking. He still smokes, and I no longer have peace.

It's not that I wanted the poem to change him. (I mean, yeah, a little.) I wanted it to make me feel better about the situation because at least I understood why I felt the way I did.

I want writing to revive my dry faith. I want to write a poem about how I feel about God (see "Eli, Eli") and get myself out of my rut.

But, it doesn't work like that. Writing helps, but it's not a world changer.

Still, I wish it were.

--

Everything I Am

love&hate

     together

bid farewell

to sanity

adieu, adieu—

   here’s everything I am

   here’s everything I am

It’s yours or fire

--

Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts
Cross-train
Go get a life

Screaming alongside us

Eli, Eli

My God, my God,

why do I forsake you

while I hang on the cross

of my screw-you, my hell-no,

my let's-just-get-this-over-with,

my it-couldn’t-get-worse-than-this,

my lies, my leanings and inclinations

toward the better-for-me-worse-for-you?

You’re the only one who gets it.

You scream alongside me—

but I can’t hear you.

--

"Isn't it wonderful? It makes all the difference to know there's someone else screaming alongside you -- and that's the point of the incarnation. I can see that so clearly now. God came into the world and screamed alongside us." -- Drops Like Stars, p. 68

Cross-train

So I write a lot -- go figure, I'm a writing major. But, I don't spend a lot of time writing for fun. As outlined in my last Scriptwriting blog post, I do a lot of everything for my classes, but I don't have a lot of time or energy to write for fun.

Last Sunday I got to. I got most of my homework done for Monday and Tuesday, so I spent the day writing poetry. Some of it turned out interesting.

I'm not entirely finished with the following poem. I think its metaphor was lost a little. But I'll let you read it. (You're welcome.) Ha.

--

Like the birds

You pointed up at a bird perched and

showed me how

its feathery neck moves in          jerks—

sharp, decisive

on a pivot

because its eyes are stationary

without periphery.

You pointed back at us and

said the same thing

about human eyes:

how they move like a bird’s neck, in          jerks—

always trying to focus.

I find this particularly entertaining

that as you tell me this,

I do whatever I can to avoid          you—

I look every which way in jerks,

sharply, decisively

to avoid your glance.

I dream of flying away.

--

As I began writing this post, I wanted to pose a goal for myself: write a poem a day. As I thought about it, I decided to shorten that to a poem a week. Then, I gave up on the goal completely. Do I have time?

I should make time.

Like anything else, writing gets better with practice. And like anything, variety is key. When you exercise your body, you don't spend all your energy on one set of muscles. Even those training for marathons cross-train.

I need to cross-train my writing. That may mean putting aside my homework to slave over a poem -- but that's okay. (I'd probably rather being doing that anyway.)


Lauren


Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts

Why I hate when you smoke, a poem

How I hate when you smoke

Revised with a new title and everything. A special thanks to Mary Brown.

On the rare occasion I want to
stand outside with you
while you hold and light, inhale and exhale in puffs    puffs     puffs,
I stand close to you.
I breathe out slow, like you do.
I pretend the cold air’s my secondhand smoke,
while I inhale yours.

I’d never smoke.
D.A.R.E. taught me a thing or two about the tar, the nicotine
that addicts you,          traps you.           I wouldn’t even
dare try to light one. (You’ve seen me with one of those things.
I nearly burn my finger off letting
the butane out of its yellow, plastic trap.)
So most of the time I stay inside
while you find a friend to smoke with.

You ask me what’s wrong.
You think it’s the cigarette itself.
“I only smoke one a day, maybe less.”
I tell you I don’t care, and mean it.
Those surgeon general jokes I make are only meant for laughs.
Because the truth is             I think smoking’s hot.
You’re like Gatsby.

It’s the way you hold it,
the way your big hand handles something so small –
so delicate, so intimate.
Put to your mouth like a kiss.

Losing, a poem

Losing

Sometimes I think I’m a sadist.

                I want change, even if

                                it means losing blood

                                                                                or sanity,

                even if it means

                taking my things back and

                                                leaving or

                telling you how I really feel—

                because that’s how I really feel

                (right now, anyway)—and leaving—leaving—

                                leaving.

--

Emily Dickinson is known for using dashes in her poetry. I like Poe's use better. I've been spending some time with Poe (with his poetry, not his ghost...), which is how this poem came into being.

Poetry as Therapy pt. II

Thursday I was upset about something (or, many somethings) while I was at Nathan's house. After some crying and some huffing and gruffing, I did what I always need to do when I'm upset: I wrote.

I laid down on Nate's couch with my laptop on my stomach and started typing. Nate asked me what I was doing - I quickly hid the screen from him.

"Don't read it," I said.

"Are you writing angsty poetry?"

"Yeaahh."

--

Writing is therapeutic -- especially poetry. I write poetry when I'm upset or particularly emotional (good or bad).

Going back to my MacDonald quote about poetry being the utterances of men's thoughts, I think poetry is one of the best ways to express emotion. That is, if writing's your thing.

Back in high school, when my friend Austin had some anger issues, I told him to write it out. Instead of lashing out at people, he should write in a journal. It served him well.

Poetry and writing is therapeutic to me, but for artists, painting is. For musicians, playing is. Whenever Nathan's in a bad mood, I make him play his guitar.

--

This post is meant to be a reminder -- mainly to myself. Instead of ranting, instead of venting to everyone I know, I need to write my feelings down. My journal is an awfully good listener.

--
Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing

Poetry as Therapy pt. I

I'm working on a blog post for Scriptwriting about poetry as a form of therapy, which will go up this weekend, but for right now I thought I'd post an example of that. I hate that Dr. King and IWU students are reading this on their RSS feeds, because of the content of the following poem. (Consider this your warning.) But, remember that first and foremost this is my blog, not my IWU-affiliated Scriptwriting blog. If it offends--sorry. Maybe if you get offended easily, you should stop reading: HERE.

--

Questions

god, is this how it works—

you’ll speak to me only if

I’m a youth-pastor-to-be,

with a microphone and

microscopic wit, whose words

are amplified even larger

than yours?

Do I have to have

a faux hawk and f---ing

skinny jeans and a

Wesleyan theology

to carol your name

like angels?

Do you even listen

to skanks who sell their

self-esteem for sex

or addicts who always,

always, always, always

give in?

Doesn’t it seem like you’re

spending too much time

with those who are good

at looking good

but not with those who

aren’t?

Aren’t you impressed

by how well I’m

recovering,

though I’m not

(even kind of, even sort of,

really) repenting?

Aren’t you tired

of being deaf

and mute?

Aren’t you sick

of being so

aloof?

"Let's break up," a poem

VII.
“Let’s break up,” she said
just to rile him up.
She liked the way
his eyes turned glossy.
If she were lucky
a tear would ski down
his cheek
dodging flags and trees
called freckles
and she could catch it
on its final turn
on a lower peak
before the big finale
(all for dramatic effect).

She folded her arms,
took a step back, and
waited. “Well?”

“Okay,” he replied.
“I never liked you much
anyway.”


--

(It's fiction, geez.)

The Incarnation, a poem

The Incarnation

Let’s talk the “Incarnation”

because it is a big word

for something easy for me

to describe: God the baby.

God, who has the power

to shape-shift, turned himself from

a God into a human.

Sort of. It’s not exactly

that simple. Or…correct. I

may have tried to make this a

little sci-fi, easier

to swallow for we who don’t

like the idea that God

would turn himself into one

of us. We’re kind of screw ups.

Why would he want to be like

us anyhow? And why come

as a six pound, five ounce babe?

I find it impossible

to imagine you teething,

spitting up, dragging your full

diaper on the ground behind

you--you, a God, someone we

call Jehovah Jirah, God

the Provider, who is now

in his crib or trough crying,

wanting milk, needing his mom.

If I were honest, I would

tell you I like you like that:

small, innocent, pathetic,

unable to lift your head

even. Helpless. Like you’re like

me. Like you’re me who’s drowning

in the demands of people

who don’t realize that I

cannot even lift my head.

But I don’t imagine you

like that, not even on Christ-

mas when Nativity scenes

pop up everywhere. I

can’t stop myself from thinking

about you on that cross or

walking on water. You’re a

man with a straggly beard, not a

baby wrapped in tattered cloth.

I don’t picture you as a

babe, but maybe I need to.

Finals interlude

Okay, so I haven't been inspired to write at all. I'm just trying to get everything finished: finals, classes, papers, projects, etc.

So here's a poem I wrote for creative writing this semester. It's about -- guess who?


VI.
On his windowsill he keeps
dead insects in alcohol
in glass vials. Dragonflies
and moths with motionless wings
sit still, keeping guard. Below,
he sits on his couch not a
bed—he doesn’t own one. He
sleeps hard on the floor alone.

On his couch, behind a closed
door, he thinks and stares at
the cardboard beer box he cut
and flattened into décor
above his closet. The rest
of the wall: bare, beige, and bland,
except for a lithograph
of Emily Dickinson,
plucked from a library book.

In the corner: his altar.
Three guitars—an acoustic,
electric, and bass—lean up
against his vintage, baby-
blue, nineteen-seventies amp.
A one-millimeter pick
sits and waits for him to play.
When he does play, it’s with shut
eyes. Concentrating, he jams.

With knock-knock-knock on the door,
a young woman walks into
the bachelor’s dead-bug, bed-less
hub—his pad. He stands up and
hugs her, smells her hair, kisses
her neck near her collar bone.
He says, “I love you, pumpkin.”






Deep, pleasant sigh.

Lauren

Txt Msg

Sometimes this is how I feel.

Also, I never text like this.

--

Txt Msg

God, why ddnt u

answer my txt?

I sent it ystrdy

at 2 pm

rght aftr I rolld out of

sin

It said

help me plz

bcs Ive lost my

step or my way

or wtvr

ppl say when

they do smthng

shitty

But u ddnt

evn rspnd or

evn notify me

that my txt ddnt

go thru like

ur sppsd to

whn theres silence

4 a while

Unsaid

Some things are better left unsaid.

V.

“Talk to me,” he says,

caressing her hand

and fondling the wrinkles

of her numb fingers.

She says, “I’m fine.” Not

that he asked.

They walk with naked

stares into the night.

She pulls out

her hand from his hand

and shoves it into her pocket.

“Baby, come on. What

gives?”

She thinks

of a better lie to tell,

but she can’t. So she says

the same thing again

only slower, harder.

Future/Present poem

I bought an e.e. cummings poetry book: this is what resulted. (Okay, this hardly exemplifies my admiration for cummings, but I did split a word between two lines.)

Also, it's fiction. Geez.

Also, also: three syllable lines!!

IV.
Dear future
husband, I
am sorry
but I have
(in retro-
spect) cheated
on you. Love,
forgive me
because I
didn’t know
you yet and
I thought you
wouldn’t mind
if I kissed
a man who
isn’t you
and let him
touch my breasts.


Dear present
wife, it’s fine.
I love you
anyway.

Grace grows in winter

Grace doesn't grow in the springtime. Grace grows in the winter, when everything's dead, when life is the brown sludge beneath your rubber boots.

It comes as a surprise.

We talk about life as having seasons. In the spring, life is born. In summer, it's sustained. In fall, it starts dying and by winter, it's dead.

But what if that's not how it works at all? Maybe life is always about dying. Maybe it's about repeatedly dying to our worldviews, our theories, our ways of doing things, our attitudes, our agendas, our impatience, our sins.

I think the seasons of life take place between October and December. In October, we start dying, but not to the right stuff. We die to the good we've always known. In October, we sin.

Then by November, we've killed God. We have sinned enough to shut him out, to no longer care. We've let sin creep in, settle on our sofas and stay awhile.

In November we think we're screwed.

So we started messing around in October, now we're deep into this new way of living. It's easy to be short-tempered; it's easy to walk past you. We've become different people. We used to be, by the grace of God, patient people. Now look who we are.

Hope: it's gone. The trees stay green forever.

But in December, Grace grows unexpectedly. Up from the ground, under your feet, through the snow, through the dirt, through the frozen ground, Grace grows.

Thank God.

You don't need Grace in the summer when all is well. You need Grace when things couldn't possibly get any worse.

--

I wrote Late October first, while reflecting on sin -- my own sin -- and how it seemed unconquerable. A week or so after, I wrote Late November and Late December while plotting a way out of sin. I want a way out. I'm close.

It's been fall for a long time; now it's winter, and I've seen sprouts of Grace.

In the past week or so I've posted two of the three poems in this series. Here's the complete collection including Late December, my poem on Grace.

--

Late October

Late October

and the Norway maple hasn’t turned

red or orange or whatever color

Norway maples turn.

Today

and tomorrow:

an endless cycle of green

and green and green

and green and green.

Through the window

the masochists

slit their wrists,

crying but with bliss.

Late November

Late November

and God is dead

like the maple trees and the leaves

falling out of them.

I did it

with a handful of the

foliage of God, yanking leaves

one by one by one by one

—just so I know he’s gone:

he’s dead.

God haunts still,

like apparitions, and

he howls through crooked

branches, waving:

Hi, I miss you.

Do you miss me?

Late December

Late December

and grace grows

like heaths. It is the

dead of winter,

yet grace grows in the dead

leaves crushed to the ground

and stomped upon,

with booted feet,

crushed into snow

and slush: grey, black,

brown.

one by one by one by one

3.
Late November
and God is dead
like the maple trees
and the leaves falling
out of them.

You did it
with a handful of the
foliage of God, yanking leaves
one by one by one by one
—just so you know he’s gone:
he’s dead.

God haunts still,
like apparitions, and
he howls through crooked
branches, waving:
Hi, I miss you.
Do you miss me?

and green and green and green ...

II.
Late October
and the Norway maple hasn’t turned
red or orange or whatever color
Norway maples turn.

Today
and tomorrow:
an endless cycle of green
and green and green
and green and green.

Through the window
the masochists
slit their wrists,
crying but with bliss.

--

Author's note: "Things that cause people to sin are bound to come" [Luke 17:1a]. If only they weren't.

Broken-down thoughts.

George MacDonald said, "Poetry is the highest form of the utterance of men's thoughts." Sometimes when I'm thoughtful and pensive and nostalgic and lonely and upset I write poetry.

1.
I told God to sleep
On the couch. Tonight
I'll sleep alone with the comfort
Of my comforter.

I'll let God
Sweat it out
And wonder why
I am so pissed at him.

He'll think
About what he did: did he
Tell a crude joke or say
Something rude about my hair?

When he asks (and
He will ask)
I'll tell him
It's nothing.

And it's nothing. God,
I'm fine. I'm fine,
Really. Just don't
Come back to bed.


*Update 9/29/2010