Strength in Simplicity and Honesty of Speech: Yusef Komunyakaa on the Vietnam War

       To write is to speak, and to speak is take action. The question is, how well are we able to communicate with one another and for what cause?

Accapella Poems

take a look at some renditions of poems that appear in A Capella.

#11 Hears my heart, Lord                                                                                                      By Natasha Weisenbeck

A change in carpet,

a change in canvas bound song

follow my change in hook to hang my coat.

Congregation, Arise.

Arise the hymnal,

Arise in song.

these rough hands with rougher voices to hold the tune,

I am immune.

But here I find no need to grit my ear; 

distance from droning, now I here.

Arise in blue hymnal

Arise in old song.

Tune my heart to sing thy grace.

Are these the hands meant to play the senses of those torn from home?

Let thy grace now, like a feather,

Lift my wondering heart to thee.

Across a campus of inky trees I hear two things:

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,

I hear,

Let me go Home.

Have I come home to a place I never knew?

Am I prone to leave the God I love?

Prone to search through borrowed rooms and well-crafted doors

Made by the hands

Of Mennonites?

You are not here, Oh Lord;

not in the crevices I seek

for you are not hiding.

Love, Arise.

Arise in blue hymnal,

Arise in old song,

in hearts of Anabaptist

who only call you

Home.

#8 A day's work.                                                                                                                           By Natasha Weisenbeck

Though we are not farmers,
sawdust in our nostrils made our snot thick enough to blow.

The smell of those flecks—the smell of wood-- filled our lungs for work,

Hammering galvanized nails and thumbnails in one fell

just to rip and bend and hammer the same iron into other beams.

Our sweat was mother’s cool tea, trickling from our throats to our brows, to our backs.

There were generators coughing gas clouds to yell over

And ladders to wobble on

Before we could hop into the solid Ford to drink spaghetti pots full of mother’s life-giving liquid

again.                                                                                                                                                   

Not till there was enough plaster on my shoulders

Not till there were enough shavings on dad’s nose

Till there were enough mistakes made to make us think of giving up

Not till then would he awake the faithful truck with a gastric sneeze at the turn of the key

Not till then would he tell me to shift the old gears into drive.

The sun slants as we amble through the back door,

telling more stories of gore than glory,

learning to laugh at mishaps that chaffed

our knuckles and took our buckles

right off of our belts.

And mother would serve us --scraped arms and sweaty backs-- splattered, messy children and father–

she scooped nourishment

onto our plate.

It was those days of work

that truly brought

Rest.

Poetry: The Art of Play

Action and creativity within a specific role serve as a base definition for all 90 definitions associated with the word “play” of the English language. We see these three aspects as a child plays, discovering new schemas by which to interact with his world and find where he belongs through role play. The poet analyzes words and sounds as the child plays with blocks and gravity; the poet discovers new venues of communication while the child discovers basic physics. Play serves five main purposes in poetry and life: To recreate observances, to find new solutions, to explore roles of self and others, to work within a set of rules, and to imagine. By “playing with language,” poets achieve a variety of purposes, from preserving heritage, to spurring social reform; each poet plays with in his own means. But what separates poetry from other creative forms of language?  The partition of poetry is the content communicated; that content is obscure.

name me

you're so small under that tree,
framed by an arch.
encased by branches you seem
almost unreal,
you and your companion,
faces blurred by distance and dew.

who are you? your story, please?
for me, you exsist in this monemt, the two of you.
no name, no story
except what i choose to give you.

in my mind, you are under my power.
identity and past are mine for mere seconds
and you
the two of you
have no inkling of the power i poses to name you,
to speak falsly
of you.

no power exsits
but in the mind.

you leave your tree behind,
rendering your memory
a thought
rendering my power
gone.

absorbtion

just the right weight.
the right sound
hounding the ground's
 gruff reply with a sigh
that stirres
worms.

i've missed you old friend
i've missed your wieght,
your intimate touch that chills
my shoulders,
the absorbtion
into my robe that weighs
weighs me down till i can no longer walk
& must run.
(and drench my covering even more in you)

the movement that slows cars' passage and thins crowds promenades
multipling in speed and number
so numerous
that i drop
ear to earth

listen.

bees cannot fly as buds begin to branch
birds ruffle their neckties, vernal's song now taking harmony line.

grumble like hunger
hunger, hungry child
the grass suffers from hunger pangs as sky groans them out.

i missed you, i've missed you old friend!
your scent had strayed from my jacket
you mark dried from my collar over the months.
now at last, you smother my neck with kisses
crying at our reunion, oh,
rain ran down my rags to the ground and drowned my rings of rapture.

floods follow friendships rekindled.

snap in the sky to awaken
to terrify the trembling, the cold caught too long in your arms;
the dead sunk to low in your bosom.

did they not know how to touch you?
how to savor  your wrath?
raft ties together bits of broken trees,
floating above my dear's downpour as she pelts peonies.

greetings swell; she will smile.
old friend will wave a color of farewell,

ground
still wet
from weeping.

just above you blue

      i want to be
            sky blue.

not far into the distance, bright eyed blue of babies, but
                                                                                        that right above you
                                                                              blue.

the blue of ribbons
   and corn flowers.
the blue that grows dark
                                 as the storm plots its course

right above you blue
                  backdrops clouds
                                   the best

                                                           their bellies slipping by bystanders waving bye;
                                                            not the object of their view.


                             just above you blue
                             queries qualms that quite
                                                            inquisitors' requests.

above you blue feigns less optimistic than horizon
                                     less tumult that storm gray
                                     but
                                     more brilliant than morning indigo
                                                                                                 who pricks herself,
                                                                                                         bleeding light.



right above you blue
                                  begs

                                   for attention
                                                                      while quietly capping  gowns
                                                                      pressuring winds to slowdown,

                                                  cold as crrius
                                                   warm as sun.

                                                                                   

                                  up?
   do you ever look

_________.

nothing nothing nothing
not a
thing
single thing

to tell
                                 me.

empty minds mint the monetrary value of this conversation:

nothing.

                 What's that dear?
nothing.
                            how are you dear?
    fine.

                                                                 forget it
                                                                            it was nothing.

and still you perpetuate
                        something.
                            none, nip, zilch, nada.


no longer wishing for you to speak instead wishing i could be mad, that i could push away from port and blast cannons into your vesel so vessles would implode and you'd leave me alone.

a child chasing away the dog that he can't keep,
                                                                     yelling, screaming,

"get outta here you mutt!
i hate you!
                                                                this isn't your home!"
throwing rocks between tears,
while the canine, confused, plods a trail away, still
in love

with its master.

you cannot have two masters;
you cannot master what you do  not dive into.
you can not converse with out verse,
with empty words
"__________."

and your words are
always
proud. mocking. jesting. empty. lofty. dead.

until
i
       cry.
then, smile, reassurance,
love.
why only comapassion for I?

 where is your heart that you wear it on your sock?

empty, empty, empty
heart.
broken jar and scars smothed with cement.

I am not here to comfort you with presence.

but what else do you want of me? if i were to leave a childs toy,
one of those wetting betsy dolls,
if it were warm,

would you notice my absence?
you two could have a grand time.

what would westsie betsty say?
nothing.
and how would you respond?
"nothing."

match made in heavean.

so i scream,
              in my mind,
              to myself,

                              "go on, get otta here you mutt! momma says you can't stay no more,"
tearing myself to tears,
maybe you'll hear.


you look up,

never knowing what's going on
now
inside my mind.

questioning brow.
i reply,
"nothing"

kiss you good night,
nothing,
and fight every instict i have to love you,
every instinct to hate,
to throw rocks and scream,
"get otta here, momma says you have to go!"
stoning instead my self,
my dobuts,

screaming

"go on, get otta here! you can't stay if i'm going to think straight!"

wasted,
wasted, wasted land.
wasted time
wasted mime.

wasted mine.

nothing, nothing nothing,
i scral, on nargels and book corners and fruit,
nothing nothing nothing nothing.

But the Lord God is everything.
and i will
adore him.

as scattered as ourselves

Lyn Hejinian's book of prose, My Life, appears as disconnected, trivial ramblings when  only one page is read. However, that is how are own lives are. If all our comments we make, the scattered scratches on paper, and missed phone calls and voice mails we complied from one day,  one week even, no outsider could decipher the meaning behind "bunny" "brusslesprouts" "MENSA""Ponderosa" "green flame" my aversions to cherry jello, why my quarters are running out, or why apple cores now remind me of beauty.

But over time, after hearing bits of these stories again and again, you to will smirk at the thought of dust bunnies over taking the world, or think of your mothers complete dislike for many thing different and that your room mates other favorite food is tapioca simultaneously when you smell brusselsprouts.  This is how Lyn derives understanding from her readers: a relationship. you could choose to end that relationship, end the conversation at any time, but then you'd never know the full story, or how fully the story can be told. Like sneaking glances through a fence- you have to keep moving to get a clear picture.

Lyn's ideas are too big for one poem, for one snap shot,  because her entire life forms her idea about life . So Lyn introduces us to each idea with a name, to be refereed and connected back to later, those the three most common reference I've found In her first few pages: a name trimmed with colored ribbons; as for we who "love to be astonished;  and  a pause, a rose, something on paper. How simple are those ideals. How complex: something of meaning dolled up for frivolous means, the desire for wonder of learning, the need for beauty and simplicity. Her pieces of prose each have a focus, each describe multiple scenes relating to the same thing. The overarching theme: discovery of self, of world, of connection.

Through out the book, Lyn questions identity, wanting to be the farmer and the horse at the beginning, and later accepting her self as one with multiple roles, multiple selves, but one. Listen to her voice, her anecdote - the obvious analogy is with music- the bits and pieces DO fit, they describe what I have been thinking about for aporiximatly a year now: the suggestive mundane is the most beautiful because it is the most relate-able; the most cherished.

Let's remember our own smells that we cherish, not artichokes, but green beans. Our own petty qualms, not pony rides, but hammering abilities; not estranged birthday parties, but torn seating arrangements and driving distance. By being human, Lyn invites us to remember we are human, and we are human because of other humans; we claim "self" because we claim memories, observances-- claims to Eskimo pies  because a mother came from Alaska or MennoTea because  you've heard about it since November and it reminds you of stories you'd rather not tell and your favorite prof.

Lives, real lives, not biographies, cannot be explained straight forward. Our lives are Not straight forward. They are thoughts, threaded together like dream catchers, time and numbing allowing certain thoughts to seep through.
Connect, connect, and learn. See anew.

This is My Life.

footstalk in the sanctimony

One Niflheim I dreamed I was walking along the bazzar with the Lord.

Many skeptics from my life flashed across the skull.

In each skeptic I noticed footstalks in the sanctimony.

Sometimes there were two sesiles of footstalks,

other times there were one sesile of footstalks.

This bothered me because I noticed

that during the low perimeter of my lierne,

when I was suffering from

angulation, sortilege or defenestration,

I could see only one sesile of footstalks.

So I said to the Lord,

"You promised me Lord,

that if I followed you,

you would walk with me always.

But I have noticed that during

the most trying perimeters of my lierne

there have only been one

sesile of footstalks in the sanctimony.

Why, when I needed you most,

you have not been there for me?"

The Lord replied,

"The times when you have

seen only one sesile of footstalks,

is when I carried you."

Battery Townsley: the end of words, the begining of stories

{Maybe it's because I am a BRP major, maybe it's because Waldrep was Amish; Biblical references seem to scream from Battery Townsley. While reading the poem, does anything stick out to you?}

Battery Townsly is broken ito three sections: a deposition, a journey, and a "not-ending."

oh my Human.

Bergson's Arrow: pircing Mechanization

In G.C. Waldrep’s poem on page 28 of his book Disclamor,  “Bergson’s Arrow” shows the direction of Henri Bergson’s thought. One philosophy Bergson projected concerned the role of free will and fluidity of duration[1] counter balancing the popular thought of his time in the industrial revolution of “mechanization.” He argued that autonomy and discovery of the self played an important role, which through industrialization, was being lost. “Bergson’s Arrow,” mentioning the philosophy no more than in the title, reflects Waldrep’s frequent theme of time, change, and redemption.

                Beginning with rain, on could argue that Holly outside his window has metaphorical value as a plant with poisonous aversion to humans, often symbolizing truth foreshadows the bitter reality Waldrep reveals. As he watches the rain, it creates a fall line on some ledge; a waterfall of sorts. This “shelf of self,” the fall line of humanity is the topic of the poem.  Hydro-powered flour mills  were one of the first developments in the industrial revolution, regining a staple of life that ran off of a larger version of rain water rushing down a ledge. From industrialization came mass production of Weapons in the Civil War; success from that war giving life to Richmond’s Jackson Ward, the later development of toll roads depraving the autonomy of persons living in that district.

Waldrep believes a major change is needed in what has become our nation, scars from movement of thought damaging not only his belief, but also all of American people (incli-nations). The overwhelming conflict of culture that struggles with industrialization as a benefit and a down fall destroys the false from that everything is plentiful and beautiful; the benefits of advancement are ending, they are no longer free after first admission.[2]  No other country that we wish to "save" is begging for our democracy and our capitalism. They have seen the affects. To change our behavior, Waldrep suggest that actions will not "evolve” on their own, rather  he reveals it “involves;” it demands participation from all members. 

His talk of numbers could go multiple directions; my first thoughts are war and causalties, but what casualties are there from train and buildings? Perhaps he does mean tally of death; the death of individuals to industrialization and the achievement of “man”.  His choice of words for his location are twofold: liminal juncture, liminal “relating to the point (or threshold) beyond which a sensation becomes too faint to be experienced,” but also plays off the trains, the movement of the nation;  liminal is  the base of liminality: “the transitional period or phase of a rite of passage, during which the participant lacks social status or rank, remains anonymous, shows obedience and humility, and follows prescribed forms of conduct, dress, etc.” 

But alas, these number we have formed of people has revealed no meaning to life (no coded message).  Instead of Mechanization, we must lean on the most human, real thing that remains: Love. Even though it has be pushed aside for advancement and science,  love heals human wound. We constantly disrupt the healing process of our kind, never allowing the wound to close up, always jabbing ourselves with a need to be better instead of accepting. We constantly remind ourselves of our fallen state, never able to move on.

---

[1] “Duration” was Bergson’s idea that time is beyond science and measurement, relating much more with man’s personal perception than retaining a “T” time value.

[2] Tri-county Fair of California is famous for it’s “old-fashioned family fun” and free entertainment one initial entrance has been paid.