Whispers in NYC

2 o’clock AM, Murray Hill

Blood all over.

He finds her crouching on the cold bathroom floor

They are used to this.

"Our baby is gone."

Again.

9 o’clock AM, Washington Heights

Heading home to get some real sleep-

Away from loud music and smoke

Finally getting the chance to cover her body

And cherish it as her own

Not something worth mere cash or jewelry.

Mentally preparing for working at another party tonight.

2 o'clock PM, Windsor Terrace

Blue eyes staring back at her in the mirror, 

She hears the sounds of laughter in the hallways,

Sounds that are foreign to her. 

She raises her sleeve and stares at the fresh scars

Still trickling fresh blood. 

She promises her self- no more. 

But life seems to be going on too long to keep that promise. 

4 o’clock PM, East Harlem

She sees him hanging around the playground,

He only comes to school once school is over

Sharing in his victim-hood

Sharing the powder that has ruined his life.

Though he doesn’t want to know that.

9 o'clock PM, Forest Hills

He sneaks into the house, 

Hoping to avoid her. 

She is waiting patiently on the couch, 

"Where were you until now?" 

He tries to remain silent as the beatings begin. 

She is never satisfied with making his life a living misery.

12 o’clock AM, Lower East Side

His hot breath in her face.

Coarse skin pressing onto her.

She feels the pressure.

And he leaves without a sound.

She has learned not to waste her energy screaming.  

James Tate: Showing and Telling

For a person who is mostly unacquainted with modern poetry, James Tate’s poems provided me with a glimpse into the peculiar direction that poetry has taken. By masterfully incorporating the idea of “surrealism” into his poems, images and concepts in his poems are brought to life, even when the reader does not know exactly what to make of them. Sure, usually poems are supposed to convey a specific meaning to its readers; the notion of surrealism, however, professes that the “nonsense” of these unique poems reflects the subconscious of its author. Instead of merely delivering a message, it can also demonstrate the creativity of the author. Understandably, surrealism is a difficult concept to explain in of itself, and it is even more difficult to explain its significance within a poem. Readers like myself may be baffled by their lack of understanding within these poems, but this short essay will argue that this lack of understanding is precisely what makes these poems delightful to read. Unburdened by the need to seek meaning from the depths of these poems comes the realization that the written word can be a pleasure onto itself. Using a personal selection of my favorite “surreal” poems from the “Selected Poems” of James Tate, I will attempt to describe the unexplainable satisfaction that I have been able to attain within Tate’s poetry.

           "Sensitive Ears” is a short poem that describes a person using his ears to discover small sensations that are not necessarily heard. The poem states, “only this time it enters/ through the ears/what a strange odor!”- as if the person is “hearing” the strange odor. Similarly, Tate describes: “It’s a tiny noise/… like a twenty-year-old smell coming back.” Though these lines do not make complete logical sense, there is some sort of mental connection that my brain makes between the small changes that occur within a person because of certain, perhaps unrelated, sensations. Tate also uses other illogical expressions to unite unrelated details into a cohesive form: “like an entire New Year’s Eve Party/shoved down a laundry chute.” Though a non-tangible “party” cannot actually be thrown down a chute, the line seems to conjure tension between these two objects, which are purposely unrelated and therefore cannot be sensed together. The final line highlights the speaker’s sensitivity to sensations by stating, “’I’m a flea with a thousand microphones/for eyes.” The speaker has a sensitivity and can experience sensations unrelated to that specific sense. These sensations are indescribable and unexplainable, yet so powerful, especially by the images the author uses.

“Lewis and Clark Overheard in Conversation” is another example of a poem which uses surrealism, though in a different way than “Sensitive Ears.” The poem consists of twenty-three lines which all state the same thing: “then we’ll get us some wine and spare ribs.” As a conversation between two people, the choice of dialogue of this poem seems peculiar, as Lewis and Clark seem to be repeating each other’s lines. Though I still do not know what the poem means or why the author chose to repeat these specific twenty-three times, the poem stood out to me as a playful artwork that demands its acceptance as a poem without further questions. There has been scholarship criticizing the “nonsense” aspect of this poem (and other “surreal” poems in the Tate collection), but for me as a new poet striving to break through the barriers of formal poetry, Tate’s symbiosis of “nonsense,” wit, and abstract imagery went beyond what is usually “allowed” in poetry and creates room for exploration and poetic evolution. 

            “Storm” is another poem by Tate that exemplifies the idea of surrealism, this time by juxtaposing seemingly unrelated idea into one cohesive poem. The poem begins by discussing snow and then quickly merges into filing taxes, searching for a lost paper, the smell of stew, an unheated study, unfed birds in a cat farm, and an “airplane… lost in a storm of fitting pins.” Many of the connections between these ideas were lost on me, perhaps purposely so, but the poem’s return to the idea of snow in the last stanza and the beautiful images the author creates within those random ideas suggests a creative cohesion that can only be seen if a poet has the freedom to allow ideas to flow freely.

            In my own poetry, I have had a hard time describing abstract ideas in a concrete way- “showing, rather than telling.” In a sense, Tate took the “showing” to the point where his readers are not sure anymore of what he is “telling.” Even though this defies some of the purposes of poetry, as a tool to convey meaning, the explorative aspect of this method will continue to influence my poetry so that I can build up my own skills of “showing.” One particular poem in Tate’s collection that showed me this ability to concretize abstract, or hard-to-describe ideas, is “Stella Maris.” The poem is a narrative, but by using metaphorical language, repetition of certain phrases, as well as alliteration, the poem conveyed a deep sense of self-discovery for the speaker living on a lonely island. The most illustrative line in this poem is in the second stanza: “And always the sound of the sea, like an overtone of eerie applause, the clapping of the palms of the palmettos.” Tate picked up on one of the smaller scenic details of the island and managed to convey the sense of loneliness, while also using musical language to unite the poem as whole. For me, “the sound of the sea” would have seemed sufficient as a description of the scene, but Tate masterfully follows that abstract idea with two rewarding metaphors. In my own poetry, I strive to use such musical tools to create narratives which are so descriptive.

            Though this short essay did not discuss some of the even more famous works of Tate, the poems described here were illuminating for me as a new writer, a new writer open to ideas and inspiration. Though I did not use a consistent definition of the idea of “surrealism” in my appreciation of Tate’s poetry, each poem added new layers to what surrealism can and should mean. Whether, by writing poetry that does not seem poetic, juxtaposing random ideas, conveying ideas using illogical sensations, Tate has introduced me to new methods of exploring the avenues of poetry.  

Sometimes I Wear Pink Suspenders

Sometimes I eat chicken on the bone without a fork.

I just grab the drumstick and hope no one is looking.

Sometimes I even lick my fingers.

Sometimes I forget to bring a towel with me when I shower,

I just streak to my room and hope no one is around.

Sometimes I even forget a towel purposely.

Sometimes I take naps in between classes,

Catching some shut eye where no one is looking.

And sometimes 10 minutes turns into 40 minutes.

Sometimes I eat the leftover cookie dough

Scraping the bowl, and even stealing from the oven while they’re still raw.

Sometimes I just mix a whole batch to eat just like that.

Sometimes I leave dishes in the sink

A little mold never hurt anyone,

Sometimes I just throw out the dishes when the sink is full.

Sometimes I pretend not to notice people approaching, 

When it is awkward to greet them.

Sometimes I just take the stairs to avoid everyone.

Sometimes I buy clothes that are too small,

A girl can hope!

Sometimes I wear them anyway and claim they shrunk.

Sometimes I take the subway instead of walking 5 blocks

Even when the weather is nice, 

Sometimes I subway 5 blocks to get to the gym.

Sometimes first world problems become too much

My little soul can't deal with the long lines at Starbucks, 

So I update my blog and share my troubles with the rest of the world...

Checkers Anyone? *

He passed away when I was eight,

Wretched from me, before either of us were ready.

His only moment of disloyalty,

His escape from this world without kissing me goodbye.

Wretched from us, before we were ready,

Would the time ever have been right?

Yet, he escaped this world without waving goodbye,

An unforgivable sin for a child in second grade.

The time would never be right,

But leaving before he could teach me how to win at checkers,

An unforgivable sin for a child in second grade.

A sin for any child of any age.

Leaving me before he could teach me checkers,

Before he could tease me during my frizzy hair and acne stage,

A child of any age

Needs that honesty of her grandpa.

Before he could tease me for my braces and nerdy boyfriend,

Before I could understand why his jokes were “inappropriate,”

The blunt honesty of my grandpa-

He was otherwise known as the crazy bald man with a great sense of humor.

I never got to understand why his jokes were inappropriate,
For all I knew, all grandpas fell down stairs just to make me laugh. 

Everyone knew him as that crazy bald man with that great sense of humor.

That's what made us all love him.

For all I knew, all grandpas played hide and seek with their grandchildren,
But now I know better-
That man, yes, we all loved him

Was as crazy (in a good way) as can be.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/114349226/playing-checkers-grandfather                       

*This is a pantoum-style poem, with the pattern of the refrains, but the author chose not to use rhyme. 

Grand Old Party

Mid-apocalypse, a more hopeful America,

A rejuvenated nation-

We are turning the corner.

Better off- Kinder, gentler nation,

Making us proud again,

Patriotism, this time, more than ever.

It’s morning again in America,

A return to normalcy,

Grant us- Peace, Prosperity:

A chicken in every pot, and a car in every garage.

Leave no [one] behind.

Billionaire[s],

The world depends on [us],

Who but [us]?

Life, liberty, and [us].

A safer world [with us].

In your heart, you know [they are] Right.

Midstream, keep working,

Ma, ma, where’s my Pa?

We want, a full dinner pail.

I like, well, I still like- Change. 

http://images.sodahead.com/polls/000949620/republicans_change_answer_1_xlarge.jpeg

* This poem is a cut up of most of the main campaign slogans that were used by various GOP candidates since Abraham Lincoln. I used the list of slogans listed at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_U.S._presidential_campaign_slogans. 

#TweetTweet

It's a Wonderful Time of the Year

Soft wind brings a whiff

Cologne, sweat, and Chinese lo mein.

Tax season pressures.

Children crave: "Daddy!"

Two more weeks until he's back

Math homework is stalled.  

Wives stay calm- knowing

That when it ends, rewarded

A sleek, black Lexus. 

*This is an experiment with the traditional 5-7-5 haiku. 

What Does the Fox Say (Video Performance)

"What Does the Fox Say" is a song sung by a group named "Ylvis." The poem and video posted here are inspired by that original song. The background music in the video above is the instrumental version of the song, and the last few seconds of the video posted here is a recording of a part of the original song. See these links for the full video versions.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tDT_3H1wAo

The images used in the video posted here were from:
http://geoffery10.deviantart.com/art/What-Does-the-Fox-Say-Transparent-410500631
https://pgcpsmess.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/fox-running.jpg.

The animated video clips were made via YouCam, and all of the music, images, and video clips were compiled via Movie Maker.

Hanging by a Thread (Edited)

She wraps her palms around my neck,

Twists her torso, carving a space for me,

I hold the swing, steady we sway,

Tangled bodies, we hang there.

Soft breeze brushes our lips,

The sun embraces us-

Threads tie us to one another,

Easily broken, yet easily retied.

The threads of her clothes beg to be torn,

I acquiesce,

Ready to explore the wrinkles in her buttery skin,

Then, I piece the threads back together.

I lose myself in the crinkled waves in her hair.

Inhale the sweet, fruity shampoo

Falling into a blissful abyss,

Hanging by her hair- and wanting to stay there.

These moments that we grasp with all our strength.

Because- as time surges forward,

A tidal wave in calm lake,

We can only thread through time,

Ignoring everything around us. 

What Does the Fox Say? (Edited Villanelle -style format)*

I hear the sounds but cannot convey
Is that a screech, a bleep, a tweek?
I ask around hopefully- "What does the fox say?"

No one knows or no one can portray,
Even Google has held her peace,
Yet, there must be a sound that we cannot convey.

I toss and turn at night, and ponder throughout the day-
I worry about this question- I will continue to seek
I resume my search- "What does the fox say?"

Maybe Dora can help, her friendship with him might give her some sway,
But Swiper is honest to being a sneak.
We hear his voice but the sound we cannot convey.

Perhaps the media has some information to relate,

Fox News- you lost your chance to avoid critique.
I am alone in my quest for "What does the fox say?"

I have reached my wits and choose a different way-
I ask the fox himself, still knowing the odds are bleak.
I hear a response, but I cannot convey
"What does the fox say?"

www.cartoonwatcher.com

*This line and the general idea of this poem is inspired by the song "What Does the Fox Say?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE

*This line and the general idea of this poem is inspired by the song "What Does the Fox Say?"

What Does the Fox Say*

I hear the sounds but cannot convey
Is that a screech, a bleep, a tweek?
I ask around hopefully- "What exactly does the fox say?"

No one knows or no one can speak,
Even Google has held her peace,
Yet, there must be a sound that we cannot convey.

I toss and turn at night, and though I hear my bed squeak-
I worry about this question- I will continue to seek
I resume my search- "What does the fox say?"

Maybe Dora can help, since she knows he's discreet,
But Swiper is honest to being a sneak.
We hear his voice but the sound we cannot convey.

Republican or not, perhaps the media has some information to leak,
Fox News- you lost your chance to avoid critique.
I am alone in my quest for "What does the fox say?"

I have reached my wits and change my technique-
I ask the fox himself, still knowing the odds are bleak.
I hear a response, but I cannot convey
"What exactly does the fox say?"

*This line and the general idea of this poem is inspired by the song "What Does the Fox Say?"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE

עם ישראל חי

Oh, so proudly gleaming, at dawn light.

In Zion, with Zion, toward Zion, heart yearning in Zion.

O, with thy love thee see all true love.

* This short "cut up" poem is a combination of words chosen from three national anthems. These words are chosen from a very specific pattern of the words עם ישראל חי, which mean "The nation of Israel is still alive." Each of the letters in this verse is accorded the number of its position in the Hebrew alphabet. In each of the national anthems, words are counted according to these numbers and then positioned according to the author's discretion. The first line corresponds to the American national anthem; the second the Israeli national anthem; the third the Canadian national anthem. All these countries represent the author's allegiances. 

Note: the author used her discretion in repeating or not repeating words chosen according to the pattern.

י	ח	ל	א	ר	ש	י	ם	ע
10	8	12	1	20	21	10	13	16

The Grass is Always Greener (Updated)

Father mowed the lawn on Sundays

He’d cast off his shirt and laugh

As shreds of grass landed on his eyebrows

Brother would chase the crazed machine

Imitating its spitting sounds.

Mother and I would squeeze fresh lemonade

To hydrate the boys

Smiling, she’d dance across the lawn

And gracefully settle the tray on a bench

Blowing the boys kisses.

Father says he is proud of brother

And brother will make a strong man

Like father.

Mother pats my head 

And thanks me for my help.

Once I too tried to bring the lawnmower to life

It merely chortled at me and refused to move

Father had pity- and settled me on his lap

Sticky palms gripping the wheel,

Showing father that I can also be like him.

Lemonade forgot to appear on the bench

I saw mother peering through the window.

Father sometimes needs help in the garage

But only when brother isn’t there

I gallop at the idea of escaping the heat of the kitchen

I prefer even the dustiness of the garage. 

I sew myself a pair of overalls, 

And watch father and brother pounding with their tools

Maybe my turn to help is next?

But mother catches me wasting time and set me off to mix bread. 

"Am I not strong enough to help them?" I ask

Mother shakes her head

Wondering why-

Why I need to be different.

Nighttime in Tel Aviv

Not even 9 pm,

Yet the darkness of these filthy streets

Is palpable.

How many men are skulking in the shadows-

Peering through the smoke-filled air,

To find pretty girls like us?

We are walking alone,

Veiling our fear.

Outnumbered by men,

Who are hungry for

The taste of our lips

And the smell of our hair.

Struggling to appear

Both strong and invisible

Casting cautious glances

For someone safe.

He looks at us curiously

Understanding our distress.

Only unfortunate girls come here,

Leaving in shame

High heels, make-up, and heavier wallets

We too do not belong here.

Didn’t we pass this grimy hamburger stand minutes ago?

The man gestures in the direction we came from

He whispers good luck,

We retrace our steps.

Silence except for the fierce beating in our chests,

Adrenaline charging through our veins,

Creating an unexpected thrill

Which ends soon-

We have arrived at the bus station.