To be honest

To be honest,

my Happiness Jar

isn’t filling as fast

as it used to,

not for lack of

happiness, per se,

but perhaps a lack

of attentiveness.

To be honest,

it feels like each

crossed off day on

my calendar is

another reminder

that I’m not where

I thought I’d be at

twenty five and ¾.

To be honest, this

poem feels a little

too genuine and it

could be the wine talking,

or the guilt at purposely

avoiding poetry, but

I’d rather not post

this poem or any poem

I’ve written lately,

because some

things are best

not shared.

--

It's over, folks. National Poetry Month comes to a close tonight. I leave you with this for now: an apologetic offering for the last third of the month, when my (published) poems were sparse. If you think this is bad, you should see the ones I kept to myself! Only kidding. April isn't about good or bad, it's about creatingcreatingcreating. And some creating happened behind the scenes...you might see the fruits of those labors in upcoming, non-poetry-focused months. ;)

Followers of this blog know what's next: photography. Set in May, National Photography Month (NaPhoMo perhaps?) is a convenient, well-placed break from the emotions and headiness that poetry revels in. Some photography inspires poetry, or stories, and some just begs to be gazed at. Some pictures aren't worth the "photograph" label, while others transcend mere photography and demand to be called art. I'm exploring all of it. Starting tomorrow. Right now, I drink wine and read romance poems.

A Decision

I have decided

not to let the neighbor at

work creep me out when he

says, at near a whisper,

“Hello Beautiful,”

as he stands on his stoop

while I rake leaves,

park the car,

or unlock my bike to go home.

Stillness/Stagnation

I tried to stop the clocks,

thinking, maybe if I stay quiet,

time will quiet down, too.

Maybe if I don’t move,

time will stand still with me.

Stillness seems so appealing

until you realize you’re only

a breath away from stagnation.

Lunar Park

Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I tried some of Bret Easton Ellis's earlier works; they're not for me. Lunar Park, though, I got into. It reminded me of The Shining, especially with the drug use, and there were times I was thoroughly creeped out. Not knowing what kind of book this was before I started (I rarely read book summaries, I just jump in), I initially skipped the first chapter, thinking it was just chronological background information/an introduction to the author (which it kind of is), and nothing more. When I finally realized what was going on (Bret Easton Ellis, the author, isn't the same as Bret Easton Ellis, the character), I went back and read from the beginning.

Recommended for: horror story lovers, Bret Easton Ellis fans (interesting to see where the character matched up with reality), and voracious readers.


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He is Risen, We are Here

“Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” --Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

In my brother’s car

on the way to the airport

for Easter Sunday mass,

and then in the chapel

on the Mezzanine level

at O’Hare. No, before that,

on the row of hard leather chairs

behind the Starbucks kiosk--

four of them--welded together

and pushed up against a wall,

facing the kiss ‘n’ fly lanes outside.

That’s where we ate pastries and drank our

morning beverages (coffee, chocolate milk)

before the service.

Sometimes we turned to each other

to make conversation,

other times we spoke towards

our reflections in the windows,

telling our stories and remembering

what it’s like to be together.

---

This poem was meant for Easter, but it had to tumble around my brain for a bit before I could get it out. I might need to put it back in for another spin, but here it is for now.

Earth Life

At this point in my life,

Earth Day feels like

pretty much any other day:

biking and recycling,

turning off the lights,

keeping showers short--

I’m no more celebrating

than merely living on

the planet where I was born.

Atonement

Atonement by Ian McEwan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I'm glad I finally got around to reading this book, which I've had on my (physical) bookshelf for a while. I watched the movie about four years ago, and enjoyed it. The original didn't disappoint. Much like the movie, the middle war section was my least favorite/most forgettable, and the opening, while only lasting several days, took some time to get in to, but by the end I was sold.


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Easter by Jill Alexander Essbaum : Poetry Magazine

A (sad) Easter poem. Because that's where I'm at right now.

Easter by Jill Alexander Essbaum : Poetry Magazine

Easter

is my season

of defeat.

Though all

is green

and death

is done,  

I feel alone.

As if the stone

rolled off

from the head

of the tomb

is lodged

in the doorframe

of my room,

and everyone

I’ve ever loved

lives happily

just past

my able reach.

And each time

Jesus rises

I’m reminded

of this marble

fact:

they are not

coming back.

(Poetry, January 2011)

Bucktown/Wicker Park Public Library, Friday, April 18, 2014, 2:25 pm.

Bucktown/Wicker Park Public Library,

Friday, April 18, 2014, 2:25 pm.

First Floor:

The tables are nearly full, so I

camp out at the edge of the

one nearest the meeting rooms

and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, the fresh grass peeks

through last fall’s dead leaves.

My nose starts to run and I

turn back to the quiet bookshelves

in this corner of the library:

Test Prep and Careers.

Their shelves are filled with titles

like The Princeton Review guide to the

SAT/GMAT/LSAT/ACT

Job Search Letters, Resumes, or

Interviews for Dummies

Postal Exam Preparation

How to be a State Trooper

Get Your Captain’s License!

No one else here is concerned

with any of that, just

How do I print this?

What’s the wifi?

Where’s the nearest 7-11?

or my favorite overheard conversation,

between a mother and a son:

“Can I go up there?”

“No, not now.”

“But I asked!”

“Yes, and thank you so much

for asking respectfully, but my

answer is no.”

Followed by the stubborn

stomps of a child who’s asked and expects

the answer to be yes.

Because what’s the point in

asking otherwise? Aren’t we

all just asking to go “up there,”

wherever that may be,

not for actual permission, but

just to be polite?

And when the universe answers

no, we stomp around anyway,

like children in a public library

on a Friday afternoon.

---

I wrote this (mostly) at the library in honor of National Library Week. Visit your library! You never know how it might inspire you.

A Contradiction

This is not a poem, but a contradiction.

It’s how it can snow on Tuesday

and I can sunbathe on Friday.

It’s the cultural ignorance I seek

to separate myself from, all

the while knowing it’s in my skin.

It’s ice cream trucks and late

night sandwiches. Hovering

parents and absent bosses.

Going to bed when it’s light out;

waking up in the dark.

Stomach pain, noisy neighbors,

spiderwebs, dirty piles of laundry

stacked next to the bed.

Expecting

Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold.

Chicago, pregnant with spring,

still clung to her Siberian chill,

blowing through April’s sunny days and

windows-open, grilling-on-the-patio weather,

like the woman in labor, scared

of what the new season might bring.

Spring seemed hesitant to emerge.

It hid in the last bank of snow,

now mostly dirt and icy rocks,

like the baby being born, not ready

for the traumatic change.

We held our breath, like family members

in the waiting room, praying for a

speedy delivery, a healthy baby.

We let it go and watched it

condense in the frozen air around us.

Love & Taxes

“Income tax returns are the most imaginative fiction being written today." –Herman Wouk

I’m not certain about much,

but what I can be sure about

is how taxes aren’t so bad

when you do them with someone

you love.

It’s things like taxes

and washing dishes

and sharing headlines

over coffee before work--

the mundane repetitions of life

--that carry you from

each adrenaline-fueled peak

(first kiss, meeting the family,

“I love you,”...)

to the next.

If I spend the rest

of my life doing taxes

with the same person

--with, as in next to,

or with, as in filing jointly--

I’ll be okay with the

monotony, the frustration,

and the reminder of my

lackluster tax bracket status.

Whether the IRS takes my

money or gives it back,

I’ll still have my date night.

Is It Work?

Is poetry work? Do poets produce? Can a poet retire? All questions answered in this witty post.

Is It Work? : Patricia Lockwood : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation

15 Questions

Are you going to pick me up today?

Do you have your phone?

How did you do?

Can you wash these?

Are you ready to go?

What color is it?

Am I?

Do you see her much?

Can we go in here?

Will the snow kill my plants?

Rice or noodles?

What’s this for?

Anything?

What else?

Do you want this last one?

No, that’s yours, you take it.

(napowrimo prompt)

Her

Who? The girl from

this winter? She comes

blowing in and out,

as she’s wont to do.

I’ve seen her when

there’s a chill in the air,

or when it gets dark

before she expects it to.

I see her. Don’t you?



This week the gargleblaster asks, "Do you see her much?"

Be Kind.

Happy Palm Sunday! There's one week left of Lent, and one more simple living challenge before Easter. Last week's "unplug" challenge became much easier when the temps increased, making bike rides, walks, reading on the porch, and cook outs more attractive than TV binges. This week, Steph and Brit challenged us to find God in others.

This doesn't mean worshiping others.
This means seeing the divine in humanity.
This means recognizing that we are all made from the same stuff.
This means treating others with the respect that we all deserve.

It's a challenge, for sure, but one that should last longer than a week. I'm keeping these words in mind:


(source: http://iheartinspiration.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/be-king-everyone-fighting-hard-battle.jpg)

Volatile or Non-Volatile

Loneliness is any neutral substance

that is both hydrophobic ("water fearing") and

lipophilic ("fat loving").

Some loneliness burns in liquid or aerosol form, generating light and heat,

which can be used directly or converted into other forms of energy.

Loneliness is usually slippery,

may be animal, vegetable, or petrochemical in origin,

and may be volatile or non-volatile.

Specially prepared loneliness is used in some religious ceremonies as a purifying agent.

Loneliness is used for food, fuel, and lubrication.

As no suitable substitute is available, loneliness is still used in space (in small quantities).

---

Today's "poem" is another napowrimo prompt, substituting a tangible noun (oil, if you haven't guessed) with an intangible noun (loneliness). My oil information comes from Wikipedia's "Oil" page. I chose loneliness based on my two book reviews from today, both about books (by the same author) that dealt with loneliness.

Player One: What Is to Become of Us

Player One: What Is to Become of Us by Douglas Coupland
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Reading this book right after another of Coupland's novels, Eleanor Rigby, was very strange. Enlightening, also, but strange. Especially after writing a review on Jhumpa Lahiri and how I don't care that all of her stories are the same, to see another writer write essentially the same story was affirmation that all writers do is tell one story, over and over again.

Yes, that's a brute simplification of a novelist and their work, but it's what we all do as humans: tell the same tale over and over, never quite getting it perfect. Where Eleanor Rigby starts off promising, with its character development and reflection on loneliness (before derailing a bit), Player One picks up the torch and goes even deeper with it. These are the same stories--told by different characters under different circumstances, yes--but they have same message: we all have a loneliness unique to us, but we have that loneliness in common with everyone.

Not that I searched very hard, but I haven't seen a lot (or any) comparisons between these novels, which strikes me as strange because I counted no less than 10 instances where Coupland reuses phrases, sometimes even entire sentences, or several sentences, from Eleanor Rigby in Player One. I'm sure as I continue reading Coupland I'll see that he does this across a lot of his works. He's writing the same story here--and I'm glad for that, because it's a better story. It's more nuanced, less weird, and it trusts what it has to say. While it's still a little weird, the structure of the novel (told over the course of five hours, from the perspective of five people) lends itself to the strangeness of the tale.


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Eleanor Rigby

Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I wanted to like this book so much more than I did. The beginning started off with promise--I even copied several lines into my journal I liked them so much:

"Like anybody, I wanted to find out if my life was ever going to make sense, or maybe even feel like a story..."

"I decided that instead of demanding certainty from life, I now wanted peace. No more trying to control everything--it was now time to go with the flow."

Coupland sets up what I thought was going to be an introspective character study on our protagonist, Liz, and beyond that, a study on lonely people. What does it mean to be lonely versus just alone? Why is loneliness viewed negatively?

Then things just got weird. The long lost adult son I could handle--Jeremy was another interesting character, another perspective on loneliness and connection, what makes a family and how to enjoy a rough life. But instead of writing an honest story, and focusing on funny and slightly strange characters, Coupland went the route of bizarre plot devices. A trip to Vienna, a German prison, a serendipitous reunion--why do we need these things? I liked Liz and her thoughts. I liked Liz's conversations with Jeremy (until those got weird as well). I liked reading about all the lonely people.

All in all, I'm glad I read Eleanor Rigby, because I can appreciate it within the scope of Coupland's works, but I don't recommend it for the casual reader--try Player One instead, a very different novel in terms of what happens, but similar in its themes.


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11:56 on a Friday night

Sometimes it’s 11:56 on

a Friday night when you

realize you haven’t

written a poem yet that day.

But--you think to yourself--

I raked all the leaves,

surely that counts

for something poetic.

Leaves, leftover from fall,

long dead and decaying,

enough to fill a trash bag

--and then some--

raked to uncover fresh dirt--

now that’s poetry.

And what about the pizza

I made? The one with

four eggs cracked on top,

baked right into the cheese.

It looked good, until I

tried to cut and serve it.

Then the egg ran all gooey,

the crust stuck to the pan,

and I was left with scrambled,

not sunny side up.

Scrambled, raked,

and only a few minutes late

writing this poem.