Poets: the new novelists

Posted by riverwriter on Dec 31st, 2008 | 3 comments

The Internet is rewiring our brains, according to Nicholas Carr’s July/August 2008 Atlantic Monthly article, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”—I agree with Carr.

Carr’s thesis is that hypertext links, like the one in the previous sentence, which give us instant access to source material, have made us impatient readers. We no longer have the patience to drill into material. We prefer to read the synopsis. We want our reading to be short, to the point, dense—in other words, poetry.

Poetry is pretty much all short, dense to the point. If it’s any good it is.

Of course there are always overblown, vapid verses masquerading as poetry. Most sweet, sentimental crap appearing in newspaper memoria or greeting cards qualifies under this definition.

You are thinking, “But I don’t care a fig about poetry!”

Oh yeah? What about all the words to all that music on your ipod?

But back to Nicholas Carr (sort of): an article and discussion in “Is Google Making Us Stoopid?” in Devtopics.com concludes that Carr’s article made its point by being too long to read.

How does this make poets the new novelists?

Because it makes poems the new novels.

I don’t know that I’d go so far are to say a haiku is a new novel; but on a certain level, it is.

If you have stayed with me this long, I know I have to conclude this extremely long essay now. Here it is:

Arbitrary

I decided to end it
but you locked my eyes
on all the arguments
when you smiled.

Sitting in a three-armed gown (fourth revision)

Posted by riverwriter on Dec 29th, 2008 | 4 comments

The technician in the aqua lab coat
summoned the balding guy
with the slightly bleeding
shunt in the crook of his arm,
with whom I had commiserated
about the insipid iodine cocktail
we were both sipping:
he departed clutching at
the back of his hospital gown.

Did I hear people in the corridor?
I added a three-armed gown
to my exhortations of the universe:
world peace, an end to global warming
a cure for cancer or whatever was growing
around the mystery shadows in my gut:
O, to depart for my CT scan
with my hairy ass inside the gown.

Primitive calm still held together
by shirt and hand-knit sweater
corduroy trousers, shoes and socks
and a thin glow of perspiration,
I focused on my paperback:
El Magnifico was about to face the bulls
and I my current task: two beakers
of iodine to swig.

A pair of women joined the party:
an elderly patient whose husband
died twenty-seven years ago,
and her friend whose husband
followed suit last year.

They related their mishaps with
dogs gifted by anxious relatives
who seemed to think furry distraction
was better than none.

Soon the elder’s beverage arrived,
and we gaily debated whether
the tepid, slightly metallic fluid
tasted more like dilute bad wine
or dilute bad pee. I ventured
El Magnifico would have us
suck lemons and salt and pretend
it was dilute bad tequila.
We subsided into our respective
waiting room meditations.

The technician handed me a loosely
folded pale green cloth something.
In that booth, take off everything
but your shoes, socks, and underpants.
Do you know how to put on
a three-armed gown?

Donning my three-armed suit of lights
was easy: shrug into the first two arms
as usual, then fling the remainder
across the front, turn and thrust
my arm into the third sleeve.

When I emerged from the cubicle
the older widow regarded the layers
of shirt, pants, undershirt
shelved on my forearms—
Your wife has you well-trained:
I could never get my husband to fold
anything—

she shuddered as if something cold
had arrived.

I sat facing her in my three-armed gown
pressing my hairy knees together.
The flat pile of clothes became a table
for my fists, which felt disconnected
from me: they should be holding burgers
or beer; they should be proffering a muleta
or thrusting an espada grande.

I wanted to notice her
fifty years ago across a crowded corrida,
her index finger tracing her full red lips
instead of worrying the rim of the empty
paper cup.

I was eating lunch at Jimmy’s place
and had finished my beef stew but
Jimmy’s mother
glared at her ration books
Jimmy hadn’t touched his
and she was going to open her mouth
and the comparison was going to come out
and drive an espada right down the table.

I don’t know, I just folded them
and
and her husband hadn’t finished his
and the damn three-armed gown
was making me keep my knees together.

Glossary:
corrida: a bull fight
muleta: red cloth on a stick, used in the final stages of a bull fight
espada: sword

hesi—

Posted by riverwriter on Dec 28th, 2008 | 2 comments

There are dreams I could conjure in these lines—
walk on Mars
kiss a willing stranger
wear a diamond
drive a Maserati
cut a throat—
but blood dictates another course:

And so I will not kiss you Princess
nor bind and flay your lovely hide
nor vanish with you for this weekend
of debauchery and gain ten pounds.

I’ll watch TV and write this poem
vacuum the living room
pile saltines with cheese
and have a slow late afternoon
scotch and conversation at home.

close to

Posted by riverwriter on Dec 26th, 2008 | 2 comments

One sultry evening we were
standing ankle deep at river’s edge,
one thin layer of cotton wafting
on your skin beside me:

my hesitation
formed thunderheads
drenched my skin
drove me to shelter.

But one afternoon
bundled in layers
against the winter
I took your arm:

you smiled
snuggled against me
as we walked
somewhere together.

New Look

Posted by riverwriter on Dec 24th, 2008 | 0 comments

The new theme is called “Inanis Glass”. You can change the background by clicking on the little bubble at the left end of the bottom of the page, and selecting the background from the list. The last time I tried this type of thing, several features of wordcurrents stopped working. I hope for better luck this time.

Note December 28: I had a problem, but Inanis, the theme designer helped me figure out that the problem was actually in the WordPress software, not in the theme.