Bus Boy #1

Written on the bus today. Protagonist= a stranger. Subject= connection (in the spirit of Whitman). Enjoy! 

I can tell just by looking at him,

And-- God-- I love musicians. 

I can hear the music in his head--

I don't like it much, but I understand: 

Right now the entire world is moving to one beat--

Everything is in agreement

A commonality completely compatible to him. 

I don't like the music much, but I nod my head with his

For camaraderie. 

Leaves fall with us.

Lights blink with us.

Clouds form and fragment, and sunlight hits our cheeks

And the spots in our eyes move in rhythm. 

The man taps his foot with us.

The bus stops and goes with us. 

The big houses that we can't fit into blur around us.

Even the unexcitable, chemically-sprayed hair extensions of the girls we don't like

Curl with the sound waves,

And the hard-set jaws of the masculine pretty-boys we don't like-- unclench.

The fearless/fearful eyes of the people we are too afraid to talk to-- close, 

So that we can see what they're truly thinking. 

And the second-hands on the watches of the corporate bores we keep away from

Tick in time with us. 

The interlacing of life is nice,

But its nothing new. 

I am only made to realize it through the brief companionship of my musician,

But it has alway been here.

Life forever mingles, but we have not matured;

We have not learned to make eye contact as we give out handshakes 

I Have No Answers

What I want is to make all this shit sound eloquent. I've been told not to value my negativity too much, but if I can't make something beautiful out of all this pain then I don't think I'll be able to live through it. So I'll try not to get stuck in this place. I'll try to balance these deadening days with poems about life and that dependent-less love I was obsessed with. But for now I'm in limbo; some awkward transitional stage. I'm seeing things a little more clearly, but I don't necessarily like what I see. I'm making resolutions to find something internal and positive, but I haven't taken the actual steps yet. 

So! Here's a poem- was written on the bus home today: 

When I get angry

I feel fists knocking on the backside of my eyeballs,

And when I analyze-- the feeling--

It proves to be Hectic and Beautiful and Exciting.

But I don't want to step outside myself this time

To rationalize this insanity into art.

I feel angry all the time now.

My feelings fist into my vision.

I don't think I can see you clearly anymore.

So this is where I'm at present. Would you like some context?: 

I had been priding myself on my ability to deal. Really I was just lacking issues. 

I am as unstable as ever. I still cling to delusional hopes. I am happy for as long as those hopes are standing, and when reality causes them to collapse I claim that life is unfair. I guess self-pity is easier than acceptance. But it is so unsustainable, and this way of "living" has finally guided me to the point where I see that I can't continue on this way. 

The metaphor of a pile-up seems to fit: first came my hopes, then disappointment, then resentment, guilt, anger, general cynicism. I never let go of any of it, and now its too heavy for me to hold onto. 

But I'm not really sure how to let go. Maybe just realizing it, and writing it down, is the process. But I am pretty certain it is more complicated than that. 

Furthermore-- there seem to be certain things I could do that would force me to let go. For instance: I could bask in my anger, abandon the people I can place blame on... but then I am still holding fast to a portion of my load. I don't think this can be forced. 

Anyway. I'm starting here. I'm beginning with the thinking and realizing and writing. And I'm feeling good here. 

Concluding Poem

This is the concluding poem of my final. I think it's content my be heightened if read with the first poem of the post before this one. 

Such a finalizing tool I live by.

Constructed to rationalize--

To document the indefinite

That from thought to thought is debated,

But with this weapon is dictated

On a page--

My intent is contradicted.

Purpose is not in striving or struggle--

Not in these books or poems.

Purpose is in the nature of finding and losing--

Instantaneously;

The empowerment to write and keep writing--

To read, to see and feel-- to live--

To be and keep being. 

This is a product and an attempt of thought--

Of understanding,

And to connect!

Yet-- often what the poet needs is just to lose the pen. 

Yummm. Dickinson-inspired Poetry

The following poetry is part of  my English (American Romanticsm) Final Project... Eek! What a scary concept! Anyway- Enjoy:

First-- from the womb-- I realized I could move my mouth

To make such piercing sounds, 

And then-- could stretch my fingers

With which to grasp this pen.

But, with familiarity-- capabilities spoil.

I know my clutching and grasping at purpose is a child's tantrum.

Sometimes-- while my face is wet with tears and sweat--

I forget what my struggle is for.

In a lapse of consciousness I hear the calm hum of the universe,

And the excitement of my heartbeat as it drums with life's symphony. 

In this state-- My mind's metaphorical pot of gold is not at the end of a rainbow, 

But the gold is within the rainbow-- uncontained.

I may reach it-- not to grab it-- but to join it

For no reason-- beyond Reason. 

When I rest I think of thesis

On why my life begins--

When it ends,

And what plans to make for the middle,

But in a dream is when I learn why I'm alive. 

Occurring as naturally as sleep-- I need no magician or pendulum to lead my hypnosis.

I am selfless, but self-guided.

I will rise and sink with the sun--

Following the ellipse around heaven. 

you've read poem #1- here is #2... A little more imitative of Dickinson, I'd say: 

The moon revolves around the earth,

The fly-- around my head.

Yet my own path-- I never follow--

The gleaming suns'-- instead.

Am I blinded by my course?

Have I a mind to See? 

Or does my state of trudging

Prove incapacity? 

Or maybe mine's a broader path--

Far beyond the sky--

Unpaved, but for a purpose--

To constantly ask: Why? 

Essay on Whitman's "Song of Myself"

Integrating with the Grasses

 

“I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth”

(31)

 

            Cultivated by the pressure to succeed, produce, and strive is the need to differentiate one’s self from the rest of the world. From this need comes a fear of being lost in the universe. That if we allow ourselves to be incorporated with everything, we lose our identity, and our capacity to greatness; we become an indistinguishable fraction. This is a misconception that Whitman attends to in Song of Myself. While portraying the beauty and complexity that encompasses everything in this world, he asks, “Who need be afraid of the merge?” (31) Our egotism is a curse, the self-importance it lends– a folly. However, through discarding this fear of the merge, it is possible to tap into the greatness of the universe.

Distinctiveness depends on comparisons, yet comparisons are judgments placed on importance, value and success and lead to feelings of inadequacy. Whitman states, “I exist as I am, that is enough” (44), discontinuing the need for comparisons, both within himself and of things around him. For example, he does not “call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else” (36); everything is innately sufficient. The dismissal of inadequacy enables the recognition of greatness. This greatness goes beyond authority, education, etc. It is the inexpressible wonder of existence. Whitman emphasizes the importance of the distinction between the inherent greatness of existence and greatness that one must strive for. He says “not words, not music or rhyme I want…. Not custom or lecture, not even the best,/ Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice” (28). He is not impressed by achievements, but rather by the fundamental greatness that connects every earthly thing. Therefore, a human being is as great as a blade of grass, and each are a miracle– an essential part of the vast wonder of life.

            Whitman’s Song of Myself emphasizes the complexity of the universe and every one of its pieces. The language and content of the poem is bursting with an appreciation of existence that inspires me to discard preoccupations with feelings of inadequacy, egotism, and, most importantly, fear of integrating with the universe. Song of Myself is “less the reminder of property or qualities, and more the reminder of life” (47), beckoning me to feel my importance as both a wondrous individual, and component of the great universe. The poem has instated within me the excitement to use all of my senses to connect with the world around me; to live without striving, learn, love and be for no pretentious reasons, but only because I am able to. Most importantly, I take up Whitman’s words and “celebrate myself” fully and truly (25). I do not celebrate my achievements or goals, nor my retained knowledge, but rather the miracle and mystery of existence.