Friday, June 5, 2009

#6 binoculars vs. river trees (Julie Zei)

w.c. 668

I’m trying to think outside the box, thing “enstrangly” Is it useful yes I think so how else am I supposed to confuse my friends, (hahaha) Well lets start somewhere, what is poetry? I don’t believe that it’s simply pretty language put into an ideal form. Poetry is gritty it’s soulful it’s powerful and submissive all at the same time. Poetry can change someone’s life or you could just brush it off like a fly on your sandwich. I find that poetry can be everywhere. Poetry is the way that my sister is able to catch a lacrosse ball with one swift deft movement of her arms. Poetry is the way I’m able to ride a horse around the ring and make a beast over 2000 pounds obey my every move. But poetry is also when that lacrosse ball gets pasts my sister, poetry is me falling roughly 4 feet to the ground and rolling in the mud. Poetry is the way that we walk the movement of our hands when we speak and the way me love. A lot of poetry is love. The love of the thrill of doing what we enjoy, the love we have for our pets, for our cars, the flowers in the garden or the food that we eat. Love is poetry and poetry is love; much like a square is a rhombus and visa-versa.
What is poetry not? Poetry is not nothing. Poetry is not anything. There isn’t any poetry in the air or anymore in a rod of iron. Poetry is manipulation, manipulation of the mundane things around us and turning them in to something fantastical.
Poetry is…

Things heard from my apartment
The leaky faucet in the bathroom
The construction going on by the college of business
Police sirens off in the distance
My upstairs neighbors jumping around
The ticking of the clock on the wall
My roommate watching TV in the other room
Cars driving down Vernon much too fast.
The train horn blaring away

Poetry is…
Things seen from my apartment windows
The train heading north
Vernon Street
The parking lot where my car sits
The apartment buildings across said parking lot
Not much of a view if you ask me.

Poetry is me falling asleep between the chocolate sheets on my bed. Poetry is the sound of my body hitting the mud after falling from the damn horse. Poetry is the cheering of the crowd when Michelle makes a great save. Poetry surrounds us it is the water of our existence and the air we need. Poetry is our prison, it is our freedom, it is both the key and the lock we need to really truly be free.

It is contrasting colors, the smile of your pleasure; it is the wrinkle on your forehead when it vexes you and the relief in your eyes when all is good and safe. Poetry is discovery and rediscovery; uncovering what you thought was there and adjusting it, making it new.

Niedecker → Google Translator

Thick fog in the morning.
I only see now
where I go.
I use my clear to me. (181)

The ball of ice
and grace of a school

looseleaf downstream (Autumn 217)

Ten thousand women,
and I
only shoes
Life in the dance:
they meet, he holds her leg (Watching dancers on skates 205)

Dickinson → Google Translator

Tiger died in drink-groan
More than hunting all the sand
I caused by water in the rocks
And bear it in my hands

His death was a powerful, thick, balls
search, but I do not see
vision of the retina
water and mine

Whatever is out slow 'Twas not my fault,
'Twas not the fault of the deceased
Though I had to get it
But 'the fact that he was dead ‘twas (566)

So much more can be discovered within poetry itself, a picture within a picture. The meaning of what someone says can often times be betrayed by their eyes, the poetry of their motions.


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