12. And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness

and they have escaped the weight of darkness,

flying—

its sticky fingers no longer clawing

at their hair,

the tails of their shirts, their memories,

their soles;

they have escaped the weight

of darkness,

have nestled it carefully once more

between Atlas’ shoulder blades,

have bitten into the golden apple

and fled;

have escaped,

have slipped under cover of daylight

into suspension and color;

have escaped,

and as fugitives hide,

telling not their names

and brushing dark histories aside;

of darkness,

of the isolation one cannot unknow,

of the blindness thick as unbelief,

thicker than forgetting her face,

his name,

escaped,

and from that bright oblivion,

floating,

shall not return.

I started reading e. e. cummings, and I realized very suddenly how much I missed physical-less poetry!!! Oh, goodness. So far this project I've been pretty loyal to the Williams Carlos Williams creed, "No ideas but in things." I am proud of this first departure because it's just really fun. 

The title and first line is also the title of a song by Olafur Arnalds, which is kind of mediocre, but I really like the words together. 

Can you imagine me trying to write poetry without allusions? Like every poem is an allusion. I'm like T. S., only he was better at it 'cause he's freaggin' T. S. Eliot, droppin' some Dante up in that bitch.

...and, cue the moment to stop talking.

11. they sell tombstones

they sell tombstones

across from the boneyard.

if you look to your left,

ladies and gentlemen,

you’ll see the tombstone shop,

the lacquered memorials

bright in the late-summer sun.

with one of these

be-yootiful

headstones, your loved one

will be remembered

with dignity and distinction.

on the right,

the little town’s boneyard,

where the grass is mown,

but the fence is rotting and falling down,

and the tombstones are weathered

and unadorned.

the windbreak is untrimmed

and speckled with holes.

when it is winter

and the ice blows in from the north

it will encounter no defense—

no stand of life against indifference.

i'm okay with this one, but i don't think it's that technically good. i might try writing different versions in different tones, because i think the subject matter/concept has a lot to offer. like, consider the same basic premise, but more focused on who had the audacity to build a tombstone shop yet, citing as examples the graveyard never leaving customers' peripheral vision, seeing their future at every moment in the shop. consider also the absurdity of loading up a tombstone at the appropriate time and driving it across the street to its new home. or if they took customers window shopping in the actual graveyard. "ah yes, the michaelsons. this was a very special piece-- i worked on it myself-- why, that must have been way back in seventy-four. anyway, the red granite really is such a rich and beautiful color, don't you agree?" the trick will be to focus only on the absurd features of gritty, everyday life in this place. if i'm lucky and i do it right, the cosmic statements will take care of themselves.

10. A Love Song to J. Alfred Prufrock

I wonder what the “J” stood for.

He was probably James or John—

but could he have been Jacob, Jeffery, Jeremy,

Jeremiah, Jay, or Johann?

If to say he was afraid was to abbreviate,

I wonder what emotion would cascade

across his mind uninvited;

I wonder if he should truly have stayed silent.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

if he had left the house that evening standing tall,

the bald spot where his hair was growing thin

balanced by an earnest, gleeful grin?

I wish I could have told him,

“I, too, have gone at dusk through narrow streets

and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes—

I, too, am one acquainted with the night.”

This amuses me and I think it has potential. However, it, too, needs more stanzas. It just kept falling into more and more form as I wrote it. I think a genuine love song to J. Alfie would be awesome, but this poem isn't it yet. Another three stanzas could do it, though. Also, the second person. Because no one writes apostrophe in the third freaggin person.

(Bonus 3) I actually think this poem is brilliant, and it's basically what I aspire to.

now dis "daughter" uv eve(who aint precisely slim)sim

ply don't know duh meanin uv duh woid sin in
not disagreeable contras tuh dat not exacly fat

"father"(adjusting his robe)who now puts on his flat hat

(Bonus 2) You should read this one because it illustrates that not everything he wrote was that good.

but granted that it's nothing paradoxically enough beyond mere personal

pride which tends to compel me to decline to admit i've died)
seeing your bald intellect collywobbling on its feeble stem is

believing science=(2b)^-n herr professor m

(Bonus!) You should also look at this one because it's a side of cummings you're not so likely to see.

even if all desires things moments be
murdered known photographed,
ourselves yawning will ask ourselves
ou sont les neiges....some

guys talks big

about Lundun Burlin and gay Paree an
some guys claims der never was
 nutn like Nooer Leans Shikahgo Sain
Looey Noo York an San Fran dictaphones
wireless subways vacuum
cleaners pianolas funnygraphs skyscrapers and safteyrazors

sall right in its way kiddo
but as fer i gimme de good ole daze....

in dem daze kid Christmas
meant sumpn youse knows wot
I refers ter Satter Nailyuh(comes but once er
year)I'll tell de woild one swell bangup
time wen nobody wore no cloze
an went runnin aroun wid eachudder Hell
Bent fer election makin believe dey was churst born




If you're like, "wut?", don't worry about it. This poem doesn't call for triple readings and depthy analysis. I just think it's really funny the way the poem slowly degrades into this thick Brooklyn accent. Like, look at the first line. Now look at the second to last line. There are actually a lot (a looooooot) of poems that use the accent to different effects.

9. I remember those nights I was immortal with you.

I remember those nights I was immortal with you.

After our football team had lost again,

after the final round of the fight song,

after we had stored our drums in the upstairs closet,

we went outside, and in the parking lot

you would open all the doors on your ’85 Crown Vic,

and turn your speakers all the way up,

and we would dance.

(Mostly, actually, we would sing,

because none of us could dance

and we knew all the lyrics anyway.)

But singing, shouting, poorly dancing,

sweating although we could see our breath,

I felt alive;

and at the end of the night, exhausted,

sitting on the ground in the lamplight,

even if I had tried, I know I could not

have believed we would ever die.

Sunday mornings, I grinned at you from across the congregation.

A frustrated man in his forties, shy,

stuttering, and painfully passionate,

would lead the congregation in song

as three hundred half-sleeping souls

swore they’d fly away.

In the morning,

when I die,

hallelujah by and by.

You and I will fly away.