Looking back at the many pieces I have written for Daily Themes over the course of the semester, I can definitely see ways in which my writing has improved. I’ve started to develop a writerly voice: a combination of short, direct phrases, intentionally controlled sentence-lengths, and the occasional lapse into pedagogical expression. I don’t write as nervously, which is to say, I qualify my phrases less often. I’m also becoming a better editor. I’m less afraid to cut words, phrases, even whole sentences, and I’m getting better at knowing when I ought to. In first drafts, I still tend to repeat myself, to rephrase ideas slightly differently to little purpose. My guess is that I always will. Having the wherewithal to go back and cut things after a second reading, however, makes all the difference.
My dad has been keeping a journal daily since he was my age. Every day, he writes down the things he hears that stick with him. He doesn’t write much new himself – it’s mostly others’ words that he finds interesting, but I always admired him for committing to such a regular writing process. I also used to think I lacked the discipline to commit to something similarly. This class, however, has shown me that I can write every day, and that I enjoy doing so. I will definitely continue to write this summer. And when I move to London in the fall, I plan on starting up a new blog. I’m already excited about it.
Thanks for a great class!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Giant Spoon (Edit)
But for the fact that one of the screws holding up the giant decorative chrome spoon had come loose, today was a day just like any other in the Silliman dining hall. Chef Stu and his staff had been there since six thirty in the morning, and, as always, they were busy from the time they arrived, washing out last night’s pots and pans, sweeping the countertops, preparing breakfast. By eight, when the first bleary-eyed students began to wander in, everything was in its proper place: bagels waiting to be toasted, fresh cups of milk thirsting to be drunk, oatmeal ready to be poked at disinterestedly. The giant spoon gleamed in the sunlight, greeting each new breakfaster from its proper place above the pancake tray.
Stu chatted with one of the students and did his best to stifle a yawn. His son was pitching last night, and they had been out late together celebrating the win. But for the persistent bleeps of his alarm, he would not have made it in on time this morning. He had only just remembered to grab his screwdriver again on the way out the door. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” he said to the student. “Thirty pounds of pure utensil. First time I tried hanging her up, I used velcro. Nearly killed me.” The student laughed.
In his hurry to get the spoon up on the wall before he opened yesterday, however, Stu had not tightened the screws all the way. He’d had to leave it overnight, too, in order to make to Jim’s game on time. And since he’d been slow getting up this morning, he hadn’t been able to tighten them before opening for the day. For hours, one of the screws had slowly been working itself out of its socket.
When the screw gave out at last, a long line of students curved around the servery and out into the open foyer. Stu dove out of the way just in time as the giant spoon swung towards him. With a tremendous clang, it upturned the pancakes and the watery maple syrup, getting it everywhere: on Stu, on the oatmeal, and on the entire line of hungry, sticky students.
Stu chatted with one of the students and did his best to stifle a yawn. His son was pitching last night, and they had been out late together celebrating the win. But for the persistent bleeps of his alarm, he would not have made it in on time this morning. He had only just remembered to grab his screwdriver again on the way out the door. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” he said to the student. “Thirty pounds of pure utensil. First time I tried hanging her up, I used velcro. Nearly killed me.” The student laughed.
In his hurry to get the spoon up on the wall before he opened yesterday, however, Stu had not tightened the screws all the way. He’d had to leave it overnight, too, in order to make to Jim’s game on time. And since he’d been slow getting up this morning, he hadn’t been able to tighten them before opening for the day. For hours, one of the screws had slowly been working itself out of its socket.
When the screw gave out at last, a long line of students curved around the servery and out into the open foyer. Stu dove out of the way just in time as the giant spoon swung towards him. With a tremendous clang, it upturned the pancakes and the watery maple syrup, getting it everywhere: on Stu, on the oatmeal, and on the entire line of hungry, sticky students.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Stuck
The key in the lock is bronze. The lock is bronze, and old, and the keyhole is too big. When I take the key and turn it, it wiggles. I know no one is going to come in - I’ve closed the door - but I turn the key anyways, two turns. The lock clacks.
The lock clacks, blocks clack, trains clack on tracks. Grandpa said not to fiddle with the lock. I am big now. The lock is small. Grandma’s toilet seat has a wicker cover. Is this normal on Long Island? At home we do not have a cover. I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. At the beach near home the shells smell like salt.
The key is in the lock still. I turn it left. I pull the door but the door stays shut. I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not switch the lock. I shake the door. I want to leave now.
“David? Are you all right?” I hear on the other side of the door. Mom must be worried otherwise she wouldn’t ask. I am big now. I don’t want help. Do I need it? I sit down on the bumpy toilet seat.
“Yes, I’m all right,” I say and get up again. I turn the key again - no clack. I shake the door some more. “David?” I hear again. “I’m stuck!” I say. “You’re what?” she says. “Help!” I say.
The lock clacks, blocks clack, trains clack on tracks. Grandpa said not to fiddle with the lock. I am big now. The lock is small. Grandma’s toilet seat has a wicker cover. Is this normal on Long Island? At home we do not have a cover. I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. At the beach near home the shells smell like salt.
The key is in the lock still. I turn it left. I pull the door but the door stays shut. I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not switch the lock. I shake the door. I want to leave now.
“David? Are you all right?” I hear on the other side of the door. Mom must be worried otherwise she wouldn’t ask. I am big now. I don’t want help. Do I need it? I sit down on the bumpy toilet seat.
“Yes, I’m all right,” I say and get up again. I turn the key again - no clack. I shake the door some more. “David?” I hear again. “I’m stuck!” I say. “You’re what?” she says. “Help!” I say.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Ovid
Now stands my task accomplished, such a work
As not the wrath of Jove, nor fire nor sword
Nor the devouring ages can destroy.
Let, when it will, that day, that has no claim
But to my mortal body, end the span
Of my uncertain years. Yet I'll be borne,
The finer part of me, above the stars,
Immortal, and my name shall never die.
Wherever through the lands beneath her sway
The might of Rome extends, my words shall be
Upon the lips of men. If truth at all
Is stablished by poetic prophecy,
My fame shall live to all eternity.
-Metamorphoses (trans. A. D. Melville)
As not the wrath of Jove, nor fire nor sword
Nor the devouring ages can destroy.
Let, when it will, that day, that has no claim
But to my mortal body, end the span
Of my uncertain years. Yet I'll be borne,
The finer part of me, above the stars,
Immortal, and my name shall never die.
Wherever through the lands beneath her sway
The might of Rome extends, my words shall be
Upon the lips of men. If truth at all
Is stablished by poetic prophecy,
My fame shall live to all eternity.
-Metamorphoses (trans. A. D. Melville)
Kundera
"I have no objection to my books being immortal. I wrote them in such a way that nobody could delete a single word. To resist every kind of adversity. But I myself, as a human being, as Ernest Hemingway, I don't give a damn about immortality!"
"I understand you very well, Ernest. But you should have been more careful while you were still alive. Now it's too late."
"More careful? Are you referring to my boastfulness? I admit that when I was young I loved to blow my own trumpet. I loved to show off in front of people. I enjoyed the anecdotes that were told about me. But beleive me, I wasn't such a monster as to do it on account of immortality! When I realized one day that this was the point of it all, I panicked. From that time on I must have told people a thousand times to leave my life alone. But the more I pleaded the worse it got. I moved to Cuba to get out of their sight. When I won the Nobel Prize I refused to go to Stockholm. Believe me, I didn't give a damn about immortality, and now I'll tell you something else: when I realized one day that it was holding me in its clutches, it terrified me more than death itself. A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality.
-Immortality
"I understand you very well, Ernest. But you should have been more careful while you were still alive. Now it's too late."
"More careful? Are you referring to my boastfulness? I admit that when I was young I loved to blow my own trumpet. I loved to show off in front of people. I enjoyed the anecdotes that were told about me. But beleive me, I wasn't such a monster as to do it on account of immortality! When I realized one day that this was the point of it all, I panicked. From that time on I must have told people a thousand times to leave my life alone. But the more I pleaded the worse it got. I moved to Cuba to get out of their sight. When I won the Nobel Prize I refused to go to Stockholm. Believe me, I didn't give a damn about immortality, and now I'll tell you something else: when I realized one day that it was holding me in its clutches, it terrified me more than death itself. A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality.
-Immortality
The Hawk and the Nightingale, Edit
You think your poems are something special? Have I got a story for you, then.
So there’s this nightingale sitting way up in an oak tree. Big eyes, red neck, warbling away. But then there’s this hawk, right? With big shiny claws and a baddd attitude. He’s zooming around overhead, real stealth like, when he hears the faintest traces of a melody. At this, his heart starts to thump a little faster. He swoops down for a closer looksee. And there she is, a mouthwatering morsel of a bird, songing her song. No sooner than he’s got her in his sights than his claws are digging into her pretty red neck. Mid-note, that tree is history.
Now the nightingale has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen – lunch – and it’s not looking like she’s going to be the guest of honor. Stuck as she is in the middle of the air, the poor girl does the only thing she can. She begs. “Please, mister hawk, won’t you let me go? A bigger bird than me would taste as good, more filling, too. Just let me down, I’ll show you where to find one.” She’s crying a little as she says this, getting wet all down her neck. And normally the hawk wouldn’t say anything, but the whole scene is too goddamn pitiful. “Stop your whinging!” he screeches. “You’re headed my way, whether you like it or not.”
Now I’m not going to say whether the hawk eats the nightingale or not, and I’m not going to say why I even like this fable. The point is, he can, and I do. And your poems won’t make a hoot of a difference.
So there’s this nightingale sitting way up in an oak tree. Big eyes, red neck, warbling away. But then there’s this hawk, right? With big shiny claws and a baddd attitude. He’s zooming around overhead, real stealth like, when he hears the faintest traces of a melody. At this, his heart starts to thump a little faster. He swoops down for a closer looksee. And there she is, a mouthwatering morsel of a bird, songing her song. No sooner than he’s got her in his sights than his claws are digging into her pretty red neck. Mid-note, that tree is history.
Now the nightingale has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen – lunch – and it’s not looking like she’s going to be the guest of honor. Stuck as she is in the middle of the air, the poor girl does the only thing she can. She begs. “Please, mister hawk, won’t you let me go? A bigger bird than me would taste as good, more filling, too. Just let me down, I’ll show you where to find one.” She’s crying a little as she says this, getting wet all down her neck. And normally the hawk wouldn’t say anything, but the whole scene is too goddamn pitiful. “Stop your whinging!” he screeches. “You’re headed my way, whether you like it or not.”
Now I’m not going to say whether the hawk eats the nightingale or not, and I’m not going to say why I even like this fable. The point is, he can, and I do. And your poems won’t make a hoot of a difference.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
On Memory
Memories are tricky things to write. The mind is not linear. It takes details, alters them and simplifies. It mottles life’s chroma. In the pieces I wrote about getting stuck in the bathroom when I was eight, weird details came first to mind – the shape and smell of the soap my grandma had out that day, where I sat on the floor when I was scared. I had to piece the fragments together into a coherent narrative.
When I’m writing about the past, my past, the details come in spurts. This week, I tried to write in a way that reflected the actual process of remembering, of putting my membra, my limbs, back together. Consider the following: “I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack.” In my mind, the sound the key should have made stuck out. But I couldn’t recall it all at once; it took several tries. In writing this experience, I tried to re-member the memory.
With more recent memories, the details are clearer. But I lose the sort of critical distance that allows for deep reflection. I’m still not sure whether I was actually helping in my work as a legal intern. The Haitian lady I was on the phone with certainly did not think so.
I’d like to think of remembering as unfurling a sail. Undo a few ropes, and then the details rush and billow out. More often, though, it feels more like panning for gold: a lot of shaking things up with very few nuggets to show for it.
When I’m writing about the past, my past, the details come in spurts. This week, I tried to write in a way that reflected the actual process of remembering, of putting my membra, my limbs, back together. Consider the following: “I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack.” In my mind, the sound the key should have made stuck out. But I couldn’t recall it all at once; it took several tries. In writing this experience, I tried to re-member the memory.
With more recent memories, the details are clearer. But I lose the sort of critical distance that allows for deep reflection. I’m still not sure whether I was actually helping in my work as a legal intern. The Haitian lady I was on the phone with certainly did not think so.
I’d like to think of remembering as unfurling a sail. Undo a few ropes, and then the details rush and billow out. More often, though, it feels more like panning for gold: a lot of shaking things up with very few nuggets to show for it.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Legal Aid
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she says to me, all sass. This is the third time I’ve called to ask her why she stopped paying rent, hoping the answer – she doesn’t have the money – will be different. She thinks I’m slow, maybe. Or disorganized. Or that I just don’t care. None of these things are true - she’s one of fifteen clients I’ve spoken with this week and I just can’t remember. My fault for not writing it down, okay. She’s made her point. I feel like an asshole.
Truth is, I’m no lawyer. I’m just a college student who speaks better English than this Haitian lady I’m trying to keep from getting evicted. She won’t answer my questions, though, keeps talking about the “kaka-roaches” in her apartment. Maybe this is landlord negligence? Legal basis enough to withhold rent? Ignore for a second the three relatives she’s got sleeping in her living room, and maybe she’s got a case.
I’m making this up as I go. If I fuck up, she’s homeless. My boss knows a lot more than me about the law – he’s been to prison, actually – but he’s even busier than I am. He doesn’t know this lady exists. And here she is telling me I’m useless.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “I’m sorry for repeating myself, but this is my job.” Job, summer internship – really what difference does it make? I’m just trying to help. But I don’t know what I’m doing, and it scares me shitless.
Truth is, I’m no lawyer. I’m just a college student who speaks better English than this Haitian lady I’m trying to keep from getting evicted. She won’t answer my questions, though, keeps talking about the “kaka-roaches” in her apartment. Maybe this is landlord negligence? Legal basis enough to withhold rent? Ignore for a second the three relatives she’s got sleeping in her living room, and maybe she’s got a case.
I’m making this up as I go. If I fuck up, she’s homeless. My boss knows a lot more than me about the law – he’s been to prison, actually – but he’s even busier than I am. He doesn’t know this lady exists. And here she is telling me I’m useless.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “I’m sorry for repeating myself, but this is my job.” Job, summer internship – really what difference does it make? I’m just trying to help. But I don’t know what I’m doing, and it scares me shitless.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A heightened sense of emotion
I locked myself in a bathroom when I was eight. Justin is thirteen now, and I’m twenty two, which is old enough for me to be able to remember what it was like to be a little boy and scared. When Justin was eight, he was afraid of the beeping noises that elevators make. Every time we rode in one, he cried. My mother often shushed him and let him hug her leg. A heightened sense of emotion – that’s what she called his phobia. My father occasionally complained to my mother that she was “babying” his son.
But I think everyone needs to be babied once in a while. When I locked myself in the bathroom I thought I was going to starve to death. The lock had a tricky mechanism because the keyhole was slightly too large, and when I tried to leave the key didn’t work. Panic set in. I could not escape on my own, so I shouted until my mother came. She talked to me, calmed me down. And then got my grandfather to unhinge the door.
I later learned that the lock was not actually broken. I’d just been too anxious to figure out how to work it properly. This all seems rather silly in retrospect. At the time, though, it was very real and very scary. My father said she babied me that day. He’s a smart kid, he’ll figure it out, he’d said. Meanwhile I sat on the floor of the bathroom and cried. I was too scared to do anything else.
But I think everyone needs to be babied once in a while. When I locked myself in the bathroom I thought I was going to starve to death. The lock had a tricky mechanism because the keyhole was slightly too large, and when I tried to leave the key didn’t work. Panic set in. I could not escape on my own, so I shouted until my mother came. She talked to me, calmed me down. And then got my grandfather to unhinge the door.
I later learned that the lock was not actually broken. I’d just been too anxious to figure out how to work it properly. This all seems rather silly in retrospect. At the time, though, it was very real and very scary. My father said she babied me that day. He’s a smart kid, he’ll figure it out, he’d said. Meanwhile I sat on the floor of the bathroom and cried. I was too scared to do anything else.
Stuck
The key in the lock is bronze. The lock is bronze, and old, and the keyhole is too big. When I take the key and turn it, there is space enough for me to wiggle the key a little. I know no one is going to come in - I’ve closed the door, after all - but I turn the key anyways, two turns. The lock clacks.
It’s always dark in this bathroom. The varnish on the wood is a deep brown, so no matter how bright the light is that shines through the window over the sink, I usually turn on the light. I do so now, and lift up the toilet seat with its wicker cover.
When I am done, I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. I wipe my hands with a fresh towel and turn as if to leave. The key is in the lock still, so I turn it to the left. I pull at the door, but it doesn’t open.
I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not unlock the door. I shake the door.
“David? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”
I sit down on the floor. I do not want to ask for help. I get up. I turn the key again. No clack. I shake the door some more.
“David?”
“I’m stuck!”
“You’re what?”
“Help!”
It’s always dark in this bathroom. The varnish on the wood is a deep brown, so no matter how bright the light is that shines through the window over the sink, I usually turn on the light. I do so now, and lift up the toilet seat with its wicker cover.
When I am done, I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. I wipe my hands with a fresh towel and turn as if to leave. The key is in the lock still, so I turn it to the left. I pull at the door, but it doesn’t open.
I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not unlock the door. I shake the door.
“David? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”
I sit down on the floor. I do not want to ask for help. I get up. I turn the key again. No clack. I shake the door some more.
“David?”
“I’m stuck!”
“You’re what?”
“Help!”
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Dream
Chicken fingers? Really? Yes, that’s what I said. You’re sure? I’m sure. How did they get in your wallet? I’m not sure. It was a dream. Look, you don’t have to believe me, I’m just telling you what I saw. Do you think maybe that means something? I don’t know. Maybe. Well what did the dwarf say? Maybe that would help? He didn’t say much. Only that I owed him. That’s why I took out my wallet in the first place. To show him you couldn’t pay him? Exactly. And they were frozen, you said? Yes. Hmm.
What would possess you to eat frozen chicken fingers? I think I was just being greedy. I didn’t want the dwarf to have them. Seems like an odd sort of greed. I couldn’t agree with you more. But you had cash on you, too, right? Six dollars. He didn’t want the money? I’m not sure. I was mostly concerned about the chicken fingers. How could they possibly have fit in your wallet? Seems too thick. I’m not sure. I didn’t know they were there until I opened it. That’s strange. Quite.
Can you tell me some more about this pants thing? I wasn’t wearing any. The dwarf told me so. Do you think maybe he took them? Took them? You know, as punishment. Because you ate the chicken fingers you owed him. I suppose that’s possible. It’s probably what happened. He seems like the type. But he had a beard! Was it full? Yes. Hmm.
What would possess you to eat frozen chicken fingers? I think I was just being greedy. I didn’t want the dwarf to have them. Seems like an odd sort of greed. I couldn’t agree with you more. But you had cash on you, too, right? Six dollars. He didn’t want the money? I’m not sure. I was mostly concerned about the chicken fingers. How could they possibly have fit in your wallet? Seems too thick. I’m not sure. I didn’t know they were there until I opened it. That’s strange. Quite.
Can you tell me some more about this pants thing? I wasn’t wearing any. The dwarf told me so. Do you think maybe he took them? Took them? You know, as punishment. Because you ate the chicken fingers you owed him. I suppose that’s possible. It’s probably what happened. He seems like the type. But he had a beard! Was it full? Yes. Hmm.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Chicken Fingers
THE DWARF IN THE TWEED VEST furrowed his brow as he reached his hands into his pockets. He pulled them out again only to produce… nothing at all. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me, his watery gray eyes uncomfortably feeling. It took me a second, but I caught on that this was supposed to be a demonstration.
“Hey pal you owe me,” he said, so I took my wallet out of my back pocket and opened the brown leather mouth with both of my thumbs. I couldn’t remember what I owed him for, but if he said I owed him it was probably true. He looked like an honest guy. At least, his beard was full enough.
Inside my wallet there was a one dollar bill, a five dollar bill, and two chicken fingers. As this was out of the ordinary, I took the chicken fingers out of my wallet to examine them more closely. They were chunky and cold to the touch; little bits of frost had accumulated in the chinks between the breading.
The dwarf looked at me. I looked at the dwarf. He opened his mouth as if to speak. I crammed both chicken fingers into my mouth and started chewing. Crunch. Crunch. They didn’t taste very good. I was just being greedy. I don't know why.
“Hey,” the dwarf said. “I was going to eat those. Also, why aren’t you wearing pants?” I looked down. It was true, I wasn’t wearing pants. I don’t remember when this happened. When I looked up again, the dwarf was gone.
“Hey pal you owe me,” he said, so I took my wallet out of my back pocket and opened the brown leather mouth with both of my thumbs. I couldn’t remember what I owed him for, but if he said I owed him it was probably true. He looked like an honest guy. At least, his beard was full enough.
Inside my wallet there was a one dollar bill, a five dollar bill, and two chicken fingers. As this was out of the ordinary, I took the chicken fingers out of my wallet to examine them more closely. They were chunky and cold to the touch; little bits of frost had accumulated in the chinks between the breading.
The dwarf looked at me. I looked at the dwarf. He opened his mouth as if to speak. I crammed both chicken fingers into my mouth and started chewing. Crunch. Crunch. They didn’t taste very good. I was just being greedy. I don't know why.
“Hey,” the dwarf said. “I was going to eat those. Also, why aren’t you wearing pants?” I looked down. It was true, I wasn’t wearing pants. I don’t remember when this happened. When I looked up again, the dwarf was gone.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Cato
SHOULD CATO FALL ON HIS SWORD? Last night, Caesar came to Cato in a dream. Standing over him, his armor gleaming and his head adorned with a crown of fresh bay leaves, the general began to speak. “Come, Cato, you have lost. Mine is the Republic, mine the fasces and the lictors. But the end of the Republic need not mean the end of life for you. I have pardoned many others already; you must needs only kneel, and my compassion will be yours as well.” As he spoke, Cato noticed an Eastern cobra sliding slowly up his arm. Its double tongue flicked cursorily between the fangs as venom dripped onto his cold defenseless flesh. The yellow poison sizzled when it landed. Cato remained prostrate, unable to move or even speak. “Think of Marcia, Cato,” Caesar wheedled. “Think of your son. Will you really deprive them of a husband and a father? Would your grandfather have wanted you to leave them to the mercy of my men?” The serpent let out a low, unhurried hiss and draped its body heavily across Cato’s shoulder blades. Slowly, slowly it curved its head back upwards until its face was inches from Cato’s own. And it, too, began to speak. “Cato,” it said, “Cato – why have you forsaken me?” And now Cato could move again. As he opened his mouth to explain himself, the snake reared its hood and lunged at his forehead.
Cato awoke with a shout. When his manservant rushed in to discover the cause of the trouble, he found Cato sitting up in bed. Blood was just dribbling out through two small cuts on his forehead. “Servius,” he said, “please bring me the Phaedo.”
Cato awoke with a shout. When his manservant rushed in to discover the cause of the trouble, he found Cato sitting up in bed. Blood was just dribbling out through two small cuts on his forehead. “Servius,” he said, “please bring me the Phaedo.”
Hunger
King Erysichthon killed a dryad. He needed wood, so he told his men to cut down the largest elm tree in the sacred grove. They wouldn’t do it, refused him to his face, in fact. Violate Demeter’s grove? For shame! Erysichthon didn’t care. He was too smart for such base superstitions. Enraged, he took the ax himself and found that elm tree. She wasn’t just an elm tree, though. She was a dryad. She screamed as he cut her open.
The wood nymphs went to Ceres, begged her to punish the king for killing their sister. Ceres nodded, and her nod rustled all the grain on Earth as if it had been blown by a strong wind.
Far up the coast of frozen Scythia, there is a place, a sad land, waste, where no trees grow. Hunger lives here. A rustic nymph found her in a field of stones, chewing on scant weeds with rotting, blackened teeth. She shuddered at Hunger’s coarse hair, her empty eyes, the pallor in her face. The old woman’s lips were gray from lack of use, her throat scabby with blight, her skin both rough and thin. The nymph could see her insides, all bones and bowed-out loins. Where her stomach ought to have been, nothing. Her limp breasts hung only from the wicker of her spine. Beside her, warmth was sucked into a void.
The nymph felt hungry even in her presence, but orders were orders. She held her breath as she flew Hunger to the king, wafting her empty body through the upper air. When they entered the bedchamber, the nymph left as quick as could be, and left Hunger alone with Erysichthon. The king was sleeping. Slowly, slowly the old woman approached him. Her swollen knees creaked as she worked her way towards the bed. Slowly, she lowered her feeble body on top of his. His mouth was open, and she worked her way inside him, first her arms, then her head, then all the rest. When she was almost all the way inside, the king coughed, and woke up. He was famished.
The wood nymphs went to Ceres, begged her to punish the king for killing their sister. Ceres nodded, and her nod rustled all the grain on Earth as if it had been blown by a strong wind.
Far up the coast of frozen Scythia, there is a place, a sad land, waste, where no trees grow. Hunger lives here. A rustic nymph found her in a field of stones, chewing on scant weeds with rotting, blackened teeth. She shuddered at Hunger’s coarse hair, her empty eyes, the pallor in her face. The old woman’s lips were gray from lack of use, her throat scabby with blight, her skin both rough and thin. The nymph could see her insides, all bones and bowed-out loins. Where her stomach ought to have been, nothing. Her limp breasts hung only from the wicker of her spine. Beside her, warmth was sucked into a void.
The nymph felt hungry even in her presence, but orders were orders. She held her breath as she flew Hunger to the king, wafting her empty body through the upper air. When they entered the bedchamber, the nymph left as quick as could be, and left Hunger alone with Erysichthon. The king was sleeping. Slowly, slowly the old woman approached him. Her swollen knees creaked as she worked her way towards the bed. Slowly, she lowered her feeble body on top of his. His mouth was open, and she worked her way inside him, first her arms, then her head, then all the rest. When she was almost all the way inside, the king coughed, and woke up. He was famished.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Hawk and the Nightingale
A fable? Here’s a fable for you, Mr. Fancy Pants Poet Boy. There’s this nice nightingale sitting way up in a goddamn oak tree with her red neck, warbling away like every good nightingale should. But then there’s this hawk, right? With big shiny claws and a baddd attitude. He’s zooming around way up high, real stealth like, and he hears the nightingale songing her song so he swoops down for a closer looksee. He must like what he sees, too, because no sooner than he’s got her in his sights than his claws are digging into her pretty red neck real tight. And before the nightingale even knows what’s happening, that tree is history. She’s midair and stuck there.
Now the nightingale has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen – lunch – and it’s not looking like she’s going to be the guest of honor. So the poor girl does the only thing she can, she begs. “Please Sir Mister Hawk Sir, won’t you let me go Sir? A bigger bird than me would taste as good, more filling, too.” She’s crying a little as she says this, getting wet little droplets all down her little red neck, because God knows things aren’t looking good. And normally the hawk wouldn’t say anything, but the whole scene is too goddamn pitiful. So “Look at yourself,” he says, “and pull yourself together. Christ! You’re headed my way, whether you like it or not. You don’t have to be a baby about it.”
Now I’m not going to say whether the hawk eats the nightingale or not. It doesn’t matter. Point is, he can, and your stupid poems won’t make a hoot of a difference.
Now the nightingale has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen – lunch – and it’s not looking like she’s going to be the guest of honor. So the poor girl does the only thing she can, she begs. “Please Sir Mister Hawk Sir, won’t you let me go Sir? A bigger bird than me would taste as good, more filling, too.” She’s crying a little as she says this, getting wet little droplets all down her little red neck, because God knows things aren’t looking good. And normally the hawk wouldn’t say anything, but the whole scene is too goddamn pitiful. So “Look at yourself,” he says, “and pull yourself together. Christ! You’re headed my way, whether you like it or not. You don’t have to be a baby about it.”
Now I’m not going to say whether the hawk eats the nightingale or not. It doesn’t matter. Point is, he can, and your stupid poems won’t make a hoot of a difference.
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