Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Being home

So, it's now 6:44pm local time on December 19th. It's 30 degrees with a windchill of 21 degrees, there's at least an inch of ice everywhere because it has been raining for 2 days, and it's thundering and I'm almost positive I saw a little bit of lightning through the dirty brown overcast sky this evening. Well, at least it should be snowing tomorrow, so maybe that will make everything better. Or, at least everything will be even more slick so I'll be stuck inside some more. Only in West Texas can there be rain, ice, thunder/lightning, and snow all in the span of 2 days.

On the other hand, back home in Florida it's now 63 degrees, and it's supposed to be in the mid-70s all week. Damn, I hate being away from Florida. Mainly I miss how green everything is there, how everything isn't a pale brown, how there are actually trees; and I really miss my bestfriend with whom I wish I could spend every second I have. Maybe things will be better when I get back and we will be able to spend a lot of time together. Anyway, I need to go thaw my hands out and try to write some poems. I haven't been able to write anything since I've been here. This place just isn't conducive to writing, I'm afraid.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Li-Young Lee Poem

I love this poem. Hopefully people will read this and love it too.

The Bridge

The stars report a vast consequence
our human moment joins.

Or is it all the dark
around them speaking?

And if someone who listens for years
one night hears Home,

what is he to do with the story
his bones hum to him
about the dust?

Let him go in search of the hiding place
of the dew, where the hours are born.

Let him uncover whose heart
beats behind the falling leaves.

And as for the one who hears Remember,

well, I began to sing
the words my father sang
when he knelt to teach me
how to tie my shoes:

Crossing over, crossing under, little bird,
build your bridge by nightfall.

Friday, December 8, 2006


It's late. Or, I guess it's really early. I seem to be having some difficulty sleeping lately, and I remember as a child how I use to stay up all night, or I would get up extremely early to watch cartoons before my parents woke up. It's interesting to me how I can remember things like that so vividly, and yet I can barely remember to email a student 30 minutes after finishing class, or, worse yet, my mind goes completely blank mid-sentence when talking to people or teaching. So, I've been thinking a lot about memory lately, especially because over the past few months mine has been as fleeting as mist. And, I'm definately way too young to be having these types of memory problems already.

I've actually started a behemoth of a poem about memory, namely how we remember historical events and how we can create false memories and how those false memories can affect the present and the past and maybe even the future. I'm not sure that I will finish this thing before thesis defense time, but I'm hoping that the Christmas break will allow some time to work on this. (Not that I have been all that busy lately anyway but just a little frustrated with this poem and its resistance to my working more on it). But, like I said, this one is going to be big, very very big. So, hopefully I don't forget half-way through completion what I intended for this poem. Or, maybe that is exactly what I do need: to forget this poem for now. Perhaps by the time I come back to it I'll have some of my memory back. Things usually do work better if you give them time to simmer a bit without agitation, anyway. More later, I hope.

"It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases
to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates.
There is little distinct left without an effort of memory,
then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment – but who can
be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?" – Byron

Worth my time?

Does anyone even read these things?


Ignorance is one of the sources of poetry. - Stevens
Ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds. - Stevens
Poetry makes nothing happen. - Auden
True poetry makes things happen. - Graves