Dear Amy, This is one of those poems that I've been trying to write for days/months/years and don't feel as if I'll ever really be able to finish. I made a lot of headway tonight, though. Please tell me what you think.
Cicadas
Everything always seems to necessarily
Return to cicadas in my life,
Even now, even tonight,
I cannot remember silence or calm.
Even left to the cold recesses of my mind,
I am consumed by chirping.
What is it to be consumed?
A body left desirous?
A trembling lung?
An innocuous cough?
Consumption, consumption.
There is an ache that rests low,
Low in the soul but in the chest,
Ice hot and swelling,
A rough boulder in a dry throat,
Do people die from this?
I feel as if I might die,
Tonight, again,
Because again, tonight
I have to hear the tremble
In my mother's voice.
And tonight, again,
I must retreat into a solemn nest.
I must content myself with cicadas,
Not knowing any other way,
Not sure what two hands
Or two hearts,
Or four,
Mean anymore.
How many years have I listened to cicadas,
The soundtrack to my life,
Amongst a slurry mix of weeping?
An echo from corner to corner,
From room to room,
Inescapable.
How many more years will cicadas come?
Justine Bienkowski
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Birds (Draft 2)
Birds
I.
There is a bird in my throat that hurts--
small swallow with a tender belly.
Its beak opens as a prelude
to the warble that does not come.
There is no song there is barely escape.
II.
Tell me about the field beyond the house,
how geese hide in the tall grass before
we wake. At dawn I am drying a plate
when I see them pull hollow bones
together and out past the grove of beech trees.
One day the ground may burn,
our bed and books cinder before that fire,
and the geese all flown to safety—
another field of grass, another grove of trees.
III.
You came into me with a mess
of feathers and squall,
amazed as a bird with a foot in the trap.
Music in your sleeping chest,
dark in the August night—
hard like a bird in the window, glass streaked
with blood, traces of the wrong way in:
the sound grows until the room is filled
with this screeching,
this deafening shroud of birds.
IV.
I take the dying sparrow,
definition molting in my hands,
feathers bound by muscle and bone.
Here, the broken line of wing
—here, a running song
still sweet in the throat.
Oh, southward migration knowledge
of the poles years flown through leaves
and nights sheltered against gale winds.
I.
There is a bird in my throat that hurts--
small swallow with a tender belly.
Its beak opens as a prelude
to the warble that does not come.
There is no song there is barely escape.
II.
Tell me about the field beyond the house,
how geese hide in the tall grass before
we wake. At dawn I am drying a plate
when I see them pull hollow bones
together and out past the grove of beech trees.
One day the ground may burn,
our bed and books cinder before that fire,
and the geese all flown to safety—
another field of grass, another grove of trees.
III.
You came into me with a mess
of feathers and squall,
amazed as a bird with a foot in the trap.
Music in your sleeping chest,
dark in the August night—
hard like a bird in the window, glass streaked
with blood, traces of the wrong way in:
the sound grows until the room is filled
with this screeching,
this deafening shroud of birds.
IV.
I take the dying sparrow,
definition molting in my hands,
feathers bound by muscle and bone.
Here, the broken line of wing
—here, a running song
still sweet in the throat.
Oh, southward migration knowledge
of the poles years flown through leaves
and nights sheltered against gale winds.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Alfa Art Gallery Poem, Draft 1
Here's my poem for Alfa. Also including a picture of the work for better reference.
Desert, Desert, Dessert
The rain drips down,
Moping, as rain typically does,
Curling its fingers lovingly around
Strands of silver cloud hair,
Drifting into blankets of tender fog,
Laying down little raindrop heads
No larger than the eyes of needles.
The rain slips her curvy bodies
Down thin reeds and into
The mouths of skulls,
Licking away the day's dust,
Licking away the day.
The shift comes softly,
Stealing through the night
On what seems like
The tiny padded feet of kittens.
It is gradual, the way in which she appears,
The way in which such things occur.
Gone are days when grayness was bemoaned.
Instead, exult! Rejoice!
Jubilation resonates within bodies,
Slowly drawing open lips for rest.
A cheeky temptress,
She slithers down backs and
Brushes cheeks with her nose.
Eyes closed, listening through windows
And roof beats
It is hard to discern whether it is not simply
Radio static,
Perhaps sand falling through an hourglass,
Or maybe pebbles falling from an open hand.
Exult, rejoice!
The crowns of green lift up,
Jubilant, jubilant, jubilant.
All at once it is night,
Pulsing, hot night,
Full of slick, vibrating air.
All at once the rain falls hard,
Beating into pavement
Along with the beat of hearts.
A drum, a drum,
The rain melts sugary bodies,
Melts holes into sand.
All at once--quiet.
All at once--rain.
Desert, Desert, Dessert
The rain drips down,
Moping, as rain typically does,
Curling its fingers lovingly around
Strands of silver cloud hair,
Drifting into blankets of tender fog,
Laying down little raindrop heads
No larger than the eyes of needles.
The rain slips her curvy bodies
Down thin reeds and into
The mouths of skulls,
Licking away the day's dust,
Licking away the day.
The shift comes softly,
Stealing through the night
On what seems like
The tiny padded feet of kittens.
It is gradual, the way in which she appears,
The way in which such things occur.
Gone are days when grayness was bemoaned.
Instead, exult! Rejoice!
Jubilation resonates within bodies,
Slowly drawing open lips for rest.
A cheeky temptress,
She slithers down backs and
Brushes cheeks with her nose.
Eyes closed, listening through windows
And roof beats
It is hard to discern whether it is not simply
Radio static,
Perhaps sand falling through an hourglass,
Or maybe pebbles falling from an open hand.
Exult, rejoice!
The crowns of green lift up,
Jubilant, jubilant, jubilant.
All at once it is night,
Pulsing, hot night,
Full of slick, vibrating air.
All at once the rain falls hard,
Beating into pavement
Along with the beat of hearts.
A drum, a drum,
The rain melts sugary bodies,
Melts holes into sand.
All at once--quiet.
All at once--rain.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Alfa Art Gallery poem (Draft 4)
Separation
Titian felt the old yearning in his bones—
the need that hurtles a cliff face into sea,
a song so sweet that stone erodes to sand.
Someone drew the first line
and called it separation,
carved out the shape of man but forgot
about the impossibility of entry.
Maybe this is the ancient and familiar longing
that drives man to define the world,
to name each thing he touches—
the spoken separation giving him
a word to cry into the night when lines
begin to overtake him.
And when the call and echo is not enough,
doesn’t that man set out into a world
that is not a world—into a landscape colored
by the hues of his loose dreaming?
The nature around him that wants only to be
with itself is filled by his calling—
each unfirm aspect is lit by his need
for the far shore and soft step.
The warp and weft of the land
reshaped to fit his desire.
These mountains could hide Shangri La.
They could be a woman soft with sleep—
the neck at least, the veins another landscape.
Titian felt the old yearning in his bones—
the need that hurtles a cliff face into sea,
a song so sweet that stone erodes to sand.
Someone drew the first line
and called it separation,
carved out the shape of man but forgot
about the impossibility of entry.
Maybe this is the ancient and familiar longing
that drives man to define the world,
to name each thing he touches—
the spoken separation giving him
a word to cry into the night when lines
begin to overtake him.
And when the call and echo is not enough,
doesn’t that man set out into a world
that is not a world—into a landscape colored
by the hues of his loose dreaming?
The nature around him that wants only to be
with itself is filled by his calling—
each unfirm aspect is lit by his need
for the far shore and soft step.
The warp and weft of the land
reshaped to fit his desire.
These mountains could hide Shangri La.
They could be a woman soft with sleep—
the neck at least, the veins another landscape.
Alfa Art Gallery poem (Draft 1)
These mountains could hide Shangri La.
They could be a woman soft with sleep—
the neck at least, the veins another landscape.
One day, a traveler, just beginning,
finds the sea and sky tangled in such bliss
that they cannot bear to lift apart,
to create a horizon from the separation of their bodies.
What else, besides need can drive a man out into
a world that is not a world,
if not the hues and loose dreaming,
if not the far shore and soft step?
What else can cause him to cut a line across the ocean,
fill each brief outline of nature,
each ripple and stone, lighting it all
with this ancient and familiar longing.
They could be a woman soft with sleep—
the neck at least, the veins another landscape.
One day, a traveler, just beginning,
finds the sea and sky tangled in such bliss
that they cannot bear to lift apart,
to create a horizon from the separation of their bodies.
What else, besides need can drive a man out into
a world that is not a world,
if not the hues and loose dreaming,
if not the far shore and soft step?
What else can cause him to cut a line across the ocean,
fill each brief outline of nature,
each ripple and stone, lighting it all
with this ancient and familiar longing.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Ghazal
Here's the ghazal I wrote over the summer that I was telling you about.
Unrequited Ghazal
The bumbles buzz, the sea is boiling blue
With anger brewed, but I, I'll wait for you.
By sandy ruins, holes dug deep, askew
In clay, pressed tight in palms. I'll wait for you.
By dunes, burying myself alone, chew
Some grit between my teeth. I'll wait for you.
By stormy waves, as Plath I'll walk into
The sea, too far to breath. I'll wait for you.
By sunken ships, and losing rosy hues
I'll tumble down to dark. I'll wait for you.
Justine Bienkowski
From wikipedia, here's a bit about the form:
"# A ghazal is composed of five or more couplets.
# The second line of each couplet (or sher) in a ghazal usually ends with the repetition of a refrain of one or a few words, known as a radif, preceded by a rhyme known as the qaafiyaa. In Arabic, Persian and Turkic the couplet is termed a bayt and the line within the bayt is called a misra. In the first couplet, both lines end in the rhyme and refrain so that the ghazal's rhyme scheme is AA BA CA etc.
# There can be no enjambement across the couplets in a strict ghazal; each couplet must be a complete sentence (or several sentences) in itself.
# All the couplets, and each line of each couplet, must share the same meter."
"The ghazal not only has a specific form, but traditionally deals with just one subject: Love. And not any kind of love, but specifically, an illicit and unattainable love."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal
Unrequited Ghazal
The bumbles buzz, the sea is boiling blue
With anger brewed, but I, I'll wait for you.
By sandy ruins, holes dug deep, askew
In clay, pressed tight in palms. I'll wait for you.
By dunes, burying myself alone, chew
Some grit between my teeth. I'll wait for you.
By stormy waves, as Plath I'll walk into
The sea, too far to breath. I'll wait for you.
By sunken ships, and losing rosy hues
I'll tumble down to dark. I'll wait for you.
Justine Bienkowski
From wikipedia, here's a bit about the form:
"# A ghazal is composed of five or more couplets.
# The second line of each couplet (or sher) in a ghazal usually ends with the repetition of a refrain of one or a few words, known as a radif, preceded by a rhyme known as the qaafiyaa. In Arabic, Persian and Turkic the couplet is termed a bayt and the line within the bayt is called a misra. In the first couplet, both lines end in the rhyme and refrain so that the ghazal's rhyme scheme is AA BA CA etc.
# There can be no enjambement across the couplets in a strict ghazal; each couplet must be a complete sentence (or several sentences) in itself.
# All the couplets, and each line of each couplet, must share the same meter."
"The ghazal not only has a specific form, but traditionally deals with just one subject: Love. And not any kind of love, but specifically, an illicit and unattainable love."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sprung
Sprung
From flaming breath does autumn spring,
From nervous steps, a run: she falls
From trees and sows herself in hearts.
From roots to stems, from valves to blood,
From soft impossibility.
From palms to grasps, she sings her spell:
From wings that play the windy nights,
From cracks in doors she saunters in,
From shadows, from warmth: such pause, now.
From autumn springs a time too slow,
From autumn springs a winter's bellow,
From autumn springs a fever. Also
From autumn: possibility.
I had to write using anaphora for Professor Miller's class. I find it really weird how having to do that took my typical writing style i.e., straight-forward is the game, and changed it into what-the-fuck-is-going-on. I'm not making sense anymore. Help.
From flaming breath does autumn spring,
From nervous steps, a run: she falls
From trees and sows herself in hearts.
From roots to stems, from valves to blood,
From soft impossibility.
From palms to grasps, she sings her spell:
From wings that play the windy nights,
From cracks in doors she saunters in,
From shadows, from warmth: such pause, now.
From autumn springs a time too slow,
From autumn springs a winter's bellow,
From autumn springs a fever. Also
From autumn: possibility.
I had to write using anaphora for Professor Miller's class. I find it really weird how having to do that took my typical writing style i.e., straight-forward is the game, and changed it into what-the-fuck-is-going-on. I'm not making sense anymore. Help.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Jibe-Ho!
Jibe-Ho!
There is something to be said
For capsizing,
For touching white crests
Which mirror white breasts of gulls.
There is something which pulls
Me into darkened waves,
Into ice peaks and mouthy
Fish souls.
A deep rush down deep lungs,
I dive into Time's ocean,
Confusing what was with what is and
what will be with what was.
To leave my boat behind,
A woeful wreck on jagged rock,
To float into a throne of shells,
I do not find something so wrong with that.
Goodbye, dear hull.
Goodbye, dear jib.
Goodbye, dear rudder.
I will remember your sleekness,
Even as I drift tugged by waves
And whales.
To travel the gulf stream cannot
Be so bad...
There is something to be said
For capsizing,
But more to be said for
Release.
This is one of the poems that I wrote over this summer. One of my main concerns is I am unsure whether it fits into my thesis. I mean, of course I can extrapolate, but I just wanted to see what your sense was. Do you think that it shows the formation of an identity (and simultaneous the destruction of an identity)?
There is something to be said
For capsizing,
For touching white crests
Which mirror white breasts of gulls.
There is something which pulls
Me into darkened waves,
Into ice peaks and mouthy
Fish souls.
A deep rush down deep lungs,
I dive into Time's ocean,
Confusing what was with what is and
what will be with what was.
To leave my boat behind,
A woeful wreck on jagged rock,
To float into a throne of shells,
I do not find something so wrong with that.
Goodbye, dear hull.
Goodbye, dear jib.
Goodbye, dear rudder.
I will remember your sleekness,
Even as I drift tugged by waves
And whales.
To travel the gulf stream cannot
Be so bad...
There is something to be said
For capsizing,
But more to be said for
Release.
This is one of the poems that I wrote over this summer. One of my main concerns is I am unsure whether it fits into my thesis. I mean, of course I can extrapolate, but I just wanted to see what your sense was. Do you think that it shows the formation of an identity (and simultaneous the destruction of an identity)?
The Strangler Fig (draft 1)
The Strangler Fig*
It begins almost like love: a seed
shaken off into some dark root,
growth without the realization of growth.
To the elm, it is just another dark
aspect of forest alighting on the body—
the first tendril like wind, or a soft
trail of rain still sliding.
and still the tree barely feels the seed,
the hungry intentions of such a small, pale body.
The white foot, the thin root,
scrapes the flank of elm. In darkness,
legs begin to lengthen—growth
over the mottled bark, growth
into the wet soil, the entry like a moan, a soft
bed, returning home beneath a darkening
sky. How is it that this seed
already holds the leaf and root,
the fever of living wound tight in its body
—the body
that will topple an elm, despite the long growth,
despite the many rings and branching roots?
It must be love that lets the vine tug, soft
against the taproot—at least the seed
of longing that allows this twining in the dark.
Even if desire is not the word, the dark
ground will still hold the elm in place: a body
trembling at its tips, forced to feel a seed
unravel itself in some peripheral crook, the growth
of vines climbing the trunk, softly
asking favors. Would the tree run, if not for the roots
sunk deep into ground, the tripping roots
that once gave life? Vines arch darkly,
latticed across a torso of elm. Soon the bark softens,
as if relenting to a terrible love. The body
seems to creak and kneel as it dies, though the growth
of vines holds up the original shape. Most seeds
begin in this quiet way—the host body
not knowing what the growth
of love can do, barely even feeling the seed.
*"...The roots [of a strangler fig] grow down to the forest floor where they take root and begin to take nutrients from the soil. Gradually the roots wrap around the host tree, widen, and slowly form a lattice-work that surround the host's trunk. The fig's crown grows foliage which soon overshadows the tree. Eventually, the host tree dies leaving the fig with a hollow trunk-which is easily climbed thanks to the many openings in the trunk." (source)
Other notes: my friend Genna has a great tattoo of a strangler fig on her calf, which is where I got the idea for this poem. This is the first time I have ever voluntarily written a sestina (albeit a cheating sestina), and there was a lot less bloodshed involved than I remember.
Specific concerns: I'm not sure how clear the scenario is to someone who doesn't know what a strangler fig is. If there are any particular points of confusion or ambiguity, please--anyone--point them out.
It begins almost like love: a seed
shaken off into some dark root,
growth without the realization of growth.
To the elm, it is just another dark
aspect of forest alighting on the body—
the first tendril like wind, or a soft
trail of rain still sliding.
and still the tree barely feels the seed,
the hungry intentions of such a small, pale body.
The white foot, the thin root,
scrapes the flank of elm. In darkness,
legs begin to lengthen—growth
over the mottled bark, growth
into the wet soil, the entry like a moan, a soft
bed, returning home beneath a darkening
sky. How is it that this seed
already holds the leaf and root,
the fever of living wound tight in its body
—the body
that will topple an elm, despite the long growth,
despite the many rings and branching roots?
It must be love that lets the vine tug, soft
against the taproot—at least the seed
of longing that allows this twining in the dark.
Even if desire is not the word, the dark
ground will still hold the elm in place: a body
trembling at its tips, forced to feel a seed
unravel itself in some peripheral crook, the growth
of vines climbing the trunk, softly
asking favors. Would the tree run, if not for the roots
sunk deep into ground, the tripping roots
that once gave life? Vines arch darkly,
latticed across a torso of elm. Soon the bark softens,
as if relenting to a terrible love. The body
seems to creak and kneel as it dies, though the growth
of vines holds up the original shape. Most seeds
begin in this quiet way—the host body
not knowing what the growth
of love can do, barely even feeling the seed.
*"...The roots [of a strangler fig] grow down to the forest floor where they take root and begin to take nutrients from the soil. Gradually the roots wrap around the host tree, widen, and slowly form a lattice-work that surround the host's trunk. The fig's crown grows foliage which soon overshadows the tree. Eventually, the host tree dies leaving the fig with a hollow trunk-which is easily climbed thanks to the many openings in the trunk." (source)
Other notes: my friend Genna has a great tattoo of a strangler fig on her calf, which is where I got the idea for this poem. This is the first time I have ever voluntarily written a sestina (albeit a cheating sestina), and there was a lot less bloodshed involved than I remember.
Specific concerns: I'm not sure how clear the scenario is to someone who doesn't know what a strangler fig is. If there are any particular points of confusion or ambiguity, please--anyone--point them out.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Welcome!
Welcome to any and all (mostly probably just you and me, Amy).
This is the first post of the "Deconstructing and Reconstructing Verse" blog, where Amy Meng and I (Justine Bienkowski) will be collaborating on a year-long writing project.
The two of us are both writing honors thesis papers this year, and have decided to use this blog as one way to combine forces and support each other in our quest.
You will find posts with drafts, with completed poems, revisions, writing exercises, probably a lot of discussion about graduate schools and MFA programs.
This blog will serve mainly as a support group to push each other and make sure that we churn out the best work possible.
Can't wait!
xoxo
Justine
This is the first post of the "Deconstructing and Reconstructing Verse" blog, where Amy Meng and I (Justine Bienkowski) will be collaborating on a year-long writing project.
The two of us are both writing honors thesis papers this year, and have decided to use this blog as one way to combine forces and support each other in our quest.
You will find posts with drafts, with completed poems, revisions, writing exercises, probably a lot of discussion about graduate schools and MFA programs.
This blog will serve mainly as a support group to push each other and make sure that we churn out the best work possible.
Can't wait!
xoxo
Justine
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