March 23, 2015
You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.
Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.
We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.
Still, forward or backward, we are the same.
March 13, 2015
As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.
Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.
Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.
People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?
No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.
Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.
Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;
minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.
February 22, 2015
When a mouthful becomes a drain of
coffee, truth, and kale sluice through;
few mountains of Western sky-range,
Slowly appear in mirror’s rearview.
And the meek Auntie of white snow,
and the silly Uncle in his high castle,
don’t want you to attempt to “know”,
they couldn’t afford your little hassle.
Keep hope on that star-crossed day
when your father comes back to say:
new Widow has stolen my lifeblood,
as to set kith & kin at once estranged.
February 4, 2015
Black ice with a dust of snow;
Causing foul for the work commute.
Dramatic TransAsia plane crash,
Beheadings and rebel fighting too.
-How about you?
Today’s News is blasé-
Most are concerned about the reality of:
Early class start times,
And designer coffee that is simply too hot.
They keep us distracted and informed.
January 5, 2015
We are made up of 60% water—
So, if we drink water,
From a different land,
From a different city,
From a different spring,
From a different past, present and future,
Do we become made up of something entirely different?
December 12, 2014
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
*Singing School (Summer 1969), BY SEAMUS HEANEY