Mangled Web

"What a mangled web we weave," you say,
and I agree. I down drugs
to deceive my demons; when you speak
you slur your esses. So I try to break
the bubbles in our brains as they leap away
and laugh at me, but I don't hallucinate -

I just watch the world weave itself into
new knots. I always thought I was the thread,
but now I know that I'm the needle...
and you're the thimble. Our heads wobble.
Our bubbles' mettle bursts with treble trembling,
and you say, "unprick me now, you bastard!"

But I will puncture you until my pattern is
sewn into your web, or until you can wiggle
yourself free. "A mangled web indeed,"
I thought I heard you say. But then again,
the bubbles in our brains were made to dissipate,
and we trapped them much too late.


~09/09 - 04/10

Light Footsteps Tread

Light footsteps tread
outside the door of conviction.
“Let me in,” says a small sweet voice,
but I turn over in bed.
Some lovers are best left unheeded.
“Let me in!” repeats the thing, now monstrous, but
I pull the pillow over my head
and feign ignorance.


~05/06

Russian Roulette

We shall be wild.
those of my age.
We shall be rebels, we shall be ruthless,
we shall ignore the old adages -
becoming bottles of brine
with shouts like sounds of animals,
and dressed to get jacked up,
by the dozen, by the hundred.

Thank God we have our morals.
Thank God we're almost twenty-one.
Thank God we're not dead yet,
so let's play a round of Russian roulette.

Let's play a round,
all around town.

We shall be wild,
we shall play with bullets.
We shall be protectors, and persecutors;
we shall love the bullshit -
becoming coffins of cancer,
fucking and fasting like animals,
and dying to find out how to be fake
for a friendship or a date.

Thank God we have our morals.
Thank God we have our freedom.
Thank God we're not grown yet,
so let's play a round of Russian roulette.

Let's play a round,
all around town.
Let's play a round,
all around town.


~09/07

Harmony

You and I,
suddenly removed
from our clothes,
in harmony turn away,
like swimmers in a pool.
Synchronized smiles -
red exertion fades -
we flounder in the water.


~05/04

Tranes

With Coltrane on a midnight train,
drinking darkness in the blur that dashes
past, the past is stalking silhouettes that
pass, they pass, shying from the tunes
that they abhor. I hear big black saxes
wailing at the world.

And I think of you.

With Coltrane on a midnight train,
marauding musically in dark sunglasses,
and jazz, the jazz of wheels on tracks that
crash, they crash in syncopated canter,
with a horn, a horn that sings a last
warning to the world.

And I think of you.


~01-05/09

Christmas Presents

Every Christmas, my mother said Santa is
poor this year; he won’t bring as many presents, but
it’s not because you were bad boys, you are not
bad boys, Santa is just trying to live off of
child support and his reindeer cost a lot to feed,
and it’s okay because less Legos means more love.
And we would hug her because she never told us
Santa was real, because we liked presents but we loved
her, and somehow every Christmas we ripped
the wrapping off of just as many boxes.


~02/09

Zoo

[Note: this poem is an abecedarian - a 26-line poem where each line begins with a successive letter of the alphabet.]

After the darkness breaks, and
before the violent armies
clash at sunrise, will you
dally to watch them, to
engage them? Will you open your breast to
fear and let it
gorge itself upon you? Or will you
hinder its progress, deny its
impact, believe that true
justice is easy, that the
kindling for a
luscious flame is
mediocrity? It is
not. It never was. The
object is
peace, the
quiet peace of the
rested, of the weary, of the
singularly afraid that extend their arms to
touch, and through touching, to
understand: life is not
violent. Life is not a
war. Life has no
xplanation.
you and I are bestial, trapped in this
zoo, fantasizing that we’re free.


~04/09

Paths

And insofar as paths go,
I generally retrace ones that
as a young and inexperienced tracer,
wobbled.

Accustomed to balance through
years of practice and logic,
my steps are straighter but less
joyful.

Is it a slow loss or one traumatic
point at which our eyes begin to
calculate and plan and lose the
moment?

Would our decisions be worse if we
stepped back in time and forced
our limited omniscience of adulthood onto
them?

And if so, should we approach
complex and unsolvable paths with
the naiveté and simplicity of
childhood?

My path has strayed and
only a child’s mind could
make it logical.


-12/27/08

Orientalist Interpretations of the Gothic in "The Bloody Chamber"

by Jordan Kasko

 
While in the process of researching, cogitating upon, and writing this essay, I took various opportunities to discuss my subject matter with others. Almost invariably, my sounding board would seem puzzled as to how I could connect the Gothic (and I’m sure that each person has a slightly different concept of what the Gothic actually is) with the Orientalism of Edward Said and his protégés. For those that are familiar with both the literary style and the theory, however, the stretch shouldn’t seem too great: the darkness, mystery, and superstition of the Gothic lends itself well to the Occident’s interpretation of the Orient, even if the majority of Gothic stories are set in the Western world. Additionally, the true Gothic – the romance; the woman leaving her home for a strange, faraway castle or mansion with its secrecy and apprehension – reflects a journey to the East, to the unknown, to the land of the fantastical and occasionally horrific. Particularly, the man who draws the woman away – usually a Byronic character of sorts, hero or villain as he may be – mirrors the Orient because of his magnetic, sexual, opaque, and mystical personality. It is my intention to show that, by utilizing the Western paradox of fear of and obsession with the Orient in its role as the “Other,” Angela Carter creates the Gothic in her story “The Bloody Romance.”

Obviously, this application of Orientalism to the Gothic through Carter’s story is merely a case study; I believe that Gothic writers constantly utilize Orientalism to create many of the Gothic’s essential characteristics. First, there is the movement at the beginning of a tale to a foreign abode. Carter wastes no time setting up this premise: at the end of the first paragraph, she describes her character taking a train “away from Paris, away from girlhood, away from the white, enclosed quietude of my mother’s apartment, into the unguessable country of marriage” (7). Her diction is symbolic here: though the protagonist is merely moving to another part of France, her marriage is an “unguessable country,” not unlike those countries of the East which Westerners could barely fathom. She does not know what to expect, and she can only understand it through her Parisian eyes. In addition, there is the word “white,” which seems to add nothing more to the sentence (beyond, perhaps, revealing the proclivity of Gothic writers towards endless adjectives) other than a sense of race. If her home in Paris was white, and she is departing it, then the assumption is made that she is moving somewhere that is not white. Somewhere that is black, perhaps – an allusion to the bleak Gothic as well as to the racist “Other” that lives outside of the Western world. The “Other” that was “born” in a “marvelous castle” (9) which she now approaches as if it were a foreign land.

Secondly, the descriptions of both the castle and the man in “The Bloody Chamber” are blatantly idealized in a tradition that nearly screams of Orientalism. The mansion has a “faery solitude;” it is “a mysterious, amphibious place, contravening the materiality of both earth and the waves;” it is a “lovely, sad, sea-siren of a place” (13). It is full of Eastern books (17), china cabinets (20), and “Russian leather” (12) – in fact, one could almost imagine it as a Turkish khan or an Indian palace. When the narrator describes “gold bath taps” (24), she is talking about them in terms of a strange luxury, one that exemplifies the extreme wealth of the Marquis, something often associated with the nobles of the East. Money sets a man apart from his peers; it makes him unreachable and unknowable on many levels, adding to the Orientalist view of the Bluebeard-character in “The Bloody Chamber.”

Further, the antagonist is portrayed as a bearing a “male scent of leather and spices” (8); his eyes are “dark and motionless as those eyes the ancient Egyptians painted upon their sarcophagi” (12). His face is “like a mask” (9), and the narrator cannot even describe him in terms of humanity: the analogy she uses for her husband is a “cobra-headed, funereal [lily]” (9). All of these descriptors are archetypal views of the East from the West’s perspective. The East contained spices and rich scents; they were traded to Europe in vast amounts. If a European’s only experience with the East was by way of a bottle of perfume or a sip of tea, wouldn’t he associate these pungent and fragrant smells with the faraway lands? The narrator’s comparison of the Marquis’ face with “a mask,” particularly an Egyptian death mask, adds to the morbidity and esoteric mysticism of the antagonist. Finally, a lily, while not necessarily a symbol of the East (it is native to both Asia and Europe, though many lilies in Europe were of the Asian variety [Explanation: Lily]), is depicted as one through the descriptor “cobra-headed.” Cobras were, of course, most often associated with the Middle East and/or India.

As if these copious depictions of the castle and the man were not enough to create a vision of the Orient in the reader, Carter goes even further. Because of their sexual conservatism, much of it religiously influenced, the West identified the East with liberal eroticism and sensuality, believing them to be much more open about nudity and sex. Thus, two Eastern concepts – the Turkish bathhouse and the polygynous harem – specifically entranced the Occident. While the bath is only hinted at in “The Bloody Chamber” (23-24, 33), the concept of the harem is a motif in the story. The heroine is well aware that her husband has been “married three times” before her, and that she is merely “join[ing] this gallery of beautiful women” (10). She is obsessed with finding out as much as she can about his previous wives (26), and when the narrator discovers the “bloody chamber” itself, with his deceased harem of wives, Carter invokes a cultural image of Henry VIII or, alternately, Bluebeard, the story that “The Bloody Chamber” is modeled after. Further, the bedroom where the narrator loses her virginity is covered with “a dozen” (15) mirrors, multiplying the virgin bride by twelve, a fact that is not lost on the Marquis. “I have acquired a whole harem for myself!” (14) he says, and the reader sees him as an Eastern Sultan, both because of his inferred polygamy and because of his wealth. He is as “rich as Croesus” (10) – an ancient Turkish king, predictably.

Speaking of mirrors, there is one more subject I would like to touch on before I discuss how all of these Orientalist images create the Gothic in Carter’s story . Namely, the notion of the Hegelian “Other,” and how the narrator of “The Bloody Chamber” defines herself in relation to her husband. She is only a “child” (7) at the beginning of the story, “seventeen and [knowing] nothing of the world” (9). In a Lacanian setting, she achieves self-awareness through mirrors, both at the playhouse to see Tristan and in her bridal bed. In the playhouse, she sees
him watching me in the gilded mirrors with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh …

When I saw him look at me with lust, I dropped my eyes but, in glancing away from him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. And I saw myself, suddenly, as he saw me, my pale face, the way the muscles in my neck stuck out like thin wire … And, for the first time in my innocent and confined life, I sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away. (11)

She can only begin to build a self-image when she sees herself through his eyes, and because he is the Byronic character of darkness and corruption, the reflection on herself is parallel to him. She goes even further in the bedroom, defining herself Orientally in terms of her husband – the “Other” – by reversing the sexual and stylistic aspects of Orientalism. The narrator says, “I saw, in the mirror … the child with her sticklike limbs, naked but for her button boots, her gloves … and the old, monocled lecher who examined her, limb by limb. He in his London tailoring; she, bare as a lamb chop. Most pornographic of all confrontations” (15). She compares her nudity and vulnerability to his high-class gentility, swapping the East/West binary momentarily in order to define herself as the antithesis of her husband.

In fact, this is the root of Orientalism: some sort of a priori knowledge that all of the Orient is similar and, as a whole, is fundamentally antithetical to the Occident. The West comes to define itself, partially or mostly, as what the East is not. The West sees the East as intriguing yet subversively corruptive, and is therefore equally in love with it and afraid of it. Sound familiar? That’s the basis of the cultural draw toward the genres of Horror and the Gothic. Carter exploits this in “The Bloody Chamber” by painting her settings and characters in essentially Oriental terms. The movement to an extrinsic setting that is wholly congruent with traditional views of the East unsettles the reader; it creates a sense of exoticism and even barbarianism on an internal and perhaps unconscious level because of the reader’s cultural clichés. Carter further disturbs her readers by making her antagonist, the core of the horror, only superficially European. He is a “mysterious being” (22), wealthy and Sultan-like, a Byronic villain that is intended to scare the reader. Without the Eastern je ne sais quoi, however, he would merely be Rochester in Jane Eyre: dark and mysterious but not overly frightening. Lastly, by seeing the Marquis as capable of counterfeiting the Westerner and possibly corrupting the heroine through her definition of herself, the reader is rattled on a psychological level. Without these Oriental elements that prey on the West’s preconceived cultural assumptions and notions of the East, “The Bloody Chamber” would not agitate the reader, through the Gothic, as effectively.


Works Cited:

"Explanation: Lily." Wonder Flowers. Web. 10 Mar. 2010.


~03/10

gunshot/sin

echoed gunshots at evening's end -
they assuage my anxious soul;
if we're all just wastes of oxygen,
then someone's got to go.


~10/08

Metaphormosis

Oh, my spine is weak, so
trim me close into a quire and
I will sing a story all for you -
closer to quarto than you know.
If you sew me with a steady hand,
know that I will buck; for
if I shall be bound, it will be
for Gothic myths and fantasies,
and not to your fairy tales.
And if you shall bind me, it will be
with ropes and bedposts, and
not to your sadistic soul.

You see, I don't cut down trees to read,
but find papyrus in the reeds
and weed it out to sow the seeds.
We all sew with seeds, fertilizing our fevers
until we can harvest them and
make passion with violence; so
if I shall be planted, it will be
on my dastardly ass and never
in your garden.
And if I shall be tilled, wait until
I am ripe and red, for then and only then
will I be fertile.


~09/09

standing at a bus stop in november

canvas - white out -
the ground is breathing, puffs
of smoke, soon to be torn
by tired tires -
there is a tension, a certain
tension to the taming of the
autumn rainbow -
it surrenders to erasure with
solemn - descent,
assured of mercy -
but apprehensive of its
trimestered resurrection -

canvas - black dot -
the howl of the hunt, the stalking
predator, swallowing its
willing prey -
there is a warmth, a certain
warmth inside the belly
of the beast -
and then an endless need to
migrate - to move,
attracted to the horizon -
life is merely an arc of
transient fantasies -


~11/09-04/14/10

13 Ways of Looking at a Penis

[A parody of Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"]

A sword - striking down other penises - slashing at the structure of the symbol - a tool for rule -

A brain - powered by blood - controlling its master - dictating through hormones -

A fortress - the impenetrable penis - the invulnerable armor of the masculine - the unwillingness to adapt - to equalize - to be humble -

A chink - both armor and vulnerability - tall and proud - small and weak -

A seed - fertilize the unfertile - x & y - anthropologically relevant - + & -

A ruler - average length of a penis six inches - two penises is a foot - measure by penis - how tall are you? - 12 penises -

An extension cord - how to reach vaginas - or other penises - extend the penis far from the body - plug it in - turn on the electricity -

A pendant - like a necklace only less visually appealing -

A burden - like a cross but without the crossbeam - Jesus carrying a penis up Golgotha -

An obsession - why write a poem about it? - why Freud? - why phallocentrism? - why care about the penis? - why think about the penis? - it's only anatomy -

A stage prop - what is its true use? - other creatures copulate without penises - peni? -

An appendix - an ending - an afterthought - God's final addition -

A paperweight -


~02/09

Shut Up

I’m sick of all you academy shits
whittling away at the dysfunctional limb
as if you were politicians and I
spoke softly with a small stick.

Poetry is not medicine; you cannot stitch it
into submission. It is not fission;
your bomb will not incinerate, it will
shit itself and slip into oblivion.

I disdain you. I spit on you.
You have no pith—you’re more like a twinkie
than timber. Here on out I will pinch
this blister and quit your conformity.


~05/09

Acid

WHAT AM I TRYING TO PERCEIVE?
MY UNFETTERED SOUL,
GET RID OF THE DEVILS
WITH A SIDEWAYS MIND!
IT’S DIFFERENT THAN LIFE;
GOOD THING I KNOW HOW TO BREATHE.
I’M ALMOST A L I V E, FINALLY!
DON’T. DON’T BURN COLORS.
TAKE IT AS IT COMES.
THESE ARE MY TEARS;
MULTI-COLORED SPIDERWEBS,
LIKE A KALEIDOSCOPE ORGASM.
RAINBOW ICE IN MY VEINS,
JEWELS,
DROPS OF ACID.
I NEED TO GET RID OF THE DEMONS
THAT TICKLE ME, SHAKING
THE JOURNEY.
LIFE IS MELTING AWAY AND
WE NEED TO STOP IT.


~12/08 - 05/09

The Zen of Haiku

The Zen of Haiku
by Jordan Kasko

“Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don’t make sense
Refrigerator”
-haiku from threadless.com t-shirt

I have known the basic definition of a haiku since I can remember. In its simplest form, it is a good version of poetry for kids to read or write. It consists of three lines: the first contains five syllables, the second seven, and the third five again. A haiku does not need to rhyme, nor does it require punctuation or any sense of strict grammatical structure. That was all I knew about haiku. But if one paragraph would suffice to describe this form of Japanese poetry, it would not be a good subject for an inquisitive paper.

Though I cannot read Japanese, I thought knowing the kanji for the word would help so I could begin to immerse myself in this noble form of poetry. The word haiku (俳句) has only been around since the end of the 19th century, but it has a grand ancestry dating back more than a thousand years (Society). It originated in a Japanese poetic form called the tanka (Society), which used a set system of on and/or ji, similar to syllables in English, as the primary organization for the poetry. In Japanese, on means “sound” and ji means “character.” Either term, the combination onji, or the word mora represent the Japanese equivalent of the syllable. As Dr. Gilbert explains, “English speakers divide words into syllables while Japanese speakers divide words into morae. Due to this difference, a native speaker of English divides 'London' into two syllables, while a native speaker of Japanese considers the word as consisting of four morae. [lo/n/do/n] . . . Mora is considered as a timing unit, especially within the larger context of words” (Gilbert). On-setsu, on the other hand, is the Japanese term for the English syllable, of which modern English haiku are composed (Gilbert). Because each separate sound is an onji in Japanese, original haiku are much shorter than American haikus, which use American syllables and thus can be comprised of more words.

With a pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 onji per line, the tanka, or “short renga,” evolved into the primary form of Japanese poetry somewhere between the 9th and 12th centuries C.E. The beginning 5-7-5 unit of the tanka is called the maeku, and was frequently the beginning of a “call and answer” type of poetry, with the first person writing the maeku and the second responding with the 7-7 part of the tanka, called a tsukeku (literally, “added verse”). These short renga “touched on religious or courtly themes, and were often grouped together in large chains called ‘chōrenga’” (Wikipedia). Multiple authors would frequently contribute to one chōrenga, each composing several tanka (Society). In early times, the long renga sometimes reached 100, 1000, or even 10,000 links. It went through several adaptations and sets of rules, and one popular form that evolved was the haikai no renga or simply haikai (俳諧の連歌), a form utilizing humor and wit (Renga). The first passage of the renga developed increasing importance, as it set the stage for the rest of the poem, and was called a hokku. Late 17th-century poet haikai poet Matsuo Bashō, recognized as one of the greatest Japanese poets, popularized the haikai form and his hokku were the forerunners of the modern haiku. In the latter half of the 19th century, the poet Masaoka Shiki officially separated the hokku from the tanka and a new form of poetry, the haiku, was born (Society).

Having finished a summary of the history of the haiku, enough for a basic understanding of its roots, I decided to turn my attention to the poetic devices used in haiku, the subject matter, and other details of the poems themselves. Upon finding whole books dedicated to these subjects, however, I realized that any information I can fit into a term paper will be wanting in substance because of necessary brevity. One might presume that a three-line poem takes hardly any forethought and no time to write; one would be wrong. If the poetry of haiku were the Earth, understanding the form and the history would barely delve into the topsoil, much less reach the mantle. In fact, the Japanese say that it takes 20 years to be able to write haiku or renga with ease (Finlay). My intention of writing some haiku for an addition to the appendix of this paper now seems futile. Reading the “Haiku Guidelines” section of Finlay’s book, I started to understand the state of mind and spirituality of haiku poets. The guidelines included, “haiku arises out of unguardedness, occurring when the writer is least identified with the idea of being a poet,” “haiku should follow their readers rather than lead them,” “a haiku should convey atmosphere and depth without being overtly philosophical or sentimental,” and “the best haiku hint at something beyond” (Finlay).

“Haiku,” R.H. Blyth says, “are to be understood from the Zen point of view.” Zen, in his book, is defined as a state of mind based upon thirteen qualities, including selflessness, graceful acceptance, wordlessness, simplicity, courage, and love. Blyth’s books on haiku were some of the first Western books that delved deeply into the subject, and many Japanese and English writers have agreed with his evaluations. Daisetz Suzuki, a Japanese writer, added the idea that in addition to Zen, “a haiku does not express ideas but…puts forward images reflecting intuitions” (Sato). Blyth further calls haiku a state of “temporary enlightenment.” I am beginning to understand how Zen poetry is so different from Western poetry. If I want to write a sonnet, I take out my rhyming dictionary, invent a subject (usually love), and begin to write in iambic pentameter. If I want to write a haiku, however, I must open myself to the world, forget that I am a writer, become one with nature, and still retain the presence of mind to scribble a few noble lines.

Setting aside the spirituality of Zen for a moment, there are certain poetic techniques that are commonly found in haiku. Humor and puns, for example, are everpresent, despite the seriousness of the style of poetry. “Brevity,” Blyth says, “is called the soul of wit.” Haiku concentrate on quality rather than quantity. Onomatopoeia is frequent in both original Japanese haiku and English haiku; not only does the imitation of sound correspond with writing in communion with nature, but Japanese is the most onomatopoeic language (Blyth). Personally, I noticed through reading hundreds of haiku that parataxis was the most common poetic device used. “Tension and contrast between images,” says Finlay, are necessary ingredients. In fact, many of the haiku that I read are two juxtaposed images that feed off of each other. The poet Baiko’s “death poem,” an type of haiku that is usually written as close as possible to death, says, “Plum petals falling/ I look up--the sky,/ a clear crisp moon.” Plum petals would not usually be placed so closely to a clear evening, but “death poems” are frequently centered on the day or time of year that the poet died, and Baiko died in February (Hoffmann). The beautiful night sky set next to the petals falling from a flower creates an otherworldly image, unique to haiku. The wording is simple, lacking flowery terms or complex metaphors that might distract the reader from the natural meaning of the objects or beings in the poem. This strategy is almost nonexistent in Western literature (Missias).

Nature, as I have explained already, plays a major role in the Zen of Japanese poetry. One aspect of the natural world, though, is the primary theme of traditional haiku: the seasons. Before modern times, all haiku were organized into categories based upon the five Japanese seasons of spring, summer, autumn, winter, and the new year. In ancient haiku, there is almost always a “season word” in the poem; if the word is not a direct mention of the season, it is an idea or noun that can be identified with a certain time of year. These “orientation words,” so called because they place the poem in what are almost separate Japanese genres, usually concern the sky, elements, geography, temples, animals, or plants. Modern haiku, particularly English haiku, do not always have this important connection with nature (Blyth). Our words for certain animals or aspects of nature do not necessarily correspond with certain seasons like the Japanese ones do (Missias). When Issa, one of the most famous haiku poets, says, “A night boat/ Sails away/ Illuminated by a wildfire,” we know he speaks of spring, for what other season would contain a “night boat”? When Kubota Mantarō writes, “What a cooling sight--/ To see a young maid/ Tying up her narrow sash,” we know it is cooling because it is summer. Lastly, it could be no season but winter when Katō Kōko sees, “Through the branches of a tree/ Utterly leafless/ The sky deepens” (Miura).

Perhaps the most famous haiku ever, and Japan’s most popular poem, is Matsuo Bashō’s frog poem (Bashō). (古池や 蛙飛びこむ 水の音) in kanji, “Furuike ya/ kawazu tobikomu/ mizu no oto” in romaji (the language of Japan in the Western alphabet), or “An old pond:/ a frog jumps in--/ the sound of water” in plain English. This is merely one interpretation; there are one hundred different translations in Sato’s “One Hundred Frogs,” alone (a select few can be found in the appendix). Some follow the Western 5-7-5-syllable haiku, some aim for a strict translation, and some are creative in their own right. The poem is deceptively simple. In haiku, every word means something; an “old pond” is completely different from a “pond,” and a “the sound of water” is nowhere near the same thing as “splash” - which would have been onomatopoeia had it been included. In fact, some translations of “the frog poem” do use onomatopoeic words, but many of these are because of liberties taken by the translator (Sato). On an objective level, I notice a controlling noun in each line: “pond,” “frog,” and “water.” The poem is both visual and aural, as we see the frog jump in and we hear the splash. The scene is set by the pond and the frog; the latter suggests it is near twilight in warm weather, for that is when frogs venture out. Subjectively, I identify this with a backyard, a lily pad, and a spring of such Zen that the simple action of a frog leaping into the pond is noticeable and seems to represent the serenity of a balanced life. On an informed level, little is known about the writing of this particular haiku, but Matsuo Bashō lived from 1644 to 1694 and his most frequent subject was spring (Bashō). The “frog poem” was written in 1686, and evidently became immediately popular after it was published in 1688 (Ueda).

One of the translations listed in the appendix is Allen Ginsberg’s. Modernist poets and particularly the beat writers were strongly influenced by haiku. The first appearance of its imprint on Western culture was through the Imagist poets in the early 20th century (Wikipedia). Ezra Pound’s two-line poem “In a Station of the Metro,” in particular, showcases strong haiku influences, containing the parataxis of representative images, a certain spirituality, and the brevity which is more important to haiku than the exact 5-7-5 syllable count. The traditional Japanese form reappears decades later at the inception of the beat movement. Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Gary Snyder all were influenced by R.H. Blyth’s 1949 books on haiku, two of which I was able to find in the library on campus and use as sources. Ginsberg published haiku throughout his career, Snyder was given an international award for his contribution to worldwide understanding of haiku, and Kerouac wrote a few books in the style. Kerouac also promoted the idea that a Western haiku need not depend upon a specific syllable count (withwords). Because our syllables are so different from the Japanese onji, a 5-7-5 poem is arguably untrue to the original style. The root of a haiku is not in the structure, but in the soul of the poem and the idea behind it. Kerouac suggested that three short lines be used, but beyond that, the poem be left up to the creative control of the writer (withwords). Modern haiku sometimes use the 5-7-5 syllable count, but more often than not they simply utilize the root idea of the poem.

“Haiku,” as Missias says, “is a way of seeing the world.” This idea has captured the Western imagination, jaded with the outbreak of trite and meaningless poetry like the Genteel poetry of the late-19th and early-20th centuries. The outbreak of haiku followed directly in the footsteps of the Transcendentalists, like Thoreau and Whitman, who advocated a state of mind similar to Zen. The popularity of haiku may have also gained momentum after World War II because of an American cultural enchantment with Japan. In 1963, American Haiku, the first magazine devoted entirely to English-language haiku, was published in Platteville, Wisconsin. By the 1970s, haiku looked to have left a lasting influence on modern English poetry. In fact, it is possible that the haiku is the most widespread specific form of poetry still in usage as of the 21st century (Swede).

Bringing my brief study of haiku to current times, I will halt it. There are many long tomes on the subject, monthly and annual magazines in publication, and a never-ending supply of poetry to read. I may only have grazed the surface of the style, but I learned much about the history behind the haiku, the techniques used, the connection with Zen, and the adaptation into modern English literature. All information aside, though, I would like to claim that the most interesting and important part of my research on haiku was the sheer amount of poetry I read. I found poems (the best of which I included in the appendix) that spoke to my soul and that I will probably mutter at inopportune moments in the future, causing passers-by to think me schizophrenic. To analyze poetry is educational, to derive from it influences that will affect my writing is helpful, but simply to find and read new and amazing poems is transcendent.

Appendix: Assorted Haiku

Along this road
Goes no one,
This autumn eve.
-Matsuo Bashō

Should I take it in my hand,
it would disappear with my hot tears,
like the frost of autumn.
-Matsuo Bashō

Not this human sadness,
cuckoo,
but your solitary cry.
-Matsuo Bashō

World like a dewdrop
though it's only a dewdrop
even so, even so.
-Kobayashi Issa

No sign
in the cicada’s song
that it will soon be gone
-Aki-no-Bo

People, when you see the smoke,
do not think
it is fields they’re burning
-Baika

A short night
wakes me from a dream
that seemed so long
-Yuyu

O snail
Climb Mount Fuji,
But slowly, slowly!
-Kobayashi Issa

Snow in my shoe
Abandoned
Sparrow's nest
-Jack Kerouac

A bitter morning:
Sparrows sitting together
Without any necks.
-James W. Hackett

Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.
-Natsume Soseki

Some translations of Bashō’s “frog poem”:

The old pond,
A frog jumps in:
Plop!
-Translated by Alan Watts

Listen! a frog
Jumping into the stillness
Of an ancient pond!
-Translated by Dorothy Britton

The old pond
A frog jumped in,
Kerplunk!
-Translated by Allen Ginsberg

pond
frog
plop!
-Translated by James Kirkup

There once was a curious frog
Who sat by a pond on a log
And, to see what resulted,
In the pond catapulted
With a water-noise heard round the bog.
-Translated by Alfred H. Marks


Bibliography:

Blyth, R.H. “Haiku, Volume One: Eastern Culture.” Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1949.

Blyth, R.H. “Haiku, Volume Two: Spring.” Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1949.

“Book of Haikus by Jack Kerouac.” haikuworld.org. 27 April 2008.
http://www.haikuworld.org/books/kerouac.html

Finlay, Alec. “Verse Chain: Sharing Haiku and Renga.” Edinborough: Morning Star Publications, 2003.

Gilbert, Richard. “Stalking the Wild Onji: The Search for Current Linguistic Terms Used in Japanese Poetry Circles.” ahapoetry.com. 22 April 2008. http://www.ahapoetry.com/wildonji.htm

“Haiku.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 22 April 2008.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku

“History of Haiku.” Haiku Society: Haikus and Haiku Information. 22 April 2008.
http://www.haikusociety.com/historyofhaiku/

Hoffmann, Yoel, ed. “Japanese Death Poems.” Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Publishing Co., Inc, 1986.

King, Dan. “Japanese Literature Second Midterm.” danking.org. 27 April 2008.
http://www.danking.org/evergreen/Fall_2002/JapaneseLit/basho.html

“Matsuo Bashō: Frog Haiku.” Bureau of Public Secrets. 26 April 2008.
http://www.bopsecrets-org.pem.data393.net/gateway/passages/basho-frog.htm

Missias, A.C. “Contemporary Haiku: Origins and New Directions.” webdelsol.com. 25 April 2008. http://webdelsol.com/Perihelion/acmarticle.htm

Miura, Yuzuru, tr. “Classic Haiku: A Master’s Selection.” Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Publishing Co., Inc, 1991.

“Renga: Encyclopedia II - Renga - History.” The Global Oneness Commitment. 23 April 2008.
http://www.experiencefestival.com/a/Renga_-_History/id/4707327

Sato, Hiroaki. “One Hundred Frogs: From Renga to Haiku to English.” New York: Weatherhill, 1983.

Swede, George. “Haiku in English in North America.” Haiku Canada Newsletter, vol. 10, no. 2, January 1997 and vol. 10, no. 3, March 1997. 27 April 2008.
http://raysweb.net/fall-haiku/pages/swede.html

Ueda, Makoto. “Matsuo Bashō.” Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1982.
“A very brief history of the english language haiku.” withwords.co.uk. 27 April 2008.
http://www.withwords.co.uk/history.html


~04/29/08

The Symbolism of Blood in The Kite Runner

The Symbolism of Blood in The Kite Runner
an essay by Jordan Kasko

Blood seems to be ubiquitous in Khaled Hosseini’s novel The Kite Runner. Most of the important scenes in the book, from the kite tournament in Kabul to the final confrontation with Assef to Sohrab’s attempted suicide, involve blood. These scenes always seem to occur when there is some kind of connection or disconnection between the main characters; perhaps blood is the symbol of that connection. It certainly connects human beings to life, and when we lose our blood, we weaken and die.

The central connection in the book is between Amir and Hassan. This is, significantly, a blood connection in more ways than one, since they are half-brothers. Well before this is revealed, however, Amir is cut by the glass-covered tar on their kite as they fly in the tournament, he “had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry,” effectively sharing blood with Hassan (64). This tournament is their last true connection as friends, as Hassan offers to run the last kite “for you a thousand times over!” before being beaten and raped by Assef and his cronies. Blood appears on both blood-brothers in this scene, as “tiny drops…fell from between [Hassan’s] legs and stained the snow black (78), and Amir bites “down on [his] fist, hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles” (77). Here is their disconnect; here is where the friends lose their friendship. And months later, when Amir attempts to prod Hassan into beating him so the narrator can forgive himself, Amir pelts Hassan with pomegranates, which cause Hassan to be “smeared in red like he’d been shot by a firing squad.” Hassan even crushes a pomegranate on his own head, “red dripping down his face like blood” (93). However, pomegranate juice only symbolizes blood; it is not blood, and therefore there is no re-connection between the brothers.

But Amir and Hassan aren’t the only two characters whose connection or disconnection is symbolized by blood. Despite the narrator’s claim that he and Baba were on “such better terms in the U.S.” (302), their relations continually improve throughout their escape from Afghanistan, which culminates in Kamal’s father’s suicide before both of their eyes. Amir says he will “never forget…the spray of red” when Kamal’s father shoots himself (124), and it is at this moment that Amir and Baba seem to start to become equals. Not only does the event help Amir on his road to maturity, but both father and son see what a father might do when he loses his son, and both are bound closer because of their experience. Rahim Khan’s final letter to Amir also expresses their friendship in terms of blood when Rahim writes “my heart bled for you” to describe his sympathy for Amir’s unfulfilled desire for love from Baba.

The story’s villain, fittingly, loves blood. Besides the rape of Hassan, Assef enjoys pelting adulterers to death with stones, turning them into “bloodied corpses” (272), and massacring Hazaras in Mazar-i-Sharif as “God’s work” (277). Interestingly, if tangentially, when Amir remembers his wife Soraya handing him a newspaper article on the massacre, “her face [was] bloodless.” Perhaps her blood empathized with the loss of blood in Afghanistan. Assef also loves Amir’s blood – he nearly beats him to death – and Amir has a flashback to the pomegranates from 26 years before, and laughs, because finally his blood has been spilled, and he feels some relief from his guilt (289).

At this final connection and disconnection between Amir and Assef, Amir also forges a connection through blood with Sohrab. The boy saves Amir’s life by shooting a brass ball into Assef’s eye, turning it into a “bloody socket” (291). Amir repays Sohrab by saving his life in Islamabad when Sohrab attempts suicide with a razor (343, 350), cementing the connection of friendship, fatherhood, and blood between the two.

Finally, the symbolism of blood does not go unnoticed to the narrator. Amir has a dream on the drive to Islamabad where many of the bloody scenes in the novel are recalled, including Baba cooking a freshly killed lamb and Hassan’s bloody pants after the rape (309-310). Amir also recollects in his dream a phrase that General Taheri says to his daughter when she and Amir are considering adoption: “blood is a powerful thing, bachem, never forget that” (187). The Kite Runner echoes this sentiment throughout, using blood to symbolize the powerful connections and disconnections between the novel’s characters.


-03/30/09

Islands

Islands

a short story by Jordan Kasko

It was 15 years ago, before I knew how to write a story. It was when the story took hold of my life and wrote me.

I was 44, and my second and final son had just departed our home of ten years for Navy boot camp. Granted, the base was only one island from our home in Honolulu, but he and I had never been particularly close, and I had barely talked to him in the months since he’d left. It had been longer since I had engaged in meaningful conversation with my eldest son, who had left for boot camp two years prior, and even longer since I had really talked to Todd, my husband. Perhaps we had talked during the first two years we dated, before he left for boot camp in ’73, but the Navy erected a barrier between us. It kept us apart and everything but happy for years, and after leaving the service he started metal-work, regularly working 15-hour days with little compensation. We struggled financially, he worked, and my life, all that it was, consisted mostly of housework.

One suffocatingly humid Tuesday in April 1993, I ventured onto the city bus with two lumpy white bags stuffed full of laundry, and stepped off 20 minutes later only to find that the Waikiki Street Laundromat was boarded up. Head to foot, with dilapidated plyboard and no explanation. Being that cleaning our clothes was my major task for the day, I spent at least 15 minutes contemplating my choices before sacrificing a distant but safer neighborhood for a cheaper bus fare to North King Street. Thinking back, every choice that I had made in my life I had always played it safe. This was the first time that I didn’t.

I glanced to my left and to my right as I stepped off the bus half a block from the Laundromat, or “Laundrymat”, as the sign read. I remember hesitating for a moment for I entered, staring at the rotund, slumped figure in the window and wondering about the likelihood of a mugger targeting me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to a scene identical to my usual Laundromat – white washers and dryers arranged in rows, peas in a pod, and one or two other women emptying and filling the machines like zombies, except possibly quieter. It also smelled the same. Soap mixed with baked cotton. What I would smell like after two hours. In the back the room turned a corner, and I continued moving to that area so as to gain a little privacy. I’d brought a book to read. A cookbook, actually. I’d always enjoyed cooking.

As I rounded the corner, I saw exactly what I had expected to see: a small area surrounded by white machines, with a white table in the center. Two of the machines against the back wall seemed to be missing; electrical cords sprouted from the wall, their ends splaying wires like spaghetti. In this nook sat a boy, perhaps in his early 20s, his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was unshaven and his clothes hung off his body the way they do on those who have high metabolisms or those who haven’t had two children. If he hadn’t been white, or if he’d looked at me, I probably would’ve turned around. He was, however, holding a coverless book open in one hand, staring at it intently. His other arm was resting on his bent knee. His head was dangerously close to the electrical spaghetti.

I slipped coins into two of the washers, glancing over at the boy every few seconds. His eyes stayed on his book, though I was sure he must’ve heard me by then. I opened the doors and loaded the machines full, closed the doors with a softer touch than normal, and pushed the “Warm Wash” buttons. I looked back up. The boy was still reading. Part of me wanted to make my way into safer waters around the corner, but I was curious about this intriguing boy. I sat awkwardly on the plastic table in the center, pulled my cookbook out of my purse, and flipped a page or two, eyeing the boy every few seconds. He was sitting on what I believed to be a knapsack. A crumpled and dirty blanket was crushed between his left knee and the washer. It was a scene reminiscent of my one volunteer experience, a summer at a soup kitchen in Seattle. I had stared at the homeless that wandered in, pitying them, but I felt unable to make conversation. I don’t believe I talked to one the entire summer.

The clock counted away the minutes, and Tomato Tortellini stole my attention away from the boy, who had barely even moved since I entered. Enveloped in my pasta, I missed the boy’s comment.

“Excuse me?” I said, timidly.

He smiled a quirky sideways grin. “You’re Rio.”

“Rio? What’s that?”

“Duran Duran. It’s their new hit. The station never stops spinning it in here. I must’ve heard it a thousand and one times by now.”

I opened my mouth, but still had no idea what to say. I closed it, like a fish, and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Why don’t you change the station?” I blushed.

He laughed, a hearty full laugh that made me blush harder but smile all the same. “I can’t. It’s a mystery. I looked everywhere, and there’s no dial. There’s not even a radio. It just comes out of those two speakers, from nowhere.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed again. “Rio, I like you.”

“I – I’m Debbie.”

Nodding, he stood up, smoothly. “And I’m…well, names aren’t important, are they?” There was a pause, and we kept each other’s eye contact. I’d always thought names were very important; I couldn’t remember faces. Simon & Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock” played softly through the mystery speakers. He smiled and took a step closer, extending his hand. “I’m Island. Nature, see? You’re a river, I’m an island. Like this island, the whole fuckin’ thing.”

I winced at the curse word and he laughed again. Most people don’t laugh as much, I thought. “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“And you as well. Have you ever read this?” He held up his book, but being that there was no cover, I remained mute and ventured a small smile. The laugh came again, this time more of a giggle. “It’s Ulysses, by Joyce. It’s the best book ever written.”

“What it’s about?”

“I don’t know!” He smiled boyishly at me, a smile that was hard not to return. “I’ve read it sixteen times, and I don’t know! But listen, listen: ‘History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr. Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God. Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — that is God.’ Isn’t it amazing?”

His gestures, his voice, his excitement, they all entranced me. I found I could do nothing but stare back into his aura, my face locked into a shy smile. But he had already decided he would speak on my behalf. “It is amazing. It’s perfect. That,” he jerked his thumb towards a nonexistent window, “is God.” I looked up into the fluorescent lights, and all but saw His angels standing in the clouds. “Rio, are you a writer?”

“I’ve never – well, I used to write, a long time ago. No, no, I’m not a writer.”

“You are a writer. I can see it in your eyes. What else are you?”

“I’m…” I stopped, helpless. “I’m…a woman?”

“Are you asking me? Cause if you are, I’d have to say the breasts give it away. Sorry to say, looks like you’re a woman.”

I stuttered replying again. Though I didn’t feel the need to protest with him, I gave way to habit and said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t look there.”

He nodded, without the slightest color going to his cheeks. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” A buzzer cut off his final word, and before I could register it, he had bounded over the washer and was pulling out my delicates in large handfuls. I took the basket from him, quite awkwardly, and began to put the clothes into a dryer across the room. He leaned against the off-center folding table and watched me. I’d never liked being looked at, but I didn’t feel like I could say anything to him.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Seattle. I’ve lived here for about 24 years. So I’m mostly from here.” I finished and straightened up. He folded his arms, that smile placed like a garnish on his face. “You?”

“That’s an awful long time to be stuck on an island,” he said. “I’d hate to be stuck here that long. I’ve only been here four months, and I already want to swim away. This place drives you bonking mad, I swear. They should put signs up, ‘Warning: Only for Vacations’. That’s why I came, you know. For a vacation.”

“Why are you still here?” I asked, attempting to elicit interesting conversation like he seemed to be able to.

“Lots of shit. She left me here. So I’m here.” His voice trailed off, and he stood inspecting the tiled ceiling carefully. Suddenly, without any noticeable cue, he snatched his knapsack and was around the corner in a few quick strides. I followed him tentatively, but he had vanished out the door.

That night, Todd and I fought. He often criticized my apparent laziness since the boys had left, but I couldn’t for the life of me decide on something to do. Housework and cooking monopolized many of my days, and when I’d run out of chores, I’d sit and think. He came home, and started yelling at me for doing nothing. He went on and on, and when I couldn’t think of an excuse, he struck me across the right cheek with the back of his hand. I didn’t protest – I never did. Yes, I’d cooked the food. Yes, I’d set the table. Yes, I’d folded the laundry. But the boy from the Laundromat had watched me the whole time, calling me Rio and reminding me of just how long I’d been on this island.

* * *

The week passed, and the laundry basket filled again. This time, I didn’t even consider making my way to a different Laundromat. I stepped off the bus at King Street, one week to the day after my first encounter with my Island, hoping secretly that it would be his choice day for laundry too. He was indeed sitting in the same spot, head leaned to the right against a washer, eyes closed and mouth opened slightly. A small bit of spittle had found its way into his facial hair, which seemed unshaven since I’d last seen him. His knapsack was on the ground at his feet, and I saw what appeared to be the back of a photograph partially protruding from a pocket. Female handwriting on the back read simply “to dylan”. So that was his name! Satisfied with my sleuthing, I loaded two washers and, being slightly impatient, closed the doors harder than was necessary. I glanced at him. He hadn’t moved. But as I bent down to retrieve my bags from the linoleum floor, he said, “hello, Rio.”


“Hi, Dylan,” I said, setting my bags down.

It took him only a second to locate the source of my knowledge, and he looked almost proud of me. “I prefer Island.”

“Yeah, it’s just that Dylan is more…normal.”

“Oh beautiful Rio, do I look normal to you?” he asked. I felt myself turning red, and quickly reminded myself that I hadn’t been called that in decades, since I was – well, his age. He started singing Bob Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman” under his breath.

“No,” I said. The laugh sprouted from his throat, and he sat up straight to allow it clearer passage. My curiosity overcame me. “Who’s the picture?”

He swept it up deftly while ascending to my height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and stepped beside me. Together we cast our eyes upon a teenage girl with wavy black hair, a half-smile, and a rather strong chin. She was pretty, but mostly because of the rebellious look in her eyes. “Is that the girl you came here with?” I asked.

He snorted. “Yeah. She’s my Siren.”

“Why – what happened?” He was silent. “Sorry.”

“No, Rio, it’s all right. The thing is, we were too different, she and I. She loved me, she loved me very much, but she didn’t understand. She didn’t get me. I thought she did, and I loved her too. She convinced me to come here. And she wanted sex. Well, Rio, I didn’t want to have sex with her. She’s a woman. I told her that, and I told her I cared for her more than I’ve ever cared for another person. But that wasn’t enough for her, and she left. She left me here.”

I stared at Dylan, adding one more piece of information to my knowledge of him. It seemed that every time I figured out one piece of his puzzle, the enigma expanded. Part of me wanted to protest, to tell him that he couldn’t be that way, because I didn’t like it. Because my husband hated it. Because of that one time, two decades ago, when I’d been unfaithful to Todd. Thank God he’d never found out – I couldn’t imagine what he’d have done if he had. I couldn’t imagine giving him a reason to hit me, when he already did it so readily.

To my surprise, Dylan suddenly laughed, almost heartily. “You’re military, aren’t you? Well, not you, but your families. Both of them.” I nodded. “That’s a tough way to live. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. You’ve got too much to write to be restrained by your history.”

“Dylan, I’m sorry, I don’t write. Why do you think I do? I don’t. I can’t, I’ve tried,” I said.

“You’ve tried?”

“Well, a little, but it was too long ago. And it was bad, really bad,” I said.

“You should try again,” he said. For a split second, I entertained a fantasy I’d had since I was young – writing a novel, being published and becoming famous – but I let it go. My husband would tear it up, barking that I was wasting my time. And I would be, because I couldn’t write anything worthwhile.

“Dylan, you’re a nice kid, but you seem like you don’t know God. Could I help with that at all?” I wasn’t usually evangelical, but I felt awkward, and I liked to bring up God when I felt awkward.

“Au contraire, I do know God. God is everything, and God is nothing. God is here, and God is everywhere. God is the good, God is the bad, God is me, God is you. God is a marshmallow and God is horn-rimmed glasses,” he said, gesturing meaningfully towards the elderly lady who’d just appeared from around the corner. She ignored him.

Perhaps the obvious blasphemy should’ve bothered me, but something about his tone took me aback. He may have been joking, but he wasn’t altogether sinful. Many of our conversations from then on were like that. He had plenty of opinions, and they were all wild. Sometimes his words would leave a bad taste in my mouth, but I would suck on them for awhile, and eventually dissolve them down to their sweet centers.

The next week, I found out that it wasn’t a coincidence that he was yet again lounging in the Laundromat when I arrived. After he had woken in the middle of the night, three months before, to find Racquel had vanished, Dylan had realized that his monetary assets consisted of three dollars and sixty-four cents. He had worked at McDonalds for a month, but had been fired when the manager found him spending the night behind the walk-in. Since then he had lived in the Laundromat. I did not ask him how he ate – in fact, I never saw him eat. But he looked strong and always had energy, so I attempted to ignore my motherly intuition.

* * *

I began to do laundry every other day, finding an excuse to wash everything in the house. The pillows, the napkins, the sheets, the windowshades – nothing was spared. And neither was Dylan. I dirtied him up with interrogations, then let him wash me in his thoughtful, odd answers. He loved to quote books and poems, particularly Ulysses, and I often wondered how he retained all that information so well. One of my favorites was: “a man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery”. Dylan had wandered into a monologue about that particular quote, explaining vividly many of his life’s greatest errors, and what fruits those bore and how they changed him. I started to do what I had never done before – contemplate my own errors. It was terrifying and exhilarating, and with each baby step I made inside myself, I began to feel more creative. One evening I sat down and wrote a poem. It was called “Lost”. It did not have structure or rhythm, rhyme or tone, but it was my baby. I showed it to Dylan, and he praised it endlessly before helping me edit it.

So I wrote another. And another. I wrote during the day instead of cleaning the house, and I wrote at night before my husband returned from his job. I hid them from him at the back of my underwear drawer, and pretended to myself that he didn’t know me well enough to tell that something had changed. I saw him eyeing me at dinner, over his mouthful of mashed potatoes, quiet and wary. The few words we exchanged during a typical day shrunk to none, and on the weekends he barely came home from the bar. In church, we sat like decorations, six inches apart, watching the preacher.

And then I made my mistake. That Monday night, nearly six weeks to the day after I met Dylan, I meant to squeeze in a little writing time before Todd pushed down the door, expecting his dinner. Everything was prepared for his arrival, and a metaphor about silverware had entered my head. I don’t remember what it was, for it never came to fruition – the sofa was too comfortable and I fell fast asleep with only two lines written.

I woke to the sound of boots stomping in the kitchen, just around the door from our small living room. Crumpling the paper with one hand, I returned the pen to its home among the messy magazines on our coffee table and walked into the kitchen, prepared for chastisement. To my surprise, none came. My husband was silent as a morgue while I served him, ate my dinner, and took the dishes from his place. With the scalding water running over my hands, I heard the T.V. jump to life and a beer top snap open. I headed to the bedroom, changed, and stared into the darkness in my pajamas for well over an hour, creating rhymes in my mind.

The next morning Todd was already gone when I awoke. After a small breakfast, I collected assorted materials for the day’s laundry, and made my way over to King Street. Dylan wasn’t quite his usual self, and I found out why quickly: one of his many calls to Racquel from the Laundromat’s sole payphone had finally been returned. Evidently, she was flying into Kahului airport and vacationing on the nearby island of Molokai with her family. She missed him and wanted to see him. He didn’t have the money to afford even a ferry. He even tried to convince me that he could swim to Molokai; after all, it was only a few miles.

I was in the midst of telling my Island why he should remain an island when I saw a burly man walk around the corner, head slightly tilted, eyes splintered by red. My motherly statement to Dylan was enveloped by the black hole of his form. It was my husband. For an indefinite period of time, none of us said a thing. He raised a handful of papers.

“Did you write this fucking trash?” His voice echoed throughout the enclosed space. The veins in his neck bulged. “Did you write this fucking faggot shit? Or did that queer?”

“I wrote it,” I said. He took a large step forward, and my instincts kicked in – I stepped between him and Dylan. I smelled the stench of alcohol as one large arm shoved me into the washers. One more step carried him within two inches of Dylan, who was at least half a head smaller and significantly skinnier.

“This shit,” he yelled, “did you tell her to write this? Answer me, you fuck. Answer me or I’ll goddamn sure fuck you up good.”

“I assisted her in the process,” Dylan said. I saw a flash of fear in his eyes.

“You assis – what the fuck kinda talk is that? Why the fuck is my wife writing poetry about fucking faggots? Are you a fucking faggot?”

“I’m your wife’s friend,” Dylan replied, his voice steady.

“No. No, you aren’t,” Todd said, pushing Dylan back into a dryer. Dylan rebounded, and my husband grabbed him by the arms, lowering his face into Dylan’s. “You will never see my wife again. Get out of this fucking city. You faggots infest my city, my island. My country. My goddamn country. If I see you again, you’re dead, boy.”

I tried to meet Dylan’s eyes as I was pulled away, but he was staring directly at the back of my husband’s head, his face set in stone.

I told them I’d tripped. My two broken ribs kept me in the hospital for eleven days, and Todd never visited me. I was released onto the street, and begged a bus fare to King Street from an older man. There was no sign of Dylan, not one wool blanket or khaki knapsack. Next day was no better, nor was the following. I called every hospital in the area, and visited each Laundromat while my husband was at work. In between searching, I called my older sister, whom I’d spoken with perhaps once a year. A little reluctant at first, she finally agreed to buy me a plane ticket to Vancouver after my hospital explanation. I started packing to leave my island, a mere week from then. I was very careful not to let Todd know.

It was in Tuesday’s paper. The body of a young man, long-haired and bearded, had washed into Maunalua Bay from the direction of Molokai. He was wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a knapsack. A waterlogged California Driver’s License identified him as Dylan James Scheffer, 19, of San Francisco. Cause of death was asphyxia by water. Authorities did not suspect foul play.

I made Dylan a gravestone in my new backyard, a small patch of grass outside of a one-room apartment in Spokane. On it, I scratched the words Island and Rio, the dates 1974-1993, and a quote from Ulysses: “Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”


~10/08

Fuck

Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Abso-fucking-lutely!
How the fuck are you? Fuck off.
Laughing my fucking ass off.
Dumbfuck fucked it up, I don't give a fuck.
Fuckin' A, fuck that shit, fuck your mom.
Motherfucker! Shut the fuck up! I'll fuck you up.
Fuck if I give a flying monkey fuck,
That's fucked up. Fuckityfuckfuckfuck.
Go fuck yourself, or let's fuck. I'm fucked.
Jesus Fucking Christ, go fuck a duck, fuckface.
What the fuck? Why the fuck? Where the fuck? When the fuck? Who the fuck?
And...how the fuck? Fuck you very much.


~12/06/08

The Corridor

The rusted door clangs shut behind you, locked -
and the echo dances down into the distance.
You stare into the perspective, a blank
claustrophobic corridor of black bricks,
not like obsidian but like soot, or dried blood.
The walls seem to undulate, but you realize
it is merely the feeble flickering of
the few candles drooping from the arches.
You smell a rank rot; it permeates your senses.
You take one step, and hearing a heavy breathing,
wheel around - ah...! It is your own.
You are alone. Yet you do not feel alone.
Slowly, afraid to make a sound, you push at the door -
there is no handle of any sort - but it does not budge.
You turn around and strain your sight, but
the light is too dim, and the narrow tunnel
too tapered - oh, too terrible! You tremble.

You attempt to recall something, anything about
what has befallen you - in vain, for your
last memory is of drifting off to sleep peacefully -
o cursed sleep! - in your lover's arms.
Your heart kicks in your chest - it is merely
a dream! You pinch yourself, hard, and your
YELP! resounds into the chasm. Looking down,
you realize that you are naked as the walls, and
your skin is spiderwebbed with scratches.
A sob lunges through your lips, but the hundred
piteous replies stuff it back into your throat.
You choke, and check above...behind...nothing.
Every bone in your body shrieks at you to stay still,
yet somehow you know that safety lies
only at the other end...if at all.

One step - careful, tentative. Another step -
small, forlorn. A third, a fourth, a fifth.
A sliver of a shiver runs up your spine, like
a knife tickling its way towards your neck -
you are being followed! Shaking, you force
your head around, but the door, a cadaver's
length away, stands solitary and silent.
Unable even to blink, you move forward once more,
alternately glancing behind and taking a step.
You reach the first candle and slide to the side to avoid
its flame. A stalagmite of wax has stacked upon the path.
The slight warmth reminds you how frozen and
brittle you are, and in the dark your foot falls
in a puddle - a chilled and viscous puddle.
Your eyes lock on your legs, now sprinkled with
a rich redness that writhes in the candlelight.

You freeze. You must scrub it from your skin, yet
you cannot bear to! So you stand, clasping yourself
for a length of time measured only by your
haggard heartbeats, like a panicked pendulum.
A raw determination grips you - you will live,
you will escape the horrible corridor! - and you
move once more. Half an eternity later,
your eyes can no longer distinguish a door behind
you, nor ahead, and only scarlet footprints
betray which hell you've descended from, and
which is gaping, waiting to damn you.
A laugh! A merry, mocking crescendo!
Amusement of the most manic tenor!
You answer, mimicking the madness with
a wail of dismay, a howl of horror.
And suddenly your legs are churning, heavy
as they are, breaking into longer strides
with each step. There is no more laughter.
Your rabid gasps drown you in waves of
confused wind, beating you from every direction.

You are abruptly aware that the corridor is narrowing -
it is now not even the span of your arms.
There is nothing behind you. You slow to
a walk, your breath eccentric as your thoughts,
and then spy a deviation - a single brick,
purely white, a foot wide, spanning the width
of the passage, a step ahead of your feet.
You stare. You extend a foot to touch it -
then hesitate. It is white. It must be pure...
but perhaps it is a trap! Perhaps it will unleash
droves of demons, salivating for your soul. No!
You must not, nay, you cannot touch it.
Reluctantly, you step ahead, and as you raise
your eyes, you see...light! Glorious light!

Another hundred steps and the dancing stars, so
blinding at first, have resolved into a milky way
of shards - mirrors! Broken mirrors littering the
tunnel with light, a fractured fantasy of fragments.
And across them, no more than a dying breath
away, another door! Rusted, rotting, but containing -
oh joyous day - a hardy handle!
But to reach it, to cross the sharp shards,
you must hold your breath and walk.
Each step - a dozen nails - a dozen knives -
a scattering of sanguinity upon the stones.
You scarcely feel the bites, but almost across
your strength seeps out of the caverns in your
soles - the catacombs of your soul.
A last leap, and - God be praised! - you spill
to your knees mere steps from the threshold.
Conjuring your final shreds of courage, you arise,
carrying your cross, and clamber to the handle.
Drawing a concluding breath, your terrible torture
about to be terminated, you turn the handle, and -
cold metal on your neck, hot hand upon your hip! -
a monotone mutter in your ear! - "you lost."


-3/3/10

Hay Fever

You were asleep in your dark barn,
honey, and dreaming of the son, so -
I filtered through the slats -
and lit up the lonely stalls -
and you looked directly at me, so
like an eclipse I blinded you.

We tumbled through the hills of hay,
honey, hunting halfheartedly for -
a needle, a thimble, a rag -
to wipe away your lazy eyes -
we were wishing wantonly that we
would not be pricked.

And then we heard the evening crickets,
honey, and knew the day was done, so -
I grew from the ground - like Narcissus -
whispering, where is your dark barn and
where are your needles nesting now?
why did you never sneeze?


-4/8/10

Sundial

His eyes burn first,
the sinner who incinerates himself,
and blackened corneas blind him to
the brevity of the flame.
It is a spontaneous combustion of sorts;
the brittle brush a little too dry,
the coals too covert to quench.
Next the hands are eaten by orange,
and then the body, and then
the heart, a festering flame like
a sleeping star, or a campfire,
a cannibal campfire. It casts
dancing shadows, the kind that seem
larger than they are...and all at once,
he sees through scintillating eyes:
they are not the silhouettes of a
monster, but merely - a sundial -
orienting him away from history.

-4/6/10