Elegy For the Native Guards
Natasha Trethewey
We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead
trailing the boat-streamers, noisy fanfare-
all the way to Ship Island. What we see
first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee-
half reminder of the men who served there-
a weathered monument to some of the dead.
Inside we follow the ranger, hurried
though we are to get to the beach. He tells
of graves lost in the Gulf, the island split
in half when Hurricane Camille hit,
shows us casemates, cannons, the store that sells
souvenirs, tokens of history long buried.
The Daughters of the Confederacy
has placed a plaque here, at the fort's entrance-
each Confederate soldier's name raised hard
in bronze; no names carved for the Native Guards-
2nd Regiment, Union men, black phalanx.
What is monument to their legacy?
All the grave markers, all the crude headstones-
water-lost. Now fish dart among their bones,
and we listen for what the waves intone.
Only the fort remains, near forty feet high,
round, unfinished, half open to the sky,
the elements-wind, rain-God's deliberate eye.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The boys left the fountain around dusk, I watched
as they mulled away from the town square, down
the hill to where the sidewalk met the creek,
and crumbled into the sand and glass of the water’s
edge. The fountain churned up bubbles like an overloaded
washing machine, the Indian in the center was dressed
in layers of of black and gold crate paper: school colors
of the Blackriver Pirates. From the window of the pizzaria
I noticed the Indian was more then cemented to the water,
but to monumuent that he didn’t realize was himself.
Robins fluttered the paper, one perched atop the headdress
while the storefronts dimmed causing a smolder
of tangled light on the bubbles that cascaded over the lip
of stone circling the base. Last week, we learned in school
that Iroquois means People of the Longhouse. In the winter
they made fishing holes in the ice, sometimes catching nothing
for weeks. Boys in the tribe were made to dive into the water
if they can’t produce fish for their families: for those who waited
in the longhouse. I wonder if the Indian welcomes those boys
with their soap. Does he tell them, when they are all alone,
they must dive into the creek where the sidewalk crumbles,
to clean off after the hunt, that everything water touches is legacy.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Junkyard quotes 1-5, Week 8
"Edit your Consciousness"
-title of photograph
"Spray to forget, Shake well."
-text inside same photograph
"So we must dig and delve unceasingly."
-Claude Monet
"The condo’s walls are yellow and blue, the furniture is made of wicker, there are pillows and seashells. There are tall, sprawling bougainvillea bushes along the side of the road."
"On the rare occasion when they disagree about something..."
-article in The New Yorker
"Somewhere in my past, something had gone wrong for me…"
“A grilled cheese sandwich was returned tonight."
-Saïd Sayrafiezadeh
"There are only certain types of Willow that are good for weaving and they need to be collected in the winter if possible, when the sap levels are low and the shoots are free of leaves."
-instructions for basic basket weaving
-title of photograph
"Spray to forget, Shake well."
-text inside same photograph
"So we must dig and delve unceasingly."
-Claude Monet
"The condo’s walls are yellow and blue, the furniture is made of wicker, there are pillows and seashells. There are tall, sprawling bougainvillea bushes along the side of the road."
"On the rare occasion when they disagree about something..."
-article in The New Yorker
"Somewhere in my past, something had gone wrong for me…"
“A grilled cheese sandwich was returned tonight."
-Saïd Sayrafiezadeh
"There are only certain types of Willow that are good for weaving and they need to be collected in the winter if possible, when the sap levels are low and the shoots are free of leaves."
-instructions for basic basket weaving
Improv 1, Week 8
At Dusk
Natasha Trethewey
"It's as if she can't decide
whether to leap over the low hedge,
the neat rows of flowers, and bound
onto the porch, into the steady cirlce
of light, or stay where she is: luminous
possibility-all that would keep her
away from home-flitting before her" (lines 13-19).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s as if she can’t decide whether to wear stockings
wrapped around her head or silk ascot with a pewter pin.
The stockings fur up with gray cat hair, so she decides
to go for the knee-length kimono, which really is the best
costume for the day. We have reached four days of warm,
she says, but the cards call for the start of anatomy to bloom
again. History be told, she knows little of independence,
even in July there weighs a bold sense of porch swings
never left or barely deserted. Today it’s a lime-colored blouse
that drapes the curves of her neck, pressing to the folds
of her ears. The tweet of crickets envelopes her childhood
home, which she stands in now, both old as the rust
that crawls over the brass doorknobs. Yesterday
was only dress rehearsal, costume changes with drawers
full of scarves, brooches, minks, all waiting for her,
the one to bring sitting into standing and silence to parade.
Natasha Trethewey
"It's as if she can't decide
whether to leap over the low hedge,
the neat rows of flowers, and bound
onto the porch, into the steady cirlce
of light, or stay where she is: luminous
possibility-all that would keep her
away from home-flitting before her" (lines 13-19).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s as if she can’t decide whether to wear stockings
wrapped around her head or silk ascot with a pewter pin.
The stockings fur up with gray cat hair, so she decides
to go for the knee-length kimono, which really is the best
costume for the day. We have reached four days of warm,
she says, but the cards call for the start of anatomy to bloom
again. History be told, she knows little of independence,
even in July there weighs a bold sense of porch swings
never left or barely deserted. Today it’s a lime-colored blouse
that drapes the curves of her neck, pressing to the folds
of her ears. The tweet of crickets envelopes her childhood
home, which she stands in now, both old as the rust
that crawls over the brass doorknobs. Yesterday
was only dress rehearsal, costume changes with drawers
full of scarves, brooches, minks, all waiting for her,
the one to bring sitting into standing and silence to parade.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 7
You rise thick as fog and I knew
nothing of that secret you held in your hand.
My father said it was a tin cup
but I have my doubts about its origins.
Once during harvest time
when the room smelt crisp with apples
and it was time for me to say goodbye.
I, full of the most childish aplomb, lept
to your cheek for a kiss. A smile
overtook your face as red came
to mine for the act which I realized
I had never attempted before,
a kiss for you, my grandfather.
nothing of that secret you held in your hand.
My father said it was a tin cup
but I have my doubts about its origins.
Once during harvest time
when the room smelt crisp with apples
and it was time for me to say goodbye.
I, full of the most childish aplomb, lept
to your cheek for a kiss. A smile
overtook your face as red came
to mine for the act which I realized
I had never attempted before,
a kiss for you, my grandfather.
Stratgey Response, Week 7
One element of Sandra Meeks’ poetry that caught my attention right from the start is the fact that she uses no punctuation throughout her entire collection, Biogeography. Looking these phenomena I could not help but think of two things, Derek Walcott’s Sabbaths W.I. and the title of Meeks’ collection containing the word geography. The two, Walcott and geography go hand and hand, so I began to wonder what Meeks’ was playing with here by pairing the ideas of location and the lack of terminal punctuation in her poems. Also, I began to wonder if she is perhaps engaging in a realized or unconscious poetical conversation with Walcott. Looking mainly at the text for memorization this week, “Mapping the Drift,” I began to examine the title and its interesting denotation of locating, or mapping, a divide, or drift. Clearly this plays along with Meeks’ collection in terms of how she is using, or not using, punctuation. Meeks partaking in a schism from traditional poetic convention in grammar by choosing to not use terminal punctuation; yet her collection stands as a location, or a map, of where this divide is taking place. The poem(s) ironically locate the absence. And in “Mapping the Drift” in particular there are numerous actual locations named: southern colonists, America, Carolina, Oklahoma, the South, etc. Also, the poem begins with the phrase, “By law,” which clearly Meeks is playing around with the ideas of poetic governs, because she is not following traditional grammar laws. I began to wonder if Meeks was taking a cue from Walcott and using the internal textual presence of landscape to stand in as a form of punctuation. I question this because Meeks’ use of geography does not frequent as often in the poem as Walcott; maybe it is more inclusive in the overall collection then in each individual poem. Meeks’ collection is also contains the word bio, as in biological, and is similar to Walcott internal play of punctuation through landscape markers. Possible essay idea here? Needs time for further exploration.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Improv 2, Week 7
Astraphobia (selection)
Sandra Meeks
I play the recorded storm each day notched higher
for the dog thunder sends crashing through window blinds'
contrived calm, horizon strung again and again
against our view. Terror must be erased
by the distilled music of terror. The president say terror
twenty-nine times in his speech. Lines in the sand multiply
across the desert's wrist, the typical become beautiful
as electric light born in glass fist's crosshairs
at the flick of a switch--
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trigger the sound of moist roots that stretch like teeth,
play the recording of this sound under a park bridge, to hear
the tone as the pulling of bark elongates like Jersey
taffy. The music will be bitter as if sucking on a tarnished penny,
but these instructions find agreement with the weather,
aligned with Almanac exactness. Roots extend every three
years, growing tall like the tooth of a good lie. Goodness
and badness are really just the same, it’s just which is preferable.
A bad root narrows instead of widening–-
emits a darker pitch that sticks to the teeth of animals
when licked, sometimes shocking them into tasting
other roots, not sweet but rather like a sour walnut
from last year’s harvest. Animals make room
for flavors of doubt, using the memories of a bad lick
as currency for next winter’s gather. Sometimes in the park
they can hear the orchestra of roots and wonder
what is more preferable: the sour rhythm of earth
shifting or the din it makes on the bridge’s steel beams?
Sandra Meeks
I play the recorded storm each day notched higher
for the dog thunder sends crashing through window blinds'
contrived calm, horizon strung again and again
against our view. Terror must be erased
by the distilled music of terror. The president say terror
twenty-nine times in his speech. Lines in the sand multiply
across the desert's wrist, the typical become beautiful
as electric light born in glass fist's crosshairs
at the flick of a switch--
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trigger the sound of moist roots that stretch like teeth,
play the recording of this sound under a park bridge, to hear
the tone as the pulling of bark elongates like Jersey
taffy. The music will be bitter as if sucking on a tarnished penny,
but these instructions find agreement with the weather,
aligned with Almanac exactness. Roots extend every three
years, growing tall like the tooth of a good lie. Goodness
and badness are really just the same, it’s just which is preferable.
A bad root narrows instead of widening–-
emits a darker pitch that sticks to the teeth of animals
when licked, sometimes shocking them into tasting
other roots, not sweet but rather like a sour walnut
from last year’s harvest. Animals make room
for flavors of doubt, using the memories of a bad lick
as currency for next winter’s gather. Sometimes in the park
they can hear the orchestra of roots and wonder
what is more preferable: the sour rhythm of earth
shifting or the din it makes on the bridge’s steel beams?
Improv 1, Week 7
Mapping the Drift (selection)
Sandra Meeks
By law, southern colonists raised mulberries, a sheen
silkworms spun to sleek winding cloths,
body casings unraveled to thread
women wove to clothe children now woven
into this earth sprouting shepherd’s purse, beggarweed,
evening primrose a green an anole, American
chameleon, has matched exactly, the hunt a stillness
sculpting him as second stem until, crossing
so easily into a predicted future, he darkens
to burnt umber, shade of the dying doveweed
he steps onto, disappearing once more
into this battlefield where I’ve traced myself
back to the great-great-great-great Carolina
grandfather who fought among the ancestors
of these blighted pines. Don’t we all long
to become the view?
--------------------------------------------------------
I’ve traced myself: flat-footed and drunk
in my grandmother’s wedding dress. I circle
on the wall the white doll’s pointy elbows
and I smudge a basting of mulberries on its cheeks.
I draw an arrow to each scar and label history,
poison oak from trunk of dogwood, corner of armrest
on hotel lobby chair, patch of briars during 7th grade
hike. I follow the wall to the one arm that shortens
a bit more than the other, ending at the wrist,
tractor explosion at county fair. On that day
two 4-H boys were passing out jars of mulberries,
and the crowd shrieked, after the smoke lifted,
to find them smeared in berry. My grandmother
used to always answer the door in her silk nightgown,
certain the visitor would always be her lover.
She pinned my hair back for me everyday
when I lost my hand. Now she is blind as my left set
of fingers, always searching for a stranger
to gasp and ask, can you see me?
Sandra Meeks
By law, southern colonists raised mulberries, a sheen
silkworms spun to sleek winding cloths,
body casings unraveled to thread
women wove to clothe children now woven
into this earth sprouting shepherd’s purse, beggarweed,
evening primrose a green an anole, American
chameleon, has matched exactly, the hunt a stillness
sculpting him as second stem until, crossing
so easily into a predicted future, he darkens
to burnt umber, shade of the dying doveweed
he steps onto, disappearing once more
into this battlefield where I’ve traced myself
back to the great-great-great-great Carolina
grandfather who fought among the ancestors
of these blighted pines. Don’t we all long
to become the view?
--------------------------------------------------------
I’ve traced myself: flat-footed and drunk
in my grandmother’s wedding dress. I circle
on the wall the white doll’s pointy elbows
and I smudge a basting of mulberries on its cheeks.
I draw an arrow to each scar and label history,
poison oak from trunk of dogwood, corner of armrest
on hotel lobby chair, patch of briars during 7th grade
hike. I follow the wall to the one arm that shortens
a bit more than the other, ending at the wrist,
tractor explosion at county fair. On that day
two 4-H boys were passing out jars of mulberries,
and the crowd shrieked, after the smoke lifted,
to find them smeared in berry. My grandmother
used to always answer the door in her silk nightgown,
certain the visitor would always be her lover.
She pinned my hair back for me everyday
when I lost my hand. Now she is blind as my left set
of fingers, always searching for a stranger
to gasp and ask, can you see me?
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