Observations

[Wyvern]

3/10/04

 

A little black boy,

slamming his worn Reeboks onto iron Subway grids

every time he marches over one on the pavement.

Is he signalling a proud plumber morse code,

or wearing out his shoes in the hopes of avoiding

the next sneaker shooting?

 

A small tumbleweed of grayish hair

rests quietly at the top of the professors loosely buttoned shirt

as a girl in the first row eagerly raises her hand

to ask about the open sexuality of Whitman's Leaves of Grass.

 

It's only been two stanzas, and I've already cheated.

That last image was not today's, it was a different week,

midterm review class, March something... fifth?

The scene lingered, so I thought I'd share it.

 

See the Chick-Fil-A chef.

See the Chick-Fil-A chef serve.

See the outfit that the Chick-Fil-A chef wears:

a classic white chef smock which contrasts

with the hue of her skin.

Still, not as dark as other chefs

who, flocked like cattle,

also serve at meal stations.

See the supervisor, his white skin gleaming with pride,

as he oversees the cafeteria-plantation.

 

The teacher's stuttered slurs finally break the silence

as students are invited to leave fifteen minutes early for break,

but hesitation looms as the disappointment in his tone

screams "Why can't you just read the material for once?!"

[Appy]

initial reaction: Lovely

 

Catchy, honest but/and thought-provoking... Lovely

 

Thanks

[Wyvern]

3/12/04

 

A panoramic visual from my line of sight,

facing a crooked laptop screen:

 

0 degrees: a small clock,

nestled beside a music speaker,

its glow-in-the-dark hour arrow

aligned with a luminous minute pole.

Both facing the 1 mark, turning from the

Swiss Army logo of 12 O clock,

though by the time this is written

they've split into a mock triangle,

the hour hand desperatly reaching

to connect with the interval markers

that the minute pole always seems to touch.

On the outskirts of 8 and 9

rests a black alarm stick

which ruffles 8s head with its yellow tip.

It stretches alone, motionless,

though in 17 minutes

the minute pole will accompany it there

and break the time triangle it once attempted to form.

 

20 degrees: a piece of a stereo at eye level,

labeled "Deck 1," subtitled "playback,"

right beside the smokey, mascara red tapedeck.

A needlessly transparent unit

which, for all it's colorful pomposity,

has yet to ever touch a demo tape.

A few degrees to the left

stands a line of identical holes.

Thin and barely visible,

they spew heat like vomit

every time a note is read

off of a compact disc.

Above the holes rests

a tiny piece of styrofoam,

hopelessly stranded on

an Ocean of metalic silver.

 

The first six lines of that segment

were written at 1 AM

3/11/04, though that could be the 12th

depending on the way you seperate dates.

 

45 degrees: a remote control

lies in a pool of dust next to a music speaker.

Rarely touched, only fiddled with once,

it has never felt the comfort

of a set of double As.

Beside it is the knob

of a lamp, which radiates light

like a UFO that has landed

and signals to other saucers

through small, circular discs

surrounding it's cockpit.

The lamp head bulges with

three layers of fat

underneath the saucer knob,

until the mouth containing it's bulb

opens wide, and gives insects

an auditoriam for their last moments on Earth.

 

90 degrees: one half of a door

framed at the end of a short hall,

the other half blocked

by a parallel wardrobe

that sits close enough to touch.

At the foot of the wooden structure

lies one half of a trash bag,

the blues and reds of the boxes within it

cobwebbed by the cold gray of it's surface.

Far above the bag lie the points

of two Melody Record bags

curiously curving down towards the waste

and risking a sky dive.

 

Well, it looks like I lied again.

I promised a panorama, but only described objects.

[Yuki Kokoro]

First piece:

 

The first stanza was powerful and such a strong contrast between the two possibilities was thought-provoking. I really liked the conversational explanation in the third stanza as well.

 

The lines about the "Chick-Fil-A chef" read very oddly, but slowing down and taking the time to imagine them being said aloud helped. These lines surprised me: "See the supervisor, his white skin gleaming with pride/ as he oversees the cafeteria-plantation" it's intriguing to be given a scene then hearing a take on it I never would have thought of.

 

My favorite was definitely the last stanza though. "Hesitation looms as the disappointment in his tone screams 'Why can't you just read the material for once?!'" This is something my English teacher is going through as well, all the seniors are excited about our upcoming graduation and reading is being put by the wayside. Very nice job describing the aura created by that feeling.

 

 

Second piece:

 

This whole description seems so lonely. So many lines like:: "desperately reaching," "has yet to ever touch a demo tape," "hopelessly stranded," "rarely touched, only fiddled with once," and, "cold gray of it's surface". Right down to "Well, it looks like I lied again" this whole poem seems... at least melancholy, but I think the tone is more sad.

 

A tiny piece of styrofoam,

hopelessly stranded on

an Ocean of metallic silver

and

A needlessly transparent unit

which, for all it's colorful pomposity,

has yet to ever touch a demo tape

were my favorite visuals.

 

This was interesting. More of a dialogue/description than a poem, especially with the reference to when the lines were written. It was almost a shock to be pulled out of the description so suddenly like that, you did such a good job bringing the reader into the room.

 

 

Nice job overall with both of these, it was cool to see some pieces so stylistically different.

 

*yawns and wanders off to bed as her brain fries*

[Wyvern]

3/14/04

 

Yesterday, on the train to Silver Spring,

I met one of those

communicative oddities.

Former art history/sociology major,

with deep-rimmed glasses, short hair,

and probably thirty years to

endlessly chat about.

I first caught her

exchanging sentences with an old man

three seats behind her,

seperate by three feet, two unfamiliar

yet intimate strangers.

After the man fell silent,

a young black woman boarded and sat next to her,

sparking another curious discourse.

She spoke on discrimination, and the social justifications

for hatred,

as if she had previously worn the skin

of her victim.

She then told jokes about dead nuns

while I sat in a seat opposite from her,

and blankly stared at passing scenary.

 

I tried not to tear my eyes

from the grafittied walls and passing lots,

but then left observations

for interactions.

 

"So you're a sociology major?"

"Former art history/sociology, I teach at Catholic school."

"I'm writing these poems called 'Observations'

and am interested about how

you can be so openly social."

"Well, my mother is Irish."

"I mean, I'm pretty reserved myself, so-"

"Well, that's natural. What's your nationality?"

"I'm from Calif-"

"No, I mean like your parents."

"Well, my mother is Russian."

 

I can't do the conversation justice here,

but I will tell you these lines:

the former sociology major turned to me

with her deep rimmed glasses and Catholic beliefs

and calmly explained to me that

"Russians are more reserved."

 

---

 

An uplifting gospel from a church lit like fireflies

is drowned by the abrasive flatulence

of a cargo horn's low echo.

[Vigil StarGazer]

* You see a Squirrel perching on Wyvern's shoulder wearing his cap backward and his his jeans hang loose. The furry thing spat on his paws as Wyvern (wearing gold chains and shades) continue his rapping. Besides wyvern's feet laid a sign that says "Will Rap for Geld" *

[Wyvern]

some month/ some day/ some year

 

Today, you turned on your computer

and decided to visit the Mighty Pen website

where this thread of "poetry" and responses

happens to be located.

Did the tiny Quill image next to the title

pique your curiousity, or was this entry

reached in a random browse?

 

How does it feel to be observed?

 

And why shouldn't you be as important

as the noises that choirs and sneakers make,

as the ceaseless tongues of metro strangers

and outfits of campus chefs?

You are just as central, more central still.

You, the purpose behind all poetry,

the meaning behind the typing of every word.

 

Omnipresent, you watch,

and occasionally "speak" through writing,

distant and powerful,

repressively supportive.

 

Let me briefly pause here

and use this part of the poem

to thank people for their comments.

Every response expands upon the poem itself

with observations of observations.

 

You, the meaning behind the typing of every word.

You, the meaning behind everything.

[The Portrait of Zool]

The rubber chicken has no name.

[Peredhil]

Nods as he listens to the sound of one geld with interest.

 

You have a knack of encapsulating the "feel" of the scenes with broad strokes of your pen.

[Wyvern]

3/25-28/04

 

"You're worser than the white man!"

screams the hobbling bundle of rags,

aiming his rant up the sunlit street

towards a silent man,

walking steadily, slowly,

quietly wishing he were deaf,

his dark brown hand cradling

a clinking yellow bag of change

in a confused mixture

of casual comfort and nervous anxiety.

A leather jacket carried in his

other hand seems to tremble

as the rants grow louder, until finally

he grimaces and tosses the jacket

with all of his might, towards his

verbal abuser,

who, ignoring the gesture,

hoarsely yells over

angered spittle and distant sirens:

"Worser than the white man!

You- I bought every one of them clothes on your back!"

 

Borders Books basement - CD section,

a man with a loose head of bald spots,

a weary complexion and a leather jacket

asks, no, pleads to a cheerful woman

at the information counter

for a disc to get his daughter,

hoping for a moment of insight, more than just

a potential gift.

"Something non-vulgar,

non-offensive, innocent."

he repeats, squawking like a parrot

choking on a piece of it's cracker.

"... that she'll like" is added as an afterthought

as the woman smiles and nods

and directs him towards the Cheetah Girl albums

in the Disney section.

Listening to her suggestions,

the man lets out a brief guffaw...

the only means of expressing

his hidden disappointment

at knowing more about his daughter

than he ever cared to admit.

 

Leafing through an "A" research project

containing sixteen articles,

the teacher turns to the last student handing one in

and asks "How many articles?"

"Eight." he replies flatly, bundling the pages together,

and organizing them neatly.

The teacher is silent for a moment, then is about to speak up

when the student firmly plants the pages on her desk.

"Hey!" he says. "I did eight articles."

and with that, he proudly walks away.

[Wyvern]

5/22/04

 

"The Worse Lines of This Collection as of 5/22/04"

A short poem by Evan Litwack, presented in a series of adjective trifecta.

 

"The scene lingered, so I thought I'd share it."

Arrogant, cocky, vain.

 

"Far above the bag lie the points

of two Melody Record bags

curiously curving down towards the waste

and risking a sky dive."

Meaningless, empty, blank.

 

"I tried not to tear my eyes

from the grafittied walls and passing lots,

but then left observations

for interactions."

Self-centered, pompous, void.

 

"You, the purpose behind all poetry,

the meaning behind the typing of every word."

Generic, cliched, broad.

 

"You- I bought every one of them clothes on your back!"

Purposeless, hollow, vague.

 

None stoop to the lows of "Diamond,"

or wallow in the shallowness of "Intentions,"

so there are worse still.

Unless, of course, this poem is the worse;

a stranglehold, a noose of inspiration,

tightly knit through self-depreciation.

[Wyvern]

8/17-21/03

 

Initials carved into twilight shorelines

wash away with heightened tides

as girlish echoes are lost

to roars of waves and purple canvases of sky.

Photographs depict a blur,

a darkened mirage of time.

 

Can memories overcome the lie?

 

-

 

How many hornets does it take

to get to the center of a can of Mountain Dew?

Only one, providing you have a flat surface,

a hint of bravery, and a minute or two to kill.

There's a certain sadistic pleasure

in hearing those buzzes slowly fizz to a standstill

as a bug finds its final resting place

amongst the sources of its greed.

 

-

 

Silent eyes speak

California earthquakes of concern

as they vaguely focus on

a hazy strip of Sunset Boulevard.

 

Teriyaki sits

One thumb under, index up

Chopsticks in motion.

 

-

 

Captain's Log:

communication successful.

Outhouse was reached with only minor static,

as the walkie-talky switched hands and Darth Vader breaths,

while that echo of a flushing toilet showed us all

that 'the force' is strong with our ally.

 

-

 

"Haha, that's quite a choice

for a verb ending in 'I-N-G.'

Can't share it here, unless you want this to go 'Scarlet.'

Maybe some synonym,

something less vulgar, more univeral..."

 

... loving?

[Ayshela]

How many hornets does it take

to get to the center of a can of Mountain Dew?

peals of laughter, mid-flashback to old commercial

brilliant, Wyv, absolutely brilliant!

 

i found myself snickering madly through most of this set, but stopped dead at

Silent eyes speak

California earthquakes of concern

this.. wow. that's a very vocal silence, to speak such upheavals of emotion. stunningly *right*.

[Yuki Kokoro]

I've missed a lot, and I think I'll celebrate my return by leaving comments on the "Observations" that struck me as the most interesting. My apologies for being so late in getting these to you.

 

You've developed quite the talent for capturing complex emotions with concrete descriptions. It really is amazing how much feeling 3/14/04 brings out when the impressions of the speaker (or describer?) are not mentioned. The reader gets to witness this event second-hand and have their own reaction to it. Since this is such a loaded conversation, my personal reaction was very strong. It's an interesting style, the reader’s response is lead by the narrative, but the details are so like witnessing the conversation the feelings can't help but be personal. I liked this one a lot.

 

The third observation for 3/25-28/04 was another one I really liked. The child's attitude just makes me smile. I actually feel proud of him, that he stands up and takes credit for what he did accomplish rather than listening to the teacher tell him what he didn't. It's a refreshing attitude, though it could be trouble over an extended period of time.

 

5/22/04 made me laugh, it reminds me of myself trying to start writing a poem. I really liked the last two lines: "a stranglehold, a noose of inspiration/ tightly knit through self-depreciation." Not only the meaning, but that rhyme just sounds cool.

 

The last poem of your last post made me think as well. That word and it's synonyms are all so loaded with connotations. As I read the last line my impression flashed from ironic to sad and back to ironic so quickly I had to go back to figure out what the middle feeling was. Not sure what to say about this one other than I enjoyed it and you know how to pick interesting Observations.

 

Keep it up!

[Wyvern]

8/26ish/04

 

A sweaty, black T-shirt

acquired from a hip hop performer

who read childrens books on stage,

and paraded his cock to whore attention.

His moniker is reflected upon mirrors and computer screens

once the monitor has gone blank:

"Dopestyle 1231." The one thousand, two hundred and thirty-first rapper

to not be able to count to four.

 

She rambles on about the Olympics,

Women's Beach Volleyball - Misty May and what's-her-name.

She shouts about how she became exhausted

simply watching the American team play on television

while vacationing at the beach.

She notes that Misty said something after winning a medal

about how the vibrant crowds gave her energy.

She sprinkles her phrases with cheap champagne

and scewers hints of denial with hateful tones

and sharpened corkscrew glances.

She constantly repeats the names of those listening

or those pretending to listen, clinging to "uh-huhs."

She inevitably participates in an Olympic exercise since

she makes sure that the meager spotlight

she sees is always specifically focussed

on her.

 

8/27ish/04

 

"Q & A"

 

What kind of poem starts with a question?

A questionable poem.

[Wyvern]

8/31/04

 

An old man with a white beard

remarks how beautiful the designs of the lines

on the machine that monitored his pulse looked

while his friends celebrate the fifth anniversary

of his last heart transplant.

He pays no attention, glued to his cell phone

like the middle aged man behind him,

like the young woman in front of him

concentrating on a dial tone,

like the couple sitting together, seperated

by a million miles in speech

in a metro car that rings with the bustling commotion

of private conversations.

 

Ethernet cards can be like elderly relatives

outdated, but felt when they pass away.

Or are they more like cases of puppy love?

Sedating your thoughts through a mirrored display

of emotion that eventually ventures above

reality's own disarray.

 

The headphone rings nestled in her pink hair

cause her arms to move and her head to sway.

Like an X-rated fantasy, excellent ecstasy

music causes her body to play.

 

This entry was written in a public setting

over jeers of drunken freshmen outdoors

providing an arrythmic background

for editting.

[Wyvern]

9/7 viewed from 12/04

 

A man fiddles with a small metalic circle

of knobs, numbers, and modern designs.

Innocent in appearence, a numeric gap

between 88.9 and 89.9

on the machines monitor sends him into fits.

He pleads to the people surrounding him

using excuses of manic depression and anxiety

in the hopes of somehow correcting

the problem; he is unable to operate

a machine that he himself owns.

So helpless, like the boy

with the red cord

connected to the back of his neck,

gaping blankly while standing too close

to the electric metro railing.

 

The window reflects her right bra strap.

Hazily suggestive, its flower designs glimmer

like blooming Foxgloves miraged by heat.

The strap carefully follows eyesight, centerstage,

its wildflowers outlined by the silver of

cloud linings, visible only by

the position of her arm

as it stretches to rest

on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her.

 

An old man hides his face in the funny pages

as a group of young black women

seat themselves in the area in front of him.

Short by one seat, they dismiss the open space

beside him, and instead opt for a seat behind him,

jeering and exchanging jokes about the thought

of sitting next to him

as he desperatly attempts to bury their humor

in The Boondocks.