poetry

If you are like me - and I know I am - then you know that when the creative urge strikes, it doesn't always come hand-in-hand with ideas. You know you want to do...SOMETHING... but have no idea what that thing is. Much like the adrenaline high of a sudden scare which leads nowhere, the creative juices which were so powerful in the morning sit unused, and gradually sour into an afternoon of sitting fatassedly on the couch, watching television.

While browsing through Wikipedia the other day in the grip of post-urge ennui, I realized that the "On this day..." link on the right side of Wikipedia's main page is a treasure trove of disparate events, united by the theme of having happened on this particular date, offset by a certain number of years. What if someone was to take a random-ish handful of the events which happened on a day, and from them construct a story, or a poem, or the plot to an adventure game? I tend to look at things through the lens of a semi-practicing Buddhist, so the idea of cycles and recurrence appeals to me, and the filter of requiring a specific date makes the data set manageable - it provides the constraint which helps stave off the onset of option paralysis.

Putting this idea into practice, look at the page for September 25. A lot happened on this date in history. Here is a (very) small sample:

275-Tacitus becomes Emperor of Rome.
1513-Balboa reaches the Pacific Ocean.
1775-Ethan Allen surrenders to the British.
1789-Creation of the Bill of Rights.
1972-Norway rejects membership of the European Union.
2008-China launches the spacecraft Shenzhou 7.

Fletcher Christian was born in 1764, Lu Xun in 1881, and Catherine Zeta-Jones in 1969.

Johannes Secundus died in 1536, Pope Clement VII in 1534, and George Plimpton in 2003.

Coincidence? I THINK NOT!!!

But you can see where I am going with this. Narrative frameworks could be constructed which follow specific threads or sub-filters of the information on that page - say, only the events which are political in nature, or only the deaths of artists, or only the births which happened in years evenly divisible by 10. Start with a set of disjointed data. Apply an arbitrary filter. Come up with a loose narrative which allows for a significant number of the events in the filtered set. Apply a second filter. Tighten the narrative. A third filter. Now the narrative either falls apart, or contains within it the seeds of a story.

While it can be difficult to pull a complete story out of such an exercise, it can provide the seed of something much more complex. Or, perhaps there is a poem somewhere in the mix. Or the framing story of a game. Or even a film script.

At its simplest, constructing a coherent story from such an arbitrary list of data is a good thought experiment. With National Novel Writing Month starting in a few days this could be the seed of something amazing.

"Oh," says Red Molly to James, "That's a fine motorbike.
A girl could feel special on any such like"
Says James to Red Molly, "My hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952.
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme."
And he pulled her on behind and down to Boxhill they did ride

"Oh," says James to Red Molly, "Here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man.
For I've fought with the law since I was seventeen,
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine.
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you.
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride."

"Come down, come down, Red Molly," called Sergeant McRae
"For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery.
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside.
Oh come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside."
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
He said, "I'll give you my Vincent to ride."

Says James, "In my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a '52 Vincent and a red headed girl.
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeves won't do,
Ah, they don't have a soul like a Vincent 52."
Oh he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
Said, "I've got no further use for these.
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home."
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride.

Richard Thompson
1952 Vincent Black Lightning

I began to read Jim Harrison when one of my college professors came in to the bookstore to pick up a copy of Wolf . This was about the time that the movie of the same name , written by the same author, but having nothing to do with the book, was in the theaters.

So, being fresh enough out of college that I still wanted to read everything the professors were reading, I picked it up. Since then I have read just about everything Harrison has written, and even attempted to read things others have written about him. The latter tend to be kind of shallow and boring. There are two collections of his articles and essays currently in print, and some collections which contain his work.

Harrison has a new book out - a conversation in verse with longtime friend Ted Kooser, called Braided River . The conversation takes the form of short verses - three to six lines, usually, which can easily be imagined scribbled on the back of postcards in the midst of cross-country drives. The tone of the verses, which alternate between Harrison and Kooser, feels like gentle jazz riffs on traditional haiku:

We flap our gums, our wattles, our
featherless wings in non-native air
to avoid being planted in earth,
watching the bellies of passing birds.

On its stand on the empty stage
the tuba with its big brass ear
enjoys the silence

The verses alternate between authors, but there is no mention of who wrote what. The back cover of the book says When asked about attributions for the individual poems, one of them replied, "Everyone gets tired of of this continuing cult of the personality... This book is an assertion in favor of poetry and against credentials."

Having not yet read any of Kooser's individual work I can't say for certain which verses are his, but many of Harrison's are obvious, and read like inside jokes to his old friend.

Braided Creek is a thoroughly enjoyable read. With so much of what is published today relying on pop culture references and turgid vocabularies, the simple, real verses within are a refreshing change, like cold water on a sunburned scalp.

The one-eyed man must be fearful
of being taken for a birdhouse.

What is it the wind has lost
that she keeps looking for
under each leaf?

To have reverence for life
you must have reverence for death.
The dogs we love are not taken from us
but leave when summoned by the gods.