Kai Davis

Love this poet so much

Proposal

Sarah Coleman

Mr. Wensman

Poetry

12/3/13

Topic Proposal

Chapbook/Painting

     I’m very interested in doing the feminist chapbook. I have several poems that I would be willing to contribute that I think would be interesting when combined with other feminist poetry done by other class members. As an alternative/additive, as a personal project I was thinking that I could combine a feminist poem that I’ve written or could write with a watercolor painting. Just a full ink and watercolor artistic piece to build off of and connect with my poem.

Su Smallen and Tom Hennen

Two weeks ago (November 19th to be exact), I headed over to Common Good Books to listen to a poetry reading by Su Smallen and Tom Hennen. Both were showcasing their most recent books, "Buddha, Proof" and "Darkness Sticks to Everything", respectively.

 

The first to read from her new book was Ms. Smallen, where she jumped into her poems right away. Each one was centered around Buddha as an every day average guy. The first poem she read from was entitled "Buddha, Barbie", and depicted a friendship between Buddha and a Barbie doll as if she were a real person. Smallen described how Buddha would teach Barbie to meditate, while she would train him in a workout class. The poem discussed how unsettling it was to be in the others realm but how they secretly longed for the others life style. Many of the poem depicted Buddha as an average Joe while still incorporating Buddhist philosophies and beliefs. One poem exemplifies this, entitled "Buddha, Target". It discusses how although Buddhism emphasizes that suffering comes from material desires, Target is still full of such amazing, wonderful things to buy. Two of my favorite poems that Smallen read were entitled "Buddha, Butterfly" and "Buddha, Cheerios", which drifted away from the more playful tone present in the rest of her poems.

The tone of the poems are very different from each other. In "Buddha, Butterfly" I was particularly intrigued by the image of a "storm-proof butterfly". The idea of Buddha holding up a little monarch butterfly and sheltering him from the rain is both comforting and endearing. On the other hand, "Buddha, Cheerios" is much darker. It contrasts the significance of cheerios for these two children, one associating it with bird noises and her fathers face, the other with the recent death of his dog. As Buddha pours the cereal into his bowl, Smallen describes the Cheerios as "small wheels of joy and suffering" that land in the bowl and "nestle in its emptiness", all qualities in Buddhist philosophy.

I was a fan of Su Smallen's presentation. Her voice was soft and light, almost like she was telling a story to a group of elementary school kids, but not demeaning. It was almost nostalgic, simple stories being read to you about Buddha at a baseball game or in Las Vegas with Barbie, but all with underlying Buddhist messages. Even in the darker, sadder poems like "Buddha, Cheerios", they poems were still very nice to listen, and the darker poems actually worked well to bring a mix of differently toned poems to the book.

Next to read was Tom Hennen, who I immediately liked as soon as he stepped up to the podium. He introduced his poems as being about the country and the prairie where he spent a lot of his time while working. There were so many lines that resonated with me, and his soft, outdoorsy old guy voice added to the whole experience. Before some of the poems, he would add little anecdotes, about where the inspiration for a certain poem had come from or what memory of being out on the prairie had spurred him to write the poem. In one poem, he described a bird as having "wings thin as gold foil" which struck up a beautiful image for me. The same feeling arose after his line, "The Minnesota prairie has never heard of free will". His descriptions of the prairie and of the Minnesota landscape, especially in winter, is very brief and simple, but gets right down to the heart of what the experience is like. Two of my absolute favorite poems were "Finding Horse Skulls on a Day That Smelled of Flowers" and "When Storms Come".

 

I loved the poem about horse skulls, even though it was such a simple poem. The line "The other one I didn't move" really resonated with me. It reminded me of the refusal to disturb a grave site, yet with overturning the first skull, it reveals the life that continues on. I also really enjoyed the lines "Making the scent of the earth visible" and "As though the horses were dreaming in the spring afternoon". They are such unusual ways of describing a horse skull in the sun and the grass growing around it, and yet it makes perfect sense. These two lines are great examples of what I love about Hennen's poetry. In the second poem, "When Storms Come", my favorite part of this whole prose poem is definitely the last line: "In the barn doorway we don't move, thinking we won't be seen, while the earth rocks, and the lightening seeks to touch--like a tap on the shoulder--its next partner for the dance." I love the way that Hennen describes the lightening as if tapping the earth's shoulder to ask it to join it on the dance floor. It gives the lightening a gentlemanly quality, not often seen when describing lightening; usually lightening is described in a wild and crazy way, but Hennen takes it in the other direction. Another line I really liked was: "Then all the things made by humans become small, and all the things we have learned take up almost no room at all." He describes the feeling so many have when standing in awe of nature. There is this moment where you are so infinitesimally small and brief, as quick here and gone as the lightening flash is.

At the end of the session, Su and Tom described how they got their inspiration to write poetry. Su said that in grad school she was given an assignment to write about two things next to each other on a big wheel, one of which was Buddha. Tom told the audience how he would do field research and work from spring until fall on the prairie, before being laid off in the winter where he would write poems based on his experiences he had written down in his journal.

I also found it sweet how, at the beginning of her presentation, Su and Tom had met each other through their dogs wanting to be friends and through the mutual love of their pets, but hadn't known that the other person was a poet. It wasn't till later while chatting that they had more in common than just their dogs. I loved how in real life these two poets are very good friends. 

I would highly recommend both Su Smallen and Tom Hennen to anyone with even the slightest interest in poetry. Su's is more lighthearted and central to a main theme of Buddha and Buddhism in everyday situations. Tom's focuses more on nature and life on the Minnesota prairie, a lot of it taking place in winter, and will really resonate with any Minnesotan.  This is the kind of poetry that is really accessible by anyone. It's simple, but powerful, and very enjoyable to read and listen to. I would highly recommend both of these poets to anyone, even if they're just getting into the world of poetry.

Literary

The paper and ink smell that has soaked into the air
Casts a drunken spell on the readers folded between the bookshelves,
Hermits from reality that seek refuge between hardcovers.
These havens are proof of multiple dimensions, separate universes
In every thick stack of paper. These unopened books
That bloom open like chrysanthemums, spines cracking like knuckles
Shimmering black letters that run along the creamy white, the footprints
Of ideas passing through, like deer tracks in fresh snow.
Utter silence fills the room as every one is lost
For words, replacing blood with ink.

Night Driver

I find that there is nothing better than late night driving.
Passing silently through darkened streets,
The streetlamps glowing like sickly stars among the
Bare-bone branches of the boulevard oaks.
Passing through the silky darkness, stopped
At empty intersections, alone
Like a trespasser in a long forgotten ghost town.
The inky darkness stained by light pollution
From city lights sprawled in blankets across the landscape,
The intended black-navy turned a purple-orange like it was
Washed with bleach by accident.
Whistling through these streets, passing houses full
Of frozen dreamers waiting for morning.

Venus de Milo

I hate the feeling of lip gloss.

The grainy, sticky ooze dyed synthetic pinks and reds,

The corn syrup consistency smacks when I speak—

So I keep my mouth shut.

I cringe to apply mascara, this thick gunk

That turns my soft lashes to dark rigid twigs,

The globs between them that stick and pull when I blink—

So I keep my eyes closed.

I struggle to squeeze into the jeans that all seem to come

In the size “extra-extra tight”, denim boa constrictors

That cut off my circulation when I bend my knee—

So I sit still.

I am this statue, silent and frozen,

And apparently,

That makes me beautiful.

Beautiful Girl

Beautiful Girl

I am beautiful.

Bones of chalky ivory with delicate dips and slopes

Like tiny snow-covered prairies. These pearly branches

Tied up with ligaments and swaddled in muscle, all of it

Glazed in pale pink satin. My heartbeat pulses beneath my neck

In time with the rise and fall of my ribs.

This organic machine is delicate, like stained glass

Windows or china teacups.

I’m built to break.

Layers of skin stolen by the sidewalk and asphalt,

Cuts that sew themselves up and leave scars,

Post it note reminders of my fragility.

Bruises tinted purple, blues, yellows and greens,

Like minute nebulas leaked beneath my skin.

Chemicals that whirl in my brain in mad patterns,

Exploding in clouds like ink droplets in water,

Wild and crazy and imbalanced, reminding me

How shattered I can be.

Muscles that twist and knot, tear and pull

Until they ache and quiver and burn.

But I heal, and so I am beautiful.

Aren’t I?

Or is my beauty to be based on my compliance,

The exploitation of my delicacy,

The curvature of my body rather than

The curvature of my battle scars.

Perhaps the beauty is in the symmetry of my face,

The proportion of my bones and tissues,

My angles and contours in all the right places.

Maybe my beauty is in the cadence of my voice,

Soft and lilting, never questioning.

 Possibly the allure is in the red of my lips,

The brightness of my eyes, or the rosiness of my cheeks;

Maybe it’s measured by the length of my eyelashes?

It could be that I’m beautiful when I smile and giggle

At the jokes someone else makes.

Maybe I’m beautiful when someone tells me I am.

Or maybe that’s bullshit.

Perhaps I am beautiful in my humanness,

My ability to think and breathe and curse,

The fact that my heart beats so rhythmically

And my synapses fire so gracefully

And I push forward so powerfully,

The fact that I get slashed and the wound seals up like an envelope.

Maybe I’ve learned that I am beautiful by existing,

And no one can cut me down when I always grow back,

When I always heal even if I’m built to break.

The scorched summer concrete used to burn and scrape my feet.

“Don’t worry,” Mama said. “When you’re old like me

And your feet are thick and calloused it won’t hurt anymore.”

Now my feet are calloused and I can’t feel a thing.