Friday, June 25, 2004
Future-trauma
This summer even so innocent contains too few days in which to decide in tandem with Amanda what to do with the next phase of our lives together. While the idea of writing for two/three years for an MFA in poetry is one of my better dreams, it's the most indulgent and the most selfish. It's also the least pragmatic. And besides, I'll always write anyway. There are so many bad poems out there, even in books. Especially in books. People know people, want them to get a start, connections are milked, standards of art get blurry. I'll still always write, I've promised.
Remaining options: PhD in Literature, Cultural/Media Studies, or some other related area, or MAT and a career of high school English, or stay in the boarding school circuit. We both want to pursue graduate learning. Why not do it now?
So, today I've started moving again. I'm signing up for the GRE General Test and the GRE Subject Test in English. The GRE ST in English is 230 multiple choix questions covering everything from factual knowledge of the major literary movements to the different modes of criticism to your ability as a critical reader. On the site, they apologise for having to assess these abilities with a MC format, but it's the only way they claim to pull it off, I guess.
Questions: am I even ready for graduate study? I feel I've still been learning and growing as a student of language and literature (of ideas) because I've had to teach it to 14-18 year olds for two school years. But if I'm smarter than I was when I graduate from Colgate in 2002, won't I be even more prepared for grad school after two more years of teaching? The crushing talk I had with Prof. Coyle in the Fall of 2001 keeps popping me out of confidence. What haven't I read? How unprepared would I be if I stepped into a class tomorrow?
I know I'm a better writer, by far, than when I graduated. Because I was absurdly awful. I've read a lot of new books, but nothing really "advanced," like a collection of essays by Benjamin or Lacan or Derrida like I see on smart people's shelves. There was the one Barthes book I enjoyed, but who am I kidding? It's mostly been short fiction or novels or poetry. Nothing theoretical.
I know I get complacent easily because I know I will be happy and satisfied, like the joy I always get from creating an essay assignment for my seniors. It will always be that same joy. What if I start receiving those assignemnts again, and what if they're very impossible?
And will we be able to afford to both study? Will we be able to find programs/employment in the same area? We're thinking of applying to institutions in major interesting cities: Chicago, Manhattan, Boston.
Life?
This summer even so innocent contains too few days in which to decide in tandem with Amanda what to do with the next phase of our lives together. While the idea of writing for two/three years for an MFA in poetry is one of my better dreams, it's the most indulgent and the most selfish. It's also the least pragmatic. And besides, I'll always write anyway. There are so many bad poems out there, even in books. Especially in books. People know people, want them to get a start, connections are milked, standards of art get blurry. I'll still always write, I've promised.
Remaining options: PhD in Literature, Cultural/Media Studies, or some other related area, or MAT and a career of high school English, or stay in the boarding school circuit. We both want to pursue graduate learning. Why not do it now?
So, today I've started moving again. I'm signing up for the GRE General Test and the GRE Subject Test in English. The GRE ST in English is 230 multiple choix questions covering everything from factual knowledge of the major literary movements to the different modes of criticism to your ability as a critical reader. On the site, they apologise for having to assess these abilities with a MC format, but it's the only way they claim to pull it off, I guess.
Questions: am I even ready for graduate study? I feel I've still been learning and growing as a student of language and literature (of ideas) because I've had to teach it to 14-18 year olds for two school years. But if I'm smarter than I was when I graduate from Colgate in 2002, won't I be even more prepared for grad school after two more years of teaching? The crushing talk I had with Prof. Coyle in the Fall of 2001 keeps popping me out of confidence. What haven't I read? How unprepared would I be if I stepped into a class tomorrow?
I know I'm a better writer, by far, than when I graduated. Because I was absurdly awful. I've read a lot of new books, but nothing really "advanced," like a collection of essays by Benjamin or Lacan or Derrida like I see on smart people's shelves. There was the one Barthes book I enjoyed, but who am I kidding? It's mostly been short fiction or novels or poetry. Nothing theoretical.
I know I get complacent easily because I know I will be happy and satisfied, like the joy I always get from creating an essay assignment for my seniors. It will always be that same joy. What if I start receiving those assignemnts again, and what if they're very impossible?
And will we be able to afford to both study? Will we be able to find programs/employment in the same area? We're thinking of applying to institutions in major interesting cities: Chicago, Manhattan, Boston.
Life?
Various Alones in a Bedroom
If this were a moment of lust, her lips
Would part the room in two halves,
One of naked fruit and the other of leather
Shoes. If this were a moment of the bitter,
Their old milk lies would puddle the floor.
If this were a moment of joy, he would
Become moved to silliness and want to share
It with anyone.
This is three moments.
Even the holiest human things can be
As shallow as the moon’s reflection on water.
If this were a moment of lust, her lips
Would part the room in two halves,
One of naked fruit and the other of leather
Shoes. If this were a moment of the bitter,
Their old milk lies would puddle the floor.
If this were a moment of joy, he would
Become moved to silliness and want to share
It with anyone.
This is three moments.
Even the holiest human things can be
As shallow as the moon’s reflection on water.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Letter from the Underwater Boy
Answering accusations that I just want
people to love me, my left fingers just dare
to fondle the surface of the lake, just dragging
a long sentence into the air, drawing just
one long sentence of admirable pity,
whose third and forth words erase the first
like some cruel inverse-echo, that reads:
Answering accusations that I just want
people to love me, my left fingers just dare
to fondle the surface of the lake, just dragging
a long sentence into the air, drawing just
one long sentence of admirable pity,
whose third and forth words erase the first
like some cruel inverse-echo, that reads:
And what if poems erased as eyes read them,
What if poems lived as long as candles?
Answering accusations that I just want
people to love me, my left fingers just dare
to fondle the surface of the lake, just dragging
a long sentence into the air, drawing just
one long sentence of admirable pity,
whose third and forth words erase the first
like some cruel inverse-echo, that reads:
Answering accusations that I just want
people to love me, my left fingers just dare
to fondle the surface of the lake, just dragging
a long sentence into the air, drawing just
one long sentence of admirable pity,
whose third and forth words erase the first
like some cruel inverse-echo, that reads:
And what if poems erased as eyes read them,
What if poems lived as long as candles?
