You Shouldn't Say "Should," Unless You Mean It!

People often ask me: What's my favorite word? I don't like this question and always have a difficult time answering. Words are my favorite. In a way, they must be; words are all we have to convey our world to any other, therefore I cherish these symbolic references like old friends. I can, however, answer the question: What's my least favorite word? The answer is "Should." I don't like the sound, the way it makes my mouth move, nor its connotations. Perhaps I dislike its connotations the most because they create emotion and reaction within when confronted with a "should." Think about it; Do you like when I say you should read my posts or you should vote for my candidate. I would naturally react the same way: with a trepid thoughts forewarning of unknown cognitive dissident trends revealing uncomfortable worldviews. To have such a solid, repetitive reaction to a word among many differing people holds that the word has been imbued with meaning from times past.

        

The etymology of "should" reveals a lot of the reasons why I dislike this word. Its sources in English stem back to the Old English world "Sceolde," the past participle of "Sceal," translated to "Shall." They both hold a strong sense of obligation in their meaning in Old English and were closely related to "Scyld" which means guilt and the Germanic world "Schuld" which means guilt and debt, pulling these definitions into the connotation of "should" whenever spoken or written in the 11th century. After all the language used during the 12th and 13th centuries had high religious conviction, binding the laymen to a socially normalizing culture by region as prescribed by the Church. As Old English progressed into Middle English after the 12th century, "Should" took on a future aspect in the encompassed action. For example: One should vote; meaning the individual has not yet voted and is obliged to take part in the action lest they be judged for the lack thereof. At this point in the history of the word "Should," "Sceolde" became related to the Middle English word "Shild," so much so that we now have a hard time detracting guilt, sin, crime, fault, and liability from "Should" today. One should not eat 'x' because 'y'; or one should believe 'x' because 'y'; where the statement 'y' has an intrinsic negativity closely associated (i.e. "One should not eat sugar because it triggers diabetes over long term use," where diabetes is bad).

        

Nowadays "Should" still encompasses a lot of these connotations, more so than "Shall." Where the latter has become more of an affirmation or action (i.e. "I shall go to the store."), the former is more of a directive laced with the aforementioned judgmental mentality. This is due to the close association of "Should" with philosophy in our time. In recent history this term has been closely linked with the ideology of right and wrong and morality. Now we see "Should" as prescriptive language asking the subject to question the immediate action at hand for its value in order to acknowledge another point of view as more correct (i.e. "You shouldn't cut onions that way; you should cut them this way"). The tone of guilt, sin, etc. may not be as strong in our language, but drawing morals into the discussion with current connotations of "should" echo the Old and Middle English linguistic trends. We know this because "Would," the second and third person predicate, does not hold the same connotative meaning of wrong doing, though it can be accusatory as in the derisive proclamation: "You would." Since the word has taken on a philosophical note it has also encouraged an authoritative aura, where the speaker/writer utilizing "should" knows best and is obliged to instruct the listener/ready of such knowledge. From my experience, those who use "should" in their speech often enjoy the dominating effect of the word. We can easily see this in our managers and they way they interact with their employees. Those who manage instead of lead often utilize "Should" where leaders open a conversation and preface ideas with "could you" or "what do you think about this" as alternatives to creating a change in their proletariats.

Then again, "Should" has its purpose in authority. One should (in fact) do a good job at work, if they don't consequences will come up. One should follow the law, because again consequences will arise. One should be healthy, share love, think less, etc. I can say these things wholeheartedly (even with my dislike of the word) because their prescription follows suit with my beliefs and larger understandings of the Verse. I take the philosophical stance, acknowledge the value of good and bad in actions and things, and draw conclusions that mirror those truths with which I assign my authority in saying this word in order to bring a balance and harmony into my world. When using language properly the full weight of the word can be harnessed. If we imagine a word highly overused (like love), we lose the power of the word. You can love a person, an animal; and a cup, or an idea, or a figment of imagination -- all just as much as you would like or admire or desire these same objects. Instead of using a more descriptive term we lump the idea into a larger term: Love. This is happening with "Should," where requests are disguised with knowledge, where authority covers insecurity, and when we can't accept other and attempt fixing it.

My experience with this word has colored my Verse. Living in America we're faced with a list of expectations in being a good and proper American. My generations were practically told that we should be straight, married, educated, hard working; that we should have a high credit score, go to church, save money; and by not adhering to these expectations we should expect scorn from our family, peers, and community. History books pointed to the righteous (those "shoulding" everywhere) always claiming victory, so why would we want to question these edicts? At the ripe age of 30, I've finally found footing to question these ideologies for myself and build a repertoire of "Should" in my life I can stand behind. That's all I ask of you now: look at when you say "Should" and begin to question if that's the right way to use it. Remember where this word has come from and what its use embodies in our language today. You may find when you start utilizing "Should" in the future people will listen more closely.

From This Plane

I want to jump from a plane
and fall for falling free from form
at peace with the journey to Earth
where attraction takes me into the
defined, as gravity: a one direction.
Velocity has answers graphically
approaching the endless line bound by
orbit -- the same force holding true.
To fall, however, far, one must rise
even in a system of inevitability --
balance is the only Truth --
we must rejoin from whence we came.
The pull accepted in a priori comprehension
as that to our orb by bodies first
is but our charge, our will, acceptance
regardless verity within -- so to jump
from this plane is to fall away
toward the home beyond all homes
without need of the chute on our backs.
No wonder we fear and accept such lesser
as Truth.

Pain

Fire drawn over skin
Sinking waves pulling the heart
Drums thrumming inside bone

They speak of moments
both then and now completely
without holding reason to cause

Perception allows reality's presence,
perspective frees us from antipathy.
Pain is momentary, unless desired.

I Can Feel A Pulse Within

I can feel a pulse within,
awakening slumber, providing dreams --
Dare a smith create a gift from without?
Heart to head, heart to hand,
the blood runs black upon the light
bearing mind into the world;
bringing beats upon the still.
Coded messages in a will unknown,
feral hopes, sacred desires, shallow dreams
emanate from one to an other
in perspective learned and shared.
I feel. I fear. No words are there.
And yet the drum sounds on,

Where has it gone?

Once roots reached deep into the world
seeking such nutrients only darkness manifests.
They built paradise and life, a haven for the mind
where words stained a naive leaf
and reality flourished in sun-drenched canopies.
All that was seen was merely created.
All that was reflected what could be.

Yet, as even the Sahara dried over time,
my roots see, bound and shallow
like settled cacti in sun-drenched sands.
A longing for the sea to fall upon land,
for life to flourish as once perceived.
Selene pulls life out by night, where
waves of vision reach into our eyes.

Even barren, life relegated into minimalism,
the cactus flowers and smells sweet.
Though roots wade the warmed earth
and feel light without the touch of water
for life prevailing in the desert -- but strokes away
from lush perseverance and endless artistry.

Viva Las Vegas

Sitting in the hotel room in a new sort of quiet is handsomely rewarding as it gives me a moment to think, to ponder, and to figure out the expressions I dare hold within my breath. Early morning traveling has conquered my three companions, though I daresay I expected nothing less as sunrises are plentiful for me alone out of this gang. My boyfriend and his mother are the ones who stay up latest, and sometimes forging on through the night till predawn before turning in; my grandmother whose recovery from surgery is going very well though the effort of travel and movement tires her still; and myself who lives for a community of work-goers craving energy first thing in the morning. My 4:15 wake-up call came as a nearly nonexistent hinderance, even though yawns pervaded the motions. Others were less fortunate than I. My love found himself startled awake partway through the night with rummaging in the house and our guard dog barely able to contain herself, my grandma's restlessness and excitement seemed to get the better of her deeper journeys away from the waking world, while my soon-to-be mother-in-law found it easiest to remain wide-eyed and bushy-tailed for her 5 am bus ride to the airport. And now the beds are all utilized and I sit on a chaise-lounge looking out the second story window into the foliage of a tree unnatural in this barren landscape.

A landscape that has transformed into a haven of supposed joyful sin. Mind you, I enjoy this place as much as any for reasons as similar to any who come here yet my perspective misses the sin of it. If you can find rest here, as easily as my three companions, then what wrong have you encountered? What wrong have you possessed within yourself? What mark have you missed? Truly gaining the ability to travel to such a marvelous city as this, one whose wealth has stemmed into the acceptance and portrayal of fine art on a grand scale (and on a small scale as well), and finding pleasure in whatever way within the acceptable limitations (however few) afforded here does not garner the denotation of such a loathsome word as sin! Our lives are meant for experience and knowledge, the foundation of which can bring us to love and enlightenment -- but how do we accomplish this? Well that's easy: find situations that open your mind and push your limits and expand the possibilities within the world. Sure Las Vegas isn't a city for innovation (outside architecture, art, gambling, and entertainment), but it seeds the hope of continuous joy.

Now don't get me wrong, gambling in an extreme beings little joy, love, and appreciation for life. Seeing the faces of high rollers stacking their thousands, if not millions, on the table, eyes glued in furrowed expectation while lips are pursed in frustrated loss, shows me the dark side of Vegas. Even the overabundance of sex, lust, and drugs phases me less than the absurd amount of money that flows from the richest pockets; yet I know they sleep as soundly as this hotel room through the early morning hours (to wake up to sorrow, and hope of winning their losses again). Which brings me to my point: what I want from Vegas can't be as bad as the experience of high rollers pursuing riches they already attained.

Pleasure. Simple, honest, evocative pleasure is all I seek from Vegas. Whether that be intoxication of the mind while joyfully spending twenty-five cents in a slot machine or a group of beautiful men touching each other in order to satisfy some physical climax or simply learning about the intricate history of this divergent city, pleasure is my "sin" in Las Vegas. My eyes seek the beauty of Vegas, my ears hear the wonder, and my body feels the pulse. My experience is a roller-coaster of emotions when coupled with drugs (alcohol primarily...) and the sightings of the dejected. But all-in-all, Vegas has a special place in my heart, in my mind, and in my desire.

So here's to a week in Vegas with family coping with the thrills, desires, and sins the world can throw at me, all boiling up while I sit in silence in a fabricated living space intended for short term rests.

Sunset

These are the last moments of a day, where filigree splashes across the sky in bright torrents and the land is forced to mimic the reflection of the sun. Ironically the jagged horizon spites the brightness with a deep and vibrant purple seen once a day as the rest of the world turns to passionate fire. Speeding northward on 287 affords one of the best views: Long's Peak crowned by the effervescent spokes of our Sol, slopes falling onto golden pastures ready for harvest, the occasional green tree standing tall amongst the shorter stalks, the lonely farm wrapped by its own fields and the encroaching end of day. My breath was stollen as we drove home last night.

It's not often I witness the sunset, nor the sunrise, but last night was a joyous moment to behold with my love. We drove with silence between us, apart from the sporadic exclamation of wonder, as time pushed onward and we flew homeward. Questions crept into my head once we arrived. Why don't I appreciate moments like that more often? Why can't I appreciate every moment in the same way as this particular sunset? What can I do to mend my perception of my time, my space, and the free flowing experience which is my gift in this world?

One easy answer is to write; to create moments that will forever exist in one form or fashion. Here I am, writing down the basics of a short drive home as the sun set. As I continue to birth new ideas, new pleasures, new ways to express myself, I realize this is the one passion which always draws my attention. I've painted, played music, and I sing often; but writing, putting words to paper (or digital code), and filtering through the myriad of words available for one feeling gives me an immense sense of completion.

I long to paint this vision that came upon my love and me last night, last eve. I'll share that with all of you as soon as I find it on the pages in front of me; and then my words will have sight as well. 

A Re-Introduction

This feels rather rusty, like old cogs turning with a squeal in the dark; for I am in the dark. I've brewed ginger-garlic tea, not because I am ill but for the enjoyment of comfort in a time of unknown and the possibility such a tonic will permit me health without the aid of others. So recently have I been in that sterile environment, closed in with white walls, women, and wherewithal. What else could I do but assess the values of my life when such a clean slate presents itself? Once value I treasure: I am able in my functions within this society. A value I humbly embrace: I live a blessed life. Then there are the ones I instill as ably as I can: to learn, to see, to hear; be kind, love, appreciate; seek beauty, wisdom, and the future (whiles knowing the present is all). I fail occasionally, but my effort remains on this path. Four years ago I would never consider making myself a tea strictly of ginger root and fresh chopped garlic, to which I would add apple cider vinegar and an organic juice; tonight is different: fresh pressed ginger-garlic tea with rosemary for memory and beauty and honey to help sweeten those synapses.

Something within me called for a healing medicine. I know a few methods to heal wounds, but not all. I went to the emergency room a few days ago due to a laceration of my left forefinger, an injury incurred while fighting jalapeños, a primary ingredient in green chili, at work. Normally preparations would have been made by me, continued on course by myself, and done away with a precision only I could hope to muster. The cut is fairly deep, and to this day it looks a little scary with five stitches holding it together; my remedy calls for a traditional American remedy: superglue. The doctor's prognosis was to keep my forefinger erect, allaying the possibility of a snapped tendon (one such nicked by a stainless steal blade). My naivety would have caused me further injury, and this band-aid for which I think to remove for the first full night since the incident would have remained red and I could have lost far more than blood and dignity -- jalapeños should never conquer an hispanic, right? Regardless, the issue remains that my own perception of healing fell short of the necessities for such an injury, and after even a few days I feel rusty at the modes to which I need to heal myself.

An age ago, though that sounds melodramatic, my life changed. I realize now that change took more away from me than I thought I would garner. Perhaps that isn't entirely true. The world into which I stepped gave me a whole mess to deal with; and after four and a half years I've realized that mess is still around. To be frank, nearly half a decade prior to this moment I broke away from a past which seemed to be hindering me from actively engaging with the world as myself. My desire to please love was causing a blockade to hold barren the passions of my personality, to store away a freedom of expression. Though love was my witness in these atrocities, I couldn't justify true love when my self was hindered from being by me. A life, or two, then ended.

Possibility reigned for a short while until I realized I was far broken and aiming wildly into a future I couldn't imagine. My memories of this period are as dark as the room I sit: light filters in from the kitchen and radiates in soft glows from the television before me and the golden-red lightbulb barely energized above. It seems I lived life at night, hidden from the light of day, the truth of moments. This is not to say I could not remember the time spent between January and August of 2011 -- but I feel remembering this summer of nightfall is to question my life now.

My band-aid is not ready to remove.

I've pulled off the band-aid upon my finger between delicate sips of hot tea. The itch demanded liberation from the suffocating permanence of safety. My heart thrumbs in a chasm deep between two lungs. Soft clicks tell me my mobility is not hampered by the cross stitched curve atop my index. My mind slows the progress of the flashing vertical line dancing before me. Such action feels rusty, unpracticed, and forced, when it once flowed as freely as the visions of other worlds flickered in the darkness of my eyelids. There is a bandage here, something blocking me from myself again. Writing is its sky. Words will fall upon the leafs blown in autumn winds.

Summer is present again and questions brought by the gentle night press against my brain. Bubbling persists, words dance in colorful attitudes pressing me to find answers without thought, and fear wafts from behind veiled clearings bathing in the sunlight -- or the moonlight. As days progress, words will come; and the pages of this artifice will expand.

Words

Words, or whatever you wish,
fall slack upon this page.
They've overturned themselves
pouring the unmistakable, the black,
upon springtime snows
like churlish smatterings seeking
the unknown expressions lost within.

Pointless ballpoint pens,
void keys clacking onward,
hazy disillusionment of
     measurable ambiguities,
compression leaving marks on my chest...
I stand at the bottom of an emptied pool.

Blue never looked so isolated,
delineating regulatory spacings.
Please pardon my white legs--
They tast not he freedom of language
     turning leaves like
     unprecedented heat waves.

I fear a recessive winter's eye
peering between two lungs.
Perhaps summer's burn will brown
unlike the scrawling phallus
whose pleasure is permanence
     in symbols
between the mournings.
Do we know best that which
     darkens?
     Keep us white?

Where vibrations soar in unvisualized
     mediums
signification clings to no answers,
like the burdened charring
upon unfettered clouds.
We'll fall in pursuit, hoping
our tools will free us from
     the emptiness.
Thus here we are...
     But from where,
     and with what?

I've stared into the page,
beneath the walls perpendicular to my eyes,
soaking in the emptiness...
until I decided to start with


               Words.

Weapons Range Qualifications

Basic instructions:
     1) range of intent
     2) special field qualification detection
     3) marking multiple timed targets
     4) conduct field-fire standards testing
     5) alternate targets
     6) mark
     7) phase single target
     8) observables
     9) conduct timed training
     10) record rifle marksmanship
     11) alternate courses
     12) section intent

Drug Abuse

Methods withdraw body and mind.
Scientific drugs rehabilitate strictly necessary
futures.
Entrepreneur Wellbeing, his dependence overcome,
can't be bad for you.
Calculated facilities -- abusers tried misuse;
Reduce life, fix chemicals!
Getting together, that slippery slope,
freely admits symptoms tested
in effect, brainwashing addiction.

Skiing

Time the of most bills your pay.
Still... and day powder every ski.
Possible as little as work:
To how here's happen, lifestyle.
Bum!
Ski the make, actually you do how.
Answered be to question
Important, an there's us
upon is.
Winter that now.

Moving in with your parents

more than
ages
living at home in
at least
.com found
in
their early
saving up.

Shoplifting

Prevention provides programs:
     Petty professional property...
Problem: poster people.
Promoting pay, Peter
paces personal potential's
perceived plans. Physiological
paybacks perhaps profit
PAIN PARADOX PERCENT:
Personal Pulled Pressure.
     peer primary presents.
     prior publish prevent.

If you hate your life, then 2 equals naught.

Conditioning of the impervious existence,
where the undeniable contracts within constant forward motion...
We see, we feel, we are, we choose:
and the choice to pleasure
             experienced and given
is the choice which defines the ruts we tread.

 What when the choice is negative?
Negated negotiation of expectation:
What is foundation is lost in nothing.
It is between the two, a space of reason
from choice and chosen --
           sunshine and void
           teeth and absence
           One and one

 Love and hate shifted paradigms of choice.

           What choice, when one makes all for naught?

Would Messier See Me Falling?

The arrows move

     drawing me down

                         onward toward the inner dark --

                         whiteness berating noise --

                         neither in nor out --

Falling into the inner horizon,

     diving where known cannot be,

to be torn apart as

                         thoughtless instability drifting in space

                         creating new space

                         in spacelessness

I look to the sky:

underneath calls beauty black --

     spreading wings into a nether

     we fly down

                         like arrows in gravity

                         turning language into dust

                         air becoming the throne

Emit

caught in the lines of imaginary rainbows

     absorbed lines cutting in the void.

     My mind falls

the words are gone.

                         Sitting alone with peers

                         grasp endlessness with a desk

                         intent slips into an anti-verse.

Distraction

1) Surfacing discomfort
     coupled warmth and
          [incomprehensible] (agendas)
--a meaning hazed-- drowned in language
skimming consciousness
--
     They mumble
          something[s]
about importance
                         [learning][teaching]
stuck by a chair, in [without]
     (what thought [-----])?
. . .
               Droning on,
                                    I slip away into . . .

2) jealousy another
--what love has wrought--
     waves crash, bring
     (what was already brought)
     [love] [him] [him]
like a choosing
     no choice -----
     Abundance, overly!
          I say I love [          ]*
          I say I want _____
          I say I am.
. . .
               In love, broken amongst many,
                                   searching what's found . . .

3) words flow like red rocks from the mountain top, molten rivers creeping upon the lush splendor of fertile habitats. This, the language in black, moves through the [vestibules] [wings] like tormented zephyrs (waiting to speak [a godly] truth about what dares [not] be known)_. [I] listen ([un]consciously) and feel the pen scrawl across the symbols like a soothsayer pointing at my hea[d][rt].

     She whispers
                    "you [don't] know what [they] [you] want.
                    "you [can't] know what [they] [you] need.
                    "you get what you hold."

4) I [hold] love
          Three, four... five
               too much.
I [hold] want
          Freedom, one... all
               too much.
I [hold] need
          Together, apart... commitment
               too much.

5) "Turn in your essay questions."
I'm lost in the trails of my thoughts,
wrapped in
          love for
                    too much.

Essay Exam for Critical Thinking

[This is an essay exam for my critical thinking course. Enjoy reading, and go pick up A Gathering of Matter, A Matter of Gathering by Dawn Lundy Martin and read her poetry. It's really quite good, once you get past the odd forms of the poems.]

The Form in Between

Dawn Lundy Martin’s A Gathering of Matter, A Matter of Gathering is an intense book of poetry that sits between two distinct forms of poetry while still exemplifying characteristics of both. One form of poetry is language poetry, while the other is lyric poetry. These types of poetry utilize language in drastically different ways, one focusing on the actual use of language and the meaning forming from the language while the other focuses on the addressed emotion. Martin is able to bridge the difference and bring a unique harmony to the two forms.

Language poetry, according to the Academy of American Poets, acknowledges “that language dictates meaning […]. Language poetry also seeks to involve the reader in the text, placing importance on reader participation in the construction of meaning.” Martin plays with the language in her poetry very poignantly. One example of her expertise with language poetry is her poem “Butterflies Become.” The portion of this poem in brackets seems very heavy, yet innocuous at the same time. Each bracketed phrase, “[Fatwa] [Faucet of defiance] [From mesa] / [Desert stinge] [Vulva stiffening] [Sulfuric blunder] ….”, holds a very relevant emotion but does not explicitly derive that emotion for the audience (Martin 20). The language creates the emotion as we read through the poem. Not only are these emotions build through the language, the diction needs investigation for many people as well. As the audience learns what “[Fatwa]” means (a ruling on a point of Islamic law given by a recognized authority) the following brackets change their meanings (Martin 20). Without the definition of such a word, the poem’s meaning would be less solid. The language of “Butterflies Become” creates the meaning, whereas the meaning is buried deeper and harder to find without examining the language directly.

The other aspect of Martin’s poetry is its lyricism. Lyric poetry, according to Types-Of-Poetry, is “a poem […] that expresses the thoughts and feelings of the poet. […] Lyric poetry addresses the reader directly, portraying his or her own feeling, state of mind, and perceptions.” All of Martin’s poetry attempts to portray an emotion through its message/meaning. However, Martin does not allow the narrative of the poems to obviously address the audience with pronouns of “you” and “I”. “The Symbolic Nature of Chaos” is a superb example of this. The poem itself is addressing a direct emotion or feeling but Martin doesn’t address herself or the narrator, much less the audience. She puts out the emotion “ … like a yelling and a tree” and allows the audience to sit in “… the darkness of this bereft body” without any explicit declaration of what is being read (Martin 3).

The best example of Martin’s duality of language and lyric poetry coalescing in one poem is her poem “After Drowning.” The diction used is baffling at times, skirting obvious meaning and burying it beneath the language used, but still suffuses a meaning, an emotion, a state of mind within the poem as it stretches across the pages. She also utilizes “I” within “After Drowning,” giving the distinction that there is a narrator expressing something, but it still takes a deeper reading and comprehension to bring that meaning to the surface.

Spontaneous Feelings Resisting Intelligence!

Martin creates poetry that both expresses a “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” and “resist[s] the intelligence” of the audience. She writes poetry that feels infused with so much emotion, heavy meaning wrought from some very heartfelt place. I felt as though the poems were dark: dealing with the feelings of being an African American woman writing form a standpoint of having power and not being able to express it because of her sexuality. There are times of very heavy emotions shining through (“After the Death of a Young Poet”), and times when after reading the poem I sat dumfounded as to its intent (“Blackface Caricature in Thirteen”).  Most of Martin’s poems resist categorizing themselves into either just powerful emotions or simply resisting obvious understanding. “The Symbolic Nature of Chaos” is just such a poem. It holds such a vital feeling as it flows out nearly chaotically; it resists easy interpretation, and still holds the audience’s engagement because the feeling/emotion/meaning carry through the pages. In fact, her form on this poem really dives into both interpretations of poetic style expressed by Wordsworth and Stevens. Starting on page 4, Martin creates a very different form that both represents chaos (in the first portion on the page) and slips back into prose poetry to gather the audience back into comprehension. She does this several times with several poems, using form to instigate a feeling and break easily intelligible understandings.

Form Forming Formulations of Form

Martin plays with form all throughout A Gathering of Matter, a Matter of Gathering. Her first poem in the book, “Last Days”, automatically engages form. It presents a question and answer session where the answers do not necessarily answer the questions posed. However, the reader will intrinsically assume the answers relate back to the question just asked. This builds connections and meanings, even when these aspects are not explained in the poem language of the poem.  “Last Days” uses the form very well.

Another poem where form is very important is “The Symbolic Nature of Chaos.” With the title of this poem, we should expect the poem to resist the natural forms of poetry: structure, meter, rhyme, etc. None of the pages that this poem crosses look the same or are structured the same. This continual shifting of the form really do lend to the feel and meaning of “The Symbolic Nature of Chaos.” Adding to the chaotic form of this poem are the brackets, which make their first appearance in the book.

The third poem that utilizes form in a very distinct way is “Blackface Caricature in Thirteen.” It’s a list poem with thirteen points. As the poem is read, the audience believes that each point has a connection to what it means to be a blackface caricature. With this form, the reader tries to create a picture of what is being described. This poem, however, is more of a language poem and the meaning of the poem is created by the language used coupled with the structure. It is hard to draw a picture from this poem, but looking into the words creates a meaning much deeper than an easy, explicit poem.

And Within

One of the poems that struck me was “Violent Rooms” which seems to dance between the idea of having sex for the first time and rape. This poem relates to the book as a whole by addressing an important step in life that primarily women experience. Women in many areas in contemporary society are seen as an ‘other,’ or marginalized in society, much as being African American. Several of Martin’s other poems deal with being black, like “Blackface Caricature in Thirteen” and “Negrotizing in Five: or, How to Write a Black Poem.” Both of these poems work with ideas of a marginalized person as well. Not only do all of these poems share the subject of a marginalized person, either all the same gender (female) or simply all African American, but they also deal with juxtaposed emotions.

Bravery: Letting Go

[My professor told us to write a piece that we would never show our family. I wrote it. He then told us we had to invest obstructions on our writing and a classmate gave me many obstructions to the prose... I changed what I wrote. I've decided to let the world know my deepest secret... and if my family should read this, read at your own risk. Know I'm not ready to talk about this... I hope my prose are touching, provocative, and worthy of the read. Thank you.]

I look in the bag, staring my past right in the face. There is something about these shirts that makes me remember more than photos or stories ever could. These shirts went through life with me, and nearly from my own vantage point. This shirt experienced my first kiss with a boy. This one I’m going to keep, I don’t even know why I thought I could get rid of it. This one I got in New York after seeing RENT with my high school orchestra. Gonna have to keep that one as well…

I rarely, if ever, wear these shirts, but I can’t give them away. Emptying out my closet was supposed to open up more space for new shirts and such, but I can’t give up memories… right? Especially that shirt. That memory… That one lived through my first experience. It would be easier if that shirt didn’t exist at all… but it remains like a scar: its presence diminished, its power waned, but it would forever be known that it existed to begin with.

Grabbing the shirt out of the bag, I hold it up in front of me and look at it, feel it, remember it.

It’s only a shirt.

It’s a light brown fabric sown together without any logos or designs. It’s a simple shirt.

It knows.

I throw the shirt back into the bag, determined to forget and let go. As the hiss of the fabric sliding down the plastic echoed in my ears, I felt again.  I relived the memory, the reason I didn’t come out sooner. It all began with trust, trusting friendship, a hug, back massage. I trusted touch, until touch turned into disorder. Uncomfortable violation one can’t fight…

I was walking into my best friend’s house. His mother’s boyfriend was there and lounging on the couch like he did. He greeted me as I walked in and eventually asked me to sit next to him. Instantly, I wanted him to be my role model, whether I understood that or not. I trusted him as he put his left hand on my shoulders and squeezed, massaging the twelve-year-old muscles…

The shirt represents the trust I lack in myself… to know when not to trust…

That thing reinforces my distrust in any man I might trust, and if I can’t trust in any man then I will never truly love. It knows why, and it whispers that vision every time it brushes against my skin.

I close the bag. Lift it up. Throw it in the slot. Push it past the too small space. Hear the soft thud within the donation bin.

A whisper rises from the trees behind me and a bird chirps gaily. I get back in my car, role down the windows, and turn on my music and start singing, trying to escape emotions that were buried for so long. 

U

Unless uniform un-involvement uniquely understands universal ubiquitous uselessness usurping upheld unanswerable undeniables, uttered under ushered ullages, unabated unalienable use upon ulterior ulcerations.