Wednesday, April 12, 2006
It Ain't Revolution, But I Kinda Dig It
So not much exciting has happened since last week, which means I don't have much to say. I could tell you what I've eaten for lunch the last few days, but that would bore me. Or I could tell you that it's been dangerously close to 70 degrees for nearly a week, but who wants to talk about the weather? I could even tell you that E and I went on something of a shopping spree recently and have nearly hit our quota for trinkets and gewgaws to be handed out upon our return to the country we left (US), which I assume is now called I Hate Immigrants & I Vote or something equally fun, but I like surprises and think you should, too. So I won't do any of those things. And I didn't go to any other Chinese restaurants today and copy their menus down for the sole purpose of allowing others to laugh at them as much as I do. Which leaves me with very little to talk about. So what I'm gonna do is drop a poem on you.
Since I finished a draft of the novel I was working on, I've been writing these "Postcards from Bishkek" poems as a way of keeping busy and taking up the time I usually spent every day writing. Muscle memory works in this context as well, it would seem. But anyway, I should maybe point out that though I suffered through a great many years of ill-advised poetryphilia, I have recently been beset with an all-consuming hatred for the state of contemporary poetry as is made by Americans. So these postcards have served as a way for me to continue actively making poems while simultaneously continuing to actively hate poetry. A sticky wicket, for sure, but one that is proving to be quite a bit of fun. The thing is, you see, I no longer care. At all. And that's a lovely thing to have happen to your writing, let me tell ya.
Anyway, here's one of the dozen or so I've written thus far. This is, I think, the first one. Or the second one maybe. I don't know, actually. Do with it as you wish...
File under: Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, Poetry, Bride Kidnapping, The Evil Men Do.
Since I finished a draft of the novel I was working on, I've been writing these "Postcards from Bishkek" poems as a way of keeping busy and taking up the time I usually spent every day writing. Muscle memory works in this context as well, it would seem. But anyway, I should maybe point out that though I suffered through a great many years of ill-advised poetryphilia, I have recently been beset with an all-consuming hatred for the state of contemporary poetry as is made by Americans. So these postcards have served as a way for me to continue actively making poems while simultaneously continuing to actively hate poetry. A sticky wicket, for sure, but one that is proving to be quite a bit of fun. The thing is, you see, I no longer care. At all. And that's a lovely thing to have happen to your writing, let me tell ya.
Anyway, here's one of the dozen or so I've written thus far. This is, I think, the first one. Or the second one maybe. I don't know, actually. Do with it as you wish...
To Salt Lake City, UT
RECTO:
Wedding party beside a mountain road, smiles big as sky. The bride is beautiful, happy, a fluff of white and bows. Her eyes look out at the viewer, clear and dark, seemingly sincere. The women around her laugh, flash gold teeth, fill the roadside with the colors of their clothing. Men beside them touch one another--hand to shoulder, hand to back, hand to hand--and hold vodka in paper cups, bottle necks gripped in tight fists. At the right edge of the frame a maroon Lada sits with its hood raised, engine bared. Ribbons and bows decorate the windows, the antenna, stream from the hood ornament down to either door latch. No one appears to pay it any mind in the makeshift celebration.
VERSO:
Dude (do you mind
if I call you Dude?)--
polygamy's got nothing
on bride kidnapping.
File under: Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, Poetry, Bride Kidnapping, The Evil Men Do.
