cap·tain

deadpoetsrobinwilliams

 

1cap·tain

noun \kap-tən also kap-əm\

: a person who is in charge of a ship or an airplane

: an officer of high rank in some branches of the military

: an officer of high rank in a police or fire department

1 a (1) :  a military leader :  the commander of a unit or a body of troops (2) :  a subordinate officer commanding under a sovereign or general (3) :  a commissioned officer in the army, air force, or marine corps ranking above a first lieutenant and below a major

(1) :  a naval officer who is master or commander of a ship (2) :  a commissioned officer in the navy ranking above a commander and below a commodore and in the coast guard ranking above a commander and below a rear admiral

c :  a senior pilot who commands the crew of an airplane

d :  an officer in a police department or fire department in charge of a unit (as a precinct or company) and usually ranking above a lieutenant and below a chief

2 :  one who leads or supervises

3 :  a person of importance or influence in a field <captains of industry>

 

 

 

 

“I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”

—Walt Whitman, from Song of Myself in Leaves of Grass

 

 

 

 

Robin Williams died today.

I don’t know quite how to explain how I feel about this. Sadness doesn’t quite cover it.

I miss him and I didn’t know him. I wish he were here.

Williams was a master of comedy. However, it was his serious roles that moved me most. But if you look closely at even his comedic roles, there is always something serious there, too. 

I hadn’t realized how young I was when Dead Poets’ Society came out. I was ten. And I’m pretty sure I saw it not too long after that. Maybe I was a few years older. But what I know was that I wanted him to be my teacher. The way he was on fire for words. The way he encouraged his young students. The way he told them that the things that mattered to me mattered. He made them sound their barbaric yawps and I was a scared little kid who desperately wanted to yawp, too. I wanted someone to give me permission to yawp. And when the lead character, the student he encourages to follow his dreams and be himself, commits suicide because of the competing pressures of what he wants and what his parents want, I felt that sadness deeply. I felt the tragedy as if it were happening to someone I loved, in a community I cared about. When Williams’ character is told to leave at the end and his students one by one stand on their desks, defying their old teacher and old ways of thinking and being, I felt as if the sea changes that had happened inside them had also happened inside me.

When I saw Williams as a young doctor bring to life patients who had previously been catatonic, enslaved in their frozen bodies, his joy was mine. And when the meds stopped working suddenly, when he couldn’t figure out what went wrong, when suddenly he saw the patients he had grown close to become closed off and isolated again, I wept. And not tiny tears, not a single drop rolling down a check, but full body quaking kind of weeping.

We could say, yes, Robin Williams was a good actor. And we would be right. But it was more than that. He was tapped into something greater, in who he was and what he did. I always felt like there was some aspect of every character that was him. And not in the “he always plays himself” way. He played everyone and still was himself. He drew the essence out of each character. He showed us what human looked like and in doing so, he showed us ourselves.

He didn’t show us the selves that we carefully curate and dress for the world. He showed us our whole selves: broken and flawed and terrified, risking and failing, fucking things up for the millionth time. He showed us our whole selves: fragile and vulnerable and joyful and filled with love. He made us laugh because he knew what it meant to weep. He made us weep because we understood that to be human is to be everything at once, that there is tear in every roll of laughter, that what makes us beautiful also makes us breakable.

So in this, he was my teacher. And he was one of the best ones I’ve ever had. I am sad he had to leave us so soon. I’m grateful he was here.

 

 

 

 

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

The arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

 

–Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

 

 

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vault

IMG_3574

Luray Caverns

 

 

vault1 (vôlt), n. 1. an arched structure, usually made of stones, concrete, or bricks, forming a ceiling or roof, sewer, or other wholly or partially enclosed construction. 2. an imitation of such a structure constructed for aesthetic reasons. 3. an arched space, chamber, or passage, esp. one located underground. 4. an underground chamber, as a cellar or a division of a cellar. 5. a room, often built of or lined with steel, reserved for the storage and safekeeping of valuables, esp. such a room in a bank. 6. a strong metal cabinet, usually fireproof and burglarproof, for the storage and safekeeping of valuables, important papers, etc. 7. a burial chamber. 8. Anat. an arched roof of a cavity. 9. Something resembling an arched roof: the vault of heaven. –v.t. 10. to construct or cover with a vault. 11. to make in the form of a vault; arch. 12. to extend or stretch over in the manner of an arch; overarch: An arbor vaulted the path. v.i. 13. to curve or bend in the form of a vault. [alter. Of late ME vout(e) < MF voute, volte < VL *volta a turn (cf. It volta), n. use of fem. ptp. *vol(vi)ta (r. L volute) of L volvere to turn; see REVOLVE] —vault like, adj.

 

 

This is a delayed post from the dictionary project presents event held on May 17, 2014 at Casa Libre en la Solana. Thanks to our amazing reader lineup: Brian Blanchfield, Lela Scott MacNeil, Farid Matuk, Molly McCloy, and Meg Wade.

 

We, unfortunately, don’t have video recordings to share with you from the reading. Here is the piece I read by way of introduction.

 

 

 

My early twenties were spent walking in the footpaths my father walked in his—the cobbled streets of Rome, the bricks that encircle the square in front of St. Peter’s. We both looked up at the colonnade, at the grandeur of the duomo. We both walked through those colossal doors. On our right in the corner, Michaelangelo’s Pieta. In front of us, Bernini’s Dove of the Holy Spirit. And all along our path to the altar the undulating marble of Bernini’s Saints. We both walked up to the ancient statue of St. Peter, his foot one long smooth rectangular surface, without an ankle, without toes, worn from the touch and kiss of thousands of pilgrims.

 

By that time, I had been taught for twenty years to look to the heavens: for answers, for solace, for grace. I did not need the architectural columns that forced the eyes’ vision to the ceiling. It was instinct to look up. And I thought not of engineering or architecture when I gazed upon the vaulted ceilings of St. Peter’s. I thought of majesty. I thought of God.

 

In the sixties, my dad and his friends were nicknamed bagarozzi by the Italians: little cockroaches for the long robes the seminarians from the North American College wore, black cassocks with buttons down the front. My dad had come there to study theology but he fell in love with Rome. There was a vibrancy about living that spilled out everywhere: in the boisterous debates of old men drinking espresso at corner cafes, the ruins rising up amongst newer buildings, the savoring of freshly baked bread dipped in olive oil and salt.

 

I told everyone I chose to study in Rome because I wanted to live in Italy, but I also was deeply curious about the life my father had led so many years before and about the capital of the faith I had been raised in and still practiced. I didn’t realize at the time what formative years the early twenties are. But it is significant to me that both my father and I spent time in Rome, learning to love the Italian way of life and in turn becoming disillusioned with the religion we had both so firmly placed our faith in.

 

When I lived in Rome, it was during the Jubilee Year, 2000, and a deal was made. It was a holy year and only during this year were the holy doors to all four main churches in Rome opened. If a pilgrim were to walk through the holy doors of all four churches and then go to confession and communion within a two-week period, he or she would receive indulgences to heaven. Although I had my doubts about Catholicism before my time in Rome, the indulgences might have been the beginning of the end. I never quite understood the idea that one could do these basic things and suddenly receive free passes to heaven. What about the kind of life one had led before and after this moment? If someone did all of these things and also, say, murdered someone during the same time period, did they still get indulgences to heaven?

 

I went to all four churches but not within the time frame. I didn’t go to confession. I did not want to believe in indulgences and I did not want my passport to heaven to be paid for in this cheap way.

 

Every Sunday, mass was held in the basement of our college. In the circular room, we sang songs in English and listened to the priest recite the Eucharistic Prayer. On other days, we went to class, we wandered around Monte Mario: looking for leather jackets, eating spaghetti carbonara, drinking cappuccinos, and buying three bottles of good red wine for 3,000 lire, at the time the equivalent of five bucks. We walked up the Spanish Steps and checked out the nearby boutiques, which held nothing we could afford. We went to the all night bakery located off one of the bus routes and filled our mouths with fresh dough and cream. We walked along the Tiber at night. We roamed Trastevere visiting restaurants where we flirted with young Italians. We ate too much margherita pizza. On days when we got homesick, we went to the Pantheon, staring up at its dome, with cutouts like postage stamps, and then grabbed burgers and fries from the McDonald’s nearby.

 

I took was an art history class called Art in Rome, one of the most challenging courses I have ever taken. Our instructor, an American expat who had lived in Rome for three decades, was a small pale man with glasses who always wore a little black beanie. He had made his own photocopied packet to serve as our book and it was filled with names of artists and artwork and dates, which we had to memorize for tests. The saving grace was that the entire course was taught on site so we spent our time talking about Rome’s masterpieces while looking at them. We walked around Piazza Navona discussing the symbolism of the Four Rivers fountain and then we went out for gelato and a carafe of red wine.

 

My father speaks of going early on to the Catacombs. We descended into the earth where the early Christians would meet. I was impressed by that. I imagined what it was like for the early Christians, persecution that meant that they had to meet underground in these vaults. I never made it to the Catacombs. In part, because of time and the need to make reservations. In part I think because the idea of weaving in and out of underground tombs, honeycombs of the dead, made my chest start to constrict.

 

But I felt differently when visiting churches that had rooms underground. I remember the coolness of the air, the feeling of being somewhere secret, sacred. In one of these churches, several Caravaggio paintings hung. I found myself startled by the way he used light: illuminating only the face or hand or book of his subject while the rest of the image was cloaked in darkness. There was a brilliance to that one candle and the limitations of its light.

 

My father was in Rome in 1965 for the last year of the Second Vatican Council. St. Peter’s Basilica is shaped like a cross. And for the council, hundreds of bishops gathered in the main hall, the vertical line of the crucifix, with stands constructed so they could face one another to rewrite the future of the Church. My dad was studying these documents as they were being created and in them, he found the exciting potential for change and the focus on service and inclusivity in the Catholic Church. But when bishops visited the North American College, all he saw was incongruity. These same men writing about the importance of staying true to the mission of serving those most in need were lavishly dressed, were served a neverending buffet of gourmet food and wine.

 

Because I was in Rome during the Spring, I was able to attend Easter services. My friends and I watched the Pope as he carried a cross up a hill near the Coliseum. On a sunny Easter morning, we crowded into St. Peter’s Square amongst hundreds of thousands of believers. But on Good Friday, I had gone to St. Peter’s for a mass and something was off. I was struck by the gold, the gilded nature of everything. The incense was so strong I felt I might pass out. And as man after man gilded in golden robes went up to kiss the simple wooden cross at the front of the church, I was reminded of the opulence of the Church and the absence of women. Out of hundreds, three women, two of them plainly dressed nuns, were invited to kiss the cross. And this kissing, this adoration, would be something I would remember when I returned to the United States and my catholic university, where weekly, students would gather for Eucharistic Adoration, singing songs to the consecrated host. I remember sitting in the hard pews and thinking: is this how Jesus wants us to be spending our time? Wouldn’t he rather us be helping people? It seemed unnecessary to put all our attention on adoring an entity that was almighty and didn’t need us.

 

Vaulted ceilings are built to induce the feeling of levity, but the construction which allows them to stay there binded in that unlikely bend, that permanent lift is quite complicated. So too is the control, the core strength an Olympic vaulter must exact to arch his body so high up in the air, to curve over the unyielding pole.

 

I must have visited at least a hundred or more churches in Europe while I was there. There was a solidity in all that marble—a density that felt comforting and secure. But in turn, that same density could feel oppressive and obstinate, a weight too heavy to be born.

 

My father traveled to Rome on an Italian liner and the first place he visited was not Rome, but Capri. After arrival in Naples, he and his fellow seminarian were brought to Capri where a trip had been arranged for them to explore the grottos. On a sunny day over turquoise blue waters, they took a small rowboat. When they approached the entrance to the grotto, the water turned a deeper shade of blue and they had to duck their heads as the tour guides rowed them under the rugged rock arch. Once inside, they looked up. The water had become a kind of prism, refracting the light from outside through the water and sending it ascending to the ceiling. The cave was filled with an intricate web of luminous veins. My father jumped out and swam alongside the boat until it was time to row back outside into the fullness of light.

 

The morning I left Rome, I wept—in part from lack of sleep but mostly from a palpable grief born out of the knowledge that I had learned to love life in a way I never knew possible. And that this love was in many ways in direct conflict with my life back home. The light I had believed was only possible through certain mediums was in fact present in everything. Obedience and submission were no longer options. I would have to find another way.

 

Vaulting requires a kind of faith in the ability to bend and stretch. It asks us to steel ourselves, to combine materials to find solidity, for a moment or a lifetime. It demands an answer to the question: what are the limits to your soaring? To vault is to ask ourselves: where do we find majesty?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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el·lip·tic·i·ty

 

Black_Holes_Probe___Hubble_Telescope_hd720

 

Here we are on this bittersweet day: the last day of National Poetry Month and the last day of napomo at the  dictionary project. Thank you for joining us as we have celebrated poetry and bibliomancy and the play and beauty that can come from constraint-based writing.

 

I always find it fascinating when the word that comes is scientific or mathematical in origin, as with our word today, which is explored through physics and geometry. Although not universally the case, so many of us word types were drawn to words not only out of a love of language and story but a clear sense of doom evoked from math and science. So I think it is an extra challenge to engage through words with concepts that may be outside of our normal day-t0-day processes and frameworks. But then again, when we are searching for understanding is when the most interesting metaphors and twists in language can arrive.

 

Please enjoy these poetic interpretations by Meg and Ari of this:

 

 

ellipticity2

 

 

and this:

ellipticity3

 

 

and this:

ellipticity1

 

 

 

el·lip·tic·i·ty noun (i-ˌlip-ˈti-sə-tē)  1.  deviation from perfect circular or spherical form toward elliptic or ellipsoidal form.  2.  the degree of this deviation.

 

 

 

Ari Ellipticity 1

Ari Ellipticity2

 

 

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Ari Belathar is a Mexican poet and playwright in exile. Between 1994 and 2001, she facilitated creative writing and popular theatre workshops for indigenous women and children throughout Mexico. She was also a founding member of the first Mexican community radio station during the student strike at the National Autonomous University of Mexico in 1999. After being kidnapped and tortured by the Mexican National Army in 2001 due to her work as an independent journalist and human rights defender, she escaped to Canada, where she became a political refugee. A winning-artist participant in Artscape’s Gibraltar Point International Artists Residency Program, she has published poetry in literary journals and anthologies around the world. Belathar served as Writer-in-Residence through PEN Canada’s Writers in Exile Network at the University of Windsor and at Brandon University in Manitoba, the latter of which resulted in her first chapbook of poetry in English, The Cities I Left Behind. In Summer 2010, Scirocco Drama published The TAXI Project—a collective play about exile, originally produced by PEN Canada, with Belathar as lead–writer. The TAXI Project was performed by Alchemy Theatre in Toronto and toured high schools and community centres in ten southern Ontario cities and municipalities. In 2012, Belathar was selected as Alameda Theatre Company’s Playwright in Residency as well as being invited to be part of Cahoots Theatre Playwrights’ HotHouse Writing Unit. She is currently developing her first full-length play, La Danza del Venado, a multidisciplinary piece inspired by her own experience of crossing the Mexico/U.S. border into the United States as a child to reunite with her father. In 2013, Belathar lives and writes in Tucson, AZ.

 

 

 

 

MegWade Ellipticity

 

 

 

 

megwade

Meg Wade was born and raised in the hills of East Tennessee.  She received her MFA from the University of Arizona, where she was the recipient of the Academy of American Poets Prize.  Meg is currently finishing her first full-length verse collection, Blame the Woods, and is the working Assistant Editor for an anthology of contemporary, rural American poetry titled, Hick Poetics, forthcoming from Lost Roads Press.  Her recent work has appeared in CutBank, The Feminist Wire, and Phantom Limb, as well as work forthcoming in two anthologies set to be released from Locked Horn Press in 2014.  Beginning this fall Meg will be the 2014-2015 Diane Middlebrook Poetry Fellow at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.  For now, she lives, writes, and teaches in Tucson, Arizona.

 

 

 

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pack

packedHands Holding Soil

 

Today is the third post for napomo at the dictionary project. I’m pleased to introduce you to this pair of poets who I met at ::Throughlines:: an improvisational movement and writing intensive I participated in back in January of this year. They also have an amazing ongoing image/poem project, what they call a daily endeavor of poetic attention, which you can check out here: how we share the sky.

Speaking of attention, that is what I love so much about the dictionary project and annual series like napomo. Because it is all about attention: attention of one person at a particular moment in time to a particular word and meaning. Maybe it’s a word we’ve never heard of in our lives. Maybe it’s a word we’ve long forgotten. Maybe it’s a word that is part of our daily vernacular. In any case, we are asked to show up to that word in a new way, to see it with fresh eyes, to discover the ways in which our current mindset and circumstances and place in the world inform our understanding. What draws our attention in this word and meaning? How do make sense of it in this particular moment?

There is a majesty in this kind of micro-level attention. Because, in truth, all the micro choices we make add up to the macro of our daily existence and what we contribute to the collective. Our creativity is not only found in the novels we painstakingly craft but in that hard earned and alive sentence, in the way we set our table with consideration of color and light and texture, in the summer garden we co-create by digging our hands into the packed earth.

So thank you to Kathy (whose birthday is today!) and Katherine for their attention. Thank you to John and Jamison. Thank you to Johanna and Matthew. Thank you to the poets still to write this month and all the writers who have shared their work on the dictionary project. What a difference a word makes when you bring your attention to it.

 
 

pack  (pak),  v.t.  [< prec. pack, v.t.], to choose or arrange (a jury, committee, etc.) in such a way as to get desired decisions, results, etc.

 

 kferrierfinalfinal1kferrierfinal2

k bio pic

Katherine Ferrier is a poet, dance artist, educator, maker and curator. She is a co-founder of The Architects, an improvisation ensemble with a performance history spanning over 20 years, and teaches and performs regularly throughout the US and abroad. Katherine curates /directs Cultivate, a festival created to nourish a growing community of contemporary dance-makers and dance supporters in Northern New Hampshire, and her writing about dance has been published in Contact Quarterly and Kinebago. Her spontaneous on-demand typewriter poetry service, THREAD, was recently featured in The Knot, and she offers ongoing writing workshops at The Gallery at WREN in Bethlehem, NH.

 
 
 
 
 

KathyPack

 

kathycouch

For 17 years, Kathy Couch has been designing and creating visual landscapes in performance and installation works. Through the use of light, language, readymade objects, photography and space, she attempts to craft experiences that allow people to linger and contemplate moments of being, that they might become more aware of the power they possess to influence and shape the way they move—alone and together. Kathy is currently engaged in the year-long collaborative photography/writing project How We Share the Sky with Katherine Ferrier. This past January, in collaboration with Katherine, Kathy created and taught ::Through-Lines::, a 4-day writing/movement workshop exploring the intersections of language, body, space and objects in Tucson, AZ. Kathy makes her home in Northampton, MA.

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screw

lagscrewpic1lagscrewpic2lagscrewpic3

 

 

Today, we have our second series of poems for the third annual napomo at the dictionary project in honor of National Poetry Month. All month we will be posting poems written from bibliomanced dictionary project words. In an added twist, this year, two poets are writing to each word. We are discovering what happens in these pairings when two different minds and aesthetics hold space for the same word.

 

Poets Johanna Skibsrud and Matthew Schmidt have written on screw. Please enjoy their poems and feel free to write your own poem inspired by screwin the comments if you so desire. The actual piece my finger landed on when selecting the word was the image of a lagscrew below.

 

 

screw1

 

 

screw  (skro͞o), n.  [ME.  screwe; OFr. escrone, hole in which the screw turns  <  L. scrobis, vulva],  1.  a mechanical device used for fastening things together, consisting of a naillike cylinder of metal grooved in an advancing spiral, and usually having a slotted head: it penetrates only by being turned: male (or external) screw.  2.  anything like such a device.  3.  a hollow cylinder equipped with a spiral groove on its inner sufrace into which the male screw fits: female (or internal) screw.  4.  the act of turning or twisting; turn of a screw.  5.  a screw propeller.  6.  [Chiefly British], a) a stingy person; miser. b) a crafty bargainer.  7.  [Chiefly British], a bit of tobacco, etc. (in a twisted paper).  8.  [Chiefly British] a worn-out horse.  9.  {Slang], a prison guard.  10.  [British Slang], salary.  v.t.  1. to twist; turn; tighten.  2.  to fasten, make secure, tighten, press, insert, etc. with or as with a screw or screws.  3.  to contort; squeeze; twist out of natural shape: as, screw one’s face up.  4.  to force to do something; compel, as if by using screws.  5.  to extort or practice extortion on: as he screwed me out of money.  v.i.  1. to come apart or go together by being turned or twisted in the manner of a screw: as, the lid screws on. 2. to be fitted for being put together or taken apart by a screw or screws.  3.  to twist; turn; wind; have a motion like that of a screw.  4.  to practice extortion.

 

 

 

Desire Must Be Taken Literally

 

What exists?

 

Already.

 

Even in darkness.

 

If not:

 

the idea of darkness.

 

Marked, therefore,

already, by

 

the idea of light.

 

What is there but that

to grow slowly

 

toward, or away?

 

What but that

 

to propel

 

that most

uncertain element,

 

the soul,

 

slowly toward

the idea of itself?

 

To hover, as above,

or outside of itself.

 

A question.

 

Toward which

the mind also turns

 

in a deliberate spiral—.

 

The mind, the simple

lag-screw

 

according to which

 

we conjoin,

 

and therefore

establish,

 

between that most

 

uncertain element,

 

from which we came,

and the world, which is

 

most certain, some

 

relation.

 

What, then, the soul,

but the simple

 

opening, carved

by the mind—

 

as it constructs,

 

like a joist or a beam,

 

upon which the idea

holds,

 

a further idea?
As it insists, if only

by virtue of its

 

continuous effort

to do so,

 

the possibility that

 

the mind will

also hold?

 

That it will still

be possible,

 

therefore—

 

if only

very briefly—

 

to suture to the

uncertain idea

 

a single real thing?

 

 

 

Skibsrud portrait, fall 2013, 1Johanna Skibsrud is the author of the Scotiabank Giller Prize winning novel, The Sentimentalists, a book of short fiction, This Will Be Difficult to Explain, and Other Stories, and two collections of poetry, Late Nights With Wild Cowboys and I Do Not Think That I Could Love a Human Being. A second novel, Quartet for the End of Time will be released in fall, 2014. She lives in Tucson.

 

 

 

 

 

Cyclical

Shades drawn—darkness crept scantly
scantily through slats—a cover of destiny
destination to which each day pours itself
out. Outside lined slats, thump of bass
an apartment adjacent in rhythm, enjoys
Saturday evening victuals, imbibes in whether
Sunday will ever step from shadow to show
itself, a difficult concept to grasp in utter
dark, that even through stars appear away
through several named spheres exiting the planet
seem on the verge of consummation, of consumption
in blackness which harnesses a vast swath
of earth, here, now, as somewhere else
someone else is sunning themselves by a rill
twisting grass blades, a tune upon lips
accompaniment to slow burble sluicing
submerged rock on its way to a place
any party herewith has been except tangentially
or rather mentally, in eye of idea
where a picture once seen must be
like this place where the rill—after turning
into other names, empties itself, finally
in an ever ebbing body that removes
all notion of meaning in here, now
until again a cycle is run and rain
falls on windows, behind shades
draws a party at an apartment indoors
bass fading into a dull thrum
in a different time when someone is idle
rill tricks, trickle thought into a coalescence
of sunburst over horizon, another contemplation commences.


2013-04-23 23.54.53Matthew Schmidt is an MFA candidate at the University of Arizona. His work has appeared in Asinine Poetry, Down in the Dirt, Eye On Life and The Missing Slate.

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neb·u·lous

nebulous1 nebulous2 nebulous3

 

 

This is the dictionary project‘s 200th post! It feels like a significant milestone. So thank all of you for reading and commenting and showing up to consider words and language. Today also begins the third annual napomo at the dictionary project in honor of National Poetry Month. All month we will be posting poems written from bibliomanced dictionary project words. In an added twist, this year, two poets are writing to each word. We are curious about what will happen with these pairings, about what will happen when two different minds and aesthetics hold space for the same word.

Today, for our first word, we have poets Jamison Crabtree and John Myers. Please enjoy their poems and feel free to write your own poem inspired by nebulous in the comments if you so desire.

 

neb·u·lous (ˈnebyələs),  adj.  1.  hazy, vague, indistinct, or confused: a nebulous recollection of the meeting; a nebulous distinction between pride and conceit.  2.  cloudy or cloudlike.  3.  of or resembling a nebula or nebulae; nebular.  [ < L  nebulosus full of mist, foggy, cloudy.  See NEBULA, --OUS]

 

First we have Jamison Crabtree:

 

Jamison Nebulous

 

 

 

jamison2Jamison Crabtree is a Black Mountain Institute Ph.D. fellow at the University of Nevada Las Vegas. He looks after six cats and his work appears (or is forthcoming) in Thrush, Blackbird, Hobart, Whiskey Island, The Destroyer, The Offending Adam, and Apt.

 

 

 

 

 

Now, John Myers:

 

John Myers Napomo Nebulous

 

 

 

Photo on 2014-04-09 at 22.47

 

John Myers grew up in the Endless Mountains. He has work forthcoming in Aufgabe, Denver Quarterly and The Corduroy Mtn. He lives in Tucson and is learning to play the flute.

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mezair

circus-horse

 

It’s the last day of february and the last day of flash fiction february at the dictionary project. Thanks for joining us this month and please enjoy our final piece by Alison McCabe.

 

mezair  n.  Dressage. a movement in which the horse makes a series of short jumps forward while standing on its hind legs.

Airs Above the Ground

Mr. Moore carries his belly in front of him as he heads for Sam. His shirt swells like a young cheek around a lollipop and, if the gray beard and heavy walk didn’t make his sex so obvious, you might ask when the baby was due. He stops directly in front of Sam so the distance between them is close and Sam can smell honey-roasted peanuts on his breath.

“Negotiations in ten,” Mr. Moore says. “You’ll want to get the drip going.”

Sam nods, as always, and follows Mr. Moore across the midway into the tent.

The sword swallower wants decaf. Sam waits for the coffee to brew and looks her way. Her hair is black and the longest he has seen. Her skin is so white it is almost blue. Her fingernails are short, bubblegum pink. She licks her lips with her tongue, split down the middle; each tip is pierced, as are her eyebrows, nose, the dimples of her cheeks, and other places, Sam guesses. On her collarbone is a tiny red apple tattoo and, below it, in script, Eve. Of course it’s unsurprising. Nothing much surprises Sam anymore. They all stand out in the exact same way.

Everyone sits around the table with Mr. Moore at the head. From what Sam can tell, a thin gentleman with an uneven smile is in charge of their crew because he does most of the talking. He talks fast, like everything is dire, and not one word, not even a syllable, can wait. The others don’t seem interested in the conversation. A large woman stands in the corner opposite Sam because the chairs are too small to support the weight of her frame. She is the biggest Sam has ever seen, though he isn’t convinced that customers would be satisfied after dishing out to view such a hefty display. It’s an old act that worked back when Jumbo was just an elephant and not the go-to size for a tub of popcorn, or a corn dog/fried pickle combo. He thinks he would like to remind Mr. Moore that practically everyone is fat these days, so really it’s nothing special, but he doesn’t want to offend the man, thickset as he is. He guesses Mr. Moore can’t afford another misstep; the paint is starting to peel on the welcome sign, and one more failed investment might be enough to topple the whole thing down.

Sam walks over to where Mr. Moore sits. “I’d drive a hard bargain with this one,” Sam whispers into his knobby ear—the one part of the man that’s small, baby-like even. On the lobe are short, blonde hairs.

“I’ll have sugar with mine, Sam,” Mr. Moore says.

“What I’m saying is we need to be cautious.”

Mr. Moore swats Sam away. The back of his hand brushes Sam’s chin. “I know what I need to be,” he says. “We don’t need to be anything.” He coughs into the top of his fist, smiles at the thin man, their spokesman. “Excuse me,” Mr. Moore says. “Now how many freaks you got?”

“You mean real ones?”

Mr. Moore nods.

“We have Sparky.” The thin man puts his hand on the shoulder of the body beside him. It’s so covered with hair you’d have trouble finding the person beneath or even the creases in his face. Except for small blue shorts, the man is exposed. “Rest assured, he rides a horse too, dressage and everything. You want capriole? You got it. You want levade? Mezair? Because you know how it is nowadays putting someone like Sparky on display with no other selling point. Everybody’s gone sensitive.”

“And the others?”

“They all got selling points. We swallow swords, eat light-bulbs, read frickin’ minds.”

“I mean where are they?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“That’s it?”

“They’re outstanding, really.”

Excluding the two businessmen, there is only the sword swallower, the large woman, Sparky, and a young man with thick, black eyebrows in an orange turban. Sam brings them coffee, already poured into mugs. He makes two trips because they are too hot to cradle in his arms all at once.

“You salaried?” Mr. Moore asks.

“Work off commission.” The thin man pauses. “Barbara gets double, though. We all agreed.” He looks up at the fat lady.

“Double?” Mr. Moore widens his eyes. “Christ, what for?”

The thin man stares at Mr. Moore and shakes his head. “We decided. We all just agreed.” He takes a pen out of his shirt pocket,  scribbles something down and passes it to Mr. Moore, under the table. Sam hovers beside him. getting stomach stapled, it says. has to happen soon.

Mr. Moore crumples the napkin and glances up at Barbara. Her cheeks and neck turn red. He lowers his head and sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Thing is you haven’t got enough for an entire act. We need our ten in one.”

“Those have been dead for God knows how long. Nobody knows what to expect anymore.”

“Well, maybe five is enough, not four though.”

“You haven’t seen what these kids can do. Sparky doing dressage, I’m telling you. We’re talking capriole, we’re talking frickin’ mezair.”

“I grew up half a mile from this boardwalk,” Mr. Moore says, “in a studio above a bar, on a blowup mattress, with three women who all claimed to be my mother. And you’re telling me there’s something I haven’t seen. I’d like to know what that is.” He shakes his head and his eyes land on Sam, who’s leaning now against a filing cabinet in the corner. Mr. Moore stares at him for a moment, mouth shut tight until his lips disappear. “Be a doll, Sam” he says, “And bring us that bundt cake. Top shelf in the fridge.”

 

The_Horse_in_Motion-animation

 

 

 

 

authorphotoBorn and raised in New Jersey, Alison McCabe lives and writes in Tucson. She teaches English at the University of Arizona where, in 2010, Alison received her MFA in Fiction. She is currently at work on a novel.

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bre·tesse

pocket_watch_3663976_by_stockproject1-d30nugi

 

Today, we are delighted to share our second post for this year’s flash fiction february. Please enjoy this piece by Debbie Weingarten.

 

bre·tesse  n.  brattice

brat·tice  (brăt′ĭs)  n.  1. A partition, typically of wood or cloth, erected in a mine for ventilation.  2. A breastwork erected during a siege.

 

 

Sue Ann wakes sweating and tangled in the bed sheets. For a long while, she groggily observes her own bedroom as though it were a photography exhibit: a plastic cup of water on the night table, a door standing open to the bathroom, a red toothbrush perched near the sink. Her own reflection—doughy and wrinkled—is stretched to fit in the brass post of the headboard.

From the top of Frank’s dresser comes an incessant ticking.

“Oh stop it, you,” Sue Ann clucks reproachfully in the direction of the dresser, and takes another pill.

For weeks after Frank’s death, Sue Ann existed in a kind of catatonic state—unable to taste her food, to dress herself, or to bathe. Her concerned children came to visit, then a doctor from the city, and then little colorful pills began showing up beside glasses of water. They made her feel funny, but she was too tired to argue.

Tick, tick, tick.

She had almost been rid of the watch, she remembers. Before the funeral—which everyone said had been lovely—she had wound and polished it, and slid it onto her husband’s wrist. After all, he hadn’t been without it in fifty years, and it seemed obvious that he should be buried with it. But then she had noticed how still his hands were, how cold they were. And she had panicked, placing the watch in her dress pocket instead.

Now she wishes it had been buried underground, a muffled ticking to accompany Frank’s postmortem process. When it needed to be wound again, there would be no dutiful wife to carry out the obligation, and it would finally be silenced.

Tick, tick.

It is the hundredth night since Frank died, and Sue Ann has to sleep with the light on. Darkness seems to extend the magnitude of her grief, and the light, fluorescent as it is, makes Sue Ann feel strangely as though the sadness belongs to somebody else.

Her legs are restless at night, and Sue Ann thinks briefly about going for a run. She laughs at the thought: herself, an old lady, skin that tears like tissue paper, running through the woods in the middle of an August night. Ridiculous. She flexes her toes and thinks of Frank.

Her husband had spent his entire life underground, developing late-century improvements to the coal mine’s brattice ventilation systems, until the mine had suddenly closed its doors in the early nineties. The community was left devastated and depressed, and overnight, the strongest of men became jobless and lost. Day after day, Frank sat on the porch as though it were his very own tomb.

More than a decade later, a cement staircase was poured, and busloads of school children clambered underground to view a century’s worth of pick axes and coal cars. At first, the town had been largely offended by the museum, but it brought in tourists, who brought money, and so it was eventually embraced.

It had been a Tuesday, and Sue Ann had encouraged the visit as a kind of  “closure”. It was the first time Frank had stepped into the mine in fifteen years, and his heart had seized as soon as he made it down the stairs.

“He just dropped to his knees,” one witness told the police. “Dead.”

The irony still consumes Sue Ann. She repositions her pillow and lays down again, waiting for the familiar chemical pull of the medication.

Tick, tick, tick.

In the dreams, she and Frank are always standing in the mine. Sometimes they have brought a picnic. Once, Frank teaches her to juggle with three red apples. For an entire week’s worth of dreams, they stretch out against the rocks and make love they way they did at the quarry when they were twenty. Sometimes they take to their old fights. Once, the mineshaft fills suddenly with bats, and Sue Ann wakes up screaming.

Tonight, Sue Ann has brought the watch. The gold band catches the light from the lantern, throwing a strange pattern on the rock wall. It reminds her of being on the river with her father, of the way moonlight catches the white bellies of dead fish.

Tick, tick.

“My watch!” Frank says, in immediate recognition. “I was wondering where that thing was.”

“It was a dreadful mistake,” Sue Ann tells him. “I can’t stand to listen to it, but I can’t seem to let it die. It just keeps ticking.”

“Well bring it here,” he says to his wife, and she does. “Would you like to smash it, or should I?”

“You don’t want it?” Sue Ann asks.

“My dear,” he says, “What would I use it for?”

Frank has always been practical. And strong, even in his old age. The semi-darkness of the mine suits him—he wears it like a familiar coat. He does not fumble over the rocks or fear the darkness, the way that Sue Ann does. She leans against the wall and watches him as he bends to inspect a pile of rocks.

“This should do it,” he says, pointing to a large jagged stone. “What do you think?”

She nods, and Frank lays the watch on the floor of the mine.

Tick, tick, the watch says in protest.

The force of the rock smashes the face of the watch into smithereens. Sue Ann shrieks as the glass shatters and the watch jumps a foot in one direction. Frank puts one finger to his lips.

It is quiet.

Sue Ann wants to laugh hysterically, but she can feel her legs again, and the sheets, and the pillow, and she becomes aware that the dream is ending. Far off in the distance, there is the call of a bird and something is dripping.

In the mine, the lanterns flicker. Frank drops to his knees.

“This again?” Frank wheezes, his voice piping up through the darkness.

“I’m afraid so,” she says, “Good night, my dear.”

Darkness consumes them.

 

 

 

 

 

1008343_549471125165_1979540744_oDebbie Weingarten is a graduate of the funky and beautiful Warren Wilson College in Swannanoa, North Carolina, where she received degrees in Global Studies and Creative Writing. She currently lives in Tucson, Arizona, where she grows vegetables, makes babies, organizes on behalf of small farmers, and aspires to one day finish a collection of short stories.

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stalk

agave-stalk1

 

the dictionary project’s 4th annual flash fiction february begins today with a post from Kimi Eisele on stalk. We hope you enjoy!

 

stalk (stôk),  v.i. [ME. stalken; AS stealcian (in comp.); prob. < steale, high, steep (with allusion to a stalking gait); for IE, base see STALK (a stem)],  1.  to walk in a stiff, haughty manner: as he stalked out of the room in anger: sometimes used to figuratively, as plague stalks across the land.  2.  to pursue or approach game, an enemy, etc. stealthily, as from cover.  3.  [Obs.], to walk or move along stealthily or furtively.  v.t. to pursue or approach (game, etc.) stealthily.  2. to stalk through: as, terror stalked the streets.  n.  1. a slow, stiff, haughty step or gait.  2.  The act of stalking game, an enemy, etc.

 

Stalk

 

A few weeks ago, in a moment of desperate fortitude, I secured the perimeter. I hired a thick-fingered man in steel-toed boots and Carthartts to drive stakes into the ground, and together we hung a fence cobbled from barbed wire, chain link, and corrugated aluminum. Later my hands bled from the cold and the metal, but I welcomed the sensation and more than that, the security.

 

Now I’m shuffling around the house picking scabs while it lurks at the edge of the property. Yesterday it circled 12 times before noon and another 37 by dusk. I can’t always see it, but I can smell it—burnt sugar, faint banana, and canine anal glands.

 

Besides the man with the steel-toed boots, I have hired other specialists. A woman in jeggings who swings a pendulum from a chain and gives me definitive yeses and nos, a card reader in a room full of deer and elk trophies, an exorcist with sharp needles, belly dancers, a florist with eyes the color of irises. While a colorful lot, the trouble with these specialists is that their prescriptions and palliatives don’t last. I come home bruised and weary, and when I look out it is still there.

 

I’ve wondered about calling the electrical people to see if they can run voltage through the fence and zap the fucker.

 

Meanwhile, I have been gathering large stones and building cairns, which I hope will accumulate into further fortification. This morning, distraught, I hurled one of the stones and accidentally hit the fence, destroying part of it. So I called the steel-toed boot man again.

 

He looked like the kind of man who might dance and as he worked, I imagined his chin bobbing, his pelvis bumping, his shoulders bouncing. When he finished, he put his hands on his hips and peered down the length of the fence. “That’s something else,” he said.

 

I stared at him bleary-eyed. What? He’d seen it? It was there right now? I nearly stepped on his boot and climbed into his arms. But then I realized he was looking at a thin trunk-like stalk rising up from the agave plant not far from the gate. I hadn’t even a clue it was there.

 

The stalk rose nearly eight-feet high, green with triangular leaf-like spines. Toward the top, a dozen or more branches reached out like skinny arms ending in hand-like shapes with excessive fingers. Though delicate, they looked like they could hold a lot.

 

“They call that a century plant,” he said. “But it’s a misnomer. Really only needs 20 or 30 years to do that.”

 

“Twenty or thirty,” I repeated, as if hearing a judge’s sentence.

 

“Yup. Takes everything it’s got,” he said. “Now it’ll die.”

 

He bent over and examined the ground at the base of the agave, rump to the sky. “But you’ve got pups,” he said.

 

If I’d been more myself—stronger, bolder, less addled—I might have dropped something (a pebble? a dime?) into the crack of his ass. Instead I stepped backwards and felt the sting spread across my chest into my throat.

 

I smelled a slight trace of banana and wondered if I was going to have to run for it. Glancing at the part of the fence he’d fixed, I worried the repair was inadequate.

 

“Let me know if you want me to come back and get rid of that,” he said, circling his hand at the agave. “I’d need different tools.”

 

I tried to imagine the kinds of tools it would take to remove what I most needed him to haul away.

 

After he left, I hurried in and made some tea and sat at the table in silence. Soon the neighbor’s lights went on and I could see figures moving around the kitchen. I held up the binoculars and spied. What I saw made me envious—wild gestures, flushed faces, a flying plate. Rage seemed practically joyous.

 

I sat still for a long time, not daring to lie on the floor. Once darkness came, the smell grew stronger and accompanying it was a loud snarl. I pressed my hands into my chest. Had my steel-toed helper brought a giant scraper I would have used it to strip off my skin. Had he brought a claw, I would have gouged out my organs and lay them on the walkway—a glistening offering. Had he left some rope, I might have stood on a chair.

 

But there were no tools, so instead I went outside and stood at the fence. From the corner of my eye, I could see the agave stalk wavering gently, a thin courageous friend. I opened the gate. I fell to my knees.

 

 

 

photo(1)Kimi Eisele lives in Tucson, where she writes and makes stuff like dances, papercuttings, puns, friends, and—on good days—joy. Find out more than you might want to about her at www.KimiEisele.com.

 

 

 

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mor·tal

Portrait of Philip Seymour Hoffman by Inez van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin

Portrait of Philip Seymour Hoffman by Inez van Lamsweerde & Vinoodh Matadin

 

mor·tal  (ˈmôrtl) adjective  1. (of a living human being, often in contrast to a divine being) subject to death: “all men are mortal” synonyms: perishable, physical, bodily, corporeal, fleshly, earthly, this-worldly, human, impermanent, transient, ephemeral; of or relating to humanity as subject to death: “the coffin held the mortal remains of her uncle”; informal  conceivable or imaginable: “punishment out of all mortal proportion to the offense”  2. causing or liable to cause death; fatal: “a mortal disease”  synonyms: deadly, fatal, lethal, death-dealing, murderous, terminal: “a mortal blow”; (of a battle) fought to the death: “from the outbuildings came the screams of men in mortal combat” synonyms: irreconcilable, deadly, sworn, bitter, out-and-out, implacable: “mortal enemies”; (of an enemy or a state of hostility) admitting or allowing no reconciliation until death synonyms: unpardonable, unforgivable “a mortal sin”; Christian Theology, denoting a grave sin that is regarded as depriving the soul of divine grace; (of a feeling, esp. fear) very intense:”parents live in mortal fear of children’s diseases” synonyms: extreme, (very) great, terrible, awful, dreadful intense, severe, grave, dire, unbearable: “living in mortal fear”; informal very great; informal dated long and tedious. noun  1. a human being subject to death, often contrasted with a divine being synonyms: human being, human, person, man/woman, earthling: “we are mere mortals”; humorous a persona contracted with others regarded as being of higher status or ability: “an ambassador had to live in a style that was not expected of lesser mortals.”

 

Like many, I was struck and deeply saddened by actor Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death earlier this week. As so many gifted artists do, he opened himself up to this world in order to make the work he did and he couldn’t, at this particular moment, contain it all. Being so permeable in a world so full can be hard to bear. Today, the dictionary project hosts an essay by Mike Miley in tribute to Philip Seymour Hoffman.

 

 

Tribute to Philip Seymour Hoffman

 

I can still remember the sense of wonder I felt the first time I noticed Philip Seymour Hoffman in Scent of a Woman. His performance in that film usually doesn’t get mentioned because the film is so clearly Oscar bait for Al Pacino, but in it Hoffman plays the nasty ringleader of Chris O’Donnell’s school chums, a real bastard whose sense of entitlement is surpassed only by his lack of remorse over it. While everyone else in that film was sheepishly letting Al Pacino chew up the movie, Hoffman was busy dominating the film with an unapologetic youthful bravado that demanded your attention and respect. I normally looked away from bullies in the movies, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him; he was just so real, so unlike anything I’d ever seen. In a perfect world, it would have been a star-making turn for Hoffman, but that wouldn’t come until later. Much later.

Plenty of acting and writing textbooks stress the importance of creating three-dimensional characters, but that all just sounds like empty platitudes after you’ve seen Philip Seymour Hoffman do it. Hoffman acted in 3-D long before such a thing was cool, and he did it selflessly, without calling attention to the fact that he was doing it and demanding your accolades. Even though that’s what all actors are supposed to do, he did it with such commitment, honesty, and passion that he revealed how much other actors had been holding back on us, slipping us illusion and evasion when they were supposed to be delivering truth and contact.

Hoffman gave each of his characters the fullest depth of emotion and transformed words on a page into living, breathing human beings who stumbled their way through life with dignity. Whether Hoffman was front-and-center in a film (the widely lauded Capote, the criminally underseen Owning Mahowny) or barely noticeable in the background (Magnolia, Moneyball, Almost Famous) he commanded the screen, making both the film and everyone around him better. Paradoxically, his smaller parts are where Hoffman made his largest impact in a film. In the hands of lesser actors, these would be considered thankless supporting roles, but in the hands of Hoffman, these roles are those ones that stuck with you because rather than settling for making these characters into cheap jokes, Hoffman made them human beings, warts and all. In fact, Hoffman made you love his characters because of their warts, because they were unguarded and caring enough to let you get close enough to see their flaws. Hoffman gave truth to such human shortcomings and made you feel less ashamed about the flaws you had.

Like most people feel about their favorite actors, I liked Hoffman best because I identified with him: overweight, pasty, equal parts ribald, joyous, compassionate, and pathetic—this guy was exactly how I saw myself. But now that I think about it, that’s just how we all are. That’s the kind of truth you can only learn from a great artist, and while we may have just lost a lot of great work from such a giving human being, he’s already showed us more about ourselves than we could ever hope to know.

 

 

photoMike Miley teaches Film Studies and Literature at Metairie Park Country Day School in Metairie, LA. His writing has appeared in Bright Lights Film Journal, Film International, The Huffington Post, Moving Image Source, The New Orleans Review, and now here. He just #killed his Twitter for New Year’s and is toying with the idea of coming out of retirement and making films again.

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