the smedley log - suburban scrawl

While I was away…

After ignoring the blog for almost a full day, I was a bit surprised to see that someone (my brother-in-law) had updated for me, with two fine poetic contributions from both a niece and a nephew, as well as a brief request for other dental considerations.

Not lost in the mix is the fact that I am now the subject of at least two pieces of poetry, and suddenly I seem to recall someone warning me to be careful what I wish for. But it made my day just the same.

And yes, the teeth are feeling somewhat better now.

To be the muse of just one bad verse

It is Easter. I am Christian, so of course I celebrate the rising of Christ. The thing is, while He may be risen, I have been totally worn down the past few days since having multiple wisdom teeth extracted.

One side of my face is disproportionately swollen. While it no longer hurts to chew per se, the swelling is a bit more than uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I attempted ham dinner with my family this afternoon. I even survived it.

In the spare time induced by missing work on Thursday and Friday (when I wasn’t in too much agony to use a computer), I attempted to add to my pain by working on a website project I’ve been struggling with for the past few weeks. It’s for my local union’s website. While I may not be the ultimate web developer, I firmly believe the results of my effort will represent a vast improvement in the quality and function of said website. But, oh, the pain of the process. Thankfully, it should be over soon. If only I had the same confidence with my aching jaw.

Extraction day (formerly known as Thursday) was quite harrowing, but things seemed to be looking up on Friday. So I tempted fate by heading into town for a taste of the Philly Film Festival with a random film society member who offered me some tickets. I saw three films (in succession). It didn’t seem too challenging at the time, but by Saturday morning, I wasn’t feeling well at all. Thankfully, Sunday has been a lot better to me (so far).

Getting to the final twist in this winding post, I was recently reminded that April is National Poetry Month, which left me wondering why I haven’t been able to write any decent poetry in a while. I sketched a few drafts on Thurs… er, Extraction night, but the mood was looking darker with each line.

Fortunately, a fine example of poetry is on display at Marisa’s. It was written by her mother, who recalls her childhood reactions to a homeless man in Philly. Since I was in a generally melancholy mood as I was reading it, the poem eventually caused me to ruminate on one of the following questions:

• a. Why haven’t we solved the scourge of homelessness yet in this, one of the world’s most affluent cultures?
• b. Whatever happened to the cardboard box man to whom young Marisa was reacting?
• c. Why hasn’t anyone (that I know of) ever written a poem about me?

If you guessed a or b, you clearly overestimate my ability to consider the plights of others while in acute pain. On the other hand, if you guessed c, you deserve the prize (not that I’m offering one).

It occurred to me that while I’ve written poems about other people I’ve encountered, I don’t believe I’ve ever been the muse of someone else’s verse. Which brings me to today’s question:

Has anyone ever written poetry about you?

It doesn’t have to be a great work of literature. It could be an old boyfriend composing really cheesy material about how you rocked his world. O maybe something by a family member (like your mom, for instance). It might even be a song by a garage band from your past. I’m just curious to hear from anyone out there who’s played the muse. And if so, what did it feel like?

Subtle electric fires

One of my Whitman favorites:

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

– Walt Whitman

Just by being different

Caught sight of Dana Gioia’s poem “Summer Storm” in the Garrison Keillor-selected anthology Good Poems. It’s all about idealizing the road not taken.

Click here to read the poem at Gioia’s site.

Poetry inspired by Pennsylvania

Having grown up in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I’ve long been aware of its many wonderful attributes. A couple weeks ago I stumbled upon a book that chronicles some of those poetic inspirations. The book, which I found at the local library, is titled Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (2005, Pennsylvania State University Press).

Edited by Marjorie Maddox of Lockhaven University and Jerry Wemple of Bloomsburg University, Common Wealth offers poetic tributes to Pennsylvania from a variety of writers, some from the Keystone State, and others simply making observations from an outsider’s perspective. One of the many pieces that struck me is Lynn Levin’s “If You Are Reading This,” which is written in a more prosaic form. The first stanza follows:

GIRL WITH DOG IN RAIN! Sweetheart, where are you now? Saw you at 16th and Walnut with your chocolate lab under an awning. It was raining parking lights and car horns. I was the guy double-parked delivering a tray of bagels to a corporate meeting. Nice stuff, 5 flavors, cream cheese with chives, butter daisies. Our eyes met, do you remember? I can’t get you out of my mind. [Box 347] …

With inspirations as diverse as the Commonwealth itself, this volume comprises contributions of authors ranging from Maggie Anderson to John Updike. If you’re a Pennsylvanian who’s curious about some of the poems for which your home state has played the muse, Common Wealth is probably a book you’ll want to check out.

(Who knows, they may even publish another edition someday that includes Autumn’s portrait of what it means to be an Eagles fan.)

Poetry meme

This is a meme I spotted at Bice’s, then at Poetry Thursday, but I believe it originated with Cam.

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was…

Shel Silverstein’s “Colors.” It shows up right near the start of Where the Sidewalk Ends. I first read it when I was seven or eight. I was always a little weird, especially as a young child, so a poem celebrating personal peculiarity, as this one seemed to, was oddly comforting.

2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and…

I don’t recall being forced to memorize any proper poetry for school, unless you count Shakespearean lines. In my junior year of high school we had to recite lines from Macbeth for English class. I chose the soliloquy from Act 5, Scene 5 – the one that happens right after Macbeth learns of his wife’s death. You may not know what I’m talking about, but everyone’s heard lines from this passage; they litter pop culture – phrases like “Out, out, brief candle,” or “full of sound and fury.” I always thought it was a great set of lines to recite.

3. I read/don’t read poetry because…

I read poetry because I like the sounds and meanings of words, especially when someone with the gift of weaving them together finds a way to fuse the meanings with the sounds in a way that makes them seem as if they couldn’t be arranged any other way.

4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is…

“The Writer” by Richard Wilbur. The imagery illustrates the struggles of adolescence, or of any other difficult growth experience, brilliantly.

5. I write/don’t write poetry, but…

I write poetry, but I’m constantly envying the skills of others. I’ve always been able to write fairly well, but I read so many other poets whose skill I instantly recognize as far superior. But I’m reminded of the Frost quote, “To be a poet is a condition, not a profession” – which must be true, because if it were anything but a condition, the combination of self-awareness and envy would probably keep me from pursuing poetry any further.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature…

Absolutely. Or was this supposed to be a “because” answer? If so, I’ll have to just say poetry has always struck me as more adaptable than, say, a novel or news periodical. I can almost always find a way to relate good lyrical text to something that already seemed to be inside me, whether an idea or a memory.

7. I find poetry…

Addictive. And that includes the things I see everyday that seem to beg for verbalization. Unfortunately, most of these things are far past my vocabulary to interpret adequately. (Or maybe that’s a good thing.)

8. The last time I heard poetry…

Was yesterday (I’ll limit this answer to the verbal kind). I was checking out Autumn’s revamped website, clicking on a few of the audio poems she’s posted. Makes me think I should attend a reading like I used to do every once in a while.

9. I think poetry is like…

The fusion of left and right brain. It’s ambidextrous human consciousness, forcing the abstract inside the concrete of the limits of language, and making the two seem as though they were made for each other.