Miming Poems for Scholarships

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Every year on a Sunday in mid January, I drive to the Stern Center at the College of Charleston to support my school’s representative at the Regional Poetry Outloud recitation contest, and every year I drive home disgruntled because the judges – no matter who they are (politicians, poets, professors) – confuse recitation with acting, valuing gesture more than intonation, cadence, timbre.

One of this year’s winners literally beat her fist against her bosom as she screeched

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.

She delivered the last line of the poem, on the other hand, with pleading melancholy, in a ridiculous diminuendo, which snuffed out the concluding iamb, turning it into a trochee, her voice falling ever more silent:

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

The irony that the poet is essentially asking God to rape him did not seem to register at all.

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Although one of the three selected to go on to the next round was superb, the other two’s gestures distracted from the aural subtleties of the verse, their voices sometimes eliding syllables to register (literally) high-pitched emotion while their arms fluttered.

Of course, these complaints may strike the skeptic as sour grapes; however, from the official POL website, here’s poet Kwame Dawes instructing judges on physical appearance:

I think the key thing to remember, that we expect students to remember, is  the poem comes first.  Everything else that you do with your body, with  your voice, with your arms, whatever you do, has to be in service of the poem.  If  your body takes over and becomes the lead in this dialogue, then the poem disappears.  The one thing about Poetry Outloud is that the poem comes first. What we want the person to do is to think about the poem when they (sic) leave, and therefore it takes incredible economy of body expression to convey what is happening with the poem. (my bold type)

Here’s another advisor on the link instructing judges on “dramatic appropriateness.”

The student brings – and I put drama in quotes – but brings the drama that is  appropriate to the content of the poem. And I also think  that it means that  the student does not substitute what I would consider artificial emotion for the poem’s appropriateness.  If the poem is dealing with difficult subject matter, the student should maintain his or her poise and not let the content of the poem to give him or her license to become an actor or theater performer. (again my bold)

Does it not strike the judges that the so-called professional poets who read at the event stand essentially still and let their voices do the work? I’ve seen masters like Archibald MacLeish, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop (among many lesser lights ) read in person, and none of them mimed the meanings of the poems as they recited them.

As I was listening to my student’s beautiful rendition of “Dover Beach,” her clear, sad voice articulating every syllable, pausing at each caesura – “[b]egin, and cease, and then again begin” – her own cadence “tremulous” and “slow” –  I thought to myself, “If only the judges could hear recordings of these recitations.”

If only they checked out the linked video above before they whipped out their scoring sheets.

God, Why Did You Let So Much Shit Go Down on Me Today?

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Justin: God, can I ask You a question?

God: I don’t know.  Can you?

Justin: I mean, May I ask you a question?

God: Shoot.

Justin: Promise You won’t get mad.

God:  Son, have you read Job 38, 1-41?  Genesis Chapters 9-6?  Genesis 19?

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Justin:  [lying]:  Yeah, sure.

God: I promise not to get any angrier than I did back then.

Justin: Why did You let so much shit go down on me this week?

God: What do u mean?

Justin, Well, I got popped for egging my neighbor’s house.

God: Yes?

Justin: Which led to my bro, Lil Za, getting busted for coke.

God: Okay?

Justin: Then I got pulled over for drag racing doing 60 in a 35 zone.  Like, I had my dad and a couple of Escalades blocking traffic so nobody would get hurt.  Seems real unfair.

God: Huummm.

Justin: And then for the mug shot, the pigs wouldn’t let me put on no make-up or put on my shades, and a couple of zits show up for all the world to see.

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God: And?

Justin: And on top of it all off, when I got to the hotel, there were only about 30 chicks camped out there.  Nothing’s gone right this week! Why did You do that?

God: Let me see.  Well, first, I let Satan tempt you into egging the house to let the world know just how childish you are so tweens will still identify with you and buy your records.

Justin (humbled): OH!

God: I had Lil Za, like an idiot, leave the blow out in plain sight so you could bask in big boy trouble without your actually getting into serious legal trouble. So you’re still appealing to tweens and the older crowd.

Justin: (17 watt light bulb illuminating above his head): Oh.

God: Hey, look.  I could have had u drag-racing out in Salinas like I did your previous incarnation James Dean, but I had u in the streets of Miami where it’s virtually impossible accelerate fast enough to receive fatal injuries.  So now you’re copping prehumous press, unlike JD, whose posthumous academy award nomination didn’t do him personally a whole lotta good. Look, compare his Porsche with your Lamborghini.

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Justin (quizzical): Okay.

God: Hey, sorry about the zit, but u ain’t the only peep I’m taking care of.  Some kid’s parents were praying that he make a free throw when your arrest was going down.

Justin (softly): I see, God.

God: Oh, and those chicks.  I kept the numbers down so you could sleep off your hangover without a muffled roar going down outside your window.

Justin: I’m Sorry, God.

God: Don’t be sorry, just learn to Trust Me…. in All things , the Good & the Bad.

Justin: I will trust You.

God: And don’t doubt that My plan for your day is Always Better than your plan.

Justin: I won’t God. And let me just tell you God, Thank You for Everything this week.

God: You’re welcome, child. It was just another day being your God, and I Love looking after My Wealthy American Children . . .

matching assholes

On Nervous Breakdowns

Back in boyhood I’d occasionally hear my parents in hushed tones discussing so-and-so’s nervous breakdown, a mysterious condition that baffled me.  I sensed through those half-heard conversations a nervous breakdown didn’t entail the wild spasmodic movements I had seen in a documentary about Huntington’s Chorea, but rather a nervous breakdown’s pathology resulted in some sort of behavioral outrageousness that brought to mind the phrase “at the end of your rope.”

It wasn’t until I saw John Huston’s film of Tennessee Williams’s The Night of the Iguana that I got a clearer picture of just what a nervous breakdown might look like:

Here’s Daniel K. Hall-Flavin, MD of the Mayo Clinic’s website’s explanation:

The term “nervous breakdown” is sometimes used to describe a stressful situation in which someone becomes temporarily unable to function normally in day-to-day life. It’s commonly understood to occur when life’s demands become physically and emotionally overwhelming. The term was commonly used in the past to cover a variety of mental disorders; it’s used less often today.

Victims of nervous breakdowns tend to be high strung.  The term comes from archery.  A high strung’s person’s nervous system’s akin to a bow whose string’s high tension tends to shorten the life of the bow, which explodes at some point in the hand of the archer.

Richard Burton’s character in Night of the Iguana, Reverend Dr. T. Lawrence Shannon, certainly seems in the following clip to qualify as high strung.  His definition of statutory rape is especially noteworthy.

Interestingly, as Night of the Iguana was being shot,

Diazepam (Valium) was approved for use in 1963. … Chemist Leo Sternbach made the discovery that led to Valium while working for Hoffmann-La Roche. Sternbach had created an entirely new class of tranquilizers named benzodiazepines, which were safer and more effective than previous treatments such as barbiturates, opiates, alcohol and herbs. His other breakthroughs would include the sleeping pills Dalmane and Mogadon, Klonopin for epileptic seizures and Arfonad, for limiting bleeding during brain surgery. (49)

Of course, creative types like Tennessee Williams are notorious for being high strung, if not bipolar, and have sought self-medication via demon rum and other numbing agents, which almost invariably lead to more stress. In fact, this morning’s NY Times has a book review on a study of Williams, Hemingway, Cheever, Fitzgerald,  John Berryman, and Raymond Carver as rummies, a book I intend to check out.

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illustration by John Cuneo

The 12-Step people claim that there can be no cure for substance abuse except through a religious belief of some sort, whether it be as stringent as Hasidim Judaism or as vague as Steve Earle’s “I know there’s a God, and He ain’t me.”

Alas, however, the path to Enlightenment is much longer than that trip to the liquor cabinet.

Rag and Bone Shop

Now that my ladder’s gone,

I must lie down where all the ladders start

In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

WB Yeats  “The Circus Animals Desertion”

Farewell, 3-am dance move; hail therapeutic pillow. Farewell, Ricks Cafe, Negril, Jamaica; hail, sodium free cafeteria, Bishop Gadsden Retirement Home.

Ain’t got it in me no more. Brother Testosterone done absconded with his first cousin Recklessness. Gotta start calling assholes jackasses, spades trowels.

So I’ve sent that old demented muse of mine packing.

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Young literary lions and lionesses, the unrealized projects below are yours for the taking, have been collecting dust in the mobile storage unit of my consciousness far too long. I consider them junk furniture put out on the side of the road, pick-up truck plunder for aspiring novelists, playwrights, and screenwriters.

Oleander Daiquiris

Non-literary fiction:  Pat Conroy meets Fanny Burney:

Cecilia Rhett’s parents drowned off the coast of Bermuda when she was five. The last Rhett of her line, she has been reared by her eccentric uncle, Middleton, a gay artist obsessed with the so-called War Between the States (he has decorated his East Battery mansion with his own works: giant canvases of battles, romanticized portraits of major Confederate combatants).

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When Middleton discovers he has pancreatic cancer, he rewrites his will stipulating that Cecilia can only inherit his fortune if the man she marries takes her surname, a major problem because she has fallen in love with an impoverished French marquis who happens to consider descendants of planters nouveau riche. This escapist novel features the resiquite troop of Southern cliches: acerbic cotton-haired colored manservant, alcoholic fag hag, promiscuous vampish cousin, evil Republican inheritance-coveting lawyer.

T-Bone and Lemon

Modernist musical drama: Samuel Beckett meets Chet Flippo:

Liberal adaptation of T-Bone Walker’s stint as Blind Lemon Jefferson’s guideboy when the famous bluesman was a street performer in Dallas in the the Teens of the 20th century.

In this two act tragic-comic musical, T-Bone is only eight, a sort of prototypical Tween Hobo, at once worldly but innocent. With a rope tied to one strap of his overalls, T-Bone leads Lemon back and forth across minimalist sets where he moans the blues, encounters unscrupulous record producers, sleeps with golden-hearted prostitutes, and eventually freezes to death with a belly full of rotgut. Cryptic, poetic African American dialogue, plus killer blues.

Theme: life sucks, especially if you’re a blind black man living in Post-Reconstruction Texas and/or if you’re a human guide dog.

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Señor (Tales of Yankee Power)

Full-length theatrical movie: Sam Peckinpah meets Salvador Dali. You can listen to the song as you scroll down:

Very loosely based on Dylan’s cryptic song from his Street Legal album.

Señor, Señor, can you tell me where we’re headin’?

Lincoln County Road or armageddon?

Seems like I been down this way before.

Is there any truth in that, señor?

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Señor, señor, do you know where she is hidin’?

How long are we gonna be ridin’?

How long must I keep my eyes glued to the door?

Will there be any comfort there, señor?

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There’s a wicked wind still blowin’ on that upper deck,

There’s an iron cross still hanging down from around her neck.

There’s a marchin’ band still playin’ in that vacant lot

Where she held me in her arms one time and said, “forget me not.”

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Señor, señor, I can see that painted wagon

I can smell the tail of the dragon

Can’t stand the suspense anymore

Can you tell me who to contact here, señor?

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Well, the last thing I remember before I stripped and kneeled

Was that trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field

A gypsy with a broken flag and a flashing ring

Said, “Son, this ain’t a dream no more, it’s the real thing”

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Señor, señor, you know their hearts there is as hard as leather

Well, give me a minute, let me get it together

I just gotta pick myself up off the floor

I’m ready when you are, señor

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Señor, señor, let’s overturn these tables,

disconnect these cables

This place don’t make sense to me no more

Can you tell me what we’re waiting for, señor?

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