Search

Mis(s)adventures

Category

Creative Writing

Walking Home, Significant Details

There are less than two weeks to go, and the lack of time concentrates significance into every step. The sounds, colors, smells of this little city, unknown at this time last year, are now dear, родной.

IMG_2948[1]

The familiarity that nine months creates can lull me into not noticing, but the knowledge that 14 blocks of 24 hours is all that separates me from another world wakes me up to savor, to store up memories of the small and significant.

IMG_2949[1]

The call to prayer can be heard from the mosque, deep, throaty Arabic, unintelligible except for the haunting, guttural, drawn-out cry of “Allah, Allah.”

IMG_2950[1]

The dust sneaks inside my shoes with each step, and I remember a friend’s advice: don’t take pictures only of what is considered conventionally beautiful, because then you objectify the place, the experience, rob it of its grit and character.

IMG_2952[1]

IMG_2953[1]

IMG_2955[1]

I know I won’t see windows like this when I get home,

IMG_2957[1]

and I will see cats, but not on every corner, wild and afraid.

IMG_2958[1]

The white marshrutka, the ubiquitous, sometimes scary, but mostly dependable transport will be something I miss.

IMG_2959[1]

IMG_2960[1]

IMG_2961[1]

IMG_2963[1]

I’ll also miss the colors, where I come from we usually prefer the not-so-bright.

IMG_2964[1]

IMG_2965[1]

I will, however, be glad to be able to sit on a bench in the winter without being told that I have just ruined any chance of having children.

IMG_2966[1]

IMG_2968[1]IMG_2969[1]

IMG_2970[1]

I’ll miss being surprised by where the sidewalk ends.

IMG_2972[1]

And I’ve come to enjoy my dusty walks to the store to buy 5 liter jugs of water and bread, cucumbers and tomatoes.

IMG_2974[1]

And then there is the red fire tower, my landmark, telling me that I’m almost home.

IMG_2976[1]

And my favorite bus stop, where a 4 or 5 bus will drop me off right in front of my dorm, my arms full of bags of milk and pelmeni and candied ginger.

IMG_2977[1]IMG_2978[1]

House 24Б, my home for nine months.

IMG_2979[1]

The metal door that is always unlocked,

IMG_2980[1]

the windowsill where I get my mail,

IMG_2981[1]

the sign that warns non-dorm dwellers to stay out, which is mostly for show.

IMG_2982[1]

And I am home.

I am almost, almost home.

Advertisements

Spring’s Not Green Here, But…

Spring’s not green here, but for now, the melting will do.

20140318-135103.jpg
And though some might consider the in-between a muddy mess, littered, mushy,

20140318-135902.jpg
I’ll compare it to Oreo pie, confettied, since it means that green exists,
just
not
yet.

20140318-140539.jpg
I’ve walked
and walked
in steps of fear
joy
uncertainty
prayer
shaking
strong,

20140318-140804.jpg
and today is the 3 month mark,

20140318-140855.jpg

20140318-140917.jpg
June is closer than I ever thought possible,
haven’t I always lived here?

20140318-141153.jpg

20140318-141220.jpg
Haven’t I always lived here, or is time just not as linear as I thought?

20140318-141756.jpg

20140318-143910.jpg

A Rant on Poetry

I’ll never forget the smug cynicism I felt last spring when my professor handed us Ezra Pound’s poem “Papyrus.” The poem is as follows:

Spring . . . . . . .

Too long . . . . . .

Gongula . . . . . .

 

I quickly scribbled my own version to show how much artistic talent I thought a poem like this took. My version went something like this:

 

Summer . . . . . . .

Too short . . . . . .

Arugula . . . . . .

 

Unfortunately, my professor overheard the laughter of my two classmates, and had me read my creation to the whole class. I was slightly embarrassed, but I also felt justified in expressing my frustration with modern poetry.

Poetry and I have had a love-hate relationship since I entered college. Before college, I was pretty much unaware that any form of poetry existed beyond your standard rhythm and meter based creation. At this point, I loved poetry. I loved hearing the alliteration and cadence of the Edgar Allan Poe type, and I even felt that I had a knack for writing verse, evidenced by an occasional Facebook note (remember when people wrote those?).

Then, in college, I submitted one of my rhymed masterpieces to the school literary journal, and I heard crickets. When the journal was printed, I found to my bewilderment and dismay that there was not one rhymed poem in the whole book. As I read through the poems, anger started to fester as I realized that I didn’t “get” any of the poems. The word choice seemed random, there seemed to be no unifying theme or structure, but here they were, shouting at me from their cozy black and white abode that they had been good enough to print, while mine hadn’t. I felt the like the awkward outsider not let in on an inside joke.

Even after being slapped with the reality that rhyme was no longer in vogue in the literary world, but was rather something sequestered to cheesy Hallmark cards and children’s books, I refused to give it up. My sophomore year, I started dabbling in free verse, just to see if it was all it was cracked up to be, but I remained loyal to my quatrains. In my creative writing class, we had the chance to read a sample of our work to the class, and I chose to share the rhymed poem that I had put my heart and soul into, and a free verse poem that hadn’t taken me more than a few sittings to write. This is what happened:

I read my rhymed poem to the class, and when I finished, my professor gave me a confused look, as if he really had hated it, but was trying not to show it. He gave me a haphazard tip on how I could improve, but it was clear he was having difficulty showing how much he didn’t like the poem. To get an idea of what the style was like, here’s the last verse:

So bring back color, vibrancy to black and white review,

Define the wine, the bread; refresh with glimpses of the new.

Come break the barricades to meaning guarded by the lies,

And shatter repetition with your wordless loving eyes.

A little shaken, I moved onto my next poem, which was about growing up as a magician’s daughter. Here’s an excerpt from this poem:

On those long car trips home through summery Maine

I leaned my cheek on the sheer glass

following powdered sugar stars on walls of navy ice.

Or if my brother was there

we’d giggle in our late night childish joy,

we were made up characters from a different world

Just a simple description of my childhood, I thought, nothing too special. But after I finished this poem, my professor’s expression completely changed. He loved the poem, and even said he wished he had come up with the phrase “powdered sugar stars.”

I started writing more free verse poetry although I was secretly suspect of its elevated state being a hoax, and my poems started getting into the college literary journal. Although I did work hard on my poems, they still took me less time to write than my rhymed poetry, and I remained simultaneously exhilarated that I had gotten my foot in the door of this literary society that I still didn’t understand, yet critical and disgusted by the poems that I still couldn’t get anything out of.

My poems were free verse now, but they were clear and specific. I viewed my goal as a poet as conveying an idea or emotion with a precision that prose couldn’t give. These other poems seemed to find joy in obscuring meaning.

The more I talked with English majors about my quandary, the more I realized that as a whole, they approached poetry differently than I did. For me, if a poem didn’t “make sense,” the author was doing a disservice to the reader, but for them, poetry wasn’t always supposed to make sense. You weren’t supposed to take apart a poem like you were disassembling an appliance, otherwise, you would kill it. Point taken, I reasoned.  But then, how do you distinguish between a quality poem and a shoddy poem?

Is this

a poem

simply because I

have forced it

into six

neat lines?

I imagined the renowned poets of the 20th century guffawing over beers about how they’d tricked critics into believing their lazy scratchings had artistic value. Williams Carlos Williams would say with giddy tears in his eyes, “and then I wrote about how ‘everything depends on a red wheelbarrow’! And they loved it!”

Beckett would slap his knee heartily and Pound would give Williams a fist bump, and they would continue their poetic scam to the end of their days.

And then there’s the case of Billy Collins, the “everyman’s poet” of the late 20th and early 21st century. Collins said “I think a lot of readers are frustrated with the obscurity and self indulgence of most poetry. I try very assiduously to court the reader and engage him. I am interested more in a public following than a critical one” [http://www.cprw.com/Hilbert/collins2.htm].  “America’s most popular poet” has repeatedly proven his finesse in fulfilling this goal; take this poem for example:

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark

that he barks every time they leave the house.

They must switch him on on their way out.

 

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

I close all the windows in the house

and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast

but I can still hear him muffled under the music,

barking, barking, barking,

 

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,

his head raised confidently as if Beethoven

had included a part for barking dog.

 

When the record finally ends he is still barking,

sitting there in the oboe section barking,

his eyes fixed on the conductor who is

entreating him with his baton

 

while the other musicians listen in respectful

silence to the famous barking dog solo,

that endless coda that first established

Beethoven as an innovative genius.

This poem is both witty and accessible to the general population. I definitely didn’t feel I was being excluded from an inside joke. Still, I have to wonder what exactly it is that makes this a poem. If you took away the visual structure and made it into a paragraph, it would read just like a fun piece of prose.

So readers, these are my questions: first, what makes a poem a poem? And secondly, what makes a poem a good poem? Am I justified in my frustration with modern and post-modern poetry, or is there something I’m missing? If so, please let me in on the inside joke. In the meantime, I’m going to go write a villanelle.

 

 

 

They Call it Culture Shock

It comes most noticeably at first in the assault of your senses: in the din of new sounds flooding your ears, in the thick scent of lead paint that varnishes university walls, in the bright colors of houses that contrast with the crumbling roads and mud-splattered Ladas. It comes secondly in trying to navigate the unwritten rules, those elusive laws you clumsily grasp for when you sit squished by babushkas in a marshrutka, hoping that this time you won’t give the driver a reason to yell at you.

But finally and most deeply, it comes in the subtle strains, in the interaction with a teacher where you both spoke the same language but could not find an общий язык. Despite the fact that the syllables coming out of your mouths code for meaning, by the time the message gets through the filters of culture and intonation and dialect it is sterilized, lifeless. And despite the fact that you stand face to face with each other and her voice is crisp and clear, the meaning is as garbled as words underwater.

In this proverbial game of telephone, you become acquainted with the isolation that comes from a lack of true connection. Every other time you have come to this place, you have had the ability of precise, implicit communication with those from your culture. You took for granted the взаимопонимание, the mutual understanding, because you didn’t realize how similar you actually were. You thought you were wildly different from each other, so different that you would have never become friends had you lived alongside one another in your own country.

And now that there you are the only one, you realize that you are more American than you thought. You had always thought that you didn’t fit into your own culture, with its bustle and extroversion and entrepreneurial spirit. You thought all this when you straddled the chasm between Russia and America, holding tight to the hands of the Americans who came with you to this land while trying to grasp just as tightly the hands of these mystery people who had fascinated you for half your life. And you thought that if you kept letting yourself be pulled in both directions you would split, so you let go of the American hands.

As soon as you let go, you found yourself being dragged over hills, scraping across rocky paths, now using your free hand to wave for help, frantically looking back at the place you left. You now realize that the hands you let go of were hands like yours, and as you are pulled across new terrain, you are lonely. You note the irony, for your eyes were always on the Russians even as the Americans were holding your hand, and now you look at the horizon of nine months and sigh.

But the Russians like to say that hope dies last, and you agree, so you grasp even tighter to these foreign hands, no longer using your free hand to wave for help but to hold on to new hands tighter, knowing that you will be cut and bruised by this rocky terrain but having faith that this road will bring you somewhere breathtaking.

Living Adverbially: The Eureka Moment of Two Nerds

This post is dedicated to my friend Kelly, who gave an age-old truth new life by (beautifully), (intelligently), and (thoughtfully) finding the right words.

We sat on a slab of wood along the bank of the Erie Canal, eating frozen custard and swatting at the mosquitos that peppered the August air. Though two years had passed since we had last seen each other, Kelly is one of those rare friends with whom I share a common language not marred by time or distance, so it was no surprise that we were now engrossed in a conversation somewhere under the broad category of “the meaning of life.”

In our conversation, Kelly discovered a simple yet profound phrase that made life seem to retreat from the distortion of fun-house mirrors into the light of clear day.

“I want to live adverbially,” she said.

~~~~

adverb n.

“An adverb is a part of speech that normally serves to modify verbs, adjectives, other adverbs, clauses, and sentences. Adverbs answer such questions as how?, when?, where?, in what way?, or how often?”

Adverbs (seemingly) exist as second-class citizens in the hierarchy of the English lexicon. In English classes, we are told that adverbs are the least necessary part of speech, that you can (easily) delete them without changing the meaning of the sentence. In fact, using (too) many adverbs is a stylistic weakness. Instead of (lazily) inserting an adverb to describe the word “went,” you should (violently) discard the adverb like a smelly banana peel, and instead, (confidently) choose a precise little verb like “scooted” or “slunk.” It is my theory that if the parts of speech were on Survivor, the adverb would be voted out at the first tribal council, being (wrongly) typecast as the bikini clad model who is nice to look at, but (unfortunately) is (basically) useless.

Noun n.

“The part of speech that names a person, place, thing, or idea. The following words are nouns: child , town , granite , kindness , government , elephant , and Taiwan . In sentences, nouns generally function as subjects or as objects.”

It is nouns who sit (pompously) on their concrete or abstract thrones of security, knowing that they are under no threat of being (inhumanely) struck through by an editor’s inky sword. They have no fear of being ignored or discarded, because sentences (simply) can’t exist without them. They are the subjects and the objects, the alphas and omegas of the kingdom of words, the undeniable focus of our sentences.

~~~~

The hierarchy of the parts of speech is amoral when describing grammar, but nouns do not only boast kingship in the realm of abstract language, but in the concrete living of our lives. Just as they do in our sentences, the nouns of our lives tend to function as the subjects or objects of our focus. We are told by our culture that nouns define us. Nouns like success, money, achievement, and security become our reasons for existence.

We seek after these nouns, continually unhappy because we mistake them as the end goal. A sentence cannot be formed without a noun, and likewise, we believe that life is not worthwhile without the needed nouns. We push the adverbs of our lives to the wayside, those words that describe how we live, and in doing so, the verbs with which we strive for the nouns are tinted with exhaustion and hopelessness. We work (anxiously), we save money (fearfully), we achieve (greedily). The nouns lose their luster when negative adverbs define a life; the thrill of an achievement or a paycheck is dull and quick in comparison to the lengthy angst that pacing our lives with negative adverbs creates.

When Kelly said, “I want to live adverbially,” she proposed a complete paradigm shift in the way we view our lives. That we focus less on our physical circumstances, and more on our reactions to them. That we focus less on the end result of our work, and more on fulfilling the process gracefully. We don’t always have control over our nouns, but we do have control over our adverbs. I am always amazed when I hear stories of those much less fortunate than me who live their lives with immense joy. Whether pained by sickness or poverty, these special people live out the adverbial life, and their joy is untouchable.

I, on the other, hand, often find that true joy eludes me because I do not fight against the default adverbs that I have allowed to direct my thoughts and actions. The adverbs “fearfully,” and “anxiously” have constantly modified my verbs and tainted my nouns, and it is my hope that as I grow, I can learn to own the adverbs, “confidently,” and “trustingly.”

Living adverbially is not a new idea; Paul describes the peace of living adverbially through the strength of God in Philippians 4:12-13: “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

No, living adverbially is not a new idea, but the power of being content whatever the circumstances has become so mired in clichés that its beauty couldn’t strike me until Kelly found the words that would resonate in a word nerd’s heart. I cannot control the nouns in my life, but with my eyes on the Loving One who is in control, I can live my life trustingly, hopefully, joyfully.

 

 

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: