Battery Wallace

We are supposed to write a little review analysis thing for one of G.C. Waldrep's battery poems and post it up here, so here goes:

Reading through "Battery Wallace" was challenging. It was split into pretty obvious sections via wierd little marks, but those sections didn't always make sense. The first section seemed to hint at scenery, and managed to include a bit of deeper thought onto the frailties inherent in humanity, including warfare. The second section started with a narrative about the absurdity of the situation that gun batteries are now a park. After that it seemed almost word for word to be taken right from militarymuseum.org, and in that way incorporates the history of the Battery Wallace. I was actally pretty discouraged when I noticed the ridiculous similarities between the two; I didn't think it seemed right to take a websites attribution of it's history, switch it up just a little bit, add some spaces and call it a poem. Still, it was an accurate depiction of past events, but it feels wierd somehow. The third section is the "graffitti" section that seems to characterize all the battery poems. More than that though, he also thought to mention some litter, which in this case was a pair of lady's undergarments. Symbolizing a little bit of extra strangeness in having such powerful guns torn down and abandoned? Maybe. Either that or he just thought it fit in with the graffitti.The fourth section is all written in italics, and may or may not be intended to be a dream. It draws forth imagery of continuing racism against Japanese, and questions why it is. I'm curious as to why he begins the last three lines with doubled -'s. I'm actually curious as to more than that; why are all the spaces apart like they are? I know we touched on this in class, when John read it in stanza form, and Ann read it in its original, but I'm still not convinced. I know that it does something to the poem; it fundamentally changes how one reads it and sees it. I'm not sure, however, that it's as big a difference as we make it out to be. I was paying close attention to John and Ann during their respective readings while following along with the respective versions of the poem. I picked up that both ignored some pauses, and both added some pauses in where there were no marks to indicate one. This sparked my memory, and thinking back on most poetry I've followed along to, almost everyone does this. Is it therefore the poem that an individual's mind hears that influences the reading instead of the poem in the page? My theory is that the page effects it, but only for a little bit, after that the roots are laid, and however we imagined it at that point are how we'll read it from then on barring outside correction. Well, back to the poem. The fifth section is a short little bit about industry being raised by war and the consequences thereafter. It also refrences the word "lupine" which I originally thought to mean feral and ferocious, but after Gwen mentioned all the invasive plants in the other batteries, I suspect that it is indeed to mean one of those. Both definitions exist, so I guess you're free to choose your own interpretation. To end the poem he makes a pretty steadfast refusal, with sybolic falling imagery indicating a hopeless spiral. What's he refusing? Good question; he leads up to it with

"And wanting, at last, to know
that other, that
underneath--

I drop a coin.
It echoes in the shaft.
My refusal."

...So, I don't know. The industrialization of war? Invasive plants? Japanese racism? Something underneath something else? Your guess is as good as mine, but so you know, I'm going to guess the industrialization one. Call it a hunch.
Here's the poem:http://pages.slc.edu/~eraymond/ccorner/exchange/waldrep.html
It's the second one.

Thinking Softly

When thinking softly
of a woman I fancy,
I stumbled back
to the girl I adored,
who held out her racket
which I tripped over backwards,
falling back again,
coming to a rest,
at the tip of a pencil
held by a lady I once loved
who twirled it around promptly
and scrubbed me out of existence
right back where I once was;
a different lifetime ago
in a white fog
with only the damsel
I'd shared my soul,
dancing in elegant circles.

So I look to my heart,
torn and broken,
staring back at me
with swollen, bitter eyes,
and I say to him,
"Get up, we've got work to do."
He cries a tiny bit;
he throws a tiny fit,
stamping at the ground
with tiny little feet.
Then he stands,
a smidge of resolve
leaking through his eyes.
"I'm ready" he says,
holding needle and thread
"Ready to patch up new wounds."

-mine

Monarch or a Moth

Fearing the dangers
I've enveloped myself
a shell, a shelter
waiting for the dread to pass.

But I emerge now,
peeling back
the caccoon
of my own skin.

It's up to bonds now
whether out will come
a monarch or a moth.


-mine

Looking Through the Mask

looking through the mask
that covers half my face
as it burns in its place
held tight by the hate
I see the black all around
with my yellow-eyed rage
wounded friends on the ground
their dread hungers to sate
and all I hear from the left is
"Welcome home" in a hiss
beckoning, calling,
there's nothing amiss
with the world
how could there be
the shadows aren't real
how could they be
science made myth its meal
so nothing to fear
little boy all alone
the closet is empty
the monsters are gone
just be careful dear boy
what mask you put on
what darkness you don
what yellow eyed terror
inside you is spawned
for it won't always be
half of this beautiful mask;
look towards the right
and make sure it's cleared
you wouldn't want anything
hissing "hello" in that ear


-mine

Pumping Blood to my Head

hand in the darkness
tugging on the jeans;
tripping up my feet,
grasping at the laces,

falling again,
stumbling over
the grievous wound
ripping itself,
splintering to add
piercing  pain
to the normally
dull ache

hit the ground,
slammed down,
no more air;
it's gone to find
a new home
among the shadows

peeling now,
sliding through
the skin and the bone,
then taking its time
with the grey matter,
taking the time to mash
and mash,
never letting up the pressure

bleeding now,
but the blood doesn't stain
instead rolling off
the duck's back,
and onto the sidewalk
pooling around,
and inside,
the soft squishy ears

dying now,
but it's not so bad,
it's slow at least
letting me cling
to my life and
to my heart,
found among cracked ribs;
it's still beating,
pumping its blood to my head,
to the sidewalk

thrashing now,
dying hurts,
getting worse and worse

black now,

bright now,
too much so
eyes aren't used to light,
been out too long,
panic
heaven?
hell?
hospital, oh
therapy,
talking it out,
talking out the broken bones,
talking the air back into my lungs

talking it all back together
for another hard fall

Navigating Raindrops

Too many times
has the sun set over my eyes
when they remain open,
and too many times
has the dawn caught them
stuck open like a jammed window.

I'm stuck,
a time-traveler,
caught in an eddy
of the continuum
as it speeds by,
leveling any sense
of the normality
I've always dreamed existed
but have not yet found.

I'm confused,
a dog that doesn't realise
that it's master has only
gone to the market,
and will be back
in a few hours,
instead fearing the worst;
they're gone for good,
comatose, never to return.

I navigate raindrops,
mapping them out like
you might a city,
knowing that just like rain,
a city will crumble against the ground
given enough time.

I change every decade,
every one of your whims,
an intrinsic part of who I am.
Next week I'll be more optimistic,
after all, a century will have
been left in the dust.

For every twenty years
that you grace the earth,
I'm on it for twenty five.
When you're eighty,
I'll be one hundred.

A geezer.

A crazy old nocturnal geezer,
begging for a time
when our suns will align,
and I will reap the mortality
of normality;
when I embrace the world
through a lens that isn't blurred
by my slightest movement.

-mine

Lightswitch

Veins of black smoke run through your eyes
as the world behind you shatters,
throwing glass in an exquisite slowness
toward nowhere that'll matter.

Spines of blue light dart out from your gaze
like minnows through a clear stream,
back and forth, glinting in the sun
but truly shining in the darkness.

And like a mosquito stealing blood
I leech the smoke
And like a cat, hovering over a bowl
I snatch the light

I'd like to put them in a box
a box on my pillow
so that I'll never have to get up
to turn the lights on or off,
but instead open the box
and let your eyes
counteract the sun.

-mine

Shout

Shout,

you cannot be heard,

your ridiculous words

a weakness to be exploited

by the beings inside

who poison your mind

wish only your vice

be brought into light

so that others will cry

to bring day into night

to rip open the sky

and bring panic and fright

Shout,

you cannot be heard,

your innocence worthless

your piety anguish

bringing pity on yourself

a torrent of foam

spewing straight from their mouths

to the depths of your soul

with its cracked and torn hull

ripping open your chest

never time to invest

in tape to hold shut

Shout,

you cannot be heard,

wouldn't it be absurd

to announce beyond grave

all the time that you saved

whispering praise

to the damned and depraved

so instead give a shout

to the world still around

the dirt and the worms

as you get blown all about

wind carrys you straight from the urn

Shout,

you cannot be heard,

except to your own ears

to your own dreary fears

which shrivel with cheers

so shout them all back

run amok with no tact

speak your riddle in fire

ponder deep all the while

as chaos takes over

how that tiny green clover

hears your shout all over the world

-mine

Falling for the Thunderclouds

Funny, how I keep falling for the thunderclouds
Funny, how the wind keeps whispering in my ears
Funny, how the rain still moistens my lips
how the trees embrace me
how sun greets me with a firm kiss

Funny, how I keep falling for the thunderclouds
Funny, how they respond
Funny, how they howl
how they scream
how they light up my night

Funny, how I keep falling for the thunderclouds
Funny, how they fall with rain for me
Funny, how they fall with lightning
how they always roll
how that's always the best part

Funny, how I keep falling for your thunderclouds

-mine

Full

It seems most fitting
that the sky mother
would choose to represent
the day of my birth
with her silver shield,
just as she did
years ago as I was
born free from my skin.

She chooses well,
and it cannot be helped
but to follow in the
rays' footsteps
walking the wind
always upward,
toward the grave,

borne home on my silver shield.


-mine

Broken Record (Haiku!)

I'm broken again
like a record repeating
I'm broken again

-mine...it's a haiku!

Incomprehension

Cats are huggable,
they are just so
very cute,
and adowable,
and fuzzy-wuzzy.

Sometimes they are jerks,
and are prideful,
arrogant,
and haughty,
but hey,
they're just so cute
and funny
that it doesn't matter.

But sometimes you
pick them up
and they bite you,
or turn into a tiny little
buzzsaw of fuzzy death.

Stupid cats.

The problem is,
cats are so different than men,
that we can't actually tell
which ones are going to
fillet us up like the fish
they catch while perched
atop a glass ocean,
and which cats will snuggle in
a bit closer;
seeking our warmth,
and our numerous
snuggle-wuggles.

-it's mine, and no, it's not about cats

Pacifism

I felt my shoulder snap,
and told him to leave.
It snapped quicker
than my mind might have,
an early warning for
a quick departure.

My shoulder snapped,
I felt my spine seize up,
and told him to leave.
It seized before
my heart did,
an early warning for
a quick departure.

My shoulder snapped,
My spine seized,
I felt my hands contract,
and told him to leave.
They contracted ahead
of my reason,
an early warning for
a quick departure.

My shoulder snapped,
My spine seized,
My hands contracted,
I felt my jaw set hard,
and told him to leave.
It set before the teeth
could gnash out,
an early warning for
a quick departure.

My shoulder snapped,
My spine seized,
My hands contracted,
My jaw set hard,
And my words;
"You should leave"
an early warning for
a quick departure.

-Mine, in response to blatant prideful manipulative sexism spewing *explitives*

Mother Moon

I knew who I was
the moment she called out to me.
I knew I was a tide,
and like all my kin,
she would determine my
ebb and flow.

I am halfway to ebbing,
halway through flowing.
She is at her standstill,
like only she can be.

I gaze at her atop a hill,
gaze through the trees;
through the sky,
and see her
in her beautiful white dress
tinged with gold.
She's dancing with
her older children,
the one's who have already spent
their days as waves;
crashing and receding.

One day we'll crash our last,
and she'll call to us again;
reach down to us again,
with her silver hands
reflecting off the clouds.
And we will join our siblings
in the black void,
dancing in our mother's light.

-yuppers, it's mine

Jealous Lover

My skin brushes yours, and I remember the last oak
we ever carved our hearts into.

It's dead now,
grey and leafless,
but its bark still holds
more or less,
the mark of the love we shared,

aged,
faded,
battered,
and ripped.

As I run my hand,
through your soft hair
I think to you bringing
out your own garden's yield.

It's gone now,
consumed by the very
touch that binds us,

apples,
figs,
blackberrys,
bitter raspberrys.

My finger stokes your face,
wiping away your tears,
and I reminisce,
on the showers we shared,
even if I just had to peep
through the window,
through the darkness,
blood rushing to my face
as the lightbulb flickered violently.

I even remember
the few times
we threw ourselves to abandon,
ignoring our parents' wishes,
reveling in the joy of each other,
naked, and drenched in the cold.

How the bulb flashed, and the air itself shook.

But our parents would find us,
scold us,
rip us apart.

As my hands weave into yours,
I recall climbing the high trees
in your vast backyard,
how I would grab your arm,
amd you'd swing up to meet me.

And then, hands as one,
my arms would wrap around you,
and you'd blush as the sun
slowly dropped below the horizon.

Together, we'd sway,
back and forth
at your breath's consent,
in our highest perch,
in love, and  as one.

To this day,
I cannot understand why
the Druids would worship you.
I couldn't stand to,
to hold you apart,
to hold you up as a higher power,
to hold you up as a god.

A god must manage the whole world,
and I am a jealous lover.

- Mine again

Compulsion

Why,
when I walk the dark alone,
do I hear crying
from the lamps that flicker
as I pass?

Why,
when I walk the tracks alone,
do I hear sobs
from the ties
around me?

Why,
when I walk the streets alone,
do I hear wailing
from the paint lines
bisecting the road?

Why,
when I walk the woods alone,
do I hear tears
trickling down
every branch, in every tree?

Why,
when I reach the clearing alone,
do I hear the Moon
cry out to me,
telling me to come home?

Why does it sound so compelling?

-once again mine, but come on, you knew that already

Poem Speech Thing

This is a speech I wrote for Oral Comm. class last semester...complete with poem! I hope it doesn't sound too harsh.

Of all God’s creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the leash.
That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with a cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.
-Mark Twain

My kitty Jasmine is dead. Frankly, I’m sorta relieved. And that’s not to say that I hate cats; more that I find a pitying relief in her death. That sounds pretty horrible, but when you hear what her last few years were like in this poem I wrote, you’ll see that it’s probably better this way.

Oh stinky kitty;

you smell like death.

The decaying tuna in your teeth

makes me nauseous from the other side of the house.

Your eyes are lined with the crust and grime

of your oozing corneas.

The phlegm like goop

Turns black over time,

Making you look like a raccoon….except disgusting.

Mommy doesn’t want you to be put down;

She says that kitties purr when their in pain,

And that it’s all they do, when they’re really suffering.

Well, you don’t purr, stinky kitty;

I wonder if you even can any more,

Your teeth are gone,

And your vocal chords seem stuck on the “loud screech” setting.

I wonder how you can possibly be alive after all this time.

You’re at the very least 19,

And that’s if you were zero when we found you,

As a full grown cat,

With a burned off tail.

You can’t eat any more,

Not because you can’t chew,

But because your rampant

Arthritis has crippled you,

And grape sized tumors have constricted your limbs

And made it hard for you

To leave your den under the toilet.

That, unfortunately, was an honest to goodness description of my cat in its last few years of life. That part about cats purring when they are unhappy is true too, according to Petplace.com “severely ill cats also purr.”  Jasmine was a good cat, a beautiful cat. But when a cat deals with cancer it should, by all the laws nature, die. She had cancer for 4 years. She got over it; a true paragon of survival. If she could talk, she would probably have mirrored Chief Sitting Bull’s last words… “I am not going. Do with me what you like. I am not going.” As a way of representing her resolve. She never complained about her obvious pain, or the fact that replacement kittens were jumping on her. When she died, it wasn’t from cancer, no, that was to weak for this little kitty. She died of a combination of cancer, lung problems, multiple infections that would fell a lesser feline, and a completely destroyed liver. And she fought through each one of those things individually before they teamed up against her.

I’m glad Jasmine died; she deserved a break from her life. Rest In Peace.

Smiley Face :)

Oh Smiley Face,

You are a quandary;

A concept that is impossible to fully understand.

You have a deep meaning regardless of who uses you,

But that meaning is never clear, never consistent.

Are you a happy feeling?

A impatient myriad of buttons?

Perhaps a simple, “not knowing what to say”.

Are you disdain?

Are you love?

Do you perhaps flirt with those who grace your cheer?

Smiley Face, what are you?

You mean so much,

In so many ways,

That to me,

You mean nothing but anxiety.

 Smiley Face,

You are a prickle on my skin.

-mine again, in reference to smiley faces that tend to show up in text messages

A Cat and her Boy

I bonded with a cat seventeen years ago.
I picked her up with my chubby,
clumsy fingers, and squished that kitten to my chest.

She's a bonfire,
a swirl of brown and orange
on a background of black night.

We used to play pranks on one another,
I'd send her down the stairs in a hamper,
she'd knock a bookcase on my head,
in the middle of evening prayer.

By rights we should hate each other;
I still have scars on my chest and arms,
from those times she wouldn't let go.
She still won't sit comfortably
when someone picks her up
for fear of being forced into
the most majestic,
of aerial acrobatics.

No one but me.

Maybe it's the pepperoni I pass her,
right off of my pizza slice,
or maybe it's debt for all
the Oreo's she's stolen over the years.

She sits still in my arms.

So sometimes I'll pick her up,
if she permits it,
and stare into her eyes...
one, two , three, four, five...

We understand each other.

I understand her need to chase a mouse,
and she understands why I sit, bound,
watching a glowing screen,
such a human thing to do.

And sometimes, when we're lucky,
we reverse rolls,
and I go on the hunt,
wild and free,
full of pride,
and she stands,
transfixed by the imaginations
of a thousand different minds.


-mine