Pall

I wonder how many other people read the news regularly but don’t talk about it daily, don’t draw it out from whatever crevice it occupies in our memories, unless – as chance would have it – there’s reason to draw it out and observe it.

I wonder if, even as it sits in the dark, unmoving, it somehow retains shape–if it serves as a kind of thread throughout each day, the same way a morning weaves into evening.

I wonder what kind of fabric that must be, lately, with the news as horrible as it has been.

Is the air a little thicker? Is it a little harder, sometimes, to think?

I wonder if it’s just me.

In the event of disaster

Yesterday marked the 45th anniversary of Apollo 11’s moon landing. Not to rain on everyone’s moon crusade, but two days before that – July 18, 2014 – marked the anniversary of another sort.

On July 18, 1969, a speechwriter for President Nixon prepared a doomsday memo in the event that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin never returned from the moon. You can read the full memo here, but the title says it all:

IN THE EVENT OF MOON DISASTER:

I can’t fault the President or his speechwriter’s instinct to plan for the worst. Even as I imagine the President and the Clergyman, the protagonists in this Moon Disaster script, seated stiffly before teleprompters, rattling off lines with fixed, sorrowful expressions…even then, cringing at that production, I can’t fault them for acting in it.

At first, the most organic, human (and as such, humane) response to that scenario strikes me as silence, as a pain that cannot be propped up with words.

But when you’re running a country, or when you’ve been appointed to minister to the mourning, you can’t just sit there and emote.

You’ve got a job to do.

And sometimes, teleprompters are what help you do it.

In the wake of…

You don’t need me to tell you that three days ago, there was yet another mass shooting. You also don’t need me to tell you that “another mass shooting” is no surprise to anyone who has been paying the slightest bit of attention to American news in the past couple decades, and especially in the past two years.

And you definitely don’t need me to tell you that there have been thousands of people having thousands of unique conversations all weekend about this – about any of it: the six victims, seven including the killer himself; mass shootings; gun violence; the need for (or overblown concern about) gun restrictions; treatment of mental illness (or lack thereof); 24-hour news cycles and the media’s glorification of lone killers…the list goes on.

Maybe I’m just deflecting from the real issues here, but… I don’t want to write about any of it at the moment.

I want to write, actually, about a poem.

On Huff Po yesterday, poet and poetry reviewer Seth Abramson shared what he describes as a “remix poem,” using every word that Elliot Rodger spoke in his final YouTube video, and nothing more.

I’ll let Abramson describe for himself his motivation in composing the poem:

The aim of this metamodern poem is to turn on their heads the words of hatred Elliot Rodger left behind him as he exited this world. The author condemns in the strongest terms the actions of Elliot Rodger; the aim here is to rescue language from the perversion of language, not to glorify an individual whose actions were incontrovertibly evil. Note that this poem is intended as an address to, not an address from, Elliot Rodger.

I’ll also let you decide, using your own parameters, how “successful” the poem is – if you found it moving or trite, persuasive or simply meh.

After writing my own poems in response to current events – one of which was a remix in response to the Newtown shooting – what I want to know is this: how useful are poems in politics? And not just any politics, but tragedies?

And are those even the right questions? Is the ideal for any political poem to be “useful”?

I don’t know.

But I also can’t shake the first reaction I had to Abramson’s remix, which was: nothing.

And that’s not meant as a judgment of the quality of Abramson’s poem, or of Abramson as a poet. The simple explanation might be that Abramson’s poem was more cerebral and removed from the people most affected – the victims, of course – than I expected it to be, the poem having appeared so quickly after the shooting itself.

And while I don’t buy into the complaint that Abramson is glorifying Rodger, I don’t think he’s exactly condemning him either. Rather, his poem focuses on the redemption of language as it was used by Rodger, but not on what Rodger’s words represented: a vitriol that executed much more destruction than words ever could.

I can’t speak to what a political poem “should” or “shouldn’t” be, but maybe I’ve at least answered the question for myself:

A poem, in my mind, is useful in politics to the extent that it can help us (either as an audience or an author) to see a situation more complexly.

I suppose that in the end, Abramson’s poem did just that.

Sorry it was so weird

2014 April PAD Challenge, Day 21: Write a New York School poem with a “recipe.” This was pretty fun.

Sorry it was so weird

When I think about writing long, long, long
sentences that never ever
end, I think about you, Mister –
but I’m not going to actually say your name
because if I do then it would be like we were in it
together, like I was actually there (even if it wasn’t really
that bad) because it would make me feel like I had some
part in it, like I wasn’t completely a victim of circumstance or
a victim at all because, well
I wanted what I got when I wanted it, even if it
wasn’t what I ended up wanting anyway.

But where were we –

we were in your blue hyundai that was dark enough
to blend into the dark not-so-alley-way
because there are no alleys in fucking Mooresville North Carolina
but which was dark enough to melt into that space between buildings
where you put it in park and twisted out the
key and looked over with your giant
squishy lips that reminded me just now
and then too much of a fish, or of a marshmallow –
in a bad way –
and you said something, and I said something, and I can’t remember
what we said because all I remember is
how it felt to drive between your legs, and now
I’m glad I can’t remember what I was thinking when you drove us
(after)
to the only place open at 2 am
and mumbled Sorry into your pancakes.