Big Frank read this poem today and immediately it asked to be repeated, was, and then again, and again etc. So, it dawned on Big Frank that this was some kind of intuitive mantra - and that is what it is. Say it ten times and you will see what Big Frank means!
Here Now
by Samuel Menashe
Now and again
I am here now
And now is when
I'm here again
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Gina's Come and Gone
Big Frank was very happy to have his daughter, Gina, at home for the Thanksgiving holiday. It seems like she hardly got here and then she was gone. We had a great time together sharing the Thanksgiving meal with friends, going to the movies, and just hanging out. She's on her way back to college (hung up in Portland because of fog), but likely (we hope) back in Ashland soon. Big Frank is already looking forward to her return for the Christmas holidays.
The Hidden Source of Support
The Hidden Source of Support
---- Big Frank Dickinson
They told him that the universe was pulling for him. That confused him no end. The universe? Well it certainly had a perverse way of doing so. His life was OK, but if the whole universe was for him - then he ought to be on top - of everything; a stand out with joy dripping out his ears. Perhaps it wasn't the whole but rather only a part. He tried to place the source of support in some singular way. Was it Neptune or Chile or Antarctic ice? All much too far away. His washing machine and toaster were helpful, as were his shoes, but mostly he didn't have a clue. Perhaps that new neighbor - or his mom (no, not her). Was he really that special, or was it all (the whole vast muddle) evenly spread? Nobody, not even the universe cheers for everyone. He wanted to be the universe's favorite - otherwise, what was the point. Still - they said that it liked him; it would all be all right. So he opened his arms, spread them out wide and embraced the whole damn thing . . . at least as much as his arms could bear.
---- Big Frank Dickinson
They told him that the universe was pulling for him. That confused him no end. The universe? Well it certainly had a perverse way of doing so. His life was OK, but if the whole universe was for him - then he ought to be on top - of everything; a stand out with joy dripping out his ears. Perhaps it wasn't the whole but rather only a part. He tried to place the source of support in some singular way. Was it Neptune or Chile or Antarctic ice? All much too far away. His washing machine and toaster were helpful, as were his shoes, but mostly he didn't have a clue. Perhaps that new neighbor - or his mom (no, not her). Was he really that special, or was it all (the whole vast muddle) evenly spread? Nobody, not even the universe cheers for everyone. He wanted to be the universe's favorite - otherwise, what was the point. Still - they said that it liked him; it would all be all right. So he opened his arms, spread them out wide and embraced the whole damn thing . . . at least as much as his arms could bear.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Face of It
The Convention
---- Big Frank Dickinson
I am at a convention of me's. They have all come to see themselves in others. The membership card is their face. Nobody is allowed to say: "You look like me." Pronouns are a problem: "You look like you" leaves me out; "they look like them" has neither you nor me; and so it goes. Aside from the face, the rest is erased. There are splinter groups scorning, reformers, who claim that the face is not you. This prompts other features to be deleted: nose, eyes, age, race and gender. It is hard to find myself among the attendees. The keynote speaker (he looks like me) tonight will speak on "Identity: The Face of It". There are protesters assembling already. I recognize myself among them.
Prose Poetry
Big Frank has been looking at prose poetry. It may not look like poetry, but it has a lot of the same ingredients; it's just presented in a different way - not so much white space. Below are a couple of examples from two poets who use this form well: Russell Edson and David Shumate.
Trains
by David Shumate
I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather's suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I'm a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There's something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know where he's headed.
You can't predict his next move. In a week you may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things
you've never done. Don't think about it too much. Everything
starts to sound like a train.
Historical Breakfast
by Russell Edson
A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical. Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . . Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy, he thinks. . .
Trains
by David Shumate
I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather's suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I'm a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There's something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know where he's headed.
You can't predict his next move. In a week you may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things
you've never done. Don't think about it too much. Everything
starts to sound like a train.
Historical Breakfast
by Russell Edson
A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical. Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . . Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy, he thinks. . .
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Office of Lost Opportunity
The Office of Lost Opportunity
---- Big Frank Dickinson
In the office of lost opportunity there are no current calendars and the clocks all run backwards. Those who come are always late for their appointments, and usually they are turned away with lots of upbrading about if they had only and why didn't they . . . It is not clear why anyone bothers to come here in the first place for to do so is to admit that one blew it; but many seem to want to make that admission. Those who do show up on time expect to be able to review their loss. They are given mirrors and told to look over their shoulders - what they see is seldom consoling and after a few questions about second chances, and how maybe it was all for the best (something this office does not encourage) they head across the street to the Bureau of Lucky Losses for a healthy dose of snythetic happiness, which seems to please them to no end.
---- Big Frank Dickinson
In the office of lost opportunity there are no current calendars and the clocks all run backwards. Those who come are always late for their appointments, and usually they are turned away with lots of upbrading about if they had only and why didn't they . . . It is not clear why anyone bothers to come here in the first place for to do so is to admit that one blew it; but many seem to want to make that admission. Those who do show up on time expect to be able to review their loss. They are given mirrors and told to look over their shoulders - what they see is seldom consoling and after a few questions about second chances, and how maybe it was all for the best (something this office does not encourage) they head across the street to the Bureau of Lucky Losses for a healthy dose of snythetic happiness, which seems to please them to no end.
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