Prose poemish: I was the flag on a certain mailbox

Yes . . . there are rumors I was left in the hollow of a tree stump near the crossbridge on the blue China platter my mother used on Flag Day to signal the Russians, who were then our enemies, that we were shining up the samovar for tea, would they come? I was the flag on a certain mailbox and much has been written in support of my being up, though it was conjectured the owner of the 'house' simply forgot to put me down. Up meant there was a letter for the postman to collect, something elegant in an envelope tinted Atlantic Ocean-blue. The letter's subtle and glib chattiness really meant, The submarines are ready, Nurse; or Dr. Eckleberg will see you now, 'Sir;' or Their eyes are watching too much television. I was rumored to divide my time between A and B but after careful calculation decided time wasn't divisible. Euclid didn't consider time that I know of and was satisfied with a Timex. He did suggest there were two points to a line and the line could be bisected. New lines will spring up in its place, I assure you, like flags on a mailbox. They will be vertical lines. I would imagine every line is parallel to some line somewhere, just as every human has a twin. Wasn't that common knowledge when I was in sixth grade? The sexual masochism of the male black widow is inspiring as a kamikaze. You know my heart but that's simply because you have X-ray vision, not because we've ever met (we haven't) or you're extra intuitive (you're not). I'm just a writer who must write every day. Today is November 23 and I've hit my mark. Phineas judged a playwriting competition; stage directions for a cat to hit three separate marks. Alas, that was the year Sophocles won. I always thought those competitions were fixed.

Poem: Buñuel's Magic Arrow (an editing saga) (Achilles' pudgy ankle)

Last December I was asked to write a poem for a series on on Sophocles' Philoctetes. I was excited to be asked and read three different translations of the play which intrigues but is no match for drama of Oedipus, Jocasta and Antigone. I was stumped.

Finally I planted myself at the Mid-Manhattan Library, open to 11 p.m. (at least then it was), wrote and refined--the usual. Then became involved in a ten or so emails back-and-forth with the guest editor (who had come up with the Philoctetes theme and was going to post a poem a day for a month). He was very young and this was his first run at editing.

I trashed my draft and wrote a new poem, trashed that, revamped the original. Writing a poem on a deadline was new to me. Articles, reviews, yes, but a poem?

When my poem was published online, I was bowled over to see no mention of Philoctetes. Instead of telling me the other writers had sent in whatever they wanted the editor had kept up the pretense with me. Man, I'm naive and studious. I posted a comment following the poem with a note about the play. He was furious and said I was insulting his editing. What the . . . !#?!X!

But the poem is fun with its references--my life history in lit--to Buñuel's seared-in-my memory film Simon in the Desert, Penelope in the Odyssey, Laura in The Glass Menagerie, Job. To a Franny & Zooey quote I've remembered since, what, junior high? Of course baby Achilles' pudgy ankle (oh, once it was). And my long-held belief that men would be improved by wearing make-up. Enjoy, PLEASE.


Buñuel's Magic Arrow

Place thumb and forefinger on a baby's ankle. So pudgy!
Obtuse Rex-es and the gods plague my self-esteem.
Hard to keep them separate: gods; Rex-es; me.
Penelope was tricky herself. Laura primped for
genteel callers while a thousand putti wept.
Job loved too much, perhaps, and was bewared of gifts.
Philoctetes needs a good talking to.
I'll escort him to a showing of Simon of the Desert.
Simon stood on a pillar in a bright Bibley landscape.
Philoctetes is a study in shadow puppetry.
A lot of people are forsaken then learn a craft.
The Greeks don't have “that goddam Bide-a-Wee Home
heart of [Franny's]” do they.
Life would be gentler if gentlemen wore make-up.
For the discothèque, St. Simon Stylites and Philoctetes
might rub a Hercules beetle exoskeleton before
its blue is black. Is everything subject to change?

Don't Fear What You Fear: Oedipus Object Lesson

When I began writing I wrestled with subject matter. I felt I should be writing about Oedipus and Jocasta. The classics, as I wrote in my last entry, were too much a part of my life, or at least it felt that way. For someone who claims to be haunted by classics I've read a lot of suspense novels--and do know my pop references.

I was still working my way into a natural writing style, by which I mean, trying to sound like myself.

That's the best writing, writing that sounds like the person. I know that from working with students and reading friends' work. It's same as the difference between indicating an action, as actors in a melodrama do--putting their hand on their brow to indicate worry--and method acting--being the character in her or his moment.

Back to writing. A short story of mine comes to mind: "Washing." I'll explain why, later. Published in Webster Review out of Webster University in Missouri, it's a two-character tale of a woman in her early twenties who meets a much older man at a laundromat. He's a Hollywood classic--someone who was in the industry from age nine or so. Lives near Franklin parallel to and north of Hollywood Blvd. Has many stories to tell about the business. His stories are authentic. I lived around that area and heard those stories from similar characters.

An insecure twenty-something. An older guy at a laundromat. No Oedipus. No Jocasta. Not back then.

Last night? December 12, 2009? Yup. They finally strolled into my writing. I'd visited a friend's writing group; got the time wrong so was only there for the last go-round. We were given a one-word prompt and off we went. The word? "Hollywood."

At first I wrote prose about teenage years--living over the hill from the Blvd., how all I had to do was traverse Barham Blvd. and there I was with the runaways. What's on my mind recently is my need to break into my fog.

Two pages of writing and I couldn't handle any more prose. Long-hand is how I write first drafts of poetry, not fiction (or blogs). A poem fell from my pen like silvery mercury. Earlier that day a different friend had reminded me about Sophocles, author of Oedipus Rex. The incestuous couple, Oedipus and Jocasta, was on my mind.

The myth is so strong and knowledge of their mistakes so implanted it's sheet joy to play with. I don't want to write out the unfinished poem's energy so I will stop. I wrote this because I suspect it will help me navigate memory. The battle is often with paralysis. I am figuring it out and fighting.

And, my dear friends, I am writing.