p>Today’s Yawp comes from veteran Yawper Corey Funk, and it’s a beautiful one, on many levels — the personal, the familial, the social, the political. I’ll let his introduction speak:
I was of two minds (like a tree in which there are two blackbirds) as to my reasons for this yawp. Motivated by the horrific events in Arizona, I felt that I needed to share this poem with others. “If-” contains a kernel of hard truths of what people do to each other. We each will be beaten, will be bruised, will be tricked and deceived. Those are par for the course. What matters is our reaction to those events and our reaction to other people we come in contact with. Don’t let the petty dictators and thousand little barbs of each day make you a beast. Be civil for the road even if that road is hard for everyone and if you can make the journey easier for others by your civility, it costs you nothing and everyone benefits. The other part of my mind was motivated by the homefront. My wife was out of town on business for three days meaning my son and I were left to our own devices. In those moments where I watch him struggle with tasks I recall this poem. He is two years old. Sharing it with him just now isn’t appropriate so I chose to share it with others as universal advice on what hazards lay on the road to Manhood (which I mean to use in a universal, non-gender fashion indicating a fully formed and well-rounded person).
I posted this on a bulletin board in a well traffiked (sp?) hallway of the university I work for.
Thank you, Corey — it’s a comfort to know there are fathers and teachers and, well, people like you in the world.
If—
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Not lost but found
This Yawp comes your way via the lovely and amazingly talented Amanda Villalobos, a brilliant artist and one of my classmates at Sarah Lawrence (what’s up, Sadie Lou!), who spotted this amazing poem on a bathroom ceiling at the beach in Provincetown. Hooray for observant eyes and for found art!
The ceiling is the perfect platform for a poem about platforms.
“Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers …”
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON
by William Wordsworth
THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
“For this, for everything, we are out of tune; / it moves us not.”
Every time I’m in an airport, I get some atrocious muzaked-out version of some atrocious-in-the-first-place song stuck in my head: the Pina Colada song, for instance, or Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young,” which, though not necessarily always atrocious-in-the-first-place, is always atrocious when stuck in one’s head. But behind that, running on a loop somewhere in the back of my brain, is always William Wordsworth’s “The World Is Too Much with Us.” There’s just something about an airport that makes me think of that poem, and continuously. Perhaps it’s the perpetual, pervading grayness of it all: the planes, the walls, the carpets, the tiles. Perhaps it’s the sense of urgency and the necessity of sitting and waiting. Perhaps it’s just the conveyor belts conveying people to their places and destinations, how we’re all standing still and moving at the same time. Regardless, I decided to leave this poem behind the last time I traveled — and not printed on fancy cardstock or “arted up” in any way, just like a note someone dropped behind them. As it was the end of the holiday season, the poem seemed even more appropriate.
“So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, / Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn.”
“So this is Christmas …”
I will admit it, and usually without shame: I pretty much just plain hate the holidays. The lines, the traffic, the angry drivers moving their minivans backwards without looking in the rear-view mirror, the rash-raising holly-and-reindeer-antler acrylic Christmas sweaters, the toy aisles stacked with toys set to record and replay your voice, and without warning — all of it makes my teeth grind themselves into nubs. I find myself, every year, having to take some time to slow my breathing and concentrate on what I love about the season: the fact that people dig into their wallets and drop dollar bills into Salvation Army buckets, and that, even for a few seconds, they’re filled with generosity — and those few seconds are beautiful seconds.
And so, when I move my mind away from the acrylic sweaters and rear-view mirrors and reindeer antlers stuck into car windows, I think that the way to survive the stresses of the season is to concentrate on the ideas behind the season: generosity, and giving, and what — and whom — one loves. And I do love giving gifts. And there are also a lot of poems about the season I love — and so I decided to combine these things this holiday season by tucking a copy of a poem — including Dickinson’s brilliant and admittedly baffling (that last stanza is a thinker) poem 1487 — in my cards. Enjoy, and remember to breath deeply — and step away from the glittering sweaters.
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem Since He and I were Boys Was leveled, but for that 'twould be A rugged Billion Miles— -- Emily DickinsonA merry — and thought-provoking — surprise.
Tellings and Retellings
Please tell me instead
That you are Ruth
That you serve your family with grain
And your nights alone earn them comfort?
– Connor Quigley
A gorgeous rendering of “Ruth and Naomi” by Ary Scheffer
Tonight’s Yawp comes from Connor Quigley, a student at the Columbus College of Art and Design. In this poem, Quigley cycles through Biblical examples, searching for meaning — the perfect kind of poem for the current season, when we’re all, it seems, fighting tempters of one kind of another.
What of the silken folds of your youth
Has tradition and diligence kept safe
Or has the Tempter roused those layers,
Revealing what was cloistered therein?
Have you felt that marble warmth
Held like David triumphant over the giant
Its heading his hand, dripping with defeat
Or have you kept yourself away from wicks?
Have you become like the Eye of the Needle
Where rich man must unburden themselves
Ducking low, guiding their crowns
That they might pass through you?
Has Jezebel inspired your chastity
Taking flight up stone towers to hide away
From those that accuse you of division
Will you, too, go down and feed wild dogs?
Did you consider yourself like Rahab
Righteous, giving shelter to hunted men
Perhaps you thought her virtue
Lay in her calling?
Have the pearls adorning your neck altered
Which once were gifts from Wisdom himself
Shining, prized testaments to your worth
Their caster changed, gifts now from swine?
—
Please tell me instead
That you are Esther
That bravery steals audience before your King
That your honor, tested, brings victory?
Please tell me instead
That you are Ruth
That you serve your family with grain
And your nights alone earn them comfort?
Please tell me instead
That you are Sarah
That patience and humility
Bring great harvests to your nation?
Please tell me instead
That you are the Lover
That royalty writes of your perfection
Building temples, failing, to match your beauty?
Please tell me instead
That you are Eve
That you are the mother of choice
And that your fruit might not bear your faults?
“Hold on world, world hold on …”
Hold on world, world hold on
It’s gonna be alright
You gonna see the light
When you’re one
really one
You get things done
like they’ve never been done
So hold on
– John Lennon, “Hold On,” Plastic Ono Band
I meant to post this Yawp last week, but WordPress and I hit a rough patch in our relationship, and I decided it was time for a break. Now, it appears that our differences have been resolved — and, as I left campus after picking up final portfolios and drove to the local Kroger, where the citizens of Georgetown had stopped to build stockpiles of bread and milk and de-icing salt and cat litter in anticipation of yet another winter storm, I realized now was the perfect time for this post after all.
Though he was assassinated six months after I was born, John Lennon is one of my biggest influences. Period. That’s usually the kind of statement I qualify — one of the biggest influences on my writing, on my life, on my beliefs — but when it comes to John Lennon, I can’t. It’s possible that no other artist influenced all aspects of, well, me — from my writing to the way I live my life to my political beliefs — than John Lennon. Some of my earliest memories unfold in my mind to the soundtrack of John’s songs on The White Album: “Dear Prudence,” “Julia,” “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” (though, I admit, I thought this was “Buffalo Bill” for years). At some point in high school, I stole my father’s copy of Plastic Ono Band, and that’s the soundtrack of my teenage years — whenever I think of junior year in high school, writing in my dorm room with my earphones, I can hear the opening of the album, and of “Mother” — up until those primal screams which characterize, probably, every teenager’s psyche — playing in the background. And so, on the anniversary of his death on December 8th, I could think of no better Yawp than a John Lennon Yawp. I printed out these lyrics from “Hold On” and taped them to my office door in the hopes that they might help some passerby hold on through the weeks of finals to come.
I wish this wasn’t so blurry, as the lyrics are awesome.
A Yawptacular Book — And A Great Gift To Boot
As an editor and as a teacher, the moments I love most are the moments in which I first see a submission or a piece by a student which absolutely takes the breath out of me and makes me, as Dickinson so eloquently put it, “feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off.” This Yawp by Corey Hendrickson, one of Sofia Kartsonis’ students at the Columbus College of Art and Design, absolutely blasted off the top of my head, in the very best way. Corey, an Advertising and Graphic Design major, responded to Sofia’s Yawp challenge by putting together these stunningly beautiful books. He was influenced by Illustrated Life, a book by one of my favorite illustrators, Charley Harper, and by Mike McGee‘s poetry. Here’s a view of the books themselves:
And here’s a gorgeous glimpse inside their breathtaking pages:
I’m happy to say that Mr. Hendrickson is also selling these gorgeous books. Though I usually abhor the holidays, I think that the chance to give someone this book has permanently changed my relationship to them. E-mail TheYawp@gmail.com if you’re interested, and I’ll put you in touch with Mr. Hendrickson! Support art!
Bringing it all back home
Hopefully, this photograph of Bob Dylan will make up for The Yawp’s extended hiatus.
Sorry, dear denizens of the blogosphere, for the extended hiatus. Sadly, it could not be helped — but I had to return in order to post this beautiful piece by Pallavi Sen, a CCAD student, which is not only powerful but immensely appropriate for this holiday season. Feed your mind as well as your stomach this week with this one!
Now I am not an American but I share this angst. It’s not the war I’m concerned with, with Iraq and Afghanistan, it’s not the military support. Iran. It’s how you say it, it’s how you don’t even care about what it means, It’s how you trust whatever local TV station you listened to for 5 minutes while some guy was serving you fries at a drive in (oh the privileges of being in the first world) and you just said it like he did and he said it the way his teleprompter showed it to him and when I tell you that no it’s not right why don’t you say Iraq you just turn around and tell me just get used to the idea of being in America where people don’t really give a shit. You’re in America now Pallavi, you can’t get angry about French words coming out of her mouth as she tries to sound sexy and cultured. Hindi words. Karma, Dharma, Niravana, Yoga. Karma, Dharma, Niravana, Yoga. Of course I know what Yoga is, I’ve done it for years; please stop being so anal about things, please don’t correct people when they take an idea so dear to me with my misplaced sense of patriotism and turn into the newest fitness diet. Don’t get angry when what my grandfather just knew instinctively becomes Cosmo’s tip of the month, described with words like ‘hot’, ‘exotic’, ‘quick-fix’, and ‘let this do the trick’ and don’t tremble with short-lived rage (so easy to get distracted, so much to be entertained by) when you see someone go crazy over “oh my god look at my Henna”. I watch my culture being traded and exchanged and watch it getting ripped to shreds. I watch my food turn a sickly orange and become a part of laxative jokes on TV shows that you watch. And yes I have these notions and yes I thought that perhaps all Americans did have sex in school and that all Americans need calculators. But I also knew your states. Your highways and your capitals and I can name your lakes and your presidents. I know what Mt. Rushmore is and what Monica did. Hell, I know that “I’ll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour”. But it’s not your fault; there are too many other nations and just one America. And I mean it when I say that it’s not your fault when your trip to Africa where you helped paint a school house, since the natives were incapable, makes it to your Facebook and all your friends want to adopt us, ohemgee so cute, just look at those little angels. Dude, seriously, this is not your ticket to heaven and don’t you hand me a bible again. Don’t pity my arranged marriage while you sign pre nuptials and don’t you ask me to take my veil off and talk about how oppressed I am in your feminist class. You feel compelled to grind, to shave till there is no difference between you and 6 year old on her pink bike with trainer wheels. The ignorance, the ignorance. As of this moment my mother has malaria and my father has a red conjunctivitis eye, as of last year we were bombed several times. Commonplace by my standards. But in your health you are still surprised that I can speak this tongue. On St. Patrick’s Day when you claim to be Irish and drink like you do on any given Friday you still remain clueless about what the world has gone through, daily joys and sorrows and things and places of importance, to some and therefore to many. Conquests, foods, I’m sure they all eat pasta out there. How come I eat beef? I mean, don’t I worship the cow? You know, I have this friend, she’s Indian and her parents are like SO strict.
And yet I love you America. I love your corn and Dylan. Didn’t I sing American Pie with my father? I Have A Dream made me howl. Britney Spears is amusing to me and I did confess that my loneliness was killing me while I hiked my school uniform up and looked at my face in a New Delhi house. Archie’s shaped my 5th grade experience. I say dude and bucks. This experience is not a foreign one. But I am also upset.
A MEGA-Truck-Stop Yawp!
Tonight’s Yawp comes to us by way of Walcott, Iowa, via I-80 — and the lovely and multi-multi-talented poet, editor, novelist, and freelance writer Lori A. May. Lori’s fine work can be found at her website; she’s also the editor-in-chief of Poets Quarterly, an associate editor for Northern Poetry Review, and founding editor of the Ambassador Poetry Project (and you should check out every one of those links, as every one is more than worth it!). I’m thrilled beyond thrilled to feature her Basho-worthy Yawp. I’ll let her tell the story:
[This is] a yawp exercised at the ‘world famous’ Iowa 80 Truck Stop, located in Walcott IA, just off I-80. I wrote a quick haiku to leave for wayward travelers desperate for their Joe. As for me, I was on my way home from the Bedell NonfictionNow conference hosted at U Iowa and felt the need not only to refill my cup, but also to express my sentiments among peers of truckers, family travelers, and all-night staffers. This was my third stop at the amusement park-like resting zone. My first was on my roadtrip to Denver’s AWP conference earlier in 2010 and the second was a must-stop on the way to the NonfictionNow conference. I imagine there will be many more stops at this tourist trap. I’ve included an exterior photo of Iowa 80 to put the place in perspective. It’s a trip.
- I believe this is the only extant photograph of heaven.
Okay. It’s settled: road trip to Walcott! Who’s with me?
On Problems and How to Fix Them
Henceforth I decree that we are “fixers” and no longer the ones to break things
– Tyler Crowley
Tonight’s Yawp is another powerful piece about American society from CCAD Tyler Crowley. This poem makes a statement about language and what it can become: it can lose its meaning, or it can be a source of power or an agent of change. I’m grateful for students like Tyler who are willing to fight to keep language meaningful — and to create change.
Problematic
We have a problem
We are not who we used to be
We have a problem
We are not where we used to be
We have a problem
We have TomToms and Garmins, yet lack direction
We have a problem
We use words that no longer contain their meaning
“Drama” is no longer dramatic
“Legit” is not legitimate
“Literally” cannot be taken literally
“Rape” equates to a silly video of teenagers rough-housing on Youtube
“Pedophilia” has a cuddly internet mascot
We are complacent with mediocrity; brilliance is few and far between these days
We have a problem
What is our problem?
We have too many problems
We have a problem, and what do we do?
We complain
Where are the action takers? Where are the ones to enforce accountability?
Where have all the cowboys gone? The ones who mosey in and save our community?
We don’t have those anymore, we have complainers
We have people who say “this used to be good” or “what happened to that?”
We point out what’s wrong with everyone else, and how the good ol’ days were so much better.
We sit in our homes and argue with our TVs about who’s to blame for this and that
Excuse me while I prop up this soap box
I’m issuing a call to arms
Henceforth I decree that we are “fixers” and no longer the ones to break things
We will go out and we will leave things better than when we found them
We will not waste our breath on useless complaints; we need our breath to climb these mountains
We will not point fingers; we need all the helping fingers and hands we can get
We will not turn away those who think differently; we need all the brainpower we can muster
We may have a problem or two
But that’s one of the greater things about mankind: We can find solutions
So it is time to go out and do!
We will not stop until we are literally legitimate again
Actions speak louder than words, so the saying goes
So why am I writing this?