The Rational Psychic

Will you give me a hand finishing a poem? I’m currently feeling a bit impatient and am not willing to let this one sit while it brews through my brain.

I am happy with parts of it, some falls short and it needs reworking. However, when I do a rewrite, I usually have the feeling that I’ve written a final line for the version I’ve drawn out of myself. When this is missing, it’s really hard to go on with the process of revising. You have the feeling that while you knew you couldn’t see the flesh of the creature, you are currently missing a leg bone or some other bit of scaffolding that is equally important.

So, if you will, can you give a shot at writing the last half-line to line? Obviously, if it seems more than just a line is missing, you are more than welcome to add more and comment on what less would help the poem.

While you’re in a poetry-reading mood, why not check out this link to a poem written by my sister, Sandra Evans, who as honored with a selection of her work being posted to the Minnesota Artists.org website?

Currently Untitled

I have discarded myself—the better parts

and buried the fear. April’s floodwater

washed it clean in the Spring melt.

Which is best: discarding or recovery?

My answer is that it doesn’t matter:

I’ve watched people succeed with either one.

But this isn’t all of the truth, innocent one.

It’s the destruction, even of good things,

that calls the bones to mend, ___________________________.

And that’s where it ends now. It’s meant to be a short look at how impermanence can be positive, part of a cycle, etc., etc. But I think good language is more important, even if the new language, in its turn, undermines and redirects the preceding lines. There’s not much there and I’m not saying any of should be set in stone. Language, cool words are the best, so lay it on me, baby.

“Hey, mister, what kind of dog is that?”

“A two-legged dog.

Maybe you’ve already seen this story about a two-legged Chow mix named Faith, her owner Jude Stringfellow. But the story got me teary-eyed and the video is something you don’t believe until you see it.

Some messages require very little text.

Enjoy,

Rationalpsychic

Image below in its original context on the page: www.flickr.com/photos/82822788@N00/442278366/

Some posts have to be followed up on. I think when you have the foolishness (ignorance + misplaced courage = a great potential for “it ain’t pretty, folks”) to say that you’re giving up self-pity and it’s no longer Lent: well, this just can’t be left to lie like a bloated raccoon along the shoulder of a two-lane highway.

To be more honest, I’ve always found self-pity to be an excellent defense mechanism. The real problem is, it’s been worn a bit thin through overuse.

My dad has been in St. Mary’s Hospital in Rochester, MN, for the past week. I have been feeling sorry for myself over this situation because his condition was related to a hematoma on his brain that made him decidedly confused and, for one of the few times I can ever remember, weak in his BODY. This guy is the grandson of a blacksmith and inherited the barrel-chested physique of his grandfather. Seeing him in a helpless state is just a reminder that I’m headed in the same direction. Mortality.

Oh, yes, to engage in self-pity is to be self-absorbed, self-centered and, especially, selfish. I’m telling you that seeing my father in such distress distresses me rather than telling you my empathic feelings for his suffering and the trap that his mind and body have been for him over the past week. I know that and still the empathic impulse is all but dead within me while self-pity plays the monarch.

For tonight, however, I’m spending time with someone I care about a great deal. Someone who I think is lovely, caring and who, self-pityingly, I know I may not deserve. She’s invited me to go along to Rep. Tim Walz’s birthday party tonight. Two of his supporters are holding it at their home in the country. Fittingly, it was the County Poor Farm at one time but the husband is a painter and he and his wife have transformed the place into a real home.

So we’ll see if self-pity can take the backseat to joy, society, and spending time with someone gorgeous. This requires a list of skills that is too lengthy to list and too boring to go into at this time. Thank God and the strange expression of evolutionary progress in the physical world. Why does love make us forget that we have trouble?

It’s a matter of perspective: the large and important overshadow the small and less significant.

Today’s the day I start to quit feeling sorry for myself.

What do you think about that?

I have been trying to get myself moving in terms of writing poems again. It’s funny how thinking in terms of prose can really dull the faculty you use to write poems.

I’ve been reading In the Palm of Your Hand, by Steve Kowit in an attempt to spark some thoughts and poetic impulses. It’s a good book with tons of ideas that I haven’t even touched yet.

I thought I’d try to involve you in a little participatory nonsense–merely for the sake of fun and the spirit of competition I hope it will ignite.

There are rules–guidelines, if you’d rather–to this bloodless exercise. Here they are:

1. Poem must be at least seven lines long. Otherwise, its form is up to you.
2. You must use at least seven of the ‘nouns, verbs, etc.’ listed below. One per line is a suggestion only, not a requirement.
3. Use two of the prepositional phrases provided.
4. Points are scored for: writing at least seven lines (7 pts.); using at least seven of the ‘nouns, verbs, etc.’ (7 pts., 3 additional for use of the word “quash”); using at least two of the prepositional phrases (2 pts.). Finally, one point each for any extra of the words or phrases provided. This gives a potential total of 20 points.
5. Snappy titles are not required and do not earn points. However, they do garner respect and admiration from the crowd.

Enjoy the power of creation.

Nouns, verbs, etc.

blemish, wheel, accordion, pill, tame,

vanilla, fling, Bill, hand, four,

post, cinnamon, squat, Althea, quash (triple word score)

Prepositional phrases

on the shore, near the city, above your head, next to,

from this, under my, inside this, around his/her

I’d be one of the devil’s minions but lack some of the skillset.

You won’t need a leap of faith when the devil comes to call.

You’ve got the promise of low-hung fruit

and a dowry for the widow. Stained hands

hang the butcher’s apron at the altar.

The purchase price of 144,000 will get you

in with the great crowd floating on a balloon,

the backend pinned to your immortal sheet.

An addict to motion, you follow the arrows

painted on the street. Your clock hands spin,

appearing still and showing your progress.

Your childhood rubs against your signatures

filed and sent to an office glowing with

fluorescents, informed by the ventilation system.

Mephisto won’t bother with you. He’s likes a challenge

and the lender already has your life bundled and baled.

Hell has a special ring set aside for those of us who tried.

Copyright © Barrie Evans 2008

Sometimes I publish a poem like this–unfinished–just to spur me on to dealing with it further. Otherwise, I often leave them sitting in my journal and don’t bother with them.

When I reread this statement I realize that all I’m saying is that I’m often impatient.

I’ve got nothing new to say today. But I ran across this, listened to it twice and thought it was fantastic both times.

Just when you think you’ve heard everything, along come these two young men to open up your eyes and ears a little bit. From Yahoo video, originally.

Hip-hop violin with DJ

The two young men are Paul Dateh and inka one and also have myspace pages

I live in southern Minnesota and this is our snowiest year in about ten. It’s the exception that proves the rule to the trend of global warming (the preceding statement has not been verified by professional climatologists). I’m writing this to let you, especially those of you in Southern Florida, know about some of the benefits of shoveling snow. If you live somewhere that has alligators in the water hazards at this time of year, I thought you should know about the bliss experienced while shoveling snow. When you’re shoveling the driveway or the sidewalk for more than five minutes at a time your mind begins to wander.

Buddhist thought has plenty of explanations for this: the mind rejects inactivity, thoughts are secreted by the brain like the body produces sweat, etc. However, the experience is simply that of silly fantasies rising up in your mind while you’re flinging snow and your back is aching. For instance, today when I was shoveling the driveway against the ten below windchill I started thinking:

I am a great auteur, beloved by my countrymen and women. I am called upon by ABC Nightly News and others (with the glaring exception of Fox News) to comment upon the recession and our lack of national leadership. I manage to look both silver-haired and wizened as well as vigorous and sexy. I quote from Seneca. Pertinently.

I buy a house that I can live in with all four of my children. It’s an Arts & Crafts-style home, with built-in bookshelves, oak floors, a sleeping porch, and a large media room. It is not a “fixer-upper” and it has room for a garden.

A gene in my body converts fat into antioxidants. Another gene in my body converts stupid into smart.

I settle down with a lovely woman, born in China, who is the perfect mix of modern and traditional. Rather than being “snowbirds,” we become “Zhejiang birds” and return to this lovely Chinese province every winter.

Sting puts me on a £200,000 annual retainer to assist him with song ideas, rewrites, etc.

My body requires the mixture of chemicals in Diet Coke. It would be foolhardy, and a death sentence, for me to give it up.

I’ve written a poem about the moon that people all across the US read and can recite verbatim. An awards ceremony follows.

Sting reads about above fantasy on the blogosphere and has a good laugh. He calls me, asks for my address since he wants to send me one of his old Stratocasters. Says I’m a funny geezer. He does not offer me any retainer in exchange for song ideas or rewrites, however.

The bhante (monk) who runs the local meditation center invites me to travel along to Sri Lanka with him. I study Sinhalese with a book and CD from Barnes & Noble. When I arrive in Colombo I find I am fluent enough to say, “I can get my own bags, please don’t trouble yourself.” I become fairly enlightened (for a layperson) and contented. I am encouraged to marry a Sri Lankan woman who is gorgeous, crazy about me and speaks English with a British accent. There are tropical flowers everywhere.

I change my name to Diablo Evans and write an Oscar-nominated screenplay.