Rider

The Unspoken Word

Going through my old Word documents yesterday I found this piece, written when I was a Freshman in Highschool.

The Unspoken Word

In the play Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare, one theme that is prominent is Juliet’s parents’ desire to have Juliet married, and the lack of communication between them. The Capulets were so fast to marry Juliet to Paris, that they did not consider Juliet’s opinion on the matter. This caused many problems, and eventually led to the tragic ending, which might have been avoided.

In Act 1, Scene 3, Lady Capulet tries to persuade Juliet to marry Paris. Juliet is not impressed and says, “I will look to like, if looking liking move.” Juliet obviously not interested in Paris, but her mother persists in persuading her to marry him. This type of persuasion is still around today in other forms.

In Act 3, Scene 4, Juliet’s father tells Paris that Juliet will marry him. He does this without Juliet’s consent. This shows a lack of communication between parent and child. This also shows that Capulet is so anxious to see his daughter married that he doesn’t even bother to talk to her about it. If he had not been so eager to marry her, and communicated with her better, many problems could have been avoided.

In Act 3, Scene 5, Capulet announces that Juliet will marry Paris. This announcement alone shows that Capulet has not put much thought, if any, into Juliet’s opinion. It also puts a great pressure on Juliet to marry Paris. This might have never happened if Juliet had communicated with her father better, and had told him about her relationship with Romeo. It also could have been avoided if the Capulets had not been so eager to marry Juliet.

As one can see, Juliet’s parents tried many times to convince Juliet to marry Paris. What they did not know is that Juliet was already married to Romeo. Maybe if Juliet had communicated her relationship with Romeo to her parents, her and Romeo’s tragic death could have been avoided. It could probably also have been avoided if Juliet’s parents had not had such a great desire to marry Juliet. These themes show us how communication is the key to clarity, and without it things may turn out disastrous.

Bull story

"What is the pain that fosters my liking?" said the she-wolf to the boy on the bench. "I am unto this spot as all living things," replied the boy. "Satiated?" asked the foxy wolf. "Well," looking her in the eye atwixt her talons, "I'd say I know what I've got between my knees." "A crystal?" replied fox. "No, lady, it's a bull." "Was it that that hurt?" "Not really, but I got distracted and tumbled over a thing or two and here I sit with it. You see it's smarting from a bad fall we took together over on Geneva way." "Yes, I can see it's panting," she mused.

Boy got up leaving bull to the cobblestones. The beast reclined, not held up any longer, a faint guffaw issuing from his nostrils. His skin was black and very sleek, and in some places especially black where blood wet the hide. "I must go back," said the boy to the she-wolf, and without looking down at the bull headed on his way, out the nearest corner of the park.

Fox sat for a moment on the cobblestones where small maroon rivers, hot and sticky, flowed between the cracks. Fox was not sentimental, but she did like a good licking every now and then. She brushed her white bushy mane against the ailing side of bull. Her hairs glistened and stuck together with bull's blood. She would carry herself home to her younglings who, cleaning her off, would have their evening meal.

Meditation

Hitting the clear spot
of breath in stomach and
the hole of my head arching
all the way there open
and forgiving the momentary
imposition of thought continuing
to the smile the tear
the heartbeat lessens

I will grow older with
or without you and you
are a bit of me and
sinking on my stool or
pillow reading a poem
I think of art as a
clear place that the
mind rejuvinates

And I am still
here where the ripple
of attention lets itself
into the movement of that
stillness and pacing the
space between the emergence
of all things and the love
I faulter with therein

Subtitle

I can go anywhere
but will I? who is
it that is going to go
there? is it "you"? well,
you see you're no longer
here so often, instead I
just keep bringing everything
in but for what? questions
are like anthills, going into
them is very dark but I
imagine there's food there

Pigeons cover lawns and the
picnic table covered in notes
and my heart is warm and
hollow like a sore so why
not take it along admittedly
anything determinate sounds
awful as long as I'm
scampering around avoiding duals
of temperament what I'd like
is to keep going out onto the
little peninsula I found on
the wing and see it
continues as an archipelago
and I can swim! quite
rapidly

In junior high school I
was a bit of a track star
but didn't continue when
my talent became relative
I didn't really like it and
here I am writing these poems
they're nothing special the world
is full of them and waiting for
more though anywhere we put
it it speaks

Ah, a calm. the pigeons
flutter and flags stand limp
and the sun is hard before
setting, warming

I can go anywhere with you

Stag

“They are horrible things,” she said. “They are very loud and mate once a year in a cacophony …” No, she wouldn’t have said “cacophony”. She didn’t like poetry I remember because things could be said more simply. Fittingly she had me pull out one of the two books of poems I was most ready to get rid of. She introduced me to Kipling one might say. “How could you not know what it’s called?” she asked. Indeed, I had been aware of wandering around for the past few weeks having forgotten the name of the beetle tattooed on my wrist. I could only remember what it was called in Swedish, the language of the book of insects where the image came from. This person who really didn’t like the bugs reminded me. And in more detail than anyone before her she described them with a sort of forensic disgust. I’m not sure if she was tactless, helplessly straight-forward, or just still drunk. Anyway, I was charmed. There was no other way to take it. And really I took it as a gift to have the name back, and with such nonchalant familiarity that had nothing to do with affection. The interest was wholly mine, she gave away nothing. Strange, or maybe dolefully commonplace, that we can be so far apart in proclivities and yet offer something so welcoming in spite of ourselves. I gave her Daniel Deronda. Fuck Kipling.

30th

I get an idea and that is what it takes to carry me. It is a distraction from distraction. One wonders what’s to keep the boat afloat. I know ground because I’ve been off it, but never stayed in one spot, because immobility produces its own trail just as air won’t pass there. So I give the day a nod and take down something new from the fire that solders in my hearth. I like it hot, but even the most enigmatic cools frightfully soon if you wave it around the room enough. When that happens my heart is also brittle and won’t move. It stays there and air does not pass and we face each other wondering whom is blocking whom. I think I smoked a hole into it and the circuit continued behind my back. No matter how I turn the whistle of the perforated spot smacks my eardrums like a stain. I begin to carry it around for holding still keeps the molten heavy. Warm it up from within! You want to run around other fiery things until that hollow softens up enough to melt into something whole. There is a will to carry it, giving out hot ash like truth and seeing what can be started. That bird rising all the way to Arizona- met ‘em on the trail while covering my tracks. Fast she was and nearly dangerous but I kept hold of my bullet wounds. They become something like character as skin is to the internal organs. Covering. Holding the work of the fire that formed me while I was standing quietly as my art.