Quiet...Too Quiet

This post has been generously donated to our friend-blog City Mouse Country and can be found there. You should totally go read it.

Whose Haikus?

A while back (June?), I quietly stopped calling the poems on this blog "haiku" and changed the headline to say "short poem" instead. But I thought now it was time to be a bit more explicit. Maybe because lately I've been having a hard time telling people about this blog.

In a world where white men gobble up everything in sight (resources, power, culture) and spit up a milky backwash everyone else is expected to lap up and praise us for, it's easy to get lazy. I started this "haiku" thing as a way to get myself to write every day by doing the least amount of writing possible--the definition of laziness. And not that I need to wait for someone to call me on my bullshit, but I've been mostly unchallenged in my use of someone else's culture to tell cute little stories about my life.

I have found this project useful for marking moments over the last couple of years, connecting moments to ideas about the world, and occasionally connecting to others who comment here or on 17aDay's Facebook page. And the 5-7-5 form, with its syllable constraints, helps me focus and distill a lot of thoughts and feelings into something manageable, yet meaningful. So I don't want to just scrap the whole thing.

One thought I had was that maybe there's a short form in a European tradition that I might have any claim to (because I love a sonnet, but let's be real, I already struggle to post once a week), and I could rename the blog and keep on in much the same manner in the new form. My preliminary research hasn't turned up much, except some forms that were "inspired by" haiku and tanka. Also, though, that just sounds like a really easy out.

So, while I continue to ponder and process and publicly guilt about it, here's a limerick to hold you over.

There once was a blogger named Calvin
Who some shame for his haiku was havin'.
In his search for some verse
Less hijacked, just as terse,
It appeared that at straws he was grabbin'.

Heartbreaking Jerks and Staggering Genius, Part 1

Sybil Lamb is terrifying.

That's what I learned on the way to the reading and before she got up to read, from all my friends who had met her and also from the other authors who were reading last Wednesday night. She's all big boots stomping and loud, inappropriate banter and sheer dresses with dark, skimpy undergarments and acres of stick-and-poke tattoos and a grin that will eat you for breakfast.

She is also a goddamn genius. The kind that cannot be contained or measured or broken, even by a traumatic brain injury. As she read from I've Got a Time Bomb, she transformed from author reading from her recently published novel into some fascinating troublemaker you just met shortly after the apocalypse, reenacting illegal, illogical antics with friends named after baked goods, reciting dialogue without even looking at the page. At one point, she literally climbed and swung from the rafters of the Marlboro College Campus Center.

Also I'm not entirely sure she wasn't a little drunk.

Also it took her 13,000 years to sign books because she was holding court sitting on the end of the book table and drawing original comics in everyone's book and playing with a toy robot mouse and a ceramic sperm and gossiping/shit talking with Casey Plett and Imogen Binnie, and it was completely worth the wait. Apparently I was smirking the whole time, which is how I express enjoyment, BTW:

"Hey....wanna do book stuff?!" "Hang on I'm just finishing some office stuff... ..."

And if she's as scary as they say, maybe I'd be too delicate to be her friend, but I am so glad she's doing what she's doing and I'll support her work and read the hell out of it (p.s. buy her novel right now it's so good), and I'll totally worship her from afar. Like, maybe really far.

Poem for a Mean Girl

I appreciate
That you're in the universe.
I'll be over here.

OMG

On Sunday night I saw my friends' band play, and I'm really pleased that I've seen them enough times now that I get their songs stuck in my head. Also, I had the urge, on more than one occasion that night, to throw my hands in the air in a gesture that I associate with my evangelical Christian upbringing.

From infancy, I was surrounded by fervent, ecstatic prayer and song, often accompanied by tambourines, speaking in tongues, jumping, clapping, and raising of hands. It moved me greatly, until one day (around age 12) when it didn't, and I haven't looked back. Until the other night.

I didn't give in to the urge, even though I totally could've made it look rock-n-roll rather than holy roller. But I am still trying to put my finger on just what it was that made me want to reach out, reach up to something bigger than myself, hold my arms up to receive, or maybe surrender.

Short Poem for a Tall Spirit

How do I praise now?
How do I touch my heart to
Something that's not God?

Ooh, let's play a game. Rock concert or tent revival?

_____________________________________
Answers: 1. Rock. 2. Jesus. 3. Rock. 4. Jesus

Y Would You Say That, X-actly?

Because I had to change health insurance carriers twice in the last four months, I don't have a primary care physician anymore. So when I needed to see a doctor (somewhat urgently), I had to scramble a bit to find someone in my network who is accepting new patients. None of the doctors that were at all recommended fit both criteria. So, tomorrow I meet with a random stranger to talk about what hurts.

In making the appointment, the person on the phone hesitated audibly, palpably even, before asking me my sex. I did not give a one-word answer. (Hell, it was more than one sentence.) After hearing me out, they replied, "I'm okay with that."

Sure, I'd rather have them okay with it than not okay with it. But it's not like they offered their opinion about my birth date or phone number. Still, it was easier than sitting alone with a clipboard staring down two check boxes.

Poem Partially Explaining Why I Sometimes Avoid Healthcare

Cis professional
Is okay with my gender.
Permission granted.

It's so much simpler at Radio Shack.

Your Place or Never Mind?

Haiku for Non-Initiators

Well, we got this far.
Now we're sitting on a couch.
Thirteen is awkward.

Played Out

So there's this game, and you probably know about it, and right on the box it says it's "for horrible people." But I've mostly played it with extremely lovely people who work hard to not hurt others with their words and actions. Is that what makes the game fun? Someone please explain.

Haiku for Game Night

Conscious queers playing
Cards Against Humanity:
Laughter and shame face

There are way worse examples than this. Way worse.

XYZ, PDQ

Remember this really smart and useful essay about being called out on privilege and its brilliantly memorable analogy to your fly being open?

I revisited it today. Here's the unfortunate part:

It works for people who accept that privilege is real and has influence over the way we experience life. It works for people who recognize their own privilege exists and want to help build a more equitable society. In short, it works for people who want to act as allies.

Cue the sad trombone.

Haiku for Watever. I don't even HAVE a zipper!!!

Dude, your fly is down.
"How dare you try to help me
Not be embarrassed."

kiss me, i'm jesus

Haiku for December 25, 2013

"Happy holidays."
Everybody celebrates
Something today, right?

Also, this.

A Public Service Announcement (Disguised as a Clip Show)

I looked at the Times Haiku Blog recently (thanks to reader "amplituhedron") and thought, "But those aren't even haiku. They're just sentences with 17 syllables." I looked at it some more and thought, "But they look a lot like mine, don't they?"

So it seems like the responsible thing to do, as the proprietor of an internet website with literally tens of readers, to shed a little light on what a haiku actually is. I realize not all of us were able to attend a crappy state school where other cultures' art forms were watered down and spoon-fed, so I'll fill you in on some things I learned.

7 Things About Haiku That This Blog Gets Wrong

1. Language. Traditional haiku are in Japanese, while I write exclusively in English. A subtle distinction, lending itself to number 2 below.
2. Syllables. Japanese haiku count syllables differently. 17 Japanese haiku syllables are roughly equivalent to 12 in English.
3. Line breaks. Japanese haiku are usually printed in one line, not three.
4. Juxtaposition. Haiku are supposed to use a "cut" word, or equivalent punctuation, to set off two parallel or contrasting ideas or images.
5. Self-sufficiency. Haiku are meant to stand alone, not follow an anecdotal setup characterized by too many first-person pronouns.
6. Nature. I do it sometimes (mostly in autumn, it seems). More often, though, I write about stuff like zombies, brunch, noise music, and cassette tapes.
7. Seasons. You could also argue that some of my haiku qualify as seasonal. However, traditional haiku usually contain one of a prescribed list of words used to suggest a season.

Got any more? Leave em in the comments!

Up all night to get lucky

Haiku for October 31, 2013

Seven years' bad luck
Unless it's Halloween night
Then all bets are off

It's not right, but it's OK.

Haiku for Deciphering a Dating Site
(with R.)

What is a quiver?
Is that a euphemism?
Where your arrows are?

meet you at the swing set

does anyone out there know how dating works? 'cause i sure the hell don't.

doesn't stop me, though.

haiku for cupid (ok?)

wrote this guy a note:
"do you like me? yes or no?"
i've got schoolboy moves.

you spin me right 'round.