How To Throw

By Erin Robertson

How to Throw

(response to Susan Howe's "Thorow")

Thorow the process of learning
Thoreau, the philosophy, learning of

the nearness of poetry

transcendence, geobiology
one of man, one of nature

nature in us as nature

men have words,
whose voices inhabit poems

literature of savigism

men have titles,
jentelmen

the origin of property

men have manipulations,
wars, besieges, laws

elegiac western imagination

how much can man control nature
a name's a name's a name

'where is the path'

the silence of nature
ise and wete and snow make no human noise

we go through the word Forest

_________________________

made this by combining two separate poems, which i guess, in the act itself, is another “statement” on poetry:

statement on poetry.

mountains and mountains
and mountains of molehills,
the equipment is broken
so i'm panicking, panicking.
the looseleaf topography i've created
keeps me in the valleys of self gratification
my self loathing would be strong
because my inability to hold my inhibitions

but words overflowing my mind
spill out to wash my soul
they wash the sin away
to sweeten the scent of grime
urge the dirt from my bones
pulled through the skin
evaporating in the frozen wonder
frigid atmosphere in my heart
residue from nights i hoped to forget

_________________________

About Erin: My name is Erin Robertson and I will soon be a sophomore at Temple University studying Psychology and Italian. My experiences, the people I love, and the life I choose to live, give me plenty of inspiration for the various creative outlets I pursue. I enjoy molding and sculpting words with my poetry as a form of expression.

-posted on red Ravine, Thursday, April 21th, 2011

-related to posts: Does Poetry Matter?, and Erin’s first poetry piece on red Ravine which includes four poems, one about her relationship to her grandfather with Alzheimers — Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is

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Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is

By Erin Robertson

I wish I could say I was closer to my grandfather, but as the years went on and his Alzheimer’s progressed, it began to get harder just to see him. We watched him suffer so his death was something of a relief. In a time of mourning, I wrote this piece:

Fourteen dozen roses,
cut clipped, and arranged,
spread throughout the pews.
paid precision and prayer
fake sympathy and stares
bore through to the soul
it’s the friends and family
that keep you sane
so dry your tears
try to smile
the coffin is closed
the sermon was said
in the line we file
morbid flags that warn our purpose
march along the silence grows,
sobs muffled out of shame.
gather under the green tent
sit upon velvet thrones of mourning
as a group,
we bow our heads
blessing for the one departed
amens in sync
good wills, remembrance, praise
i whisper goodbye
drop his favorite flower
to decorate my grandfather’s tomb.

_________________________

This next poem was written roughly about the same time. Death, and its morbidity, was frequently on my mind. I wrestled with the idea of an afterlife or the concept that something so pure can be torn into sinful shreds.

death,
it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect when?
no longer flawless
as it flies
with heavy wings
down to hell,
to meet
judgement day has long since passed
fail or pass
the side you wish

death it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect then,
no longer flawless
anguish may have plagued you then,
but now,
you can be free.
whispers of unspoken trial
jury, angels, demons
judge of neutral boundaries
find you guilty,
innocent child
whichever way
you tend to walk,
you will be happy now
life, you may have suffered
dying, you might have been in pain,
but death, Sweet, death
it always comes,
exactly when it’s supposed to come.

_________________________

At a time of peak adolescent anguish, my friend –and thereby, I– got tangled up with people who were not as they seemed to be. Often, my poems are free verse; however, I tried my hand at some resemblance of “Traditional Poetry.”

Enemy in someone you like:
Everyone wants to know
what’s behind the face you show
we all see your pride
you modestly try to hide

the smile that plays across your face
has seemed to find its place
but your moods change like a clock
the swings impossible to mock

a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like
more outbreaks, in succession,
betray the mild marks of depression

your friendship is a weight to bear
it seems that no one wants to care…
your ‘quirks,’ they draw the curious
they come to mimic the delirious

they make a mockery of your ills
stunned by the bouquet of pills
a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like.

_________________________

I don’t remember why I wrote it, but the first couple lines were running through my head for quite a few days, and I decided to elaborate on it in my 9th grade English class. My friend and I had been discussing the change in society and how people are satisfied being mediocre and achieving nothing. I guess I had big dreams back then, too.

my modern art wonder
of the twenty-first century
is torn straight from the pages
of a young man’s book
the whispers spoken
of wild ventures
swallowed by some
corporate gain
the mind-blowing drugs
destroy the naive
open portals onto new levels
swimming hallucinations of
teenage ideals
and the real world
collide with a splay of
colors only the
high can see
disappointments inspire
push onward or settle for less
business world stays on
the fast track for life
stuck in a job with no career
working up to work out
it’s got no end
it’s the truth that will slap
a truth we all know
the world as the jungle it is

Leaf Of A Ginkgo – Erin’s Tattoo, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, May 2010, photo © 2010 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

I have yet to visit my grandfather’s grave site, years after his burial. I wanted to commemorate his passing in my own way. As a horticulturist, he loved all plants, but most specifically the ginkgo for its unchanged history. Rather than ink myself with a cliché R.I.P/tombstone tattoo, I came up with the idea of a falling ginkgo leaf. Its importance would be known to very few, preserving my grandfather’s memory.

About Erin: My name is Erin Robertson and I am a graduating senior from Susquehanna Township High School. Later this year I will be attending Temple’s Honors College to pursue a Doctorate in Psychology (because I am rather ambitious). My life has been full of adventure and I have met many unusual people and experienced quite a lot for someone my age. My life, the environments I find myself in, and the people I know, have all served as inspirations for the creative outlets in my life. I focus on poetry as a big way for me to express myself and my emotions.

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Buried Treasure

Black Beatles box, wax masters
“Listen, do you want to know
a secret?” 

Listen.

Fat, fur-covered lynx tail
in a white Muriel cigar box,
1950’s retro.

Sting of the Lady Remington,
my grandmother used to take her time
shaving silky legs. Skinny. Electric.
Tucked in a bedroom drawer.

Great Gray flew away
home, February 8th,
two years ago. I cried.
4th Step shifts, 5th Step blunders.

Your soft blue eyes,
clear and penetrating
peering out from under the mistletoe.

Silk scarf from Nepal,
orange pick-up sticks,
blanched peaches, figs
from Aunt Cassie’s squat tree.

Mouths of dark caves,
cinnamon toast, fresh
with jagged bite marks.

Boogie board spinning
off the white-tipped Atlantic;
underbelly meets undertow,
scrapes away the shallow.

Dirt under fingernails
after gardening in the sun.
August, where is she?

Frozen under a snow-covered lamp
shaped like a pagoda.

Ravenous Rebel, surly Savage,
hundreds of cc’s, spitting
dust devils into the river.

Easy rider.
Easy. Ride her.

Buddha in Amy Kristine’s
storefront long defunct;
thick bolt of volcanic rock
shaped like a godless god.

Crusty face, ripe body
three days of writing,
never wanting to stop.

Working, tapping, running
full speed
into that long black night.

“All this or something better,”
spewing from moon glossed lips
blind serenity;

the ache
I treasure most.

A far-fetched promise
that peace might spring
from the blundering loins
of star-crossed humanity.

Sign says, “You got to
turn the other cheek.
Sorry – happiness
not guaranteed.”

I am left sucking acceptance
through a firestorm of minutiae;
memories frozen in time,

lightweight, rewritable
buried treasure –
flash drive of the mind.

Sunday, January 28th, 2007

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Shattered: Broken Dreams, Broken Hearts, Broken Bones

Dart of a scissor-tail kite, splash of cracked glass, cutting edge of wind-wisped Superior, tear of corduroy feathers, rusty brown
orange red

blue
sky accents.

Ripping the stems from their moorings. I packed boxes of old paints and watercolor pencils. I packed slippery porcelain paint mixers. I packed old wax 45’s and ancient letters from my grandmother.

I packed up all those old broken dreams.

Snaking through the facets of a cracked mirror, my reflection haunts me. There is a bright fear of having to choose – me in the mirror – pathology. The name escapes. A holding pattern, a wrinkle in time.

Basting a turkey,
the gravy in a molded Ball jar.

Bell Jar.

Sylvia, my hands smell like Clementines
and gently pull the skin out from under

California labels, “Supersweet” and “EZ Peel.”

I want to frost your lemons with icing sweet spatter. Fruitinize your phobia. Instead I keep slow walking toward home, along brambled beaches and tiered satisfaction – a hole in a tree that cracked off long ago fell into the lake.

Shatter-thawed ice patterns
swirl into river maps.

You stand on a booted heel,
I boost your curved heartshaped butt
up the rough ridged bark.

Woot!

Cables and wires and antennae. How is it people can’t seem to connect? Frozen splashes of $10 water bottles with ice crystal patterns. The painting, lifted mariposas in the upper left corner. You strummed your guitar, sans makeup.

All down to zero here. Hollow bone.

It was the spectacles that spun out,
that stood out, when I told you her name.

Then we were in Perkins and that song came on, “You Said”
“Hey, isn’t that….”  I blurted out, standing still in the green isle after
fried shrimp bacon cheeseburgers & mashed potatoes.

I’m not ashamed to say
I eat my favorite foods,
sometimes in combination.

Wretched memories. Why can’t I let go? The frozen gravy spread eagle on the plastic tarp. I nearly tripped and fell over myself. Fell off the tricycle in the carport and slit my hand. The Brown Creeper.

I had dreams wrapped up in that corduroy shirt. Cracked, broken, gone the way of the Firefly. A measly short life that I love to write about.

Fire of any kind lights the world.

The insects, I’d collect them in jars just like you. I’d exclaim gleefully in that Ya’ll Georgia accent and study the shape of their wings in bed (surprise – squeals of glee sound the same in Minnesota).

In Taos in December there was a fat-bodied spider that loved to climb out of the flowery wash basin when I was brushing my teeth or spiking my hair. I let her be. She wasn’t bothering me. Spiders eat flies. And spin yarny webs of sticky safety.

Webs. Connection.

The moon stood still over the shower stall. I stared up, water droplets navigating peacefully between each hair on my arm. Doing what water drops do. My legs, let’s not talk about them.

I stopped shaving in September.
You wouldn’t believe

the length.
The softness.
Like Kiev’s raven fur.

There was that slice to the finger, a cat’s cradle claw. I yelped in pain like a kicked puppy. Was it the Scooby or Pooh bandaide that saved me? Or the Vitamin E you carefully rubbed along the torn punctured skin.

There is a flap where the slit comes together.
And I wear a healing band –
green yellow orange leopard cloth
over the wound.

A pet in the morning.

It’s glassy on the deck. I can’t stand without grasping the rail. Purple lunch pail in tow. And the Adidas black sling pack. The December dark morning hovering at 35 degrees – feels like late September.

Did you ever look closely at O’Keeffe’s painted blacks? They contain 700 colors of chocolate coffee bean brown. I stood close, next to ribbons of oil. Silent. Watching.

Watercolor nudes.
Muggy. And saturating my senses.

The car starts right up. Even though the doors crack with icy rain when I open them. Rubber stuck to metal. Rrrrriiiiippppp.

Splayed out is my anger. I lost it somewhere. I foster compassion. And hold my head high. You left me a million times. And this time for good. That tattoo, the Chinese character? I missed it in the juices. I find Home in a Valley of Gold.

It’s so quiet, my solitude quakes.

I misunderstood. I may not be cut out for making money. I hold myself back, learn to boost myself up. A scarecrow in a golden pond.

Mainstream I am not. Airstream. Chuckle.
Yes. Airstream.

You said you wanted a shiny RV. To travel the world, tootle along, you say, and diddle around. I think of
Milton, blind as a bat, shunned by his Universe, shattered, broken, writing his best work ever in the twilight of his life.

Humanity’s fall from grace.
Who knew it was in him?

Political hack they yelled.
He showed them.

I want to say I will never be broken again. But every time I sit, some pain comes up. Rising, I skim off the top. The insecurity of that old ripped shirt. I moved boxes and boxes, frayed edges unraveling, covering my treasures. And I remembered how thin and trim I used to be.

How naive.

One cold fall day we cut the wing off a Great Gray owl. Roadkill. It’s worth being buried. Then the talons – crunch. Stolen moments in the freezer, years go by. How could I forget her? Broken, headbanged raptor. I’ve felt your pain.

When I moved from Ulysses after 14 years there was only one thing left in the abandoned 5 rooms – a dim gray bag of frozen body parts. Lying in the dark. I wanted to photograph the sifting light through the tertiary bands.

I wanted to set it up
all the world’s a stage
you would have looked beautiful.

But you chose to disappear. Poof, just like that. And leave me fractured, disjointed that last day I closed the door, turned out the light, wept at the happy ending. Closet boxes of memories. And fierce wet talons vanquished into thin air. Vanquished?

The mask of a thousand ages fell upon my wrinkled face.
I wasn’t there to receive it.

I flew off to Taos.
And wondered what I was doing.

Climbing out from under Masonic clouds
or tripping over a raised crack in the sidewalk –
“I hope I’ve made it right,” you said, shaking my hand.
I smiled & shook back.

the floor boards don’t creak anymore
they are bleached blond and hard as a rock
shake a tail feather. break a leg.

Home.

What is it?
Where is it?
Why can’t I find it?

Because there’s no where to look
It’s all here. Inside.

here

inside

the spaces between

broken dreams
broken hearts
broken bones

the smell of Clementines oozing off of my skin
the soaking rain in December
the hard freeze in October

swimming in the Rio Grande in August
which face am I?

the manic joy of falling in love
the printed word on the muted white page

what did Dogen say?
when you walk in the mist
you get wet

not original
but genuine

pulpy & alive

shatter
wet pieces
together again

melt
white heart
puffy lips

money
it’s not worth
fighting over

under, around
or through

let go
drip with satisfaction
let the good stuff in

break structure
build strong bones
mend broken hearts

shatter your dreams
the sky’s big enough to hold
the juicy fractured pieces

and you.

if not,
then silence. 

Thursday, December 14th, 2006

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