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| Susanna Mishler |
A poem is a machine made of
words.
words.
– William Carlos Williams
As poet
and electrician, I wonder how this statement might be true. The objects of
machine and poem seem contrary. But if a poem is a machine made of words, and
the idea of a poem as machine seems contradictory, then what are we missing?
and electrician, I wonder how this statement might be true. The objects of
machine and poem seem contrary. But if a poem is a machine made of words, and
the idea of a poem as machine seems contradictory, then what are we missing?
Power Outage
in a Northern Neighborhood
Night
stretches over us like plum skin.
stretches over us like plum skin.
Every
winter I learn constellations,
winter I learn constellations,
forget
them. The Big Dipper is a bear
them. The Big Dipper is a bear
with a
long tail. This made sense to someone,
long tail. This made sense to someone,
this
confusion of flashing points.
confusion of flashing points.
We run
fingers in the black dog’s coat;
fingers in the black dog’s coat;
they
spark. We zip wool and down coats
spark. We zip wool and down coats
(stolen
from other animals) over our cooling skins.
from other animals) over our cooling skins.
I press
to her shoulder under points
to her shoulder under points
that
wink like knife-tips. Each constellation
wink like knife-tips. Each constellation
is
indulgence – lines drawn between fires by someone
indulgence – lines drawn between fires by someone
who
found a vacuum unbearable.
found a vacuum unbearable.
Suppose
it’s a vault of eyes bearing
it’s a vault of eyes bearing
on our
windows, on our coat-backs.
windows, on our coat-backs.
That
sense of watching. That sense of Someone.
sense of watching. That sense of Someone.
There’s
this theory of innate fire in our skins
this theory of innate fire in our skins
but it
isn’t right. More like rubbing sticks. Constellations
isn’t right. More like rubbing sticks. Constellations
pass
over indifferently, whirring about their central point.
over indifferently, whirring about their central point.
The dog
stands outside with ears pointed,
stands outside with ears pointed,
nose
pressed to a window. Our cats bare
pressed to a window. Our cats bare
teeth,
yowl, break glass into constellations
yowl, break glass into constellations
on
hardwood, skid around the coatrack.
hardwood, skid around the coatrack.
All over
a glimpse of stranger. As if they’ll be starved skinny
a glimpse of stranger. As if they’ll be starved skinny
or given
away to someone
away to someone
who
knits cat sweaters. Someone
knits cat sweaters. Someone
might
peek into this darkness and feel disappointed.
peek into this darkness and feel disappointed.
Creations
sharpen inside our skins
sharpen inside our skins
yet when
the lights get snuffed we’re bare.
the lights get snuffed we’re bare.
Separate.
Ill-equipped. Dependant on the coats
Ill-equipped. Dependant on the coats
of
others. “How are we intended?” we ask the constellations.
others. “How are we intended?” we ask the constellations.
“One
soul is sometimes worth a whole constellation,”
soul is sometimes worth a whole constellation,”
she
says, thinking Karamazov. The dog’s ears flick to someone’s
says, thinking Karamazov. The dog’s ears flick to someone’s
footsteps,
and he sniffs, searches the air, face coated
and he sniffs, searches the air, face coated
in
frost. She presses into my shoulder and points
frost. She presses into my shoulder and points
to Ursa
Minor, the boy who became a bear,
Minor, the boy who became a bear,
after
his mother did, ever chasing her familiar skin.
his mother did, ever chasing her familiar skin.
A
skinned bear looks human, like someone
skinned bear looks human, like someone
coatless
and red curled on leaves. The points
and red curled on leaves. The points
of
constellations are hard. And we are insufferably soft.
constellations are hard. And we are insufferably soft.
I wrote
“Power Outage In A Northern Neighborhood” (from Termination Dust, 2014) using a formal principle that I imagine
like a Newton’s Cradle. A Newton’s Cradle transfers kinetic
energy via a set of spheres on strings. When a sphere on one end is
lifted and released, it strikes the stationary spheres; its force is
transmitted through the stationary spheres and knocks the last sphere up.
“Power Outage In A Northern Neighborhood” (from Termination Dust, 2014) using a formal principle that I imagine
like a Newton’s Cradle. A Newton’s Cradle transfers kinetic
energy via a set of spheres on strings. When a sphere on one end is
lifted and released, it strikes the stationary spheres; its force is
transmitted through the stationary spheres and knocks the last sphere up.
In a
sestina, this poem’s form, the words that end the lines of the first stanza are
repeated as the words ending the lines of every stanza – the same end-words
recur throughout the poem. The same six words (constellation, someone, coat,
point, bear, skin) recur and re-trasnmit the poem’s energy. The repetition of
these words both joins and extends the thoughts within each line. It makes a
regular pattern – a form – made of words. But is it a machine?
sestina, this poem’s form, the words that end the lines of the first stanza are
repeated as the words ending the lines of every stanza – the same end-words
recur throughout the poem. The same six words (constellation, someone, coat,
point, bear, skin) recur and re-trasnmit the poem’s energy. The repetition of
these words both joins and extends the thoughts within each line. It makes a
regular pattern – a form – made of words. But is it a machine?
I look
forward to giving a reading of my work and to discussing poems and machines
more this Thursday, Oct. 16, 7 pm, at Great Harvest Bread Co. Hope to see you there!
forward to giving a reading of my work and to discussing poems and machines
more this Thursday, Oct. 16, 7 pm, at Great Harvest Bread Co. Hope to see you there!