Pretentious Poem from North Beach

Allen Ginsberg, what would you say,
Sitting here, smoking North Beach away?
Inhaling the trees
Blowing out the cathederal
Sleeping bags and the homeless
Did you know him?
He's about your age
He's flanked with tourists now
The City Lights Walking Tour
Did you ever take that, Allen Ginsberg?

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Poet Tree: 'Anniversary' & 'The Wedding Planner'

With the news that the bank has extended my overdraft ("to help meet with the demands of being a graduate"), I went online and made one final stupid purchase, a very demanding 20 GB MP3 player by the name of iPod. More on that soon once it arrives, and I become far more attractive to the potential mugger. Meanwhile, I was preparing my computer for its arrival, you know, giving my desktop a Macover, clearing some space, re-organising files, etc., when I found some poetry that I had written for an English class at UC Davis and had completely forgotten about. The class was ENL166: Love and Contemporary American Poetry, was as awful as that sounds and taught by a blubbering old lady who consistently closed her show in tears.

In a more composed moment she assigned us the task of writing our own 'love poetry', some of which I nervously include here, as a first stab at verse. The first is about the three year anniversary of my relationship with Beth, my girlfriend at the time, who incidentally broke up with me not long after I wrote this, and hopefully not as a result! I'm under no impression that this is actually any good but I thought that, at least the sentiment, makes for more cultured blog filler.

Anniversary

There is a good foot between us¹ and an hour and a half.² Then of course, the leagues above me that you are. People look at you as we walk past: Are they together?

We walk together in this new place, your hand in mine, the bag on my shoulders and the weight of the world lifted. I admire your skin, as always.

Supple, delicate, kind! Your fingers would slide between mine and clasp at my palm! But now they clutch the handset

and finger the cord. We laugh, we cry we argue but in the pauses the silence is dark. I strain to see the alabaster skin that coats your hands like the low afternoon sun.

You step down onto the platform, a bag in your grip, smiling. The journey was long but comfortable: Three years and an hour and a half. You put your hand back in mine.

The pauses glow in the afternoon sun and we walk together as people look on and wonder. I hold on to your hand as we walk, and admire your skin, afraid to let go as always.

¹A reference to our difference in height. ²At the time Beth was living in Berkeley while I was living in Davis, an hour and a half away.

This next poem might make a bit more sense if you're familiar with the Indian wedding process. But then I don't think that's supposed to make any sense!

The Wedding Planner

A white horse, of course. And a fifteen piece
Brass band playing The Beatles.
Naturally, the best man should wear
A white suit and sit behind
The groom veiled in strands of gold.
It would be nice to have those
Indoor fireworks – white lights – maybe
Chris De Burgh’s, ‘Lady In Red’.
Cups of tea in China cups should
Await the guests. Don’t forget to
Have a Mercedes ready for
The bride, who by the way
Should be Brahmin/Hindu/Punjabi.¹

¹Caste/Religion/Origin

Sylvia Plath

I was just shaving by the sink, my mass MP3 collection shuffling in the background, and on came this curious little song by Ryan Adams, a strange elegy, I guess, for Sylvia Plath. Shaving in the mirror like that is nothing quite like the Gilette adverts. No foxy girl swings from behind me and glides her hand over my silky smooth face. In her absence, I am usually deep in thought and accompanied by two songs, depending on how thorough I am.

This morning when 'Sylvia Plath' played it brought to mind a very specific memory, as often music can. The song reminds me of being in Paris, looking for a pencil. Mandy, just starting her study abroad year, was sightseeing with her school and I was one of many, many tourists that Bank Holiday weekend, but one of the very few looking for pencils. I had the day to myself and my MP3 player, then filled with Ryan Adams' Gold and I think, Counting Crows' This Desert Life, and I wanted to do some drawing.

So I'm wandering the streets of Paris, only knowing the touristy bits, looking for art supplies, stumbling into hundreds of street artists and wondering where they bought their pencils from, all the time listening to Ryan Adams and trying to work out his ode to Sylvia Plath:

And maybe she'd take me to France Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance In a mansion on the top of a hill She'd ash on the carpets And slip me a pill Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin And maybe she'd give me a bath How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

I never really did. I'm still not sure whether it's a joke. But before I met Amanda again, I managed to find some pencils and paper and made this sketch of the Notre Dame cathederal.

There'll be a more substantial entry later tonight, when I get back from work. Thanks for reading!