Poetry in Place

Listen beneath the stairs if possible. Just a favorite place on campus, hidden in plain sight. I tried to get the acoustics to cooperate and luckily found a not-too-windy night to record on.

Special thanks to Jenny Marion.

A poem for a place I keep returning to even though it is out of my way.

Thanks to Felice and Mira who have been here with me.

Special thanks to all my friends in ENGL 552/752

REGARDING THE ROUNDABOUT AT THE CHI O FOUNTAIN

I remember the wheels on the left lane car Spinning so fast they turned backward On a childhood highway, My forehead smudging the backseat glass All the way to Arizona or Texas or Colorado.

Velocity makes a fool Of all our beliefs.

I remember this life, A line cut through the circling seasons —have I told you why cars make me shudder? Cold cages of forward momentum, Unbreakable ribs.

Through the window I see another window offset Moving through the drivers like doors —don’t you know a ghost’s just the back end of a blur? I dreamt I couldn’t see the castle through the arches, Torches spilling light on the moon-colored stones. I’ve called this body both a candle and a fountain. The cars never reach the center they lean toward, A bowl of electric blue. We called it Omega. We’re always losing infinite things— This sequence of doors.

Velocity makes a fool of all our beliefs. Everything intense becomes a weapon, this life. Even memory, even time. Do you mind if I say we’re the same? If we move toward the same thing do we blur? What would happen if, as the metal blurred, You stuck your hand through the door And found a soft cheek?

a brief ponderance at the fountain at Murphy Hall image created with VQGAN-CLIP, Copyright (c) 2021 AK391

Dear Listener, Did you see the cherry blossom this year? It’s been years since I did. Of course, it may not be the right season. But is it? Will it be? Gather at your feet like they had once before?

At the foot of the courtyard, it is Spring. The fountain still trickles drown cracks between cusps of breath. They wrap into themselves like cloud spun ribbons. But you can’t see it yet as you do now, miasma of something passing by. Absent like bus stop out of service.

Can you hear them now? The singers? The musicians? The theorists? What will they be in a years’ time? Will they be worthy of Carnegie, transplant between the L and 7 trains? Train themselves to halt their coughs in the city-ed vulgar-ed air?

Will they lay themselves into the fountains? Ants drowned, casual carnage of entropy. Plan weddings in the chapel up the hill. Heads over shoulders looking back into windows, into years. Perhaps these are the same.

What can you remember of a space you have previously occupied? Perhaps this is a question that can only be asked by trespassers, exiled from their living memory. How many ants used to climb up the fountain? How many indiscriminate birds have flown overhead? Shit on heads? Splatter themselves into the mosaic of a sky, thought: bricklayers throwing scraps to find it.

At the foot of the courtyard, it is about to be Winter. Meaning: impression of Spring, traced by the branches painting themselves outside the frame.

Journalism

Cold metal on flattened thighs Cheeks flushed, blue skies Pitter patter on flattened keys Words written, thoughts fleed Oxford comma, never used Shake my knee, tap my shoe Busses whirl, engines purr Paper crumpled, headlines blur Snap the photo, click click Oh the news, makes me sick Bill, Allen, White, the press Take a breath, release the stress

“hillwalk!” is an ode to the hill we walk upon each day as we make our way through. this poem, which is made of three parts, is meant to be read with a view of Lawrence and its surrounding tree and hillscapes laid out in front of you.

if you prefer to listen indoors, I recommend the southern stairwell of Fraser Hall, from the sixth floor window. or classrooms in Wescoe with south-facing windows. or from the stacks in Watson. outdoors, you might glimpse these views as you walk along Jayhawk Boulevard, as you feel the certainty of this hill beneath you.

This poem was written as a counterpoint to Grace Tuthill's melody.

Wishing wanting waiting walking  Sneaking Spying Sleeping sliding  Looming Leering Loaming looting Running rending reaching rooting Tripping trawling threshing trashing Crippling crawling clenching crashing  Hunting Hoarding Hurting hiding  Grunting grabbing gasping grinding   Guilty grasping grubby greedy Nasty neutered nervy needy My arm stretches from the bushes My arm wrenches forth your riches   Stopping, soothing, serving, saving Peace, and providence, and playing Whimsy often wanders, waving Feeling softened, and forgiving Listening, and letting living  Bring me back to my beginning, Found enough that i won’t flee me, Healed enough to give me freely. My feet dance to your connection. My feet splash in our reflection.   Stepping, skipping, sharing, singing Synching, shining, striving, saving Wishing, weaving, willing waiting Wending, walking, writing, waking.