Finding my subject matter.

My nice friend Josh praised some poems I read at the grad student poetry reading the other night, and while I appreciate his praise and vastly respect his advice, I am frustrated with my work nonetheless. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut where all I can do is the white trash poem. Okay, so white trash is my thing, and I love a good jarring line about a son smoking pot with his mom as much as the next person, but I keep wondering if I can successfully execute any other type of poem. Because I've been trying, and I don't think I've been successful.

Here's the poem I turned in for my poetry workshop this week:

The Problem of Evil

Unlike other avian,

The male emu neither eats nor drinks

Nor defecates. For eight weeks

He incubates greenblack eggs,

His fertile spouse breeds others

Lays everywhere.

The Father

Is easy to overlook in

Child-rearing is

Easy to blame when a bad egg hatched

Scrapes deep marks in forearm skin

With the force of filed nails.

I do not believe in God every day,

And I won’t blame him

Desire, deep water,

Evil inside my piece of the universe.

The male,

In order to feel adequately masculine

Must distinguish and differentiate

Himself from others.

Now, it seems to be working at getting around to something, some idea about how evil happens in the world but it's not fair to blame it on God. Perhaps maybe it even wants to suggest that evil is not the problem the poet should address; perhaps there's an issue darker than evil. Monda read the poem and told me it wasn't finished yet, and she's right--like usual. I knew that it needed more when I turned it in tonight, and that's bothered me all night. So I revised, and what do you know? The poem seems to get at the heart of a deeper issue much better, but guess what theme pops up in it--the trashy family.

Maybe that's what I'm supposed to write about at this point in my life. It's much easier to process the situations I've found myself in with relationship to my family when I'm so far away from them. I just don't want to become a trope; I don't want to become a poet who can only write one poem.

Anyway, here's the revision. Which do you like better?

The Problem of Evil

Unlike other avian,

The male emu neither eats nor drinks

Nor defecates. For eight weeks

He incubates greenblack eggs,

His fertile spouse breeds others

Lays everywhere.

The Father

Is easy to overlook in

Child-rearing is

Easy to blame when a bad egg hatched

Scrapes deep marks in forearm skin

With the force of filed nails.

I do not believe in God every day,

And I won’t blame him nor

My father for

Desire, deep water,

Evil inside my piece of the universe.

My mother

Is a woman who cannot make

Herself happy. She works

Scantily and lives on charm.

Two men love her and

She is a she-bird on the move.

The problem of evil is

Not my father’s.

He takes her back each time

Her other lover squanders his

Affection on some addiction.

She is not wrong

For wanting love.

They are not wrong

For loving.

The male,

In order to feel adequately masculine,

Must distinguish and differentiate

Himself from others.

My mother’s lovers

Are different men,

Not bad men but

Opposite in respect to

All things but

The problem of love.

Rembering Marlon Brando

Okay, I have a confession to make. Until this afternoon, I had never had any interaction with A Streetcar Named Desire. Never read it, never saw the 1951 film wit Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh, and I probably never would have given it much thought, but it was assigned reading for my Modern American drama course. Wow, y'all. It's jaw-dropping good. It's call your mama when you're finished and tell her about it good. It's flip to the front and start all over again good, which I didn't get to do because I'm working on two papers simultaneously. (Oh, graduate school!)

Needless to say, I loved the play. So I decided to procrastinate a little by searching for clips on YouTube (motherload!) and info on Tennessee Williams and Marlon Brando (because he's such a dream boat). I discovered some interesting tidbits, namely that Tennessee Williams (whose Cat On A Hot Tin Roof I had read before and enjoyed) is a native Mississippian like myself, born in Columbus, spent the first seven years of his life in Clarksdale (home of the blues!). I also found out that tomorrow, February 25th, marks the 4th anniversary of Brando's death. So, I thought I'd commemorate by sharing a clip from the Award-winning 1951 film adaptation of Streetcar.




Any of you have Brando stories?

Poetry

Abby is my best friend, and she sent me this poem all the way from Conway, Arkansas, yesterday just to brighten my day. Now, I pass it along to you, all the way from Knoxville, Tennessee, in hopes that it will brighten your day.

"Poetry" by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age. . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river
I don't know how or when,
no, they weren't voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of the night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote that first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of one who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

Inquiring minds want to know

My dear friend Whit (who is way cooler than me) tagged me in a vicious blog meme cycle. Since TMI is my forte, I present to you 7 random things about myself.

Here are the rules:

1) Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3) Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4) Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.


1. I call my maternal grandmother Muffy. I bet your grandmother's pet name isn't as interesting. The story goes, when my uncle was a teenager he used to poke fun at her when she nagged him by saying "Oh, be quiet, Muffy." The name stuck, and it really suits her well.

My mom and Muffy
(they'd kill me if they knew I posted this picture)

2. I love Southern colloquialisms. You know, those trite-but-humorous phrases often of objectionable content (it's colder than a well digger's ass, it's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock) or quizzical origin (you betcha, Red Rider). My favorite is this one: "I'm hell when I'm well and I ain't never sick." That one held up for me until my first sickly winter in East Tennessee.

3. I enjoy Pabst Blue Ribbon, usually for 75-cents a pop on Thursday nights at Mellow Mushroom. You should come--they have a blue grass band!


4. As a child, I wanted to be two things when I grew up: a chef or a hairdresser. Momma wanted me to be a preacher. I've settled on teacher instead, though what I'd really like to be is a local celebrity. A big fish in a small pond, if you will.

5. I speak two languages: The classroom please-think-I'm smart one, and the diphthongy I'm-from-Mississippi one. I find the latter seems at odds with the former, and I'm learning to be okay with that.

6. On Friday night, February 22, at 6 p.m., I'll be reading my creative work as a part of the GRAiL reading series in McClung 1210. You should come hear my voices compete in a battle to the death as I say what Momma said not to.


7. I'm a rule breaker. There, I said it. Please don't tell my daddy since he is a law enforcement officer. As a rule breaker, I will therefore not abide by the aforementioned guidelines posted in the rule list for this meme. I ain't tagging anybody. But if you want to play, feel free. Just remember to tell me you've accepted the challenge.

Smile at yourself in the mirror

'Least that's what the foil wrapper of my Dove dark chocolate advised. So I did. And you know what? I look so much more attractive when I smile. I bet you do, too.

It's a beautiful day in Knoxville, and paper-due-on Monday be damned, I'm going to play til dark. I've already played with my blog. I decided it needed to lighten up, because it was really becoming a drag. Note my new picture. They are Czech vintage glass buttons. Cute, right? I'm in an owl phase. Muffy gave me an antique owl iron trivet last weekend. It looks just like this one. And we can't forget Conway, the little owl tattooed on my left (your right) shoulder. He's too much fun.

But I don't know about these owls--

Love is a mix tape

My friend Katherine decided that I was going to be her valentine since her boyfriend is studying abroad in England. Last year, my friend Abby decided I'd be her valentine because she did not have a boyfriend. I gave Abby candy. I made Katherine a mix tape, er, c.d.

If you're thinking "Poor Tim. Always the bride's maid, never the bride," or something similar, I feel ya. I'm a pitiably safe valentine, sure to make any girl's mix tape romance fantasies come true without the incentive of sexual repayment looming like a purple giraffe (because pink elephant is so cliche) in the living room.

But I'm not unhappy, and I don't need pity. I do what I can get to chocolate and affection.

Besides, St. Patrick's Day is so much more interesting that Valentine's Day.


In other news, I'll be reading at the Choc-Lit poetry reading along with the members of my workshop at Carpe Librum bookstore tonight from 5:30-6:30. Monda and Steph, teleport in for the event. Or, if y'all have hot dates, just know Tim Sisk is making you proud in the long, skinny state of Tennessee.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Politics of a Southern Funeral

Jimmy Lee Yancy's funeral was a graveside service at the black cemetery in Coldwater, where things like churches, funeral parlors, and graveyards are still separated by race. It was a damn shame how he went--"he was eat up with the meth," Muffy, my grandmother, told her niece, Wanda, on the phone, but his funeral was the talk of my family's Saturday afternoon pork sandwich lunch.
"I want one just like Jimmy Lee's," my mother said. "No wake, no funeral home, just say a few words at the graveyard and put me in the ground."
Muffy concurred.
"It was a real nice service, and look at this."
She handed my mother the bulletin the funeral director passed to every mourner, a folded blue piece of typing paper with Jimmy Lee's name in script over a set of clip-art praying hands. Inside was the Lord's Prayer, the dates of Jimmy Lee's life. My mother was impressed by what seemed to me a slapshot, last minute death announcement made by somebody who probably felt more comfortable using a typewriter rather than Microsoft Word.
"I want you to save this and have 'em make me one like it when I die," she told me. "Only I want mine on pink paper."
I told her I'd remember.

I cannot tell you how many times I've discussed funeral arrangements of the future with different members of my family. Where I'm from, the way someone goes out of the world is directly proportional to the fullness of life said person had while she was still raising hell around DeSoto County. I've known for years that Muffy, who doesn't go to church, wants her niece Susie Jones, the Methodist preacher in our family, to do the service, and that she wants to be buried in a pink night gown with a matching housecoat. Neither one can button under the chin, because "I can't sleep with all that shit around my neck," she's always said.

On a heart-shaped piece of notepaper under a magnet on my mother's refrigerator is a list of the songs my grandfather wants played at his funeral: "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Peace in the Valley," both by Tennessee Ernie Ford. My stepfather, the old dope smoker that he is, wants "Drift Away" by Dobie Gray played as his casket is lowered into the ground. Then he wants everyone to go back home and drink a beer in his memory. I'm serious.

My Uncle Doug was buried in jeans and a blue t-shirt that said "Go Mississippi" across the front as Pam Tillis wailed "Maybe It Was Memphis" from a crackly boom box behind the curtain at Brantley's Funeral Home, and my Aunt Jane made sure to have a fresh pack of cigarettes and a couple cans of beer in the casket with Uncle Willie before they closed it and loaded him into the hearse. Muffy was appalled that she'd waste the cigarettes and beer and told her husband, who liked the idea, that she'd put some empty packs and cans in his casket, but she wasn't going to waste such expensive commodities. "Jane's just stupid as hell," I remember her saying as we ate mushy chicken and dressing after the funeral. Frances from up the road sent it, and she made hers with light bread instead of corn bread.

I wonder if Southerners are preoccupied with morbidity, or if my family particularly is peopled with an inordinate number of control freaks. I know just what songs, Bible verses, and flowers nearly everyone in my family wants at his funeral. My momma and daddy already have burial plots picked out and paid for, and when Daddy bought his, he bought two extra, he said "in case there's ever an emergency," but I know he had my brother and me in mind when he got them. I won't even go into the Politics of Where One is Buried in Relationship to Mr. Ed (my abusive-alcoholic paternal grandfather who died of "liver failure" in 1971. The authorities over looked the bullet in his chest out of respect for my grandma, who, until her last day on this earth back in May was always a good Christian woman, God rest her soul).

I guess planning for the future--and I come from a family of planners--naturally involves deciding the specifics of your last hoo-rah before you go to meet the Lord. Maybe it makes things easier for those who have to pull everything together after you go to the other side. That's a big maybe.

As for me, I've got my funeral all planned out, of course. Well, at least I have it narrowed down to one of two options, depending on when I go. If I live to a ripe old age, or at least out live my grandmother and parents, I don't want a traditional funeral service. No wake, no open caskets, no funeral home either. Instead, I'd like to donate my body to science, if science will have it. I'm thinking of willing my corpse to the UT body farm so those kids studying forensics can go dig me up and figure out how I died. I'm an educator, and it makes sense that my last act on this earth would be in the name of education. Then I'll just have a memorial service, where different people stand up and tell funny stories about me, listen to Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky," and then go on about their lives feeling better about things.

Or, if I keel over tomorrow, I want a full-on Baptist service, complete with my cousin Vanessa singing "Nearer My God To Thee" and some preacher who does not know me but agrees to do the service out of Christian charity (and because my daddy gives him $100, "for the church") preaching me right on into heaven. And of course there will be a slide show of school pictures and candid Christmas shots from every year of my life. And tears, lots of tears. Now, I'm not Baptist, nor am I that close with Vanessa. But that's how my mother and father would want the funeral to be, and if anything, I know how to work a crowd.


*I've been wanting to write this piece since my grandma died back in May. Here's my first draft. Maybe I'll expand it into a longer piece in which I deal with a specific funeral. Right now, I'm just scribbling.

Tornadoes Tore Through My Hometown

I grew up living in a trailer on the New Madrid Fault line (on which an earthquake happened and made the Mississippi River run backwards back in 18-whatever). So, needless to say, I take severe weather seriously. I can't help but to take take it seriously when for more months out of the year than not Northwest Mississippi is under a tornado warning. Threat of severe weather is a part of my discourse community. It's one of the few things I know most about.

Now, most of the time tornadoes pass right over my old stomping grounds. In fact, in 18 years of living there full time, I'm not sure anything too devastating happened to the top of Mississippi. Until today. I called home upset about school, but my whining about how hard it is to be a graduate student was derailed by tornado talk. This afternoon, two blew through the Memphis area out of Eastern Arkansas, and they touched down in my hometown. Southaven, MS, got hit pretty hard, my father informed me. The Horizon gas station on Stateline Road was leveled, which is a stone's throw from where my mother works. She made it home before the first storm hit, and I'm thankful for that. Sixteen people are trapped inside the Sears at Hickory Ridge Mall in Southeast Memphis, a mere 10-minute drive from my house. Down in Oxford--where my best friend from high school is a grad student at Ole Miss--the industrial park was leveled. But said friend is good, just a bit shaken from watching the funnel cloud blow over her apartment. All those Arkansas Delta towns a mere jaunt across the river from my town are devastated. It seems as if my town and every other town within a 50-mile radius in all directions got hit pretty hard.

I'm pretty scared, since Daddy told me another tornado is making its way across Arkansas in their direction. I hope it blows over, and I hope my dad gets to stay the hell out of dodge tonight. He's a law enforcement officer, and that usually means he gets called out to help direct traffic and clear the roadways when bad weather happens.

I'll never forget August 2005 when Hurricane Katrina hit the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Though I'm from about as far from the coast as one can be and still live in Mississippi, the whole state faced power outages and heavy rains. I was living in central Arkansas at the time, but I took Katrina hard because my daddy got deployed down to Gulfport right after the hurricane hit to assist in the relief effort. Since all the power lines and cell phone towers were down, there was no way to communicate with him. He was on the coast for two weeks--the first two weeks after the storm--and we didn't hear from him the whole time. You'd think state law enforcement agencies would have super-powered satellite cell phones so folks like my dad could call home and let their squirly, precocious, high strung sons know they're okay. But this is the Mississippi state government we're talking about--no money, no advanced technologies. Our governor is a lobbyist for the tobacco industry; what can you expect?

Well, at least this time things aren't as bad as when Katrina hit, even though this time the damage happened closer to home. Hell, it happened at home. My people are okay, though. That's what really matters. I just wish like hell Daddy'd move out of that trailer and retire from law enforcement.

Think about your Memphis-area neighbors tonight, y'all, and you'll be thinking about so many people I know and love.

Pooping Tiger, (Not So) Hidden Toilet Training Tool

A love poem to read silently to yourselves.

Rent

If you want my apartment, sleep in it

but let's have a clear understanding:

the books are still free agents.



If the rocking chair's arms surround you

they can also let you go,

they can shape the air like a body.



I don't want your rent, I want

a radiance of attention

like the candle's flame when we eat,



I mean a kind of awe

attending the spaces between us---

Not a roof but a field of stars.

by Jane Cooper