Traces Of Things (Poetry)

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traces of things that once were, a series of poems by ben frederick

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traces of things that once were, This document/electronic communication contains personally identifiable information from a student’s educational record. It is protected by the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act (20 USC Sec. 1232g) and may not be rereleased, or used for any purpose other than that for which it was intended, without the consent of the student.

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contents 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

a cover blank repitition blank what your reading now 72 pt draft x 2 ‘‘ binary draft almost there force justified draft x 4 binary draft traces of things that once were justified situations 72 pt binary situations 8 pt 12 pt just ryanposter ryanreading americancheeseflagspapabeardoritoscolbert ‘‘ ‘‘ ‘‘ 72 pt half of a photo other half of photo from pg. 26 olivegarden 01001101 cream just blank fin blank twopage informal title that reflects that I have learned something in this class

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The places, scenes


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the places, scenes alone the steam creeps from hollows now hiss tear the wind the naked branches reach for spars light, far to craddle. wood and partial board, pins and western codex block out what lay beyond. sit behind a screen miles from away, A blue lobster egg. Snowball string and maps, a few things me and you.


the a steam f h

places,

scenes

l

that

o

n

r o

wood pins block sit miles a

e creeps m

o l

now the the reach too

keep

l

o

w

hiss

far

naked for

and and out

tear wind branches globes, reach.

to

partial western what lay

behind

s

board, codex beyond.

a

w

a

screen from ,

y

A lobster S n string a block from

blue egg. o

w

and few

b

a

l

l maps, things me you.

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traces of things that once were carved victory beneath skin, edge blue end result, cyan dot matrix. charcoal pollinates the rooms creative hideaways, empty of present naked walls breath begging to be pinned, productive artifacts absent.


traces carved s edge cyan charcoal the

of

things

once

victory i

k blue

rooms

naked begging

to s

dot

n end

were beneath , result, matrix.

pollinates hideaways,

creative

empty

productive a b

that

of

present

walls

breath pinned,

e

be n

artifacts t .

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thinking of painful situations post crit. on


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thinking of painful situations post crit. on a tuesday afternoon in early april. cost of youth and hued paper pound on silver worn mugs clouded eyes trap keys. illustrate the negative “it� has congealed behind, sent just to be pushed again, broken isotopes. Far from away, silver lies. Over once and once over command c, place. paranoira once cut into a letter.


thinking of painful situations post crit. on a tuesday afternoon in early april. cost of pound worn clouded

youth eyes

illustrate has sent just broken

hued

paper silver mugs keys.

trap

the negative congealed to be pushed

Far silver

“it� behind, again, isotopes.

from

Over command p once

and on

a

once r cut

away, lies.

and c, a

once n

into

o a

over place. r

a letter.

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Kay Ryan I didn’t know what to expect earlier tonight walking in to Kay Ryan’s poetry reading. Was it going to be boring or what, I guess I am in no place to know anything right now. Greg and me sat next to our friend Sam, and her girl friend. I guess that was nice knowing that Kay Ryan is gay, not that it matters. My best friend since I was four years old came out to me in college. So it was nice. I enjoyed Kay’s voice; it was soft, yet deep with knowing. Not in a bookish way, more of knowing in the sense that she has lived, and seen a thing or two. A knowing in a way a 35 year old waitress at waffle house knows, voice raspy with tar. A knowing of life’s pains and hardships. A knowing in a truthful and humble way. Never talking down, but also not talking up. Just communication, no fear of rejection or humiliation. It was what it was. I found wet coming from my eyes unexpectedly as I sat and listened to Kay recite “Home to Roost.” I think it was the sudden understanding, the image, the emotion, the gravity of the words falling from my eyes. I understood. I guess it was about that point when Sam’s girl friend, Sarah, politely took my note book and wrote, “None of these poems contain the word “I” – intensely personal themes made less personal by the omission.” She put it better than I could; she is after all a poet and a law student, an odd mix. But obviously a fan of Kay Ryan, I guess I am too after tonight. “I find learning unpleasant…” and I found myself laughing… and fumbling to understand what she meant. Maybe it was the lack of mystery that learning makes ever present in ones mind. Of course that is a shallow statement, at times learning can bring new mysteries into ones life. “Glass Slipper” another favorite from the night. I wish she would have read it again. I like how it made me feel dreadfully hopeful, yet incredibly depressed at the same time, reinstating the fact that the sole mate is a fairly tail, and anyone will fit into your glass slipper, even if it is for just a short time. Of course I probably miss understood the context and meaning. “Rhyme compels one to a great number of inaccuracies.” The night came to a close with the Q&A session, which is always blotted with horrid questions and descent answers, nothing that a simple blog wouldn’t tell you. We left soon after, walking back in the cold, Greg and I parted ways. I am humbled to say I have experienced Kay Ryan.


Tuesday 4.27 / 12:0-4:30 / McClung 1210

Home to Roost

Kay Ryan

The chickens are circling and blotting out the day. The sun is bright, but the chickens are in the way. Yes, the sky is dark with chickens, dense with them. They turn and then they turn again. These are the chickens you let loose one at a time and small— various breeds. Now they have come home to roost—all the same kind at the same speed.

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Colbert’s Fightin’ Fifth Your grease would make a french fry cry with pride, could polish a Grammy to the shade of American cheese icon of sarcasm, and doritos, I salute you.


polish a Grammy to the shade of American cheese,

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forgetting the night The stain on the wall Melted wax reminds of a night I don’t remember. We were at his farm an old family home full of a mans life Intoxicated and sad Generations apart you lay on the kitchen floor our heads together always understanding that nothing will be understood I was out on the porch frustrated with the words that I couldn’t say. The wax still clings to the wall a trophy of a night that we got lost in the four of us weeping in sadness it was a contagious freeing experience in an old wooden room the whiskey and wine were dulling my mind but I still remember the feelings that hung in the air pale smoke of loves lost and fights won, of secrets and regret the amnesia.


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forgetting The Melted of

the stain a

Intoxicated Generations you

were old of

The to a

lay

at

family

a

on

his mans

the

nothing

kitchen

will

was

out with

a

got

four

of

in

was an

still

the of

trophy we

the the couldn’t

wax

whiskey dulling I

the hung pale

in smoke

wooden

still

and my feelings

and secrets

lost

a old

the of fights and

wall reminds remember. farm home life sad apart floor together understanding understood

be on

I

the were but

lost of the

don’t

heads

that the weeping it freeing in

the

and

our always that I frustrated that

on wax I

night

We an full

night

porch words say. clings wall night in us sadness contagious experience room wine mind remember that air loves won, regret amnesia.

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forgetting the night the stain on the wall melted wax reminds a farm old family home full mans life intoxicated generations lay on the kitchen floor heads together always understanding that nothing will be understood, that we got lost in the silver of weeping in sadness the whiskey and wine dulling-but I still remember the pale smoke of loves, regret. the amnesia.

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(informal title that reflects that I have learned some-


(informal title that reflects that I have learned something in this class) So we circle up, in a group, one by one recite our poems or some “famous” poet’s, we workshop and crit. To an outsider we probably just look like group therapy. Which is fine if you ask me. Poetry is therapeutic so why not. This class has allowed me to express myself in ways I couldn’t during other creative classes, it rounded me out, made me more productive. If I was feeling burnt-out on design, I’d write some poetry, the poem could inspire a drawing, drawing inspire a design, the cycle begins again. I enjoy all these processes; to define them is the hard part, if a view gets the same emotional response from a poem, a drawing and some form of design, then what is the difference? The physical form? Well yes, but your goal is to communicate in some way. If that can be achieved through any process then is there a difference… the medium looks different, but for me the feeling I get is the same. I learned I just like to make stuff, doesn’t matter what it is, as long as I am making something. I wonder sometimes if I only hold myself back by being in creative classes, what happened to Ben Frederick the doctor or lawyer? Why is it the artist? Or designer or poet? To be honest I am none of those things, I’m not a poet, one must be published to be a poet in my opinion. I’m not an artist… cause well you don’t want to be like “hi, I’m an artist” it just sounds wrong, your only an artist when your introduced as an artist. I suppose the same goes for a designer, and so on. But we are really taking about the same thing, art, poetry, and design; they all use some sort of creativity to send a message to the viewer. Each is about arranging elements on a page, canvas or screen. My actual writing process has been interesting. It is normally in a flurry of emotion that I feel like writing, or “need” to write. (not the oh I have class in 5 min. I better write this poem.) More of a need internally. Some days its stronger than others, some times I don’t want to write at all. Most of my poems are written in 30 min or so. I feel like there needs to be an imidiacy in the process to truly get out what is inside. A filtering of emotions one can go back and erase, and edit. Strip down to the barest form. I don’t think it is necessary for one to fully understand what is going on in my poems, if the viewer says, oh hat sounds odd, pretty, and sad. I did my job, they don’t need to now the specifics of the emotions, just the specifics of the visuals that trigger the emotions, or that are around at the time of the poem. Its odd, but the process worked well for me, I have really enjoyed this class and will continue to write.

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