Words as Obstacles, Words as Solutions

[Image: “Aerial,” by Shane Taremi. (Found on Flickr; used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) According to the photographer, this is an aerial portrait of his wife’s face — evidently produced with the help of dozens (hundreds?) of other people. (I like to think his wife’s name is “Ariel,” but, well, no idea.) Can’t see the portrait? Shrink the browser window a bit narrower, or just move back a foot or two from the screen.]

From whiskey river:

Rising in Perilous Hope

What can I hold in my hands this morning
that will not flow through my fingers?

What words can I say that will catch
in your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow?

If my touch could heal, I would lay my hands
on your bent head and bellow prayers.

If my words could change the weather
or the government or the way the world

twists and guts us, fast or slow,
what could I do but what I do now?

I fit words together and say them;
it is a given like the color of my eyes.

I hope it makes a small difference, as
I hope the drought will break and the morning

come rising out of the ocean wearing
a cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns.

(Marge Piercy [source])

…and:

To Sleep
(excerpt)

It’s dangerous to lie down
mid-day, late March and dark,
a heavy, wet snow falling from the sky
or rising from the ground, it’s hard
to say, the day a blur
as you drift off toward sleep
rather than keeping your eye on
the great world around you
where it should be if you are
to earn the right to be
called a poet, attentive to
the details of everyday life—
the quality of light, the specific
gravity of the snow, the exact
weight of birdsong and wing.

(Ronald Wallace [source])

Not from whiskey river (although I did find an excerpt on what seems to be whiskey river‘s Twitter feed):

Rhymes with Orange

William Stafford, when asked how he manages to write every single morning, answered: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block for writers whose standards are low enough.”

At first, it’s wrenching, the body’s changes:
Your candle-count rises and your flesh descends.

Your fading beauty is already tinged
with gravitas (or gravity). Regardless, it portends

a slide into decrepitude. You claim that you refuse to cringe
from aging’s alchemy? Insist that in your case it ends

in gold? Not likely. Sepia. Bruise. A dingy,
porous bone-color—brittle. Shade of old bread.

What’s the antidote? “What rhymes with orange?”
The answer’s “Nothing.” Resign yourself, my friend.

If the squeaking hinge in the adage
gets the oil, okay: Olay it on.

Let no expense be spared. A syringe?
A scalpel? Hair implants? Extend

the artifice as best you can. You think your image,
grinning in the glass, will stay the fairest in the land?

Don’t make me laugh. Confess: where you’re hinged,
you ache, you part your hair behind, can’t

risk that peach. Admit: you sup on porridge;
a sniggering footman holds your coat. Enough. Amen.

As the Brits say, stop your wingeing.
Like the poet beset with writer’s block: give in.

Rhyme’s a pain and growing old’s a bitch.
Lower your standards. Pour the wine.

(Marjorie Stelmach [source])

…and:

What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,
black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.
They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.
You say they look like arks after the sea’s
dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,
and I think of that walk in the valley where
J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,
No. I believe in this connection we all have
to nature, to each other, to the universe.
And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,
low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,
and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,
woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.
So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,
its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name
though we knew they were really just clouds—
disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

(Ada Limón [source])

…and:

I know of places, actions, and things. Most of my vocabulary describes places and is used to move you there. To move, try words like forest, building, downstream, enter, east, west, north, south, up, or down. I know about a few special objects, like a black rod hidden in the cave. These objects can be manipulated using some of the action words that I know. Usually you will need to give both the object and action words (in either order), but sometimes I can infer the object from the verb alone. Some objects also imply verbs; in particular, “inventory” implies ‘take inventory’, which causes me to give you a list of what you’re carrying. The objects have side effects; for instance, the rod scares the bird. Usually people having trouble moving just need to try a few more words. Usually people trying unsuccessfully to manipulate an object are attempting something beyond their (or my!) capabilities and should try a completely different tack. To speed the game you can sometimes move long distances with a single word. For example, “building” usually gets you to the building from anywhere above ground except when lost in the forest. Also, note that cave passages turn a lot, and that leaving a room to the north does not guarantee entering the next from the south.

Good luck!

(from the Help file for “Adventure” (a/k/a “Colossal Cave”), the old text-based computer game [source])