Three years August and the storms are being named like epic ships, a doom upon our shore, and I think of the levees still leaking and of the flood-walls patched with paper mache, our Potemkin defenses are not ready and we are not ready and the Big One is out there, invisible, a mighty wind, waiting for us. Someone empties a pistol into the night and I think of Jessica and Chanel and Helen and Dinerral as I watch the MPs in their Humvees roll by like armored ghosts. I think of the streets running into blocks running into miles of houses houses houses houses houses empty eyed with plywood doors and ragged lawns. And I think I'll have another drink and light another cigarette and then another drink and then--I stop thinking. That is when this comes into my head. It is a compulsion, like bitting ones nails until they smart and bleed, this thought that what we write may not be our Genesis but an Apocalypse, the history of the end. And yet we stay because to live here is to walk through wrack and ruin counting the flowers in the weeds and discover you are not alone, everywhere there are people smiling, people with crumpled souls and rough stomachs, suffering what you are suffering, worse than you are suffering, suffering beyond your imagining and all for the sake of this place, because they see this city as you do, because they are the figures in the frame that make the landscape. A terrible beauty spills out of their eyes like tears and bathes the city in light.
This is as published 8/17 on my main blog, Toulouse Street--Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans, along with a video of David Bowie singing "Five Years". The original post debating a solid block of prose versus a stanza-broken layout is now in the comments. A slight edit to remove the song reference and replace "what we blog" with "what we write".
Three Years August
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5 comments:
where as i cannot say either is "better" i find the second easier to savor.. the first is a sea of words,, and can be fun to write,, but from a readers perspective,, i am allowed to hear more of the "voice" of the piece if it is broken up...
excellent piece by the way.. there is so much more to the rebirth of a city,, and those of us that are not there the pangs of birth are never evident... thank you for taking me there...
I think you're right, but I ended up publishing the prose version on Toulouse Street. Perhaps I need to break it into small paragraphs as prose to make it easier to follow.
That's funny because I thought since it was more of a literal exposition, the prose format fit better.
Moving the original post and comments here, and posting what went up on Toulouse Street.
Three years August and the storms are named like epic ships, a doom upon our shores, and I think of the levees still leaking and of the flood-walls patched with paper mache, our Potemkin defenses are not ready and we are not ready and the Big One is out there, invisible, a mighty wind, waiting for us.
Someone empties a pistol into the night and I think of Jessica and Chanel and Helen and Dinerral as I watch the MPs in Humvees roll by like armored ghosts.
I think of the streets running into blocks running into miles of houses houses houses houses houses empty eyed with plywood doors and ragged lawns.
And I think I'll have another drink and light another cigarette and then another drink and then--I stop thinking. It is a compulsion, like bitting ones nails until they smart and bleed, this thought that what we write may not be our Genesis but an Apocalypse, the history of the end.
And yet we stay because to live here is to walk through wrack and ruin counting the flowers in the weeds and discover you are not alone, everywhere there are people smiling, people with crumpled souls and rough stomachs, suffering what you are suffering, worse than you are suffering, suffering beyond imagining and all for the sake of this place, because they see this city as you do, because they are the figures in the frame that make the landscape.
A terrible beauty spills out of their eyes like tears and bathes the city in light.
-- or --
Three years August
and the storms are named
like epic ships, a doom upon our shore
and I think of the levees still leaking
and of the flood-walls patched with paper mache,
our Potemkin defenses are not ready
and we are not ready
and the Big One is out there,
invisible, a mighty wind, waiting for us.
Someone empties a pistol into the night
and I think of Jessica and Chanel and Helen and Dinerral
as I watch the MPs in Humvees
roll by like armored ghosts.
I think of the streets
running into blocks running into miles
of houses houses houses houses houses
empty eyed with plywood doors and ragged lawns.
And I think I'll have another drink
and light another cigarette
and then another drink and then--I stop thinking.
It is a compulsion, like bitting ones nails
until they smart and bleed, this thought
that what we write may not be our Genesis
but an Apocalypse, the history of the end.
And yet we stay because to live here is
to walk through wrack and ruin
counting the flowers in the weeds
and discover you are not alone,
everywhere there are people smiling,
people with crumpled souls and rough stomachs,
suffering what you are suffering,
worse than you are suffering,
suffering beyond imagining
and all for the sake of this place,
because they see this city as you do,
because they are the figures in the frame
that make the landscape.
A terrible beauty
spills out of their eyes
like tears
and bathes the city in light.
Which is better, the paragraph prose poem or the stanza break? I was about to post this (with an extra sentence referencing something linked to on Toulouse Street, my bog. Then I decided to post it here first while I think abou the format, since this is an open notebook.
8-20: A slight revision, and the prose poem version published on my main blog, Toulouse Street -- Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans. And here I broke the prose version into paragraph/stanzas (which I didn't do on the main blog). Let me know what you think.
Another new line break approach:
Three years August and the storms are being named
like epic ships, a doom upon our shore, and
I think of the levees still leaking and
of the flood-walls patched with paper mache,
our Potemkin defenses are not ready and
we are not ready and the Big One is out there,
invisible, a mighty wind, waiting for us.
Someone empties a pistol into the night and I think
of Jessica and Chanel and Helen and Dinerral
as I watch the MPs in their Humvees
roll by like armored ghosts.
I think of the streets running
into blocks running into miles of
houses houses houses houses houses
empty eyed with plywood doors and ragged lawns.
And I think I'll have another drink and
I light another cigarette and
then another drink and then:
I stop thinking.
That is when this comes into my head.
It is a compulsion, like bitting ones nails
until they smart and bleed, this thought
that what we write may not be our Genesis but
an Apocalypse, the history of the end.
And yet we stay because to live here is
to walk through wrack and ruin
counting the flowers in the weeds and
discover you are not alone,
everywhere there are people smiling,
people with crumpled souls and rough stomachs,
suffering what you are suffering,
worse than you are suffering,
suffering beyond your imagining and
all for the sake of this place,
because they see this city as you do,
because they are the figures in the frame
that make the landscape.
A terrible beauty spills out of their eyes
like tears and bathes the city in light.
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