Stoned with Difranco

I'll admit.. I didn't do my homework. But then this particular session wasn't wholly 'ordinary' by any standard.

Still, I'd have gotten around to Ani Difranco soon enough.

Every rebel without a cause needs a powerful, angry voice to sing her anthem. I've found more such singers and anthems than causes, in my life. There was a time when Alanis' violent rants would sum up my entire existence. I'd like to think that I've grown since then. Of course, I haven't.
Ani Difranco is the Alanis for your late 20's.

Tiptoe is the kind of slap across the face you need in the middle of a good day. Because however stubbornly pro-choice you are or you aren't, does anything mean anything when you're standing at the edge, whatever the view might be? Grant yourself a single moment of honesty, will you at least then accept that you don't know?

Asking too much.. is just that. This is the answer to the world's most abused question - "What do women want?" She splits the list quite neatly into the 'impossible, he'll never get around to it' and 'just very simply fucking listen!' - and it's the latter that is so often so forgotten..

if you hear me talking
listen to what i'm not saying
if you hear me playing guitar
listen to what i'm not playing
and don't ask me to put words
to all the silences i wrote
don't ask me to put words
to all the spaces between notes

And then the big one tumbles out..

in other words i want someone
who's not afraid of themself

Yeah, I'm probably asking too much.

Not a pretty girl is your typical mad feminist rant. Break through the stereotypes, destroy the preconceived image of the 'fair maiden', and question the disgusting idea of a 'damsel in distress'. But it's beyond just that. People (and not just men, mind you) who can't figure you out feel the need to first fix you and then place you in a box. A box that they know and understand, and are perhaps, not threatened by.

don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down
whether or not you ever show up

How bloody true.

Dibs on Neruda

I have a mental block against South American literature. It's my failed attempts at understanding and/or appreciating Paulo Coelho and GG Marquez. So Neruda might well have floated into my line of sight, at some point, but I'd most certainly have swatted him like an annoying housefly. It's my general discomfort when it comes to translations - how can they be even half as good?!

But a fortunate turn of events has led me to change my mind. And it helped that I chanced upon 'A dog has died', right at the beginning of this little affair..

and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom..

These lines took me back to an old James Herriot story, about dogs having souls and going to heaven. It's just one of those naive thoughts that make you feel less guilty, I suppose.. On the other hand, how can they(dogs, ie) not?!

His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations.

Thank god for none of that "Mary's little lamb" type bullshit! Dogs have pride too, you know!

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit..

The closest that one can get to feeling such joy, is perhaps to witness it. And that is perhaps the most enduring feeling, one that outlasts the moment by a lifetime.

The next one I settled on was 'Tonight I can write the saddest lines'. I remember reading the first line on someone's facebook homepage, and found it interesting, I think. Of course, now, I took my time. And boy, was I let down! What a load of drivel! The whinings of an adolescent boy, stood up, on his second date. Yeeesh. "I loved her.. she loved me... I don't have her.. I have lost her.. " - boo-fucking-hoo!!
And somewhere, lost in this pile of steaming horseshit, killer lines like these..

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Still, sorry Pablo.. I'm hoping Mr. Nobel signed over the prize to you inspite of, and not because of a cliche of a poem like this! (On a side note, is it his fault that such sentiments are now cliches, when he probably wrote this some 50 years ago!?)

Thought I should give the old pendejo one more chance.. And God bless my stars, that I did. 'We are many' brought Neruda back up to the shrine atop my pedestal, and frankly, my own soul back to life.
It's such a waste to try and pin some lines down here. Spinning an ode to 'self doubt', making an art out of self-deprecation..

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

And then there is the envy. The pointless envy of unrealistic figures. And the god-awful irony that poetry (yes, including Neruda's) too idolizes the impossibly brave..

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

He concludes by offering up his own self-analysis, hoping that others are as messed up in the head as he is, and in a bit of an anti-climax..

When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

So the verdict on Neruda? Having spent less than a week on just 3 poems...
"Please sir, can I have some more?!"