Sunday, January 29, 2006
Unprinted
Poetry by Mizanur Rahman
Mizanur Rahman, in his own words, "grew up on the east side of Detroit and graduated from the Journalism Institute for Minorities at Detroit's Wayne State University. He started writing at age 18 for an historic black weekly newspaper in Detroit, the Michigan Chronicle. He later worked as a reporter at The Oakland Press, a daily newspaper in suburban Detroit. He left Michigan for Norfolk, Virginia in 1999 for a job as an assistant city editor at The Virginian-Pilot. In 2003 he headed to Texas to work at The Dallas Morning News as a bureau chief. Professionally, he is known for his work in ethics and diversity. He likes to write about mountains, little towns with funny names, the voices in his head and the beautiful humble things most people don't notice.
In his spare time he likes to work out, play frisbee, stare lovingly at dogs and keep his girlfriend Lisa happy."
Editor note: Miz wrote the following untitled poem while waiting for one of his many flights out of the area. In this personification of poetry, Miz outlines his strongest held beliefs about poetry and writing itself (or at least that is my interpretation). The rest of these poems are wonderful samples of his thought and poetry process.
Also, a note on Miz's bio. Since first writing it, he has since asked his lovely girlfriend to marry him, so she is now his fiance Lisa. Congratulations Miz!
Untitled
Sitting in an empty gate at the Norfolk airport, I struck up a conversation with My Poetry.
After joking that humans shouldn't be cloned because of the Alabama factor, I asked My Poetry, "Poetry, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Poetry didn't hesitate.
"I," said My Poetry, "want to be a prostitute."
"What!" I exclaimed in perfect shock. "That's insane. You can't be a prostitute."
"Why not?" My Poetry fired back.
"It's wrong for one thing," I said.
"Yeah," My Poetry said, "well writing bad poems is wrong too, but that's never stopped you."
"Very funny. Wait a minute, I shouldn't assume this, but are you a girl?"
"Of course I'm a girl. I'm that girl with lips like two apple slices. I'm that girl who spread herself like a rumor on your couch - and I'm all those other girls positioned on their knees in your poetry."
"Whoa," I said sheepishly, "that was harsh. But OK then, how on Earth are you going to whore yourself?"
"Oh," she said, "I could just go to the corner of Woodward and 8 Mile Road. Remember, that notorious sex corridor in Detroit, your hometown? I could go there one night, wearing a skirt as short as a haiku. I would strut confidently like a good-looking politician. I would whistle at all the men, 'Hey baby, you looking for some good poetry? I've got a great rate tonight: 100 words for 100 dollas. And we can do it anyway you like: free verse like Ginsberg or missionary style like Shakespeare or long and hard like a double sestina, or gentle and wholesome like Robert Frost. And if you're into torture and pain, I can role-play Sylvia Plath."
"But," I said, completely embarrassed at My Poetry, "why do you want to sell yourself?"
"I'm not selling anything," she said. "I'm just sharing myself. Speaking of which, you need to get out there and start pimping your poetry. I can't do it all by myself."
"No way, never. Poetry is too sacred to be pimped."
"See, here's your issue: You don't really love poetry. You love the idea that poetry is some Great Thing. It's like a wife who doesn't really love her husband, but loves the idea of having one. Poetry isn't some Great Thing. Poetry won't cure cancer. Poetry won't break if you drop it. Poetry won't get the girl. Poetry is simply wearing a pair of comfortable jeans on an autumn day at a college football game. Poetry is that moment in the day when you're in those jeans. Poetry is not the day itself."
It began with the rush of morning
It began with the rush of morning.
The Metro doors slid open and she slipped in
with long legs and a short skirt.
A teenage boy would say she was hot.
An English major would say Ann Sexton was hotter.
Oh dear God, please sit next to me, the bald guy thought.
She did.
An hour later, during a meeting at his law firm, the
bald guy fantasized about her legs and the new
Olympic sport of naked pairs skating. He nodded
his head deliriously as he threw her in the air
for a naked triple axel. What he didn’t realize was that
his boss had just asked if he would take on two new clients.
And his delirious nod was taken as a yes.
A half hour later he calls his wife: “Honey, I’ll be working late
every night this week.”
This was not good. His wife was a lonely aerobics instructor.
A teenage boy, in fact, would say she was horny.
An English major would quote Russell Edson: She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope the way it listened to her heart.
Angry, she hustles to her gym. A muscle head notices her on
the tricep pushdown. “Hey,” he says to her, “keep your elbows in,
shoulders straight.”
An hour later, they’re at a Motel 6 admiring each other’s definition.
As the muscle head puts his pants back on, he realizes something.
“Damn it. I forgot to pick up Dayna from school.”
Dayna was his neighbor’s 12-year-old daughter. She had a 2 p.m. dentist appointment.
This was not good. Dayna has, what her therapist calls, abandonment issues.
A teenage boy would say Dayna is a big loser.
An English major would say Dayna’s body is boarding
the plane of womanhood but her mind lingers on a swing.
While waiting in the school office for the muscle head, Dayna writes
a Valentine’s Day card to Jeremy.
She recruits a hallway passerby to slip the card to Jeremy in math class.
Jeremy reads the card and is overcome with emotion. He takes out
a pocketbook diary and writes: “I feel the earth moving under my feet.”
A teenage boy, surely, would say Jeremy is lame.
An English major would say Jeremy is a hack, but he’s 12. He’ll grow out of it.
As Jeremy files on to the school bus going home, Mark, a ninth-grader,
asks to borrow his cell phone.
Jeremy, with the earth still moving under his feet, thinks nothing of it.
Mark huddles in a quiet corner of the bus. He dials Washington D.C. police and
whispers a threat: “There’s a bomb at the Supreme Court building that will
go off at 4.”
Ten minutes later the building is evacuated. The High Court was hearing a
last-minute appeal from lawyers representing Dean Filmore, a death row
inmate in Mecklenburg, Virginia.
His execution was set for midnight. That would wait until
the Justices could hear the appeal in two weeks.
Upon hearing the news of his reprieve from his lawyer, two hours later,
Dean Filmore stares joyously above and cries, “Thank you God.
How did you do it?”
Do you want to...
Do you want to have dinner with me in West Texas
where life is as simple as brushing teeth?
Do you want to watch a movie with me in the balcony of the
Naro where romance brews like a storm?
Do you want to be a spokeswoman for courage by singing even though you can’t sing?
Do you want to lay on my couch so I can
see your body curve like a question mark?
Do you want to sit with me next to a waterfall in the Shenandoah Valley and animal watch?
Do you want to star in a movie I’ll direct? This can be your signature line:
“The sad fact of mankind is that men are dumb. Women are dramatic. But a Golden retriever is endlessly entertaining.”
Do you want to be 15 again so I can have an Algebra II crush on
you and write bad rhyming poetry about it?
Do you want me to come up to you in a crowded club and say: “There is nothing sexier than a person who can dance in the darkness and still see the light.”
Do you want to race? I’ll drive my Mustang, you drive your
imagination. Winner gets a week’s supply of Dairy Queen Blizzards.
Do you want to think about names for our children?
You’ll say, “What about Parker for a boy?” I’ll say, “No. What about Veda for
a girl? You know, Veda is Sanskrit for wisdom and knowledge.”
You’ll say, “Honey, I love you, but we are not naming our girl
Veda. All the kids will call her Darth Veda.”
And I’ll say, “Fine, but can we go home now? It’s 3 a.m. and we’ve been
sitting underneath this oak tree watching the stars for five hours.”
Other side
I’ve been on a solitary, secret journey for years.
They are searches, happening when the moon hangs low,
and while your dreams hover like hawks.
I would have found it long ago,
but life slows each search like a nap un-hurries your day.
Take this recent search for example:
The air was so soft it parachuted my walk.
A big guy sat on a bench by the water,
listening to jazz on his radio. I always stop for jazz,
the short black skirt of music.
An apartment balcony had Christmas lights spelling
“Peace on Earth.” I always stop for pacifists.
A black lab jumped on me and licked my face. I always stop for dogs
because they have no shame.
Little kids carrying big instruments filed into a brightly-lit house
for a recital. I always stop for youth, because they are headlights
in the darkness.
A funeral home rested silently on a corner. I always stop for death,
the stubborn period in the sentence of our life.
As usual, this search ends with no discovery.
But I know it’s there, above the trees, behind the tall buildings.
Under the white fire of the moon, it’s there, on the verge.
Always on the verge.
- Poetry by Mizanur Rahman
Poetry by Mizanur Rahman
Mizanur Rahman, in his own words, "grew up on the east side of Detroit and graduated from the Journalism Institute for Minorities at Detroit's Wayne State University. He started writing at age 18 for an historic black weekly newspaper in Detroit, the Michigan Chronicle. He later worked as a reporter at The Oakland Press, a daily newspaper in suburban Detroit. He left Michigan for Norfolk, Virginia in 1999 for a job as an assistant city editor at The Virginian-Pilot. In 2003 he headed to Texas to work at The Dallas Morning News as a bureau chief. Professionally, he is known for his work in ethics and diversity. He likes to write about mountains, little towns with funny names, the voices in his head and the beautiful humble things most people don't notice.In his spare time he likes to work out, play frisbee, stare lovingly at dogs and keep his girlfriend Lisa happy."
Editor note: Miz wrote the following untitled poem while waiting for one of his many flights out of the area. In this personification of poetry, Miz outlines his strongest held beliefs about poetry and writing itself (or at least that is my interpretation). The rest of these poems are wonderful samples of his thought and poetry process.
Also, a note on Miz's bio. Since first writing it, he has since asked his lovely girlfriend to marry him, so she is now his fiance Lisa. Congratulations Miz!
Untitled
Sitting in an empty gate at the Norfolk airport, I struck up a conversation with My Poetry.
After joking that humans shouldn't be cloned because of the Alabama factor, I asked My Poetry, "Poetry, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Poetry didn't hesitate.
"I," said My Poetry, "want to be a prostitute."
"What!" I exclaimed in perfect shock. "That's insane. You can't be a prostitute."
"Why not?" My Poetry fired back.
"It's wrong for one thing," I said.
"Yeah," My Poetry said, "well writing bad poems is wrong too, but that's never stopped you."
"Very funny. Wait a minute, I shouldn't assume this, but are you a girl?"
"Of course I'm a girl. I'm that girl with lips like two apple slices. I'm that girl who spread herself like a rumor on your couch - and I'm all those other girls positioned on their knees in your poetry."
"Whoa," I said sheepishly, "that was harsh. But OK then, how on Earth are you going to whore yourself?"
"Oh," she said, "I could just go to the corner of Woodward and 8 Mile Road. Remember, that notorious sex corridor in Detroit, your hometown? I could go there one night, wearing a skirt as short as a haiku. I would strut confidently like a good-looking politician. I would whistle at all the men, 'Hey baby, you looking for some good poetry? I've got a great rate tonight: 100 words for 100 dollas. And we can do it anyway you like: free verse like Ginsberg or missionary style like Shakespeare or long and hard like a double sestina, or gentle and wholesome like Robert Frost. And if you're into torture and pain, I can role-play Sylvia Plath."
"But," I said, completely embarrassed at My Poetry, "why do you want to sell yourself?"
"I'm not selling anything," she said. "I'm just sharing myself. Speaking of which, you need to get out there and start pimping your poetry. I can't do it all by myself."
"No way, never. Poetry is too sacred to be pimped."
"See, here's your issue: You don't really love poetry. You love the idea that poetry is some Great Thing. It's like a wife who doesn't really love her husband, but loves the idea of having one. Poetry isn't some Great Thing. Poetry won't cure cancer. Poetry won't break if you drop it. Poetry won't get the girl. Poetry is simply wearing a pair of comfortable jeans on an autumn day at a college football game. Poetry is that moment in the day when you're in those jeans. Poetry is not the day itself."
It began with the rush of morning
It began with the rush of morning.
The Metro doors slid open and she slipped in
with long legs and a short skirt.
A teenage boy would say she was hot.
An English major would say Ann Sexton was hotter.
Oh dear God, please sit next to me, the bald guy thought.
She did.
An hour later, during a meeting at his law firm, the
bald guy fantasized about her legs and the new
Olympic sport of naked pairs skating. He nodded
his head deliriously as he threw her in the air
for a naked triple axel. What he didn’t realize was that
his boss had just asked if he would take on two new clients.
And his delirious nod was taken as a yes.
A half hour later he calls his wife: “Honey, I’ll be working late
every night this week.”
This was not good. His wife was a lonely aerobics instructor.
A teenage boy, in fact, would say she was horny.
An English major would quote Russell Edson: She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope the way it listened to her heart.
Angry, she hustles to her gym. A muscle head notices her on
the tricep pushdown. “Hey,” he says to her, “keep your elbows in,
shoulders straight.”
An hour later, they’re at a Motel 6 admiring each other’s definition.
As the muscle head puts his pants back on, he realizes something.
“Damn it. I forgot to pick up Dayna from school.”
Dayna was his neighbor’s 12-year-old daughter. She had a 2 p.m. dentist appointment.
This was not good. Dayna has, what her therapist calls, abandonment issues.
A teenage boy would say Dayna is a big loser.
An English major would say Dayna’s body is boarding
the plane of womanhood but her mind lingers on a swing.
While waiting in the school office for the muscle head, Dayna writes
a Valentine’s Day card to Jeremy.
She recruits a hallway passerby to slip the card to Jeremy in math class.
Jeremy reads the card and is overcome with emotion. He takes out
a pocketbook diary and writes: “I feel the earth moving under my feet.”
A teenage boy, surely, would say Jeremy is lame.
An English major would say Jeremy is a hack, but he’s 12. He’ll grow out of it.
As Jeremy files on to the school bus going home, Mark, a ninth-grader,
asks to borrow his cell phone.
Jeremy, with the earth still moving under his feet, thinks nothing of it.
Mark huddles in a quiet corner of the bus. He dials Washington D.C. police and
whispers a threat: “There’s a bomb at the Supreme Court building that will
go off at 4.”
Ten minutes later the building is evacuated. The High Court was hearing a
last-minute appeal from lawyers representing Dean Filmore, a death row
inmate in Mecklenburg, Virginia.
His execution was set for midnight. That would wait until
the Justices could hear the appeal in two weeks.
Upon hearing the news of his reprieve from his lawyer, two hours later,
Dean Filmore stares joyously above and cries, “Thank you God.
How did you do it?”
Do you want to...
Do you want to have dinner with me in West Texas
where life is as simple as brushing teeth?
Do you want to watch a movie with me in the balcony of the
Naro where romance brews like a storm?
Do you want to be a spokeswoman for courage by singing even though you can’t sing?
Do you want to lay on my couch so I can
see your body curve like a question mark?
Do you want to sit with me next to a waterfall in the Shenandoah Valley and animal watch?
Do you want to star in a movie I’ll direct? This can be your signature line:
“The sad fact of mankind is that men are dumb. Women are dramatic. But a Golden retriever is endlessly entertaining.”
Do you want to be 15 again so I can have an Algebra II crush on
you and write bad rhyming poetry about it?
Do you want me to come up to you in a crowded club and say: “There is nothing sexier than a person who can dance in the darkness and still see the light.”
Do you want to race? I’ll drive my Mustang, you drive your
imagination. Winner gets a week’s supply of Dairy Queen Blizzards.
Do you want to think about names for our children?
You’ll say, “What about Parker for a boy?” I’ll say, “No. What about Veda for
a girl? You know, Veda is Sanskrit for wisdom and knowledge.”
You’ll say, “Honey, I love you, but we are not naming our girl
Veda. All the kids will call her Darth Veda.”
And I’ll say, “Fine, but can we go home now? It’s 3 a.m. and we’ve been
sitting underneath this oak tree watching the stars for five hours.”
Other side
I’ve been on a solitary, secret journey for years.
They are searches, happening when the moon hangs low,
and while your dreams hover like hawks.
I would have found it long ago,
but life slows each search like a nap un-hurries your day.
Take this recent search for example:
The air was so soft it parachuted my walk.
A big guy sat on a bench by the water,
listening to jazz on his radio. I always stop for jazz,
the short black skirt of music.
An apartment balcony had Christmas lights spelling
“Peace on Earth.” I always stop for pacifists.
A black lab jumped on me and licked my face. I always stop for dogs
because they have no shame.
Little kids carrying big instruments filed into a brightly-lit house
for a recital. I always stop for youth, because they are headlights
in the darkness.
A funeral home rested silently on a corner. I always stop for death,
the stubborn period in the sentence of our life.
As usual, this search ends with no discovery.
But I know it’s there, above the trees, behind the tall buildings.
Under the white fire of the moon, it’s there, on the verge.
Always on the verge.
- Poetry by Mizanur Rahman
