a_long_division.md — mturro/poem

86054d1 2013-01-17 OK, so I need to explain a little about what's going on here. The observant will notice quite a good deal of editing has gone on here. Not much in the way of editing the actual words as they may be spoken, but the line structure, the stanza structure, and the overall form have gone from a straightforward prose oriented short narrative and taken on a poetics inspired more by the concrete movement of the mid-late 20th century. This is indeed a lofty experiment as the concrete relied heavily on the intransigence of typesetting and the aesthetics of print--both of which are glaringly absent in a digital context. I am fully expecting the work done in this commit to fail if at least in some small way. Also new in this version is the introduction of quasi mathmatical symbols - a sort of psuedo code is creeping into this particular piece. I'll be greatly insterested to see if this seems faddish or gimmicky to me in a few days, but for now it seems appropriate.

6fd0b86 2013-01-17 Playing with the logic of the "him as a splinter of time" metaphor by using the symbology of code. probably temporary and extreme, but finding it useful nontheless.

5dd7c31 2013-02-05 Doing some heavy editing on the stucture of this one. Aside from moving it from third to first person I am normalizing the structure heavily and eliminating the symbols and psuedo code that helped me work through the logic of the piece. This commit is about half way through this task, but I have to use the john so it is being sent up as is for now. Nice side effect is that it will give a bit more transparency to where and what I plan on doing with this piece.

4f8e28b 2013-02-05 more extensive editing - enforcing iambic pentameter - well that is the goal at least. Still miles to go

c6da605 2013-02-05 fixing a line break with a double return in line 1

0f6e4eb 2013-02-20 killing the directory open - don't want to think about directory strcuture and how it releates to the overall themes at this point.

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@@ -0,0 +1,61 @@

## a long division

I stood before the sliding glass looking

out and over the manufactured pink

of a crayon colored number two, past

the weathered wooden deck and into the

fenced stillness of a winter-gray morning.

Color, sleeping since fall, made it's stand

against the season in the bright yellow

plastic and chains of a wooden playset

unused yet swinging in invisible

wind where the lot stopped and the field began.

The new year had come and brought with it the

things that new years bring–new books new money

new television new recordings of

new people with new and rambling lists of

things to do or never to do again.

(Insert stanza dealing with contentment)

Yet there in the kitchen before breakfast

with morning spilling through me note by note

I could feel some forked version of myself

whose thought though distant still twisted in mine

like white milk swirling in dark black coffee.

As I was looking forward to the new

year here was some version of me perhaps

some shadow of the person I used to

want to be lingering in a soft-boiled

fog of memory and thought and dream like

a fault in time both present and remote.

SCRAPS----->

The two of us stood there

looking out through sliding glass

only just now becoming aware

of each other.

We lived two of many worlds

impossible and unknowable

and cosmically remote. Yet we were

THERE(|) together alone with only images

for communication. Impressions,

a shared qualia

so fine

so particular

yet not necessarily solitary

a current along some unidentifiable field.

The coffee was ready.

One drip, one press

one dark, one blonde

one mug, one cup

one milk

one sugar.

6af7efe 2013-02-20 I am really having trouble with this poem - iambic pentameter is a pain in the ass - but for some reason i feel compelled to pursue it. Still not where it makes sense, but hopefully it will soon. I really do not remember the last time I put so much work into a poem.

@@ -8,24 +8,32 @@ fenced stillness of a winter-gray morning.

Color, sleeping since fall, made it's stand

against the season in the bright yellow

plastic and chains of a wooden playset

plastic and chains of a cedar playset

unused yet swinging in invisible

wind where the lot stopped and the field began.

The new year had come and brought with it the

things that new years bring–new books new money

new television new recordings of

things that new years bring–new books, new money

new television, new recordings of

new people with new and rambling lists of

things to do or never to do again.

(Insert stanza dealing with contentment)

Yet there in the kitchen before breakfast

with morning spilling through me note by note

I could feel some forked version of myself

whose thought though distant still twisted in mine

things to do or never to do again.

It, the new year, also brought time to mind.

Time, which tends to pool at the start of years

among scraps of thought and holiday fat–

Time, evident in the long beard and grease

stained pajammas that told tales of bacon–

Then time in its own context turned itself

from the cold now of the new year to a

faint image caught in a silverless glass.

My refelection perhaps? Though not of me

it was me. Connected yet not the same.

Yes, there in the kitchen, before breakfast,

with morning spilling through me note by note,

I could see some forked version of myself

whose thought, while distant, seemed twisted in mine

like white milk swirling in dark black coffee.

As I was looking forward to the new

@@ -36,26 +44,3 @@ fog of memory and thought and dream like

a fault in time both present and remote.

SCRAPS----->

The two of us stood there

looking out through sliding glass

only just now becoming aware

of each other.

We lived two of many worlds

impossible and unknowable

and cosmically remote. Yet we were

THERE(|) together alone with only images

for communication. Impressions,

a shared qualia

so fine

so particular

yet not necessarily solitary

a current along some unidentifiable field.

The coffee was ready.

One drip, one press

one dark, one blonde

one mug, one cup

one milk

one sugar.

d506de1 2013-02-20 fixing line breaks

@@ -21,13 +21,13 @@ things to do or never to do again.

It, the new year, also brought time to mind.

Time, which tends to pool at the start of years

among scraps of thought and holiday fat–

Time, evident in the long beard and grease

stained pajammas that told tales of bacon–

Then time in its own context turned itself

from the cold now of the new year to a

faint image caught in a silverless glass.

My refelection perhaps? Though not of me

it was me. Connected yet not the same.

Yes, there in the kitchen, before breakfast,

e61db84 2013-03-21 getting to the heart if the division poem. the theme of coming back to a poetic vision of the world - of poetry once again playing a role in a life that had largely left it behind - might yet give this particular poem som substance.

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@@ -20,27 +20,28 @@ things to do or never to do again.

It, the new year, also brought time to mind.

Time, which tends to pool at the start of years

among scraps of thought and holiday fat–

among scraps of thought and holiday fat.

Time, evident in the long beard and grease

stained pajammas that told tales of bacon–

stained pajammas that told tales of bacon.

Then time in its own context turned itself

from the cold now of the new year to a

faint image caught in a silverless glass.

My refelection perhaps? Though not of me

A refelection perhaps? Though not of me

it was me. Connected yet not the same.

Yes, there in the kitchen, before breakfast,

Did I, in the kitchen, before breakfast,

with morning spilling through me note by note,

I could see some forked version of myself

whose thought, while distant, seemed twisted in mine

like white milk swirling in dark black coffee.

manage to catch some fork of myself

whose thought, while distant, still twisted in mine

like white milk swirling in dark black coffee?

As I was looking forward to the new

year here was some version of me perhaps

some shadow of the person I used to

want to be lingering in a soft-boiled

fog of memory and thought and dream like

a fault in time both present and remote.

Is this the poet? The publisher? The

rockstar? The writer? The critic? The fool?

Is this the quantum pilot who through the

study of Everett and Blake found a way

to cross dimmensions using nothing but thought?

I wondered and the words came back to me.