the poetrysheet

whimsy, subversion, bowling

Number 455, Jan. 22, 2004

Yusef Komunyakaa (1947- )

 

“It’s blood and meat the Lord likes,

Charred on the outside, red and juicy inside;

There’s something unmanly about vegetables,

I always say. That’s probably your trouble.”

—Cain to Abel in “Cain” from The Next Room of the Dream by Howard Nemerov

 

Upon completion of the grad school application

 

When I finished the application for the doctoral program this afternoon, I took a deep breath. Ten days of running here and there, stretching my imagination, trying to become confident that I could actually do this thing, that I could become a doctor.

 

What bothered me most about the process was the infernal memories of my graduate school days of a decade or more ago. The dragging about, attempting to write about things I couldn’t care less about, letting the advisor have space in my head free of rent. Then, the pettiness of the event. That, perhaps was the worst. The groveling and hand wringing and ass kissing that went into the whole thing.

 

But mostly, I was reminded of how much I walked about knowing I was going to be caught. They, whoever they were, would get me and expose me as a fraud. I really didn’t know anything, hadn’t really learned anything. I was just…posing—acting like someone who was supposed to be becoming a big deal.

 

When those days were over. I was sad to have to leave the great land of Wyoming and come home. It wasn’t grad school I missed. I missed things like fly fishing, disappearing into mountain wilderness for days at a time, sinking into sulfurous hot springs and bathing my toes in clear streams that smelled like rosemary.

 

No. It wasn’t grad school I missed. I like getting my hands rough again, handling hammers and nails. I wasn’t able to read more than ten pages in a row for years afterward. Grad school was something I knew I would never do again.

 

But over the last couple of years, my fascination with history grew again. I began to understand that youth, lack of confidence, and a funny kind of arrogance had done me in when I was in Wyoming. I really believed I knew what those guys were thinking about me. I knew they thought I was an idiot, a boob, a guy without enough brainpower to pull off even a simple seminar paper.

 

But the last ten days had shown me a couple of good things I had forgotten. Time does not exist in the library. Books smell like shoe polish and leaves. Analysis of facts is great fun. History is rife with untold stories, and those that are told are often not written very well. Historical theory is a great unexplored ocean for me. Literature and travel should be part of historical writing.

 

This afternoon, I finished the application, handed in my writing sample, and statement of purpose and focus of study. I bought the woman processing the application a box of chocolate because she had been so accommodating. Who knows if the graduate committees that look at these things will like what I have proposed, that is not my business or my worry.

 

At home, I lie down and pulled the pillow up around my ears. I closed my eyes and thought about my subject, the reason I was going back to grad school—the Missouri River. The dark water enveloped the world. The sound of drum and croaker ticked in my ears. I bumped along the sandy bottom, around the bends, over the wrecks of riverboats, the gaping mouths of catfish, and the bones of men. When I woke, I stared at the naked magnolia outside the window a while  and couldn’t wait to start school again.

 

Now comes the applications for another school and teaching assistantships. After all, If a man’s gonna sit in the library, he’s gonna need some pants.

Today’s poems:

 

Great white

By Rev. David DeChant

 

When I was very young

and extremely land-locked,

I feared the Great White Shark

would get me, if not at the lake

then in my bathtub

by trekking the mighty Mississippi

to the wide Missouri

to the narrow streams of my local source

through the pipes, past the drain,

to my tender throat.

 

And being land locked,

I first saw a globe of the earth

and mistook the oceans for skies.

I thought we lived in, not on, the planet.

I asked my teacher,

“When astronauts leave the ground,

how do they break free?”

 

Mrs. Merrill, god bless her,

thought this a question of brilliance

and saw me for the first time.

 

send short poems, short thoughts, fictions, or nonfictions to the poetrysheet, where whimsy, subversion, and one raised eyebrow are our highest values

submit/whimsy/subversion/bowling/archive

Poetry News!/contact/subscribe

 

all material copyright poetrysheet and personally recommended press, unless otherwise arranged with the authors. for information, contact rev. patrick dobson, 1132 e. 65th st., kansas city, mo, 64131, 816-333-7303.