marinara

1. Onions, chopped, as many as you can before your eyes sting.

Caramelized this time, not burnt, in approx. too much olive oil.

2. Garlic? A couple cloves, I think,

but add a few tablespoons of garlic powder for good measure.

3. Basil, oregano, pepper, salt,

and delusions of culinary grandeur as you dash them in.

4.Canned tomatoes, because you couldn't get fresh ones

use honey to sweeten, because you can't find the sugar,

glaze with balsamic vinegar, because you can't buy booze, yet

5. let simmer and make frantic phone call to your mother in California,

saying, “Fix it, please.”

Commentary on "The Quiet World" by Jeffrey McDaniel

Nothing of mine here, just a couple of things about one of my favorite poems, The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel, that I want to share. The poem is in quotes and italicized, my comments are between the verses. They're not particularly eloquent thoughts, but I really wanted to write them down somewhere.


The Quiet World


"In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more, 
and also to appease the mutes, 
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day."


Firstly, I'd like to acknowledge how much I love just the premise of this poem, and the seemingly arbitrary number chosen. I just like things that don't make sense, I guess? I love seeing real human emotion portrayed in surreal circumstances, but anyway. Also, the "appease the mutes" line is hilarious in a way that I'm not sure it's allowed to be - I'm imagining rallies and protests with signs saying "we do have a voice." (If it wasn't obvious before, I think we can agree now that I'm a terrible person.)


Also, notice how minimalist this poem is. It gets straight to the point. It's almost as if the narrator of the poem is incorporating the restrictions placed on his speech to his writing. The language is concrete, without frilly nonsense, something that I need to work on.


"When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way."


Again, he is using the least amount of words possible to tell the story. Every word is deliberate. It's a poem, but it may as well also be a Wikipedia article, which sets a perfect tone for the last verses, which in comparison to the bland - in a good way! - first two carry so much emotion.


"Late at night, I call my long distance lover, 
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.


When she doesn't respond, 
I know she's used up all her words, 
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe."


I don't really know where to begin with this last part. The style is the same, he hasn't gone too far into romanticism, but there's just so much here that I don't even know what to say. It makes me feel a lot of things. For instance, when the narrator tells his love that he saved the rest of his words for her. He's been so frugal, but when he's talking to her, he just lets everything spill out. Everything else in his life is all business, but he is just so enamored of her that he can't help but waste his words saying that he saved them for her.


When he discovers that she used all of hers, he doesn't become angry - he tells her that he loves her 32 times. You could read this as the narrator accepts that his girlfriend isn't perfect, that while he knows that she forgot, he chooses to forgive her. Or you could read it as desperation, that the narrator is unbearably clingy. I prefer the first one, myself.


But I think that by far, my favorite part of this poem is "thirty-two and a third times." If you count up all of the words, this puts him just one over 167, like he stumbled and had to catch himself. 


I don't even know how to express how much I love that image.

peanut butter

When you are happy, your smile
sticks to the roof of my mouth
like peanut butter
(in the best possible way.)

Shadows of real giants

with a thunder clap of applause

the giants appear

so much shorter than I imagined

and so much more afraid

with a sweat-drenched brow

and stammerstammered words

as the lightning of the cameras

illuminates their tired features

and casts shadows of real giants

on the purple curtains

a secret code

I have invented a secret code

for the times when subtlety is key,

such as when you are in the hallway

and the words behind my back

accidentally become the words in front of my face.

I have invented a secret code

for when I am trying to study

and you are trying to fill every space

with as much of your voice as possible

just to see if you can.

I have invented a secret code

for when it is late at night

and I have a test tomorrow

and you are trying to speak only to the one

who you are losing.

I have invented a secret code

called silence.

I don't care for flowers

across the way, through the window of our neighbor

there sit, upon the windowsill, in a pristine, glass vase,

three white camelias, two red tulips

and one blaring, orange day lily

I saw them delivered by a man with slender hands and a kiss

while I peered over my computer

I couldn’t help thinking, just then,

that I don't care for flowers

but you could give me some.

our beaches

our beaches are empty
of red umbrellas
and blue plastic shovels
and dancing people

our sands are not yellow
like a brightly painted nursery
but they are white like bones
and the sky is gray-but-still-blue
with busy, busy winds
that shake us

the sand gets into our clothes
and between our fingers
and the water chills us
so we flee the tide
and huddle like penguins
for warmth
inside the jacket that you brought

and the busy wind still blows
and cuts past our legs
bare and cold as steel
as we walk the long quarter-mile
to our car

the sun is still nowhere
and the sky is blue-but-still-gray
but the sand has smoothed our skin
and that skin having known the water
feels so soft

so as our bare feet climb the hill
(that we couldn’t wait to tumble down into the ocean
but now cannot wait to scramble back up)
though the busy wind still blows
and the sky is blue-but-still-gray
and our legs are still bare
our meager jacket makes us feel
hearth-warm