The Curse of History, and the Car Radio

Mar 6 22:17 UTC 1999

Since history repeats itself, and all wells
someday run dry, I often find myself
sent to the same all-nite party store for an extra
gallon of milk for the morning: same streets, same parking lot,
same proprietor with the same
baby photos of his daughter above the cash register;
and all that change are the voices on the radio.

Scanning between the local student dj's on WCBN
and the classical station in Windsor, I often
find myself thinking about the unfairness of history.
On this particular night I'm thrilled to find Windsor
beaming out the school dance scene
from West Side Story, but of course
the dj plays all the fight music, and then turns on something else
before the love scene sets in -
which is my point! This is my point exactly. Historical memory
is always giving the star-crossed lovers the short end of the stick.

The memory of historians, it seems, has no room
for dancing. (Yes, I know, 
there's Woodstock - don't give me Woodstock).
Don't give me the rise of courtly dancing among the French Royal Family.
History has no room for dancing
cheek to cheek in the breeze from an open window
with _Night And Day_ playing on the phonograph.
History has no room
for the couple kissing furtively under the fire escape
unless this particular kiss
has its branches in an assassination or its roots
in the slow poisoning of a river.  
The blood's where the action is, my friend, and nobody remembers
what sort of flower Marc Antony gave Cleopatra
or how he held her hand on their second date.

But driving back home along Stadium Boulevard, with 2 gallons
of 1/2-percent milk in the back seat and a song in my heart
it's a little easier to leave all bitterness
aside, and to think that this is the way it should be.
There are things we don't need help remembering.
There are some things, after all, that historians can stay out of,
since history repeats itself, and since a bullet
can only be fired once, but we are forever
falling into and out of love:
                              falling towards 
and away from love hundreds of times a second,
100 wingbeats of love a second, making
a noise like the lazy droning of bees' wings
or the murmuring sound of traffic on a high bridge
over a river, late at night; and underneath young couples
walk, and from time to time
a few notes of a song on the radio drift down
through an open car window; and they pause
and smile at the small sound
of history repeating.

response 2 of 13:

Mar 8 23:01 UTC 1999

A thoughtful and provoking commentary.

I note that you are still flirting with prose?

response 4 of 13:

Mar 9 02:36 UTC 1999

This poem starts by describing very definite things; a trip to a store for
some groceries (a side point-- my parents started making me run errands as
soon as I got my drivers license).  Importantly, it mentions history in the
first line, a theme that is to be expounded along in some great detail later
on.  
Where was I?  Groceries:  our narrator is driving to a familiar party store
(familiar you can tell by the talk of the "same proprietor" etc.), he's
listening to the radio.  Perhaps he's channel surfing after buying the
groceries.  He lists things that are very specific to Ann Arbor; WCBN and
Windsor (which seems to be off the air... anybody know anything?!).  I'm not
sure how I feel about this, since somebody non-native might have some trouble,
but since it describes what kind of stations they are I suppose it's OK. 
Windsor plays a fight seen from "West Side Story", leading our narrator to
think about themes in history books, and go into a rant about for the next
stanza.  This passage feels frustrated that historians seems to deal, almost
exclusively, with violent and not-positive things.  Why can't they talk about
dancing? it asks.  
Then, it snaps us back to reality, and the narrator seems to back track on
the rant a little, saying, "but y'know, that's alright..." and the narrator
talks a while about love (and other calamities).

Stylistically, like Jon implies, this has a very prosy feel.  I personally
like the lengths Dan goes to in his very detailed descriptions of what's
happening.  I always know exactly what's happening.  The specifics are what
really give this strength.  Baby photos, just how much milk of what kind...
all help to cement the vision inside my head.  
        I also like the rant (a term which I use in only the nicest way), also
because of all the specifics.  
"History has no room for dancing
 cheek to cheek in the breeze from an open window."
This is a fine example of what I mean.  The line break (sorry, I've already
forgotten the special word--something with "ae") fits in beautifully.  We
first have a frustrated line "History has no room for dancing" which is fine
alone, but stands even stronger when connected to the next line, which is
gorgeous.
Suggestions for improvement: damn few.  Watch out for typos, which I see quite
a few of.  I personally like the way it reads right now, like a train of
thought, only very structured, like writing _about_ a train of thought, but
if you want to make it less prosy, then I suggest that you go through and trim
out all the non-essential words you can, without loosing all those specifics.
Personally, I think that this would only hurt the poem, but other opinions
can, of course, differ.

On a personal note, Dan, I want to say that I can clearly see your personality
leaking through into this piece.  Lines like "(Yes, I know, there's Woodstock
- don't give me Woodstock)" are things that I know you might say in person,
and is part of what lend it that train of thought feel.  

Well done

response 6 of 13:

Mar 10 02:10 UTC 1999

I wanted to see more in-depth responses to postings, and I figgured I'd just
go through example.  I'll continue to do full analysis of poems that catch
my attention, for whatever reason, as I have time.  I hope nobody minds, or
feels insulted if I skip theirs.

response 8 of 13:

Mar 11 07:11 UTC 1999

That's amazing!!

response 10 of 13:

Mar 19 03:12 UTC 1999

SWEET

response 12 of 13:

Jun 2 03:46 UTC 1999

The thing that struck me about this poem was the way that, while flowing 
like a stream of consciousness "rant" (also used in a positive way), it 
had what is very nearly a classic essay form.  Introduction, pose a 
question, answer it, conclusion.  This does much to drive home a very 
beautiful and poetic thought.  

The following is intended as a compliment but could easily be 
misconstrued, so please understand that I mean this in the best possible 
way:  I can imagine Garrison Keillor reading this.  :)