Greek Chorus

One of the decisions I need to make is whether to keep the Greek Chorus.  So what is a GC?

• Sophocles settled on 15 actors.
• The GC shares in the action.
• Often speaks for the audience.  Or for the author?
• I like this post on quora--the accomplished director focuses on the chorus.
• The GC speaks with the personal pronoun "I"
• The speech is often metrical, rhythmic, sometimes even sung.
• It speaks in unison, wear masks
• thus, not natural, not subtle, depersonalized, universal
• The GC can voice hidden secrets, fears
• GC comment, not advance story
• can break the 4th wall

I dusted off two college texts, and read Oedipus Tyrannus to recall a GC in action.  Now his daughter/sister Antigone.  One of the pleasures of this rewrite--trusting these diversions and taking the time to enjoy them.

From wikipedia:

Much of what constitutes the myth of Oedipus takes place before the opening scene of the play.

The prophecy is thus fulfilled, although none of the main characters know it.

[At the end of the play] on an empty stage the chorus repeat the common Greek maxim, that no man should be considered fortunate until he is dead.

Through the play, according to Kitto, Sophocles declares "that it is wrong, in the face of the incomprehensible and unmoral, to deny the moral laws and accept chaos. What is right is to recognize facts and not delude ourselves. The universe is a unity; if, sometimes, we can see neither rhyme nor reason in it we should not suppose it is random. There is so much that we cannot know and cannot control that we should not think and behave as if we do know and can control."

Revision 9

Today I'm starting revision 9 of my memoir, Dear Denise.  MS Word tells me my wordcount is 159618.  The last edits were made January 20, 2012, but revision 8 was really wrapped up in February, 2011; so I'm bringing almost three years of perspective to this draft.

My divorce was legal in April, and I moved to Seattle in May.  I've been writing poetry all summer and into the fall, but I've been planning to get back to the memoir and start this revision.  Only one divorce issue lingers.  The reason I mention this is one of my criteria for beginning this rewrite was to be finished with the divorce, finished with living with that anger and stress and (then current) connection with my ex.  I didn't want to simmer this rewrite in that water.

I'm starting with the last bit of advice my memoir instructor, Pat Willard, gave me two years ago:

What folks have said seems to gel what with what you've gotten in class so my best advice is to see how much is good for what you're trying to do.  At some point, it has to be just you and the manuscript and I think you've reached that point.  You honestly need to face what this story is trying to tell. 

I wish you so much love and fortitude.  This is an important story and I know you will do it very well.  Just trust yourself and let the silence sink in.  It's going to take strength but I know you are courageous enough ... so just do it.

PS.  No, Bill, this blog doesn't count as writing.

Mark Bibbins posted 2 poems on The Awl in July 2011.

Treated to Refusal

Treated to Refusal

Creosote bled onto the sidewalk.
At a glance the telephone pole
was dissolving into its shadow.
But the edges weren’t clean
and the puddle wouldn’t ripple in the breeze.
The fir was sugared by steel climber teeth
and thousands of staples left behind
from flyers you posted with your
friends’ stupid words--they
disintegrate in holly bushes,
clog grates, line crows’ nests.
It’s dead for what looks like a long time.
Must have been this hot summer.

Two Crows One Stone

Two Crows One Stone

Nice thing about a slingshot

you don’t have to carry a clip.

A slingshot wants for accuracy

but there's lots of ammo lying around.

For a broken fledgling

and the parent guarding,

what went up came down.

All the shouting and swooping--

it’s not that they’re stupid--

an intelligent species like us--

they feel it helps.

Pawn

Pawn

I
A pawn of blond wood stained dark is easily stranded
in shadows of a book box kept by fear for last—
the shelves already full.  A pawn has one chance
to jump forward, claim the center, creating space
for others to attack or, sitting pretty, bait
a royal gambit.  In other end games the pawn
promoted, replaces the queen and mates.  It takes us
years to master his tears when every time I won.

II
Jack and I play over drinks—his orangina,
my red wine—awaiting mom and Libby.
His eyes on mine, I hold two pawns behind my back.
He taps the shoulder holding white.

III
Lit by windows facing dusk, a surgeon preps a
wound—extracting school work, baseball cards and useless
gamecube games.  Familiar fear shames me.  I clench
the board unfolding.  It is easy to sacrifice a pawn.
A Jeux Morize set includes a ninth white
because we can’t refinish a black pawn white.
I know what it takes to lose the missing piece.

IV
Love kills en passant.

V
Guilt stands alone
shame needs another.
One child dead
the other thriving.
It’s really too late now
to fix the broken clasp.
If we play again, they say,
it won’t be on this board.

barnacles

barnacles

sand ran with salt water
back and forth

sallow foam
tumbled down the estrogen enriched beach

over concrete blocks

and asphalt slabs stacked

like uncut gravestones

against the gasping ssri sea

breakwater

sessile in erosive setting

encrusting rebar
turn to chalk lose their name

awareness there
where the water ends each time