Scarecrow

The crow squawked.

Its eyes shone bright into the setting sun,

its claws glinted as it came to perch,

on the old man’s shoulder.

The children in the park nearby,

ran past the swings and through the grasses,

for they had never seen such a crow so closely before.

The bird nipped twice at the old man’s ear.

Its beak pinched his wrinkled skin,

letting out two drops of crimson blood,

that rolled in beads down the man’s neck,

and onto his white collar.

The black wings flapped at the children,

who watched in fascination,

at the spectacle of the dead and dying.

At least,

that was what their English teacher had told them.

But as it turned out,

the man lived another fifteen years.

The crow flew once more,

Across the street,

this time into the dreams of a preacher,

who had veered away from sin all his life.

The preacher dreamed of it amongst the shadows.

He dreamed of red curtains,

lying delicately on the wall.

And beneath them lay a black creature,

Rustling.

And then he woke up.

What did they mean?

Surely, surely, they meant something.

Did they represent his hollowed heart?

No. It couldn’t be.

His heart was beating, full of blood. Chock full.

What was the creature?

Was he the devil?

Birds mean death, you know.

At least, that was what he had read in the finest of literature.

And fiction was never wrong.

He peered toward the scarlet curtains,

of his own room,

and he noticed the rain outside.

Something rustled.

Something squawked.

The curtain pulled away,

and out came his dream,

coming to take his soul.

Or, at least, that is how it was reported.

The children did not understand.

Obviously the bird had been confused.

He took the wrong one.

That was it,

obviously.

He took the wrong one.

But they had not learned the truth.

As the crow’s claws gripped tightly

onto the highest limb

of the tallest tree

in the park,

he spoke only once to the masses.

“Death is not one for symbolism.”

BEDFORD BULLETIN: Concert Livin'

I write a column in the Bedford Bulletin every month, and this one was from last May. I included it in the blog because I think it shows my public personality perfectly.

 

    The institution that is the concert has changed greatly in the past few decades, particularly when the target audience is beneath the age of stereotypical ideas of sophistication, or, in Layman's terms, teenagers.  In the past, I have always regarded myself as much too dignified to be subjected to this form of fangirl torture, but I knew that I could only hold out for so long. I gave into peer pressure, I am sorry to say, and attended not one, no, but two concerts. At sixteen years of age, I finally caught the high school illness that is sweeping through the nation-- or, at least, teenage girls: concertism, a word I just made up.

    In my defense, I did commence my new addiction with an almost dignified starting place: a mainly acoustic, small venue band. As the months progressed, however, it has grown worse.

    This new behavior can mainly be attributed to one of my best friends, Becca. It is probable that she caught a rather severe case of concertism prenatally, and it has grown no better to this day. She has been to concerts in every major venue all across New England, and last I checked, has no intention to stop. Her concertism has only brought great benefit to our friend group as a whole, and as much as we tease her for it, all of us agree that it does add something. For Becca, there is nothing quite as fun as talking about Taylor Swift. For the rest of my friends and me, there is nothing more fun than making fun of Taylor Swift. It is a symbiotic relationship that seems to be endless, a prognosis that all of us are able to embrace.

    Over the years, it has become increasingly obvious that Becca has developed a secret plan: to infect us all with concertism. Some have succumbed to it without much of a fight. But, one by one, we all began to fall. I, as a sarcastic cynicist, held out for the longest amount of time, if I do say so myself, taking measures to ensure that I would not be infected. Slowly, however, I too began to notice symptoms: humming country music around my house, having an opinion on Miley Cyrus--even a negative one is a sign--and, most importantly, an increase in interest for concerts.

    My concert career, as of this point, culminated in my attendance at a Hunter Hayes concert. Hunter Hayes, for those of you who are not aware, is a country singer. I know what you’re thinking, but his lyrics never used the term “ice cold beer,” and used the term “truck” only once. For a country singer, this is practically unheard of.

    As Becca and I entered the arena, I immediately took notice of the rest of the audience. Girls, mainly twelve to fifteen, stood in a preemptive awe at the foot of the strange, even though their deity was not scheduled to arrive for nearly another hour. Behind us sat three thirteen-year-olds, clad in cowboy hats, speaking in voices that resembled that of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Now, as a person, I try my best not to be judgemental. It becomes increasingly difficult, however, when I am subjected to the yelping of three teens who had gained a new obsession with taking pictures of themselves. As it turned out, pictures that one took of oneself, or “selfies” for the younger crowd, could be broadcasted on the jumbotrons at the front of the arena for all to see.

    “Let’s take, like, fifteen pictures and see if they come up.” Alvin said, her iPhone rising to her face, tilted to the right. Her lips puckered, the customary form of any self-respecting teenage girl.

    “Wait! Let me get in with you!” said Simon, leaning over into Alvin’s seat.

    “Guys! I don’t have my lipstick on yet!” shouted Theodore, literally whipping her red lipstick out of her purse in true chick flick fashion.

    “Okay, girls,” said Alvin, “On the count of three, say HUNTER.”

    “One, two, three, HUNTERRRRR!"

    Alvin and the Chipmunks let out a squeal that rivaled the decibels of a jet engine, and I knew that something had to be done. I would not let Alvin have the last laugh.

    “Hey, Becca. Let’s take the worst picture we can possibly muster, and see if it gets on the big screen. I’m sick of all these selfies.” I said, jokingly.

    Becca and I took the picture. I stuck my neck out as far as possible, crossing my eyes and exposing my teeth.

    It wasn’t coming up, thank goodness. There were hundreds of pictures, of course, and it became clear that ours had been filtered out, as we obviously made a mockery of the selfie.

    A half hour passed, and Becca and I had moved on. Simon and Theodore were taking a round of selfies while Alvin had retired to the restroom, and I was looking down into the crowd. They talked and screamed, a sea of cowboy hats and neon colors waiting in anticipation.

    Suddenly, the talking stopped. A hush fell over the crowd. Becca and I looked up to see what was the matter--was Hunter on?--and that was when I heard Theodore whisper into Simon's ear something that I dreaded:

    “Hey! It’s those two girls! They look so stupid!”

    There, on two twenty by thirty foot screens, was my face. The picture, taken horizontally, had been cropped, leaving the tip of Becca’s eyes and nose, and the entirety of the ugliest mug I could muster, facing 6,000 people.

    Obviously, in the silence, I started laughing. It seemed to bounce of the walls, directing everyone’s attention to Becca and me.

    “She takes, like, the worst selfie.” said Alvin, who had just arrived back from the restroom.

    I couldn’t believe it. Alvin didn’t even get the joke. Her face was sour, her nose scrunched as if she had just bit into an underripe lemon.

    The picture showed up two more times, and each time Becca and I laughed harder. To no avail on behalf of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore, none of their four-hundred-seventy-three pictures showed up. Not even once. Take that. And though Hunter Hayes was great, I believe that I kept my dignity through the rebellion of conventional picture taking methods. Which, to many teens, are much less trivial than they sound. Thanks, Becca, for not making me take life too seriously. I’ve never been very good at selfies, anyway.

    Sure, I may have concertism, but I conclude that it is a minor case. Any more, though, and I may need medication. Or, at least, more ugly faces.

The Fury of Cocks: a Translation

I had heard a couple of years ago about a Chinese poet who took other works, put them through Google translate, and made them her own. Though I would not call this a “scholarly journey” by any means, the results made me laugh. This is a side-by-side comparison, line by line.

 

 

 

Fury of Cocks: Linguistic Journey by Kira Yates

English to Spanish, Spanish to Polish, Polish to Swahili, Swahili to Arabic, Arabic to Gaelic, Gaelic to Norwegian, Norwegian to Zulu, Zulu to Turkish, and Turkish to English

The Fury of Cocks by Anne Sexton There they were drooping over the breakfast plates, angel-like, folding in their sad wing, animal sad, and only the night before there they were playing the banjo. Once more the day's light comes with its immense sun, its mother trucks, its engines of amputation. Whereas last night, the cock knew its way home, as stiff as a hammer, battering in with all its awful power. That theater. Today it is tender, a small bird, as soft as a baby's hand. She is the house. He is the steeple. When they fuck they are God. When they break away they are God. When they snore they are God. In the morning they butter toast. They don't say much. They are still God. All the cocks of the world are God, blooming, blooming, blooming into the sweet blood of woman.

anger Cocks by Kira Yates old reduced breakfast dishes, like angels, His own wings sad sad animals and only at night she is Play the banjo. The day is coming Sun, The mother of trucks Decision engine. Yesterday, during the night, Dick knew the way home As hard as a stone as the force of evil. In the stadium. As is currently preferred, birds, Soft as a child's arm. At home. One tower. If prostitution. When separated from God. Although snoring God. Morning and butter beans. They did not say much. Stay with God. Taps all over the world, which is Bloom, flower Women's sweet blood.

 

BEDFORD BULLETIN: Will This Be On The Test?

This is a column that I wrote last January, and it is the one that I am most proud of. I think it speaks to who I am as a person inside, and how I really feel concerning colleges and the future.

 

Today, I am having trouble thinking. This year, it has become a usual struggle for me: I try my hardest to do schoolwork, but I really am not engaged in any of the material.

    And I must admit, it troubles me. I don’t know that I have ever felt so detached from my academic learning environment. Unfortunately, I think I know the culprit: college.

    College has gotten so much more real this year, from adults getting too close to my face and cheerily asking, “Where ya thinkin’?” to my friends and I studying for the SATs, to the guidance counselors coming in to talk to us, and I feel somewhat lost. There seems to be a frightening undercurrent amongst my friends that has arisen: we are competition for colleges.

    This year, we have started to focus more on grades. And GPAs. And SAT scores. And extracurriculars. And whether or not we are the president of any of the clubs or organizations we are involved in. And community service, not for the sake of helping others, but for the sake of college applications.

    We’ve started asking our teachers, “Will this be on the test?,” a question that I heard a couple of weeks ago when discussing the lives lost in the Holocaust.

    We have developed the worst side effect of wanting success: we have ceased to learn.

    It is a dire reality, isn’t it? But you can bet, one of us will go to an Ivy League.

    Maybe even two.

    The other day, I received a test back. Unhappy with the result, I was instantly distraught, knowing for sure that I was not going to be able to attend the college of my choice based upon this grade and how it would affect my final grade and my other grades and it would inevitably affect my college acceptance which would inevitably affect my ability to get a job and then I would have no job unless I went to Harvard Law and without this particular test score, Harvard Law would be unattainable and I would never be worth anything in the grand scheme of life and history and religion and literature and science and Ican’tbelievethisishappeningtomewhatdidIdotodeservethis.

    I had not even looked to see what I had gotten wrong. I only saw my score.

    I stopped asking questions, even when I had them, because I heard that my teacher gives quiet kids better grades than talkative ones.

    I apologize. In a column called “Life at BHS,” this is not much of a life to lead.

    I, like many of my peers, have gotten so caught up in the race for college acceptance, that I have forgotten what it means to be a person. I stand on my soapbox in my own little corner of the Bedford Bulletin, supplying morals and life lessons in the hopes that people will think, while I have not actually thought for some time.

    And I am sorry for that.

    I have cared so much about my grades, that sometimes, I don’t listen unless I know it will be on the test.

    And I can hardly believe myself.

    Education is not about grades, Harvard Law or SAT scores. It is about learning; it’s that simple. True learning is not assessed through tests, colleges or prestige. Failure to recognize the virtue of learning, is to not learn at all.

    As an American student, I am taught the many workings of the world. I have the privilege of learning about everything in society: its ecosystems, its civilizations, its friends and its enemies and its imperfections. It is through learning of the world that we learn of ourselves.

    If we are to learn purely for the sake of learning, then there is a good chance that we will not know everything, something that many have trouble with. Students believe that the SAT assesses all knowledge derived from textbooks, not what we have “truly learned.” Therefore, in order to attain a perfect score on the SATs, students must know everything and nothing at all simultaneously, solely for the interests of appealing to the college system. This is a method that students must accept in order to gain entrance to the college of their choice.

    I must choose to learn.

    I will never know everything. In fact, there is a good chance that I will not know anything about some subjects.

    There is a good chance that I will never get a perfect score on my SATs. I may never be able to comprehend multivariable calculus, although I am certain I could not have comprehended that anyway, and I will probably never be a lawyer, physician, and astronaut at the same time.

    But, maybe I’ll ask questions when I have them. Maybe, I will see what I got wrong on tests before I wage war with the world over my scores. Maybe, I will spend more time daydreaming without worrying what those idle moments might do to my GPA. Maybe, despite imperfections, I will change the way someone sees the world. Maybe, I will see the world differently as well.

Maybe, I’ll be happy.

    And, if I am happy, then it is a pleasure to have learned anything at all.