Of late, xpoetics posts have arrived slow as molasses as my grandmother used to say. It's been a busy spring and now already, a busy summer. I was out of town the first weekend of June when Stephanie Young and Stephen Motika rocked the Small Press Traffic kasbah. Stephanie and Stephen have agreed to share some of their work, and here we begin with Stephanie's delicious excerpt from AVE VIA.
from AVE VIA
At the beginning of this century
Caroline Bergvall collated the first three lines of Dante’s Inferno as translated into English and
archived in the British Library through May 2000. You’ve heard this before. In
the middle of the journey of the first decade of this new century, high-risk
adjustable rate mortgages were aggressively marketed to those who could least
afford them. It’s a familiar story. In 2011 the foreclosure rate in Oakland was
more than double the national average. That year I couldn’t write any poems. Not one. No music. That year the rental
market in San Francisco spiked by 10-20%. I wrote in sentences instead. That
one. These. This isn’t an argument about form. 90% of foreclosures in Oakland
fell in 3 zip codes: 94601, 94603, 94605. The oldest and most diverse.
Primarily low and moderate income. Latino and African-American. The neighborhood known as.
Formerly. Owner occupied. It’s well known. Common, current, habitual,
ordinary, it came in waves. In
2012 Oakland rents went up by 11%. I woke to find we could no longer
afford to live in the neighborhood where we continued to live, in a large,
slowly disintegrating house where the cost of rent had not increased since
2003, a situation that could not last forever. That had. For now. I was lucky.
The vacancy rate was 1.7%. I was hardly in exile. Nothing about our situation
had changed. For a long time. 94609. We could no longer afford to live there.
And yet we did. In a shadowy wood. Plus a yard and shed. A sort of cloud hung
over verse. I worked with it, in the classroom. In the shadow of. A transit
village. I couldn’t write any poems. Student loan surpassed credit card debt.
70% of all faculty were adjunct. You’ve heard this before. This isn’t an
argument about form. I forgot how. I had gone astray. Bewildered, lost, way off
course. We lived there. We continued to. Not one. No music. Nothing about our
situation had changed. But it did feel strange. The situation had. Around us.
Feelings. I didn’t know how to go forward, and couldn’t find my way back. The
awkward adolescence of middle age. The first phase entered construction. The
right path appeared not anywhere. “damages of the profession.” In a slowly
disintegrating house. A situation that could not last forever. Real estate
bloggers named it the most exciting city. Forbes. A tech cluster. It’s well
known. Common, current,
habitual, ordinary, it came in waves. Along the way I attended Keith Hennessy’s
Turbulence (a dance about the economy).
I turned 39. I was lucky. On 36th Street between Webster and
Telegraph. Ave. Awe, ave,
welcome, as the century picked up, took shape faster, farewell, adieu, 11%, 12,
the house across the street went for $500,000, backed up against the freeway, I
moved towards the collected lines of Bervall’s poem, Dante’s, Via, iced coffee, I was hardly in exile
but it did feel strange, something moved me there, within the lines, the
neighborhood, as improvisational structure, as age would have it, I moved
within the situation of the poem, a fine wide street, instrumentation, the
awkward adolescence of middle age, the action of coming to, a familiar story,
from its language, with a certain shape in mind, a dance about the economy,
“wherein” “for” might crescendo for a while, slowly overtaken by the idea of
wood. Hardwood floors. We lived there. We couldn’t. We did. I imagined the
points of this compositional score in the shape of a pentagram. A passage of
entrance or exit. I was thinking of work by Pauline Oliveros. That music. Later
I realized I’d mistaken one shape for another.
With reverence or from the Old
Norse kept in check, frightened, restrained, disciplined, fit
Ave
In the manner or way of a
grandfather, bird, bird,
A formal expression of greeting
Birds, small birds
In the journey of our life
And in the hour of our death
Ave acuatica
Ave cantor
Ave de corral
Ave del paraiso
Avefria
Ave marina
Ave migratoria
Ave de paso
Ave pasajera
Ave rapaz
Ave de rapina
Avestruz
Ave zancuda
98th
81st
73rd
Seminary
35th
Fruitvale
23rd
14th
Lakeshore
Grand
Piedmont
Telegraph
San Pablo
Ave.
the trees that lined them then
the pre-wood trees
the avenues
in pre-dawn light
I awoke to find
three cranes
on every side, a hospital
a hospital complex
more than 600 workers hidden from view
and a new 478-space parking garage
water flowing
underground
*
within a forest dark
within 30 days
*
I found that I had strayed into The Forest, an American horror film, The Forest, a Portuguese film, The
Forest, an Australian film, The
Forest, a Cambodian film, the Forest,
an Indian film.
I woke in wonder in literature sunless and dusky—an 1871
play, a 1903 novel—
The Forest.
Stephanie Young lives and works in Oakland. Her books of poetry are Picture Palace and Telling the Future Off. URSULA of UNIVERSITY is forthcoming from Krupskaya. She is a founding and managing editor of Deep Oakland, and co-edited, with Juliana Spahr, A Megaphone: Some Enactments, Some Numbers, and Some Essays about the Continued Usefulness of Crotchless-pans-and-a-machine-gun Feminism