LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Poetry Submission 2003
Laurie Eckhart
Poetry Portfolio
Technological Conscience
Technology tempers me, to my shame
I sometimes inspect my cell phone
seeking assurance I won’t slander
a mysteriously autodialed name.
Click the hypertext of my consciousness
you’ll find to a cell phone, I am linked.
My cellular scruples, my artificial chains
have led me to the rim of a digital brink
teetering on edge, I confuse what is and what merely
represents
voices -- digitally altered, masterfully enhanced--
are drowning out the gentle whisper of my mother,
her moral admonitions no longer stand a chance.
If in technology, I am inured
and by default suffer twenty-first century decay,
then what transcendental inoculation might I seek
to keep my Natural Conscience from slinking away?
My weakening inner voice whispers
how heavily I lean on machines.
Will I accept the inhuman, ignoble reality--
of a technological conscience both sterile and obscene?
Technological Conscience (original)
Technology tempers me, I am ashamed
seeking assurance that I won’t slander
a mysteriously autodialed name.
Click the hypertext of my consciousness
and you’ll find to a cell phone, I am linked.
My cellular scruples, my artificial chains
have led me to the rim of a digital brink.
Teetering on edge, I confuse what is with what merely
represents.
Voices -- digitally altered, masterfully enhanced--
drown out the gentle whisper of my mother,
her admonitions no longer stand a chance.
If in technology, I am inured
and by default suffer twenty-first century decay
then what transcendental inoculation might I seek
to keep my Natural Conscience from slinking away?
My weakening inner voice whispers
how heavy I lean, dependant on machines.
Will I accept the inhuman and ignoble reality--
of a technological conscience both sterile and obscene?
This poem is
problematic on so many levels. The original intent of it was to use the one
instance of a cell phone checking my readiness to speak ill of someone versus
the moral admonitions of my mother…these are two concrete images that I’m
trying to make represent the whole of technology vs. nature, which doesn’t
exactly work. There are some logic problems with the third stanza. I have yet to
find a solution, but I think that the revisions here are a start.
I don’t think I have successfully convinced any reader that the one
instance of a cell-phone-snitch equates to a whole society plagued by the threat
of technology replacing their human conscience, but I will…eventually…with
enough revision.
Adult Astigmatism
Astigmatic: marked
by rigidity or distortion,
as in judgment or viewpoint.
Not objective or discriminating --
When I was young, heart-soft,
there were times my fuzzy vision
suddenly crystallized with unfamiliar clarity,
when my tears formed temporary lenses.
Gazing amazed I struggled not to blink
during those brief moments of
perfect vision --
life was full of magic
but now I wear glasses, stylish,
to fix my astigmatism.
Unrelenting lenses that never change…
When I blink. When I cry.
I’m an adult now and see through
precision plastic corrected sight.
Without my artificial eyes I fumble,
Unable to navigate life
I no longer experience brief or unexpected
miracles through eyes exposed.
I see as well close as I see far -- no
distinction
I see what my mature sight allows
my tomorrows will be separated
by a perfect horizontal line, crafted bold.
Angry, I am, to be resigned --
to see the world divided into two halves of an experienced whole.
This poem received
a lot of revision because my metaphors were too “out there.” I also had to
work had to make the whole tears-forming-temporary-lenses-like-contacts concept
understandable. I worried over the
possibility that not many people A: experienced or B: paid attention to this
phenomenon. This is another poem
about technology…although we might not consider glasses/contacts technology at
this point in the 21st century. Like my cell phone I would never
dream of ditching my glasses because I need them—but at what cost? Even the
most innocuous technology has consequences.
My Autumn
My autumn arrives when
morning pillow-smells intoxicate me.
Caught between sweat and sweet
I cannot stop inhaling
the scent that evokes
memories of flannel-covered bodies
among red-gold pumpkin mums
and candy-corn crackling leaves.
My autumn arrives when
my sheets are not
night-hot with body heat writhing
but crisp and fresh
like polished apples
bobbing in questionable water
the galvanized tub pressing
chill against my knees.
The original version of this poem read “sweet and sweat” in the third line of the first stanza. Like Robin, I changed the order of the words to reflect the order of the seasons…a little thing, but sweat seems to go with summer and sweet with autumn. A small change, but I think it helps with the logical order of the poem. This poem could have been titled “Ode to Morning Pillow Smells” because that is what inspired it, oddly enough. I couldn’t stop sniffing my pillow a few weeks ago. I think I just really didn’t want to get out of bed.
The Resident Advocate (most current
revision)
I spent my first week
huddling in the glass nexus
of a confused hive,
itching to help, afraid to fail,
wanting to hide
around me women and
children churned dizzy,
quasi-productive bees
too afraid to leave
stumble-drunk on their honey.
Embarrassed, I am
to admit the brief time
elapsed before I became
convinced by premature
confidence that I should rip
down the curling-fading-ugly-coffin-with-flowers
“he beat her 100 times, she only got flowers once”
poster--
because I did not understand
why the grim thing was necessary,
I despised the shadows it cast--
the shades, I thought, better left dead.
How naďve.
This poem is pretty far from complete, but it is my
most current and has undergone the most dramatic revision. Below is a very early
version. I pulled hive up into the first stanza to start the image of orderly
confusion…danger…and because it gave a fun twist to my “itching to help”
line. I changed a lot in the last stanza because the first version was about as
dense as cool whip. I changed the title because social work is so vague, but I
worry that not many people know what a resident advocate does (kind of a house
mother for a womens’ domestic abuse/homeless shelter). I love the sound of
“stumble drunk on their own honey,” but it’s funky English (spell check
says it’s a reflexive pronoun). Still, I may bring it back. Anyway, if you
have any comments/suggestions PLEASE share with me at Pharuik@hotmail.com
Social Work (earlier version of Resident
Advocate)
The first week I spent
huddled in my glass office
itching to hide, itching to help.
I was fearful that someone might
mistake me for a person
with answers.
Around me women and
children churned dizzy
like industrious bees
stumble drunk on their own honey.
In an embarrassingly short span
I began smiling
because I believed
that when I grew more confident
I would rip down the ugly-coffin-with-flowers poster that said
“He beat her 100 times,
She only got flowers once.”
What a grim thing
for this place of hope, I thought.
That was before I understood
why it was necessary.
God, I was naďve.