A so-so poem

Love Song for an Imaginary Pet

I don’t have a dog.

the rain falls and I wish a tail would beat near a fireplace.

he would set his chin on my knee while I knit (I should take up knitting with this fine beast at my side)

his name, Horatio, Ralph, Douglas Fairbanks, scrawled mechanically, tightly on his collar, he jingles when I call and I love the sound of his little paws, dirtying up the rug.

he smells but he is my friend and he thinks me odd when I cry.

he loves the fire, the food that I carry out of the stove, he barks when I come home

only to say he missed me.

he never likes me to leave.

he loves me.

he is devoted.

he may chew and tear and shred and hurt, but only out of adventurous spirit, never malice or contempt.

he knows I love him when I set him down the little bit of steak I can not eat.

he knows I would never harm him.

he rests his chin on my lap while I knit (now that I knit, with my Spike, my Ralph, my Douglas Fairbanks).

I don’t have a dog.

a sloppy springtime poem

...for whoever wants to read it. I may delete all this later....

I am all worried over the messiness of studiousness/non-studiousness, my lack of focus. I wish I could discipline myself but all I want is to lie around and watch PBS. There was a great American Experience episode on American whaling and Moby Dick, etc. Really eerie, interesting stuff. here is a sloppy poem. Tomorrow morning I take a test and go to classes and rehearsal and hope to God I can get the grades and get out of here. I think when I am in the same place too long I go crazy. Here. Back home. Anywhere. I need travel. I need stretching. Maybe all the moving around and driving across country as a kid impacted me more than you'd think. blah blah blah here's a bad poem for the void.

you must pardon me, please, if you please
if it pleases you to pardon me, you must
no

even if it doesn’t please you, I ask you to forgive me,
have mercy for a person who fumbles in the dark and falls down, shakily, wearily, with a headache, and a heart all pangy and beating like birdwings flapping flapping flapping on

do you ever stop and marvel at your heart? it doesn’t get to rest….all your life it beats and ticks like a clock, counting and measuring the breaths that come in and go out, the pain and the joy, the moments of silent wonder, of exasperated loneliness, of vapid despair, of holy loving lovely love, of happiness, of worry

poor old heart…..I don’t even thank you in the morning when I wake up. you kept me going all night long when I was off dreaming. you didn’t have to…something could’ve stopped you. you could’ve gotten tired, gotten bored and said to hell with this body, this soul….you didn’t. and you beat, you beat, you beat

unrelated sidenote: Jerry Maguire would only be an okay movie if it weren't for Cuba Gooding Jr. and Regina King. Just a thought.

Movies, Politics, Comics, Oh MY! (and some poetry too)

It's been a while since I've really sat down and written a mean blog. I am always impressed with these blogging folks who constantly have interesting thoughts and ideas they compile together neatly and beautifully on a regular basis. Furthermore, I don't know how they find time or energy. Well, that being said, I seem to find enough time to watch episodes of Conan O'Brien, Jon Stewart, Colbert, Family Guy and Glee on my computer...and let's not forget my recent foray into at least somewhat-forgotten movies of my childhood via Netflix streaming (I may post on that later).

But ANYWAY...I'm going to spill some babbling thoughts on you. Get ready.

First Stop on Margaux's Wild Ride: Communism and Artists as Liberals (vs) Patriotism and Nationalism in Post(ish)-Cold War, Pre-9-11 American Film!

Wahoo!! Who's excited?!!?? Me too. The first film I'd like to observe with you is REDS (1981) directed and produced by Warren Beatty, who also wrote the film with Trevor Griffiths. Warren also stars as John Reed alongside Diane Keaton's Louise Bryant and Jack Nicholson's Eugene O'Neill. Now, I don't know Mr. Beatty personally, but well...I'll give him some credit. This is a big picture. It's a sweeping piece full of drama, and there are a lot of interesting stories that we don't see in many films, including stories from people who knew Reed, Bryant and O'Neill or were at least around during the period. However (I'm gonna say it) the film struck me as a little self-indulgent at times. In terms of filmmaking and editing, I know little, however, I know enough to realize when a director is being redundant simply because he loves his movie too much to let go. I find this ironic because in the film, it's lighted upon that good writers are smart enough to know when to cut things out. For example, we see Beatty and Keaton being steamy with one another to the tune of the Russian (Bolshevik? Soviet?) anthem, at least two or three times, and honestly, I'm not against steam, but in a three and a half hour film about the Russian Revolution and an American communist reporter and his lady love, do we need all the repetition? We get it. They're in love and they make love, and the dog is always hungry and wanting to come in the room. Another example of unnecessary regurgitation might be found in the train scene in which an old gentleman tells lots of funny jokes that Louise (Keaton) finds funny. We get it. He's funny. We only needed one or two examples. Not seven. Then we see about three long, drawn-out arguments Reed has with the Russian Communist Party over the Americans needing their own party that he will lead. Did we need three examples? Couldn't they have just said no, once? In the end, Reed realizes he loves his wife, Louise more than Communist Revolution (something he should have figured out a long time ago, but hey, it makes a crazy story, so that's something). I think, from what little I've read of Warren Beatty, and that's not saying much...his feeling or interpretation of Reed is that the man was fighting for justice for all mankind. But from what I saw in this film, I felt that at least in terms of Beatty's portrayal, Reed had more interest in leading people than helping them, in getting credit and being an important part of a political movement. Sure, he believed in it, but he blindly rushes off to Russia, putting himself in danger, as well as his wife. And for what? I have to say I found the movie sad and fascinating, but not at all inspiring. Maybe that is exactly the feeling Beatty set out to bestow upon me, in which case I salute him.

The next film on my mind that I recently re-watched was part of my Netflix-streaming nostalgia kick. This film being Air Force One (1997) directed by Wolfgang Petersen, written by Andrew W. Marlowe and starring Harrison Ford. I remember seeing this film in the movie theatre when I was about ten years old. My mom and I liked it, over all. Watching it again, now, and looking at the Russian Communist terrorist seems so strange and somewhat comical to me. In this day and age, I don't feel like anybody is afraid of Russia or sees the nation as a villain any more. Okay, perhaps older generations have their suspicions, and clearly there appear to be many American souls who think the words "communist" and "socialist" are synonymous with "satanic". It's an interesting little time capsule of political feeling. The film takes pride in a president who stays out of trouble, speaks his mind, does what's "right" and gives impressive, surprise speeches. I always loved those speeches in movies because I feel like they just don't happen as beautifully in real life...okay, maybe I should have said "cinematically". This movie is just such an American fantasy. Harrison Ford is one of our movie heroes and there he is-leading the nation and kicking terrorist ass. It's such a joke, and yet it bleeds into our culture. Who's the governor of California? That's right. And if Harrison Ford ran for office anywhere? Yes. He would win. I found this scene interesting in juxtaposition with the scene from Reds.

The movie is an Hurrah USA! It's a celebration of patriotism, maybe one could even say nationalism. I believe I can even recall the line, "Here come the Good Guys," when American military aircrafts come in to assist the hijacked Air Force One. I don't know how I feel about it all, but gee, if it isn't fun to watch. It sucks you in, and how could you ever doubt Indiana Jones as the face of America? Now, I'm not saying Terrorists aren't "bad guys". I think I agree with that...but...well, you know what I'm saying (I hope)...the political climate is so different these days.

You think I'm done? Sit back down and sip your cocoa. This broad's just gettin' warmed up. Next stop? Well, why not look back to the year 1940 at this wonderfully amusing and patriotic comic!? The superhero of these tales is none other than The Fighting Yank. I came across the comic on this marvelous blog whilst sitting in my theatre history class. It's amazing how multi-tasking on a computer can make a class more interesting. I nearly read an entire issue, giggling.

And last but not least, because I wrote a (sort of messy) research paper on him, let's look at some early, Communist poetry from one of our favorite American poets, Langston Hughes!! He was called before McCarthy and the gang in the 1950s but basically said, "It's cool, Fellas. I'm not a radical any more." To which they replied, "Oh good, that's a relief. Okay, see ya later."

White Man

Sure I know you!

You’re a White Man.

I’m a Negro.

You take all the best jobs

And leave us the garbage cans to empty and

the halls to clean.

You have a good time in a big house at

Palm Beach

And rent us the back alleys

And the dirty slums.

You enjoy Rome—

And take Ethiopia.

White Man! White Man!

Let Louis Armstrong play it—

And you copyright it

And make the money.

You’re the smart guy, White Man!

You got everything!

But now,

I hear your name ain’t really White Man.

I hear it’s something

Marx wrote down

Fifty years ago-

That rich people don’t like to read.

Is that true, White Man?

Is your name in a book

Called The Communist Manifesto?

Is your name spelled

C-A-P-I-T-A-L-I-S-T?

Are you always a White Man?

Huh?

I believe that poem was written in the early 1930s. Anyway, hope you enjoyed my rambling. There's more to come....!

Poppies in October

I feel like Sylvia Plath always brings to mind a brooding, depressed, angsty girl in her late teens or early twenties. I will admit that I first heard about Sylvia Plath through the film 10 Things I Hate About You, when I was eleven or so. All that aside though, I think she was so marvelously complex and her poems are chalk-full of evidence. They're so strangely worded, they're so full of unusual flavor and intensity and female perspective, that it's only natural that women are drawn to her. I just love her style, and I really like her lighter poems. Some of them are truly gorgeous. In honor of October, here is one of my favorite Sylvia Plath poems:

Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ----

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Crime doesn't pay, but Hollywood does!

Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty vs. the real Bonnie and Clyde.

A couple weeks ago I watched Bonnie and Clyde (1967), directed by Arthur Penn, starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway. I saw this film when I was a wee prepubescent (I'm guessing about ten or eleven) and had forgotten most of it. I mean, I didn't even remember that Gene Hackman had a substantial role (who doesn't love that guy?). I've been on a massive 1930s kick for the past year or more, and I put this movie on (thanks, Netflix) while I cleaned my bedroom. It's not one of my top favorites but it's another sinking ship story and I have a special place in my heart for those. I think the tragic criminal hero is one that draws people because we all feel like that a little bit, deep deep down. We make mistakes, we crave an escape from a world that isn't easy. Most of us don't go risking our necks for some idealized freedom, and we don't go ballistic when we get the urge. Movies about bank robbers during the Great Depression are very romantic in a sense. Desperate people doing horribly desperate things. It's like watching an addiction from the beginning to the end, a web that can't be un-spun. There's something I love about that. The characters are nutty, but you care about them, and when they die, it's more of a good feeling, like how I assume I was supposed to feel at the end of Thelma and Louise (1991). In conclusion, Bonnie and Clyde is a film I can get behind (at least once a decade).

In other Great Depression gangster movie news, I managed to see the new film about John Dillinger, Public Enemies (2009) directed by Michael Mann, starring Johnny Depp, Marion Cotillard and Christian Bale. I feel this film loses some of the 1960s warm and fuzziness of say, a Paul Newman-type criminal hero film. The only glamour can be found in the gorgeous costumes (oh baby those suits and hats and SUNGLASSES). The film lacks something, and I can't even tell you what. I felt it was well acted but maybe the more modern, attempted realism of the film made it lose a little heart. I read about John Dillinger here and it seems like the older ladies sitting behind me in the theatre were quite correct in whispering that the film was getting some facts wrong (as it happens, I read a little on the Barrow Gang, and there are many details missing from Bonnie and Clyde as well). The film was interesting, and very violent, and maybe the fact that I didn't care quite as much for it simply proves that it reminds the audiencethat (most?) people who kill other people are scary and dangerous....

Look at his SUNGLASSES! Oh, and there's the real Dillinger.

I also have to include the following picture for one reason and one reason alone: Look at the expression on this adorable man's face. There he is on set with his gigantic pretend killing machine and he has the face of a person who wouldn't hurt a fly. Le sigh....oh and that suit.

P.S. Here's the link to some Bonnie Parker poems. There's even a picture of a page from her notebook with her handwriting.

Time Travel

Every time I clean my room, I end up getting distracted by old diaries. I started writing them when I was seven or eight years old and wrote a LOT, especially in high school. You go through so many changes in such a short amount of time, and it never fails to amuse me to look back. Here's another silly, romantic poem I wrote. This one's dated January 20, 2006, also about the time this photo was taken.

lips

he could never hear it from my lips

it is too much to say. Too much to give away

what an ocean of sheet rock pounding through the harbor- won't he harp at me again?

I might see him in the end

sinking down the black waters, chasing the slow-swimming fish

with their puckering lips

I'd love to kiss him with my own amidst the dead, the murderous blue

he would steal me through and through

like the hydrogen hydrogen oxide

and he'd breathe into my two eyes

singing spirituals he wrote for me and God, surrounded by the life with lips that eat

but do not speak

madness pervades me, I do not know the dock from the rock from the sea

nor the parrot from the owl from the germ

as he lets me feel unnerved

is that him-floating by

on the watershades, so low, so high?

no...it could never be

he could never swim so near my lips

that they could reach his fish-friend face

(I know and love each soaking trace)

-to kiss him with these soundless lips

Where am I Going, Why am I Here?

this was taken about the time I wrote the poem

Where have I been? I don't even know. I've been trying to clean my room, getting puffy-eyed from bad make-up (am about to do a major tossing out of eye shadow, very sad about this) and listening to new music, and considering becoming a real etsy seller to make a little dough.

Anyway, I usually NEVER put poems online because they're so intimate and personal. I don't even really advertise my blog to many friends. But I don't know if I care any more. But I found this one from a notebook, dated January 26, 2007 and I really sort of like it. It's very romantic and most of the poems I've written (that I like) are very morbid and dark.

Well, here it is. Hope the itty bitty handful of readers enjoys:

beautiful captivity

I guess trees must long for spring

and slaves dream of an unowned shore

I guess I love you like that

like a deep sleep

no. a coma, heavy and dark

a place with no escape

I am lost in longing,

impenetrable, starless, moonless crypt

of longing

of loving you, I guess

and you might say simple things

and discuss your laundry or your cat

but inside of the air,

all the air

between us

I am listening, silent, arrested,

waiting, hoping, dreaming

like a mystified little lamb,

missing from the flock

loving you.

*listening to Lover, You Should Have Come Over by Jeff Buckley

**how appropriate.

Addiction

Aside from vintage fashion photos on flickr, I am addicted to staying up late. I am falling in love with the quiet, the still of the dark when everyone else is asleep and I can think straight or swirly, and feel marvelous. I do feel marvelous. I really do. And the feeling itself sustains me at this moment. I hope it lasts into tomorrow as well. I wonder if I should go to that audition. Hmmmmmmmmm. I hate making decisions.

Love, the world suddenly turns, turns color. That's the beginning of a Sylvia Plath poem. One of her least gloomy ones.

I adore Pablo Neruda. He's so romantic and whimsical and wonderful in his choices of metaphors. I Occasionally write poems I like, but the metaphors are never so beautifully strung together.

Your Feet

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

Pablo Neruda