A dash one en long.
Random House Dictionary
Amy Genova (1958–)
I always thought compound words cozied up
friendly: armchair, brotherhood or cowslips,
but then--other words prison. Like en dash,
a small wall compounding adjectives or granting
equal muscle to words: the Israeli–Palestinian
fracas, this hour to the next red–blue state
contenders & the Bush–Cheney axis. En dashes
in encyclopedias are as patient as open graves--
ready for the end of every genius. Except Jesus--
unless like an atheists or en dash fans, you accept
nails for periods. Even if you find faith in Good
Friday’s benevolence or are at home with infinity,
there is no doubt
an en dash--scrawnier than a minus-exes through
all our a.m–p.m.'s: going to school, getting married
... owning dogs. Succinct as a noose, an en dash
has less hold than a hyphen,
much less than a hymen--a line that bleeds
when crossed. The atheist’s only hope--extend
the life-line--if not, find World War II gratitude
in crackers or the odor of milkweed, rank & pungent.
Unlike clerics, en dashes yield only clarity
or ashes. Think 1958–
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
New Harmony, Disrupted
New Harmony is located in the southern most part of Indiana on the Wabash River. It is a town that was originated by two utopian societies, the New Harmonists and the Owenists. To be brief, an understatement, the Harmonist was your typical Puritan-like sect, in my mind, who were bought out, perhaps in more ways than one, by secular humanists and suffragists, among others.
Today, the retreat town bears the fruit of both heritages.
The town radiates a kind of justice to the eye in its beauty. Everywhere one looks there is either a piece of sculpture, a beautiful quote to read, a sanctuary garden, a fountain, or a bench to sit on. Not to mention the town's period buildings, such as the Granary; or the Roofless Church, the Labyrinths, the Workmen's Institute and the modern architectural prize, the Antheneum. And yet there is something "Steppherd Wivesy" about the place. There are only 700 or so denizens, who get around in gold carts, and wave and smile like the inhabitants of the village in the 1960s TV series The Prisoner.
Some of the writer's wondered where all the children were. The absence of laughter or the sound of dogs, made it seem as all the boys and girls and pets were secreted away, only allowed out at night. After poking around, I did locate a child friendly street. I walked to the very southernmost block in the town, before the cornrows begin. In a town the size of New Harmony, it isn't hard to do. However, I did notice the gardens in the front yards were not so nearly as meticulous as in the blocks before. Three bikes were tossed carelessly on the ground in front of a trailer house. Furthermore, two middle school boys, one pudgy specimen with a falsetto voice, walked up the street towards me. Obvious nerds, I longed to join in their smart sounding conversation that belied their John Deer hats and wife beater t-shirts (don't blame me for the sobriquet). Continuing up the street, one young girl about 11 in a flurry of pink shorts passed me. As I turned to head back to the Red Geranium for supper with several adults, I spied a blue, plastic, swimming pool with fishes on the side, tucked reassuringly on the lawn of a backyard.
The interesting thing about the workshop--it seemed to be a proving ground for student writers to fawn on established luminaries. Children after all. (Perhaps a misplaced modifier.) Even so, three different young people said to me that I reminded them of their mothers. I remain deeply touched. One lent me three of his own poetry books for three years. I am not kidding about the three's. Inside one of the books was a typed, but personal letter of encouraging words. No one has ever favored me in this way. Again, I felt moved.
Ironically, I left the retreat a day and a half early. My own daughter needed me. And as always there is so much more to tell.
Today, the retreat town bears the fruit of both heritages.
The town radiates a kind of justice to the eye in its beauty. Everywhere one looks there is either a piece of sculpture, a beautiful quote to read, a sanctuary garden, a fountain, or a bench to sit on. Not to mention the town's period buildings, such as the Granary; or the Roofless Church, the Labyrinths, the Workmen's Institute and the modern architectural prize, the Antheneum. And yet there is something "Steppherd Wivesy" about the place. There are only 700 or so denizens, who get around in gold carts, and wave and smile like the inhabitants of the village in the 1960s TV series The Prisoner.
Some of the writer's wondered where all the children were. The absence of laughter or the sound of dogs, made it seem as all the boys and girls and pets were secreted away, only allowed out at night. After poking around, I did locate a child friendly street. I walked to the very southernmost block in the town, before the cornrows begin. In a town the size of New Harmony, it isn't hard to do. However, I did notice the gardens in the front yards were not so nearly as meticulous as in the blocks before. Three bikes were tossed carelessly on the ground in front of a trailer house. Furthermore, two middle school boys, one pudgy specimen with a falsetto voice, walked up the street towards me. Obvious nerds, I longed to join in their smart sounding conversation that belied their John Deer hats and wife beater t-shirts (don't blame me for the sobriquet). Continuing up the street, one young girl about 11 in a flurry of pink shorts passed me. As I turned to head back to the Red Geranium for supper with several adults, I spied a blue, plastic, swimming pool with fishes on the side, tucked reassuringly on the lawn of a backyard.
The interesting thing about the workshop--it seemed to be a proving ground for student writers to fawn on established luminaries. Children after all. (Perhaps a misplaced modifier.) Even so, three different young people said to me that I reminded them of their mothers. I remain deeply touched. One lent me three of his own poetry books for three years. I am not kidding about the three's. Inside one of the books was a typed, but personal letter of encouraging words. No one has ever favored me in this way. Again, I felt moved.
Ironically, I left the retreat a day and a half early. My own daughter needed me. And as always there is so much more to tell.
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