One Dozen

I'm eating dark chocolate peanut M&Ms and drinking a Melon Pomelo La Croix Curate and feeling kind of ... faux. As if I'm an altered human being, enhanced to a state of semi-nonbeing. 

It's advising day two at SNC. That means, for those of you not in the know, that all classes are canceled for the day and we're (the professors, stunt academics) meeting with advisees to help them think about what they're going to take next semester (fall 2016). It's strange to live in the future, to plan ahead that far (over the pond of the summer, that is), and to talk about majors and minors and passions (not all of them the same, it seems).  Because Lizzie's now in college herself, I feel even more tender about each of my advisees, and my students, and more connected to their journeys. It's rough work to be on your own, "adulting," as Lizzie puts it.

Perhaps that's another reason to feel altered and somewhat inauthentic. I mean, it was now a very long time ago, officially, that I was an undergraduate. And it seems that I never wavered on my path to those Professional Writing and Creative Writing degrees (the former to satisfy parental dictates and the latter a destiny). I don't remember thinking about what courses to take each semester. Did we have fewer options or choices?

So, here I am. Professional talking head.

Today's poem prompt I'm taking from the day's offering on the NaPoWriMo site:

Finally, our prompt for the day (optional, as always). Have you ever flipped to the index of a book and found it super interesting? Well, I have (yes, I live an exciting life!) For example, the other day I pulled from my shelf a copy of on old book that excerpts parts of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s journals. I took a look at the index, and found the following entry under “Man”:

fails to attain perfection, 46; can take advantage of any quality within him, 46; his plot of ground, 46; his use, 52, 56; not to be trusted with too much power, 55; should not be too conscientious, 58; occult relationship between animals and, 75; God in, 79, 86; not looked upon as an animal, 80; gains courage by going much alone, 81; the finished, 89; and woman, distinctive marks of, 109; reliance in the moral constitution of, 124; the infinitude of the private, 151; and men, 217; should compare advantageously with a river, 258.

That’s a poem, right there!  

Today, I challenge you to write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index, somewhat in the style of this poem by Thomas Brendler.

Well. My first challenge is to find a fruitful index. The first book to catch my eye on the shelf behind me is Levi-Strauss's The Elementary Structures of Kinship, which reminds me of my dad (anthropologist). So I think I'll look up Father in the index and see what I get...

Curious. There's no entry for Father. Only: Father's sister, role of, 306, 309, 391, 429, 430, 431; Father's sister marriage, 124; and Father's sister's daughter, see Patrilateral cross-cousin.

Boring. Turns out that index is not fruitful after all. I'm going to use the index of first lines for William Carlos Williams's Selected Poems instead.

This is fun because it's a matter of finding the lines and deciding which ones to include.

*

Index of First Lines
                     -- After William Carlos Williams

A big young bareheaded woman, 98
A flight of birds, all together, 296

beauty is a shell, 249

"Come!" cried my mind and by her might, 4

Disciplined by the artist, 244

fortunate man it is not too late, 250

He's dead, 78
his coat resembles the snow, 250

I, a writer, at one time hipped on, 172
I'm persistent as the pink locust, 223
I stopped the car, 33

Let me not forget at least, 142
Let the snake wait under, 145

Miscellaneous weed, 67
munching a plum on, 97

Never, even in a dream, 8
Nude bodies like peeled logs, 255

on the hill is cool! Even the dead, 133
Outside, 273

Pink confused with white, 40

Rather notice, mon cher, 23

Satyr's dance!, 220
School is over. It is too hot, 35
Sorrow is my own yard, 34
Summer!, 243

The farmer in deep thought, 41
Their time past, pulled down, 148
The over-all picture is winter, 239
There are no perfect waves---, 82
There is no direction. Whither? I, 265
The shadow does not move. It is the water moves, 171
The universality of things, 48
This horrible but superb painting, 245
Tho' I am no Catholic, 103
To celebrate your brief life, 253
To make a start, 259

view of winter trees, 252

What common language to unravel?, 146
When the cataract dries up, my dear, 180
When the snow falls the flakes, 251
White day, black river, 140
Why do I write today?, 16

You lean the head forward, 187