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Meditations in Calibri

Mason Radabaugh

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Table of Contents!

These Words of Mine 2

Westfield, a few miles North and East from Carmel, IN 3

Supergiant 4

Outside I sat 6

The End 7

Humming 8

Write It Off 9

Island 10

Cellosia 11

No Excuses 12

For You, Dad 13

Silia 14

Envy 15

Human Machines 16

Sometimes I Sit and Think 17

In Here 17

Permafrost 18

My Living Room, Sitting On the Couch With No Socks 19

Hospice 20

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These words of mine

let these words of mine be heard,

my sailing ship, my only walls,

in these words is power to build,

to make cities great and tyrants fall

let noble sons and wretched poor

feast upon this gift of man,

let kindred souls from distant shores

touch down upon my golden sands

push back the cobwebs from arches old

and let the sleeping poets speak,

break away from what was told,

illuminate these columns bleak

a shield to every sword that fights,

a rope to every hand that climbs,

music for every listening ear,

for those who seek but never find,

a horse for those without a steed,

a snarling beast with curling horns,

be it known to all that read

that on this day true love was born

but if the sirens start to sing,

if the water sends its call,

let these words of mine be heard,

my sailing ship, my only walls.

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Westfield, a few miles north and east from Carmel, IN

relax, I tell you, my mother told

me when my teachers didn't

this is a symbol of the times

when it was all on the line

"don't relax! Get into a good school, or

you'll disgrace us all!"

you're a small, inconsequential stain

on my life, thank you.

the sounds at night, so far from

where I slept from twelve through eighteen

once they were the crickets chirping,

the neighbors motorcycle blaring down the street

waking every open window on Matterhorn drive,

now its the sound of the train,

train reminds me that I’m home.

Not the home I grew up in

this is home because it is where I learned

to be miserable and be happy about it

it is where I learned that your dreams

change like the color of your soul

it is where I met my love,

all three of my loves,

it is home now because of the sounds of the

train

crossing the train tracks

and flooding into my open window

through the thick night air.

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Supergiant

The chains that bind are broken,

gave way to silent space,

Gamma rays have left eyes frozen,

out of time, out of place.

relax you're floating, we're far below you,

no longer held by Earth,

what came from lightning ascends to thunder,

collapse this broken crutch.

moving out I have no fear,

face seared by solar winds,

coming close to astral bodies,

black hole has sucked me in.

my eyes are open to warm fluorescence,

so many brilliant shades,

lone colors fading, I fall to Saturn,

Cassiopeia bows.

screaming light burns the altar,

carve out these bleeding eyes,

stepping weak, our feet have faltered,

cold ears can't hear our cries.

shed tears not for me, I have been freed here,

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outside the Kuiper belt,

my pain distinguished, I walk with comets,

out of time, out of place.

letting go, all we can do,

harbor no fear of flight,

at any time we can find you,

a constellation in the sky.

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outside I sat

Outside I sat on a warm summer's day,

the first in four that skies were not gray,

in front of a house, empty and alone,

contemplating life - Kafkaesque I suppose?

With wind through my hair and sun on my back,

feet submerged in an ocean of grass,

eyes cracked thinnly so I could see,

and decided to add to my anthology,

I added the birds, their song in A major,

lifting my head, I asked for a favor,

"Dry your feathers," they said, and flew on past,

they left me there with my feet in the grass,

I added the churchbell, it's call resounding,

reverberating in my ears quite loudly,

it was a reminder that even though there's me -

every strong mind needs something to believe,

It occurred to me then, outside of that house,

when my senses were peaked and my interest was roused,

no matter what you feel, you're never alone,

your mind is your temple, and your thoughts are your home.

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The End

It came quick

like nausea on the tip of your cigarette when you've had too much to drink I liked it at first, I'm not ashamed warming and fuzzy like laughing gas at the dentist then it became cold and foggy and before I knew It I was wishing that it wasn't the end anymore Tossing and turning my bed became a prison cell five nights a week and the other prisoners were snoring It took me a couple years to find that the end was good, and right because it got me started on the beginning.

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Humming I hear you no more, the sounds of music replaced, by humming instead.

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Write it off the first thing I check when my eyes crack open do I have all my limbs still, all thirty-two teeth? check the next thing I check is my clock I check for how much time I have, the height of the sun bright yellow filtering through my curtains or cold stale gray check I move the hamster wheel for nine hours with not a rest in between the wheels squeak like the rusted hinges on my old back door check before I know it, the day is done drawing to a close with a monotonous hum pick up the guitar, study a little extra I roll through my options like files in my head instead the monster takes over and glues me to the couch for four more hours write it off, check.

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Island this is my island, my castle, my home, see the wind push the weeds in the front yard that look like tiny white flowers, open your mind to the posibilities, so many, I am a budding artist with muddy water fighting to run through my webbed toes, Who knows? Maybe if I sit outside a little longer with the sun in my face and on my chest, I may gain some deeper understanding, Or maybe today will run dry on me, like I feel the last twenty have, each with their glorious sunrises, and looming sunsets, Maybe it is here among the weeds that look like white little flowers that I'll understand, or maybe not. Maybe I need a change of environment

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Cellosia Hot rubber on hot pavement really does the trick for a stuffy nose, my foot down on the pedal really does the trick when its you i'm coming to see, the days have been hot, the work has been hard, and I've never been more tired but this little light inside of me keeps these tires spinning quickly.

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No Excuses MY city is an open sore, weak with the poor past 38th street MY city is a swirling whirlpool sucking in the ambitious and spitting them back out into the White river, polluting it with hubris. MY city knows no strength in the art laying down, no knowledge of the idea of giving up, MY city is the crossroads of America, opening its doors for every weary traveler, don't expect any southern hospitality and if waiting in traffic isn't for you, then MY city isn't for you. Stand in the graveyard on the highest hill in Indiana and look at the skyline of MY city.

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For You, Dad I can feel it too, because I was there with you Not as long as you, I know Not before or after you stepped foot in a room steeped in temprary tea I was there when it mattered to me, and you were there the whole time it mattered to you, I saw his eyes, as you did I heard him say to me the last that he would say, You looked so old, sitting there beside him, two more days before I heard the news, I heard you crying, but never saw, and as the patriarch blew his farewell kisses, somehow, after, you seemed younger than you ever had before.

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Silia wrought from the embers that give it heat, Silia, its you I wish to meet, swaying, strolling, sliding forth, is that cherry red on your lips so sweet? prophet of passion I lend you my ear, your voice so sultry I wish to hear, soft whispers caress the back of my neck, show me things I thought'd disappeared.

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Envy I sat with my back to the window facing east, papers spread out before me with the chicken scratch of some frenzied scientist. The sun, midpoint at this time today, warmed the back of my neck like the gentle caress of a lover. Not long was I sitting there, letting my solar lover caress me down, when some sixth sense, some second sight beckoned me to raise my chin seconds before you entered. Entered in all of your glory. Swaying in step, the way dandelion flowers on the easy May breeze. Came he next in the procession like some brooding familiar. As the blood rushed to my face and the dull hum of the fluorescent lights began to swell to a drowning roar I gathered my things in haste and fled. I risked a parting glance on my way out and as I gazed at the both of you I saw him move his chair closer to yours as you turned your head toward his with love. And I turned away in envy.

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Human Machines Silent night, frostbitten night, Silhouette against cold dead light, Nuts and bolts , contraptions scream, Walking death, human machine, Deep within the frozen chill, Rocks and beasts and trees stand still, Snow, like glitter, in free-fall, Melts on his hot metal claw, Joints screech – exhale! Coiled steam, like no monster I have seen, Industrial, decrepit tool, Harvesting my blood for fuel, Side-walk cracks where he doth roam, Crunch of ice, dull snap of bone, My heart is racing, feet please keep up, Blinds drawn, I pull the curtains shut, Creaking wood screams, rafters moan, Arms crossed, I walk the halls alone, Heart pounds my naked chest, Ghostly mist that is my breath, I crawl in bed, but what is that? Outside my window, tap-tap-tap, Tree fingers, encased in ice, Or the cold phantom device, Fitful sleep he penetrates, pray the cold take me before I wake, Hollow eyes, a vacant hub, Mechanic death, he looms above, Silent night, bulletproof night, No hint of warmth, or of light, Gaze upon his face and see, Our walking death, Human Machine

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Sometimes I sit and think Sometimes I talk, sometimes I drink, sometimes I sit alone and think. I think of me, I think of you, I think of all I've given to. There was a bird, of dappled gray, it sang about the hearts restrained, and as I watched, the bird did fly, when I met it, eye-to-eye. I think of me, I think of you, I think of all I've tried to prove. Was it then, if nothing else, a restless mind that cried for help. But as I push, upon the pen, I feel my eyes can see again. Sometimes I worry, sometimes I weep, sometimes, but tonight I calmly sleep.

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In Here in my mind when I sleep is a room I've never been, the thought of stepping across the threshold not knowing what to say or where to begin, my mother's mother is there waiting for me, to her I’m a stranger with her daughter's hair, a distant dream in the annals of her mind, like the words from a song that you haven't heard in years, and all I’d have to give would be tears, tears because I can't stand to see her eyebrows shaved clean in a fit of psychosis, tears because I can't stand to watch the pained confusion of blood that doesn't know us, call me a coward, call me what you will, I can't step foot inside of that room and see the woman who taught me to ride a bike, unable to tie her own shoes, pardon me for being selfish.

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Permafrost Of what it takes me to imagine of worlds so few and far between to sit and hear a friend I love to be here again a cracked window under which I lay my head and dream.

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My living room, sitting on the couch with no socks Can you hear it? The distant humming, With the water on kitchen sink drumming, It stops momentarily, holding its breath, Before beginning its clamor again, It’s getting stronger, getting loud, A white-hot pervading cloud, Just before my teeth start to grind, The softest of scratchings fills my mind. What could it be? A sound so familiar, Maybe an animal, one with fur, It speaks of crawling on the wood floor, Antennae feeling for food and more, I realize then, my feet are bare, A freezing tremor straightens my hair,

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Is it toward my foot it crawls? Among the white-hot buzzing drawl. A minute, maybe two too soon, I leap off the couch and escape the room.

Hospice Grandpa's sorting out his last dividends in a hospice bed where this story ends purple and green like too-ripened fruit the nurses are tired, I think he is too faces line walls, maybe two that I have seen cousins and in-laws and great aunt Doreen every eye in the room on his rising chest every lung panting with bated breath he's worn out, every bit of that shows he calls one-by-one, pulls each person close to say final words, a last bit of advice warm words from a face with eyes cold as ice Grandpa's tying up all his loose ends tired, hungry, and damn well spent this room I'm in feels nothing like home

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when its my turn to go, I hope to God I'm alone

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Meditations in Calibri Essay Mason Radabaugh Professor Whiteacre English 308

Welcome to my Meditations in Calibri. Here you will find my favorite poems that I’ve

shared in this class. Let’s start with the title. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to

decide what my Chapbook would be called by. I looked at the subject matter of my poems and

tried to bring out a conducive element that tied all of them together. The best theme I could

find is that of self-exploration.

What do I mean by self-exploration? My writing, and especially my poems, has always

served a counseling role. That being said, it’s me counseling me. The self-exploration comes

from the fact that my poems are the product of what is taking up the space in my mind. The

emotions that I am feeling and the thoughts that I have on life spill out onto the page when I

write. Being a psychology major, I have learned to speak to myself as if I were a counseling

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patient. What has been on your mind lately? Why does that bother you? How do you think that

you could make this better? These are all questions that we are taught to ask our clients to help

them see things clearly. That is the aim of my poetry, to help myself see things clearly.

Therefore, my poems are a form of meditation. They let me stir on one feeling or scene in my

mind and make sense of it.

“Calibri” refers to the medium that many of these poems came about in. It came across

me the other day while I was staring at the computer screen in front of me. Microsoft Word

was sitting there, taunting me and my creativity. That is when I looked up at the font that I was

using to create my Chapbook. Calibri. Being that Calibri was the font I’d been using throughout

the semester to write my works down, it only made sense to pay some homage to it.

The subject matter of the poems flows in a semi-specific way. When arranging my

poems I wanted the pieces with the heavier subject matter to come toward the end of the

Chapbook. That way, as the reader progresses, heavier and more negative emotions creep out

of the words. This is a kind of play at how we get to know people in life. The best and brightest

parts of them are what we see first, but as time goes on we find the ugliness that hides in every

person eventually. The cool part about Meditations is that there is plenty of ugliness.

It is only natural that in coinciding with this method the last piece is one concerning

death. Specifically, the death of my grandfather who passed away a little more than a year ago.

“Hospice” is an allegory of the feeling of his hospice room and the thoughts brought about by

watching a loved one die. This is an occurrence that happens more than once in Meditations.

“In Here” is a piece about my grandmother’s dementia and my unwillingness to face it. I know

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that these subjects are sensitive, they definitely are to me. What better way to get to know a

person than learning of their deepest fears and most painful memories?

My favorite elements of literature are fairly simple. I am a fan of metaphor and simile,

which one I use depends on the situation, of course. As a musician I find that many of my

poems come out songlike. I have been honing my skills in rhyme for a long time. Did you catch

that slant-rhyme right there? I like to say that I’ve got a pretty good understanding of rhyme

and meter. Many of the pieces in Meditations could be radio hits with some catchy music

added to them.

That isn’t to say that I haven’t experimented some during this class. I tried

personification a little bit more than I did in the past. This can be seen in “Outside I Sat”. I also

took a crack at a poem form I tend to shy away from: the haiku. To me, it is hard to bring about

a satisfactory amount of emotion with a haiku given its short form. I saw that as a challenge. It

was a challenge to fit as much feeling into seventeen syllables that I happen to put in longer

poems.

The most important thing I have taken away from these past five weeks is thinking of my

audience when I write. As I mentioned, for a long time my poetry was a personal and private

thing. I didn’t mind how vague a lot of it was because I knew the meaning, and to me, that was

enough. This class has been an eye-opener. When we composed poems for the writing

workshops and let others critique our work I learned very quickly that many people were

reaching for meaning when reading my work. It was a wake-up call for sure. I learned that my

poems cannot reach the hearts and minds of others if they cannot make sense of what they are

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reading. I believe that was the significance of this class in my lifetime as a writer. Don’t ignore

your audience. For without that audience, the words are meaningless.