Upon hearing that Whistle.

From my shower window I have a clear view of fields holding cows and Clydesdales, back dropped by the valley walls. I often lean against the back of the shower, letting the hot water pound my neck and back, easing tension, maybe a drink sitting on the sill, and look off into the misty expanse of my back yard. These times of contemplation are by no means long or driven by any single conscious topic, but are simply rolling smoke thought from the end of a cigarette. Quick break from time, small piece of matter set between two fingers signifying a break in day or moment, until it is burned up and the clock begins to tick again. My thoughts move around the subconscious of my day, ruled by split second moments and the wearing gears of routine. Then from the distance comes the exhausted whistle of a locomotive, and the thought that races through most peoples minds when that sound kisses their ear, the thought creeps its way toward the forefront of my brain, where is that going? For the most part I see these trains as empty skeletons of steel and wheels, crossing their way back and forth from one coast to the other in an attempt to hold onto some small piece of American history when a person could get themselves anywhere for free and with a feeling of accomplishment and education. I have been thinking how there is an unrest in this country, and need to move away from ones origins and create a new. Maybe this harks back to the idea of the self made man and “American Dream” of Benjamin Franklin, or it is the need to explore a land so immense that it must be vastly different just a State away. Or perhaps it is the need to live simply and without the pressures of material wealth and societal norms. Regardless of the reasons people have an attraction to trains it is something that has been engrained in the psyche of most Americans an incorporated into the stereotype of the creation of this country. So I sit, sipping a PBR and unwinding as the sun slithers behind the valley walls, sierra red.
11.14-Luke

Southeast of Eden

Together they took the least space they could.
Entered each other deeply, to be less,
to throw one shadow only, to be still
for all the world while moving for each other.


--So space, so barely dented, might not bruise
and cry, and time come running. To this end
breaths went untaken till the only end
of that (this side of nothing): the great sigh
that gives this place away...
                      And out they come,
exciting one another with the kiss
to heal the bruise and be the bruise and there
they sit. The only angel in this case


came only there to point them, in their first
amazing silence, to two peaceful desks.


                                   -Glyn Maxwell




This poem appears in this month's addition of The New Yorker. For me, among the many thoughts and images it calls to mind is the two desks occupied by myself and Luke at this present moment as we are writing, somehow, to meet in the middle of where we are. 

Why?

I am glad this project has come into fruition. It has been a while since I have been a part of a collected effort of creativity. I am happy with the amount of inspiration and flow of words that have come out of me in the last few months. I owe a great deal of it to the wonderful woman I share this blog with. Here is a medium to put the whirling ideas, day dreams and constant lines of verse context. This, for me, is an outlet beyond the confines of academia to express my own musings and thought processes.


As of late, the ideas of an Antithetic back drop to American Literature and the inspiration of nature juxtaposed against the process of industry have been weighing on my mind. These are ideas I may explore through the lenses of writers who have inspired me: Whitman, London, the Beats, folk artists and jazz musicians. As well as through the un-edited free-thought of my mind and its relation to the world, I will try and go about this in interesting, experimental ways that would cause most of my professors to either writhe in agony or exaltation.


I have felt passion for words since reading and performing Macbeth in 7th grade, from there I soaked up more of Shakespeare, as well as giving short pokes at poetry and “heavy” literature for a boy of my age. With a mind on constant go, I went into the woods, by foot, bike, or snow shoe. That experience of spending my formidable years at an all-boys boarding school has since shaped many of my views, from politics to class and economics, to many of my understandings about human nature. I would like to explore a little of this time here, as it is something I have a great deal to work out. Again, thank you July for thinking of this and making it happen. Now I just need to write something.

-Luke H. B.

Henry Darger

This is one of my favorite artists:

Wind in the Trees

When trees toss in high wind and a suspicion
of rain travels across their dark faces,
I long for the old summers under smoky oaks.
Whoever I am, it's not who I thought.

Who is it the rain and wind wake with their sigh?
That tree-lover, summer-lover - try and find him,
was he ever there? Did he love? Was he love?
Shh, say the trees, listen closer, listen closer.

-by Henry Shukman

An Introduction

A forum of ideas? A medley of musings? An exchange of experience? 


We decided to create this blog for all those reasons, and many beyond it. Luke and I have been swapping writing, ideas and mutual inspirations and appreciation for the written and spoken word for years now. Separated by some mountains and a very large body of water and feeling the pressures and opportunities of the limitless Internet in a quickly evolving society, we decided to start up A Light in the Month, which is Luke's clever interpretation of the etymology of both our names. 


Initially the idea was to collaborate on a chapbook of our poetry, so I think this blog is going to act as a nice catalyst for doing so when I return back to the States, as well as a space to post whatever the heck we want, within reason, of course. My hopes are for a meaningful collaboration between the both of us. Perhaps then a possible audience, possible feedback, possible critique, possibilities of exposure in general. 


I have been writing poetry since I learned how to write, studying it since my Dad gave me a copy of Kerouac's The Dharma Bums when I was in 7th grade, opening me up to a magical and beautiful world of an American subculture and literary movement that really tipped my writing in the direction it's gone since then...pouring over Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Snyder, Corso in favor of required reading in my first few years of high school. 


My junior year I took an English class with an amazing teacher, thinker and writer by the name of James Cook. It was then that my love and fascination with observing and coming to terms the world outside me melded with his introduction of studying English literature and language in a way I had never been shown before: with careful attention, appreciation, intellectual sensitivity and creativity. Shakespeare, existential philosophy, Charles Olson and the Black Mountain School, Victorian classics, Vonnegut, John Darnielle, the Beats...worlds of ideas and perspectives opened up to me and opened up the way I viewed life and the way I wrote. (The two inescapably go hand in hand for me). 


The year I graduated, I received a grant from a local art's council that covered the printing and publishing costs of my first book. It's a small series written over a few years called Collected Poems, and if you ever find yourself at The Bookstore on Main Street in Gloucester, you can pick up a copy. ( Ha...shameless self promotion). More than anything, I'm proud of myself for putting that little book together, even if it stands now as just more of a benchmark of how I was writing at a certain period of my (young) life, as opposed to a literary masterpiece. But you always have to start somewhere, I suppose. 

After that came university, immersing myself (within reason) in the study of all things literary, from contemporary poets to untranslated Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. In my first semester of college, I took a class with Brieghan Gardner, and another "moment" happened for me, involving this time my relationship to my own writing. As a friend and mentor, she encouraged and challenged me to show my writing to an audience greater than the pages of my notebooks and the odd family member or friend. I have a few sending-out/publication projects/aspirations in the editing process at the moment, so we'll se how that goes. And in the meantime, I still sometimes forgo my required reading for the likes of some contemporary poetry, usually my favorite author of more recent years: Anne Carson. But more on her later.


I hesitate to use this forum for my own poetry; with the immateriality of a blog, the unknowns of copyright laws, the possible "cheapening" of very personal thoughts, perspectives, hours of visions and revisions. Again, I'll see how that goes. 


Anyway, I'll finish my ramble with a thought from the brilliant Charles Olson that I feel applies directly to the life of the written word, and to life in its entirety.

"'Is' comes from the Aryan root, as, to breathe. The English 'not' equals the Sanskrit na, which may come from the root na, to be lost, to perish. 'Be' is from bhu, to grow."

Until another time,


July