Gregory Sherl Poem
The Oregon Trail is a Chinese Restaurant on Christmas Eve
From Independence it’s a shit ton of miles
to the Kansas River crossing.
Child #1, Christopher, has a broken leg.
Christopher is sad he has a broken leg.
He’s like Shit, my leg hurts something awful.
He’s like Shit shit shit.
We ford the river but the river’s too deep.
We ford the river & you’re like Why
the fuck are we fording the river?
The oxen can’t breathe. The oxen can’t
breathe under water. They’re chewing
their tongues off trying to breathe.
Wendy, child #2, her face is a waterfall.
Christopher is vomiting from a fever.
He’s vomiting all over Wendy’s grave.
On the seventh day God rested.
Christopher has died of dysentery.
Gregory Sherl’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New York Quarterly, Gargoyle, Columbia Poetry Review, NOÖ Journal, and PANK. He currently lives in Virginia and blogs at http://gregorysherl.blogspot.com/.
Sunday Service
this is great. some of us have been saying on the twitter that this is great, but i have decided to say it here, that this, to me, is pretty great.
this is great. some of us have been saying on the twitter that this is great, but i have decided to say it here, that this, to me, is pretty great.
This is devastating.
This is devastating.
god damn
god damn
I can’t decide if this is simply dumb, silly, or a joke. But there is something “devastating” about it — the continuing dumbing down of the English language, until within the lifetime of people now alive writing will look like the ardent scribblings of a 3-year-old.
I can’t decide if this is simply dumb, silly, or a joke. But there is something “devastating” about it — the continuing dumbing down of the English language, until within the lifetime of people now alive writing will look like the ardent scribblings of a 3-year-old.
has any language ever been “dumbed down”, or have they just changed according to the linguistic needs of people in their specific times?
has any language ever been “dumbed down”, or have they just changed according to the linguistic needs of people in their specific times?
The perpetual complaint since (check only one) __ 1954 __1917 __1874.
Anyway, your blog is beautiful (nice pics).
The perpetual complaint since (check only one) __ 1954 __1917 __1874.
Anyway, your blog is beautiful (nice pics).
Some needs and times are dumber than others.
Some needs and times are dumber than others.
This poem is amazing and the devastation is wonderful. I think this man has improved language for everyone who reads.
This poem is amazing and the devastation is wonderful. I think this man has improved language for everyone who reads.
which ones, for example?
which ones, for example?
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
Hemingway considered those six words to be the best short story he ever wrote.
Clean language, powerful ideas, and the requirement that the reader work a bit to get at meaning does not equal dumbing down of language. Sometimes the reader is the dummy.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
Hemingway considered those six words to be the best short story he ever wrote.
Clean language, powerful ideas, and the requirement that the reader work a bit to get at meaning does not equal dumbing down of language. Sometimes the reader is the dummy.
poetry has reached an all time low… what happened to playing with words in an intelligent and MEANINGFUL way? is poetry now just about literally putting “shit” on the page?? sad and pathetic
poetry has reached an all time low… what happened to playing with words in an intelligent and MEANINGFUL way? is poetry now just about literally putting “shit” on the page?? sad and pathetic
What are you doing to “fix” poetry, then? Surely not just shit-talking on a blog?
What are you doing to “fix” poetry, then? Surely not just shit-talking on a blog?
It seems to me that the author gets to the tragedy that is already inherent in something as (perhaps) banal as The Oregon Trail. The tragedies in the game reverberate in our own lives. There is something here, also, about how we relate to one another through video game technologies and (obviously) also via the nostalgia that we feel for the game. The Oregon Trail for so many of us represents a small piece of our childhoods. As I remember The Oregon Trail I wonder if it was my first encounter with the idea of an inexorable death handed down by nature (or God, if one is feeling theistic), and I remember, too, that those deaths in the computer screened seemed to have such weight. They seemed to matter so much, and to be so far beyond changeable circumstances. For me, this poem, then, manages to capture this nostalgia, but also remind me of the real violence, of the starvation, and the torture in my present world. It is this that I find devastating.
It seems to me that the author gets to the tragedy that is already inherent in something as (perhaps) banal as The Oregon Trail. The tragedies in the game reverberate in our own lives. There is something here, also, about how we relate to one another through video game technologies and (obviously) also via the nostalgia that we feel for the game. The Oregon Trail for so many of us represents a small piece of our childhoods. As I remember The Oregon Trail I wonder if it was my first encounter with the idea of an inexorable death handed down by nature (or God, if one is feeling theistic), and I remember, too, that those deaths in the computer screened seemed to have such weight. They seemed to matter so much, and to be so far beyond changeable circumstances. For me, this poem, then, manages to capture this nostalgia, but also remind me of the real violence, of the starvation, and the torture in my present world. It is this that I find devastating.
Totally agree. I also sort of read this like so: the Oregon Trail–the words, the event, the people who traveled it, both successful and un–has become a jokey pop culture reference to a game we all played when we were kids, right? And what does that say about history, about human beings–that no matter the tragedy, the significance, the struggles–all human life viewed in the rear view mirror first become smaller, then tiny, then finally disappears entirely? To me that’s a devastating thing.
Like some of the other folks commenting on here, I find pop culture figures and references can be devastating. It’s a different kind of devastation, sure: more personal, quieter, more insides-killing. At least, I think so.
Totally agree. I also sort of read this like so: the Oregon Trail–the words, the event, the people who traveled it, both successful and un–has become a jokey pop culture reference to a game we all played when we were kids, right? And what does that say about history, about human beings–that no matter the tragedy, the significance, the struggles–all human life viewed in the rear view mirror first become smaller, then tiny, then finally disappears entirely? To me that’s a devastating thing.
Like some of the other folks commenting on here, I find pop culture figures and references can be devastating. It’s a different kind of devastation, sure: more personal, quieter, more insides-killing. At least, I think so.
JUNE 14, 1848
Weather: hot. Health: fair.
Dear Diary, had to leave the baby
behind because she wouldn’t eat.
Sent Jon out to shoot a buffalo,
but he said they all looked so peaceful
he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Figures. We’ll all be dead soon
enough. Waiting for the Indian
to get here so we can cross
the river. June 15, 1848.
Weather: still hot. Health: same.
Dear Diary, Chastity’s doll
drowned. She wanted to dive
in after it, but I reminded her
that she doesn’t know how to swim.
Dove in anyway. Another one lost.
Jon says he’ll skin us a buffalo
so we have something to eat, but
only if the buffalo has recently
died of natural causes. Get
a grip, Jon, I told him.
June 16: wagon broke.
Eating wild blackberries while
we wait for another wagon
party to come by and help.
Jon has gone off on his own
to meditate and ask forgiveness
of the earth. Prudence might
have dysentery. Figures.
June 17: Some days
I feel like I’m just a character
in a game played by a sick,
sick person, who has sent me
on this journey only to kill all
my loved ones along the way.
June 18: help came, but
in the night they stole our oxen.
Guess we’ll just have to walk
to Oregon now. Are you there,
God? It’s me, Mary Jane.
Send me some oxen and
a son who likes to shoot things.
June 19: Lost Prudence
to dysentery. Should we
eat her? Tough question.
June 20: Another river!
You have got to be kidding!
June 21: Managed to swim
across with diary on top
of my head so it wouldn’t
get wet. Jon and I have found
a tribe of Indians who will let us
stay with them. At least,
we think that’s what they said.
We don’t speak their language.
They seem to have indicated that
tonight we must follow them,
blindfolded, into a grove of trees,
and in the addled darkness our
dead will return and speak to us.
JUNE 14, 1848
Weather: hot. Health: fair.
Dear Diary, had to leave the baby
behind because she wouldn’t eat.
Sent Jon out to shoot a buffalo,
but he said they all looked so peaceful
he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Figures. We’ll all be dead soon
enough. Waiting for the Indian
to get here so we can cross
the river. June 15, 1848.
Weather: still hot. Health: same.
Dear Diary, Chastity’s doll
drowned. She wanted to dive
in after it, but I reminded her
that she doesn’t know how to swim.
Dove in anyway. Another one lost.
Jon says he’ll skin us a buffalo
so we have something to eat, but
only if the buffalo has recently
died of natural causes. Get
a grip, Jon, I told him.
June 16: wagon broke.
Eating wild blackberries while
we wait for another wagon
party to come by and help.
Jon has gone off on his own
to meditate and ask forgiveness
of the earth. Prudence might
have dysentery. Figures.
June 17: Some days
I feel like I’m just a character
in a game played by a sick,
sick person, who has sent me
on this journey only to kill all
my loved ones along the way.
June 18: help came, but
in the night they stole our oxen.
Guess we’ll just have to walk
to Oregon now. Are you there,
God? It’s me, Mary Jane.
Send me some oxen and
a son who likes to shoot things.
June 19: Lost Prudence
to dysentery. Should we
eat her? Tough question.
June 20: Another river!
You have got to be kidding!
June 21: Managed to swim
across with diary on top
of my head so it wouldn’t
get wet. Jon and I have found
a tribe of Indians who will let us
stay with them. At least,
we think that’s what they said.
We don’t speak their language.
They seem to have indicated that
tonight we must follow them,
blindfolded, into a grove of trees,
and in the addled darkness our
dead will return and speak to us.
You’ll be big one day, even if you’re already gone.
You’ll be big one day, even if you’re already gone.
It is really nice for me to see you and your great hardwork again.
Every piece of your work look excellent.Looking forward to hearing more from you!