The Everyday Housewife

[Roy Hobbs]

She watches clothes dry
through plate glass,
adjusting her physical being--
legs open and arms folded,
gives in to discursive thought.
So perceptive this watcher
of scramble, but without care
to know formal tensions
going on inside the dryer.
Suffused with powerful
feeling tones, she becomes
absorbed in tumbling whites--
socks, t-shirts, panties, towels,
dish cloths and table cloths,
fixed, to an extreme verge
of bicameral consciousness.
At such basement moments
water pipes, hot water heater,
junk in boxes fade. The lawn chair
she sits on, little tactile substance.
Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed.
Her world is radically
foreshortened to immediate
experience of garments dancing,
dancing, circling, tumbling--
but not joyously rising and falling,
never singing, but ending
in a pointless crumbling heap;
all spontaneous life,
all wetness gone to dry.
Today she went again
to the basement to watch
clothes dry, but there was nothing
inside the dryer.
She sat there
looking at her toes.

[Erthona]

Endemic in the Modern Western world is a vague and persistent melancholy, as idle hands are idle too often, as all needs are met and there are only wants on which to focus and try to decide which of those that are lacking are the cause of my unhappiness.

A nice depressing poem Roy.

This phrase seemed a bit off.

"Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed."

The "only to the extant listless" part.

I think the natural breaks might dictate a slightly longer line, plus it puts the juxtapositions mostly on the same line.

"She watches clothes dry through plate glass,
adjusting her physical being--legs open and arms folded,
gives in to discursive thought.
So perceptive this watcher of scramble,
but without care to know (the) formal tensions
going on inside the dryer."

For me the longer lines make the reading smoother, but that's purely a personal preference in terms of the style. To me though, the longer lines seem to fit with the somewhat sedate physical setting, although an argument could be made that the shorter lines fit the emotional state better. I still prefer the longer line, as it make the reading easier.

I like this line "legs open and arms folded". It conjures up a number of connotations.

Not sure I care of the word "scramble" where you use it. Maybe it has another meaning of which I am unaware.

All in all a nice sketch poem of the ennui of contemporary life.

Dale

[rayheinrich]

i like the poem to the extent that "she" is attaining enlightenment using
said dryer. "Toes" work for enlightenment as well. The only depressing part,
which i'd suggest be changed, is that burnt-sweaty smell of gender prejudice.
(Forget to wash before drying?)
Enlightenment, even through that most cruel of objects: the refrigerator, cannot
be obtained in this manner. Of course, if that's your point, then you need
to add a bunch more irony to your weight.

P.S. The real "bitch" is recursive thought.

P.P.S. 2 points awarded for using "bicameral consciousness".

[Leanne]

To be perfectly frank, having spent the last five years or so as "a housewife", I have real difficulty reconciling the almost diametrically-opposed readings I get from this: one, that there is something rather satisfyingly zen about watching the cycle of the dryer and letting the mind drift; two, that housewives have nothing better to do than sit staring at their toes wishing the dryer was going.

[Roy Hobbs]

P.S. The real "bitch" is recursive thought.

P.P.S. 2 points awarded for using "bicameral consciousness".

I been reading Jaynes's The Origin Of Consciousness
In The breakdown Of The Bicameral Mind. for the
last 30 years. Sections instructive to poets-- particu-
larly the 'analog I' and 'metaphor me.'

---

[quote='Leanne' pid='93056' dateline='1332723989']
To be perfectly frank, having spent the last five years or so as "a housewife", I have real difficulty reconciling the almost diametrically-opposed readings I get from this: one, that there is something rather satisfyingly zen about watching the cycle of the dryer and letting the mind drift; two, that housewives have nothing better to do than sit staring at their toes wishing the dryer was going.
**
Poetry, to my way of thinking, is all lies.
There is no truth in poetry. It's all "What
if things were such and such?"

The poem is the result of 'such and such."

If there were such a man as Prufrock, then ...
If there were a wasteland, then ...

If there existed a housewife, then ...

But she's not a real housewife, Prufrock's
not real. There is no wasteland. No Keatsian
love in a hut. No child died. No coy mistress
exists. It's all a magic curtain.

Plus, I have no idea what I'm talking about.
but it doesn't matter when you're 78 years
and have done all the damage you're going to
do.-- and the grandkids bring their babies,
and the wife loves gardening and the accounts
are full and settled and the robins try to
build nests in the wreath hanging on the door,
and your shoulder cracks when you lift your
arm.

Bless all here ...
rh

[Leanne]

All poets are liars, this is so -- however, the lie of the poet may be the truth of the reader, and it's fair to say that for every lie there's someone who believes it to be truth. So say rather, there is truth in all poetry, but it need not touch the poet

Though the housewife is not real, the connotations are present (not real, of course, you can't eat semantics). The good housewife becomes such after a dutiful turn in the stereotyping pool.

My own dryer, however, is broken and I must rely on the sun. As there is no great philosophical benefit to standing outside getting sunburnt, I must perforce do other things. My toes have not been properly contemplated in some time -- I wonder if they feel neglected?

[billy]

She watches clothes dry
through plate glass,
adjusting her physical being--
legs open and arms folded,
gives in to discursive thought. this conflicts too much with
So perceptive this watcher
of scramble, but without care
to know formal tensions
going on inside the dryer.
Suffused with powerful
feeling tones, she becomes
absorbed in tumbling whites-- this
socks, t-shirts, panties, towels,
dish cloths and table cloths,
fixed, to an extreme verge
of bicameral consciousness.[b]Both the above conflict with this statement[/b]
At such basement moments
water pipes, hot water heater,
junk in boxes fade. The lawn chair
she sits on, little tactile substance.
Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed.
Her world is radically
foreshortened to immediate
experience of garments dancing,
dancing, circling, tumbling--
but not joyously rising and falling,
never singing, but ending
in a pointless crumbling heap;
all spontaneous life,
all wetness gone to dry.
Today she went again
to the basement to watch
clothes dry, but there was nothing
inside the dryer.
She sat there
looking at her toes.

for me the woman i see here is an extraordinary housewife. the title doesn't fit the theme of the poem (for me) here we have a housewife who spends many hours a day watching the dryer or her toes. my mind says there's something deeper going on but my eyes tell it to stfu
while i like the poem, i found it to be a collection of thoughts pertaining to the writers pov of the titled subject. i read the posts about lies; for me if a poet lies it has to be a good lie. one that can't be detected as such.
in this instance, one that makes me the reader have some kind of affinity with the subject. (here it doesn't succeed)
i thought there were too much of conflict between certain statements for it to make credible sense and it was mainly these that stopped the poem being something more. all that said, i don't think it was a bad poem, it just felt like a bad lie. (jmo)

thanks for the read as always

[Roy Hobbs]

Hi Billy,

it's late here. I'm watchcing the Laker/
Memphis NBA game. Your reply -- lot to
think about.

If anything, now that your comments have
shaken the lie, 'bicameral consciousness"
is near a 'contradictio in adjecto.'

If bicameral, there is no 'full' consciousness.
But she's at the extreme verge, a peek.

... to be continued. I will not let this drop.
But I have a way of getting on people's nerves--
so it might be better if I do drop it.

Let me know.
rh

---

[quote='Roy Hobbs' pid='93019' dateline='1332648075']
She watches clothes dry
through plate glass,
adjusting her physical being--
legs open and arms folded,
gives in to discursive thought. this conflicts too much with
So perceptive this watcher
of scramble, but without care
to know formal tensions
going on inside the dryer.
Suffused with powerful
feeling tones, she becomes
absorbed in tumbling whites-- this
socks, t-shirts, panties, towels,
dish cloths and table cloths,
fixed, to an extreme verge
of bicameral consciousness.[b]Both the above conflict with this statement[/b]
At such basement moments
water pipes, hot water heater,
junk in boxes fade. The lawn chair
she sits on, little tactile substance.
Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed.
Her world is radically
foreshortened to immediate
experience of garments dancing,
dancing, circling, tumbling--
but not joyously rising and falling,
never singing, but ending
in a pointless crumbling heap;
all spontaneous life,
all wetness gone to dry.
Today she went again
to the basement to watch
clothes dry, but there was nothing
inside the dryer.
She sat there
looking at her toes.

for me the woman i see here is an extraordinary housewife. the title doesn't fit the theme of the poem (for me) here we have a housewife who spends many hours a day watching the dryer or her toes. my mind says there's something deeper going on but my eyes tell it to stfu
while i like the poem, i found it to be a collection of thoughts pertaining to the writers pov of the titled subject. i read the posts about lies; for me if a poet lies it has to be a good lie. one that can't be detected as such.
in this instance, one that makes me the reader have some kind of affinity with the subject. (here it doesn't succeed)
i thought there were too much of conflict between certain statements for it to make credible sense and it was mainly these that stopped the poem being something more. all that said, i don't think it was a bad poem, it just felt like a bad lie. (jmo)

thanks for the read as always
**************
I think you're right--
discursive and absorbed conflict, as you point out.
And now I'm bothered by that 'bicameral thing.'

Good work ...

rh



pointed out.

[billy]

hi rob,
my nerves can take it
bicameral consciousness
and discursive and tumblin whites. mmm i'm still not conviced
hope your team wins.

[Bronte]

She watches clothes dry
through plate glass,
adjusting her physical being--
legs open and arms folded,
gives in to discursive thought.
So perceptive this watcher
of scramble, but without care
to know formal tensions
going on inside the dryer.
Suffused with powerful
feeling tones, she becomes
absorbed in tumbling whites--
socks, t-shirts, panties, towels,
dish cloths and table cloths,
fixed, to an extreme verge
of bicameral consciousness.
At such basement moments
water pipes, hot water heater,
junk in boxes fade. The lawn chair
she sits on, little tactile substance.
Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed.
Her world is radically
foreshortened to immediate
experience of garments dancing,
dancing, circling, tumbling--
but not joyously rising and falling,
never singing, but ending
in a pointless crumbling heap;
all spontaneous life,
all wetness gone to dry.
Today she went again
to the basement to watch
clothes dry, but there was nothing
inside the dryer.
She sat there
looking at her toes.

menopausal and a real sense of her being abandoned

nice work my friend

[rayheinrich]

Lies require consciousness.

Maybe a way out of the stereotypicality would be to change
the damn thing to first person:

    Today I went again
    to the basement to watch
    clothes dry, but there was nothing
    inside the dryer.
    I sat there
    looking at my toes.

Unicameral reflection is always appropriate.

(Unfortunately my dryer has a metal door so I'm reduced to using my microwave.)


Hobbs said: "I've been reading Jaynes's "The Origin Of
Consciousness In The breakdown Of The Bicameral Mind"
for the last 30 years. Sections instructive to poets--
particularly the 'analog I' and 'metaphor me.' "

Ah, yes, it's been SO many years since i've heard that term.
i'll always remember the auditory hallucination bit since i've
experienced them, but the main the main thing i came away with
was the importance of the distinction between metaphor and symbol.
http://www.organelle.org/waw/waw0i.html


Hobbs said: "Plus, I have no idea what I'm talking about.
but it doesn't matter when you're 78 years and have done
all the damage you're going to do."

Now THAT's depressing. If i really thought you'd given
up the notion of doing real damage i'd be concerned.

Some days the only thing that keeps me going is the very
real fact that i CAN decide at any moment to slaughter
innocent civilians or, for that matter, write limericks.

[Roy Hobbs]

Good morning,

Sometimes I want to 'sound' profound-- as if
I know stuff; othertimes I scuff about in dis-
guised nonesense, sometimes in patent nonesense.

Then I remember not to long ago I went to the
Green Door, a Vegas sex club, with some old Air
Force pals, a kind of reunion. It was there I
discovered our decision to go was nonesense
neither disguisedd nor patent.

Since, I have been interested at nonesense in
language (having seen it in action).

Alice 'through the Green Door,' and Hobbs in
'Wonderland.'

What would one do in his spare time if he owned
a brothel? -- probably the same if he owned an
acreage outside Wagon Tongue, North Dakota?
**
Thanks for the reply...
rh

[rayheinrich]

"What would one do in his spare time if he owned
a brothel?"

My understanding (coming purely from my good friend Ernest)
is that owners of brothels, what with all the bits and pieces
they have to worry about, have very little spare time at all.

[heslopian]

A very dense and powerful poem. As Erthona said, it captures the ennui of modern life well. The image of the housewife staring at the dryer is poignant. I like the complexity of the portrait, how the narrative voice doesn't tell but shows us who the character is. Some sentences though, due to their convoluted nature, seem truncated. For instance:

"Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed."

To the extent a listless, circling panorama therein housed what? I think you either need an "of" after "extent" or "does" after "housed."
JMHO. Thanks for the read.

[Roy Hobbs]

A very dense and powerful poem. As Erthona said, it captures the ennui of modern life well. The image of the housewife staring at the dryer is poignant. I like the complexity of the portrait, how the narrative voice doesn't tell but shows us who the character is. Some sentences though, due to their convoluted nature, seem truncated. For instance:

"Yes, even the Maytag dryer
itself exists only to the extent
a listless, circling panorama
therein housed."

To the extent a listless, circling panorama therein housed what? I think you either need an "of" after "extent" or "does" after "housed."
JMHO. Thanks for the read.

'housed' here is an intransitive verb.
by syntax.

or housed therein.
Housed where?-- therein.

[heslopian]

Ah, thanks for clearing that up for me

[Roy Hobbs]

[quote='Heslopian' pid='93182' dateline='1332969817']
Ah, thanks for clearing that up for me
***

I like to clear things up.

In fact, yesterday I cleared up several things.
One, why do so many people think Flannery O'Connor
was a man? Her full name was Mary Flannery O'Connor--
and if people had noticed her photograph on her book
jackets, they would know.

But it's her own fault. In Wise blood she has a male
character named Hazel.

Lots of authors need photos--Gene Stratton Porter was
a woman. George Sand was a woman. George Eliot too.
Joyce Kilmer was a man. Gertrude Stein was a man.

Flannery loved peacocks, This accounts for the exotic
nature of her prose. The other parts have not been
accounted for.

rh

[abu nuwas]

Leaving aside the obvious exaggeration about all poetry being lies, I felt that this was a poem which had a covering of sadness. Being a natural prude, I jumped on the open legs as just the writer enjoying the thought; and I put that aside, at first thinking of the TV ads where some woman is more or less being shagged by a washing-machine, which I now think a clever adman's trick, judging by the way my one vibrates. So no sadness in all that. I think I felt that it was not so much a picture of the bored housewife, as the image of the woman breaking up. A close relative suffered what is fancifully called the 'baby blues' v badly, so that I or one of my daughters did shifts to keep her company. She actually had a little basement room where the washer was, plus deck-chairs etc, on the way out to the garden, which I loved, but she scarcely saw. I clearly recall her in that room, not looking at toes, but so vague, worried stressed and anxious, plus tired, that she had forgotten that she was there to get some little thing.

[Roy Hobbs]

[quote='abu nuwas' pid='93191' dateline='1332979697']
Leaving aside the obvious exaggeration about all poetry being lies, I felt that this was a poem which had a covering of sadness. Being a natural prude, I jumped on the open legs as just the writer enjoying the thought; and I put that aside, at first thinking of the TV ads where some woman is more or less being shagged by a washing-machine, which I now think a clever adman's trick, judging by the way my one vibrates. So no sadness in all that. I think I felt that it was not so much a picture of the bored housewife, as the image of the woman breaking up. A close relative suffered what is fancifully called the 'baby blues' v badly, so that I or one of my daughters did shifts to keep her company. She actually had a little basement room where the washer was, plus deck-chairs etc, on the way out to the garden, which I loved, but she scarcely saw. I clearly recall her in that room, not looking at toes, but so vague, worried stressed and anxious, plus tired, that she had forgotten that she was there to get some little thing.
***
Dear Abu,

After her nusband was arrested for stealing sheep,
Charles Lanb insisted that his wife call upon the
distressed lady. When asked why, Lamb replied,
"I have a tenderness for a sheep-stealer," -- just
as you had a tenderness for the lady in your anecdote.

We don't know when that tenderness will come, but
it does come, and we are the more human because of
it.

Your diagnoses of the cause of my lady's toe-staring
is probably correct-- if the poem is a lie, it's a
vital one.

Thanks for your comment,
delighted
rh