I think a lot about how our use of digital technology, social media, and mobile devices shapes how we feel, think, and behave; shapes our muscles and our memories. There is no doubt about the host of benefits afforded us by all of these technologies, but their costs are both obvious and hidden.
We know that sometimes we feel addicted to them. We know we devote an immense amount of time and attention to them. Although they should be working for us, we often feel that we are working for them. We may even feel more tired and stressed and discouraged after being on screens. Muscles tense, furrowed brows. No one feels free on screens.The cult of efficiency tells us that we can and must get more done.
We are learning more about the consciously addictive designs of these technologies, mobile devices in particular. They are meant to hook us in. We now have no doubt that our views and clicks, our “data”, are the basis of the attention and surveillance economy, a multi-multi-billion dollar behemoth of an industry. As a psychologist and neuroscience researcher, I think about states of mind and brain when we use these devices, mobile phones in particular.
So, in the great tradition of obsessive scientists throughout history, I have been conducting an experiment on myself. Instead of using my mobile device on my daily

subway commute, I now take a little notebook, about the size and shape of a small mobile device, and write poetry.
Some of the poetry is about my personal experience of technology, but most is not. The goal of the experiment is to track my subjective experience and assess how my state of mind changes when I think in poetry, express ideas in verse, write with a pen instead of click, swipe, click, swipe. No goals. Free-flowing thoughts. Efficiency the last thing on my mind.
Here are the poems I’ve written so far. I’m still collecting data. I’ll report back later in the summer and post more poems as I go.
If anyone wishes to join me in this experiment, please do so! Post your poems in the comments and I’ll post them on the blog (attributing them to you, the author, of course).
The Subway Poems
by Tracy-Dennis-Tiwary
Show Instead of tell
I wake
I raise my hand
I reach
I press
I swipe
I talk to you and forget
What you said
Only half remember what I said
I wonder, in the flood, what is really worth saving
What happens when we suddenly start listening,
When we pay
Attention?
Liquid sound
Small conversations: “I’m here”; “I know what you want”
My husband holds the coffee cup
Shifting in its saucer
Zooming in on a screen
Except nothing like that
The opposite of a two-dimensional half-life
On the screen, our bodies shrink,
Contained in our headbox
Eyes and ears
Holding our breath
A laser pointer, robot madmen
Eyes created to gather information
Autistic ticket-taker
Punch! Punch! Check off, check off!
We have made ourselves into the image of small people
Stuck in the trees, no forest views though they cry, “disrupt!” “innovate!”
Victims who have become victors
Powerful like sad, awkward puppeteers
Kind
Are you my kind?
Two of a kind, a kind of wonder
Kind of this and kind of that
Kinship is a slippery slope
An avalanche of decency
One step forward and three…
A tango, a pas de deux
Eliminate the excess
Authentic core
“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)”
Anywhere I go
I am in a land of others, of those who are not
Kin
Kinship being a slick and clever bird
Oil-slick and floundering
hydrodynamic
As little friction as possible
Same in skin, same in heart, same in bones
Same
Immense sameness
A tribe of potentiality
The tip of the spear
The Tip of the Spear
The world seems full of tips of spears
Doing the bidding of the savages
I imagine a spear with a stone arrowhead
Bound with twine or
(am I making it up that people did this?…)
Animal guts or entrails
The tip of the spear is bound tightly as a
Clenched fist and
As a dream from which
You can’t awake
As tightly as hope
When you have nothing left
Slow Image
Building blocks totter
Sculpture of Chinese letters
Hold the pen tightly
Woman on Subway
“Esperanza
Orange
Black woman
Puerto Rico”
Random Search
We are all subjects in the kingdom of randomness
Among our uncertain narratives
Hard pressed to find a story that we can live by,
That we can inhabit
How could the vast indifference,
The imperfect glazed bowl
Of our universe
Not make sense?
Can’t you see the spark in every
Rose and thistle
In every question and it’s too certain answer?
So long ago, I can’t remember
The inferno is hard to explain to a child
It assumes knowledge that is like a quagmire
Every step deeper in
But more lost
Sucking, slurping, sticky marsh goo
They should come to know that they will be judged
And, if not found wanting,
That they will dance away from the platform edges, and eventually embark
Towards a destination
If My Life Were Staged by a Puppeteer
(After watching Basil Twist’s SYMPhonie FANTAStique at HERE, NYC, Spring, 2018)
Puppeteers are underrated
We deride them as marionette-obsessed,
As hopeful that the world won’t see the strings
But I have seen puppeteers who perform
In flight
Wet suits slick
With dreaming fishes
And sparkle scarves
Twisting round so they are
In perfect time
With the daydreams
Of a lovelorn
Boy
Absolute Zero
How quaint it is to convince someone
That they are valued
We all know that our value
Is measured
In bits and bytes
Binary kingdom
Quantified selves
Our very eyeballs and fingers,
What they see and click and swipe…
Treasure
The delight of pirates and dragons
How can we doubt this?
And doubting, how can we then
Reach beyond ourselves to figure out
What matters?
Like playing an arcane card game with high stakes
The Babylonians discovered zero 400 years before Christ
But our distant, round companion
Doesn’t glow with a soft light
Is neither a satisfying ellipse
Nor a road to travel,
Neither a portal, nor a golden and flaming hoop,
Which we jump through and into and beyond
Zero is absolute
A closed door
A set point
An off switch
Zero is not infinitely possible
Zero is an unsheltering sky
The California Poems (New Poems Added 7/19/2018 After Having Visited California)
Boy in band
Your face
At first
Minute reflections
Then dust motes singeing tracks of light
You do not know that you are glowing
You think the light on your keyboard is merely ambient
But, my boy, light is not empty-transparent
I want you to know the wonder of frenetic photons
Prism magic
Lustrous and linking you to the seemingly tiny red giant
The white dwarf
The wheeling double black hole, bending space-time
Tiny pinprick across galaxies opening rifts
For cosmic rays to wriggle through
Strange backstreets
Charmed quarks
On stage now
No thought of the universal
Or of cosmic scales and endings
Just the moment
Darling boy, you do not know that you are glowing
You turn to the crowd and speak into the microphone
Not Shy
You showed me how to gallop down east 15th street
Making sure to stop two cracks back from the corner
Like we showed you when you were three years old
“Faster mama, like this”
Hair streaming behind you
A wily shadow
“Can I tell you something?” you asked, when I caught up
Then singing to yourself, skipped away
A jubilant stone on still water
Lately your body has become long and solid
It makes me think of sand packed firm along the shore
Yet still fragile
Softening with the tides
This summer you started to think about
The kind of person you are with other people
“I’m not shy“ you tell me
And I have to agree
But I see you, sweetheart, the many layers of you
A nautilus shell with inner swirls of glass and cloud
I think you know that you are seen and
Like to try on different suits, covered with concoctions of mirrors
I love to see them all
In Morro Bay
You carved your initials on a juicy, round cactus
Excited that you also wrote a T for me
Marking that we were together
Even though I sat, warm, in the car
Sheltered from the mist and wind swirling about the throat of the distracted volcano
where you played
Outside
In a storm, the world outside is temperate and ordered
A Bach etude
Soft moss under feet
Even the eye of the storm is never truly still
It both exceeds and falls short of our well-worn reference points
It is like a slumbering archetype,
A shadowy ideal
Our fear of storms requires no explanation
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror“
Serene disdain
Annihilation
Awe
But awe is not selfless admiration
It is the last shred of dignity and the relief
That comes from knowing
You do not yet have to say yes to the truly still point above the fray