Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Extra Credit - Week 12 - Junkyard Quote
"The facts are that cars are convenient; they are directly tied to many people's egos."
Extra Credit - Week 9 - Response to Emmanuel's "Improvisation 1, Week 11"
The Silent Victim
by Emmanuel Reddish
They found in her jewelry box a ring
that was slipped on her finger
at one time till death did her
and the husband apart.
Death had now come
and did deal a pretty card.
The dirt now lay around
and under her nails, in her nostrils,
wiped upon her face marks the date.
Her aunt hugged her,
gave her bandaids for the wounds that healed,
but did not provide the gauge
for the unhealable wound that was to come.
When her cousin gave a room
with food and drink, a cover
from the storm that always poured
when it rained, she denied
the benefits it gave.
So, those who still remain,
Thus did the foolish girl die.
We need to know more. I see where LaRue thinks domestic abuse, but I don't think that's incredibly evident in the piece. At least, not as evident as it could easily be.
That opening part is kind of cool and I wonder if you could do more with it. Could you characterize the woman with the things she left behind? It's your choice if you want to connect them all to her husband or not, but it would be a way to give us some of her history and personality and still focus on the death. Be careful--death is not an easy thing to handle.
Right now, it's just a lot of questions. What's up with the aunt? What happened, exactly, that she had to give her bandages? I don't understand the stanza with the cousin--the "storm" and "rain" thing threw me off. How did she die? Who found her? Where was she found? What did she do right before she died? What was she about to do? What did she eat? Not how the husband felt but--what was the last thing of his that she touched? Something like that. Go in an unexpected direction if you're going to do something like death.
LaRue is definitely right about the couplet. Right now it's just weighting your piece down with heavy, proper language. Also, if it's domestic abuse, I understand the reasoning behind the title, but it isn't doing anything special right now. Focus on the silent. Heck, make her a mime. Just do something interesting with it.
by Emmanuel Reddish
They found in her jewelry box a ring
that was slipped on her finger
at one time till death did her
and the husband apart.
Death had now come
and did deal a pretty card.
The dirt now lay around
and under her nails, in her nostrils,
wiped upon her face marks the date.
Her aunt hugged her,
gave her bandaids for the wounds that healed,
but did not provide the gauge
for the unhealable wound that was to come.
When her cousin gave a room
with food and drink, a cover
from the storm that always poured
when it rained, she denied
the benefits it gave.
So, those who still remain,
Thus did the foolish girl die.
We need to know more. I see where LaRue thinks domestic abuse, but I don't think that's incredibly evident in the piece. At least, not as evident as it could easily be.
That opening part is kind of cool and I wonder if you could do more with it. Could you characterize the woman with the things she left behind? It's your choice if you want to connect them all to her husband or not, but it would be a way to give us some of her history and personality and still focus on the death. Be careful--death is not an easy thing to handle.
Right now, it's just a lot of questions. What's up with the aunt? What happened, exactly, that she had to give her bandages? I don't understand the stanza with the cousin--the "storm" and "rain" thing threw me off. How did she die? Who found her? Where was she found? What did she do right before she died? What was she about to do? What did she eat? Not how the husband felt but--what was the last thing of his that she touched? Something like that. Go in an unexpected direction if you're going to do something like death.
LaRue is definitely right about the couplet. Right now it's just weighting your piece down with heavy, proper language. Also, if it's domestic abuse, I understand the reasoning behind the title, but it isn't doing anything special right now. Focus on the silent. Heck, make her a mime. Just do something interesting with it.
Extra Credit - Week 12 - Response to Brandy's "Extra Credit: Week 12 Improv"
Contravene
On a perfect square of travertine
flat and brindle, obscure as a map
of the monotonous Sahara,
lays a limp lizard.
Black-faced and striped like the sun
folding into the sky, her legs
darted under the weight of her
snake silhouette. Eyes uncovered,
she watches her own disintegration
like when I watch the fire
crawl down my Virginia Slim,
she ashed like that.
Yet her face kept its shape
despite the heat, the lack
of moisture.
That smooth pearl without shade
or shell had become prey
to her prey, red periling
over her line, her mouth,
the sun’s beam still perfecting
its aim.
I'm not saying the lizard needs to be the Jesus Christ of amphibeans or the turning point of man kind. She doesn't even need to be wearing a party hat or anything fancy like that. Just--why this lizard? What's the point? Is something else going on in the world that this lizard's actions at this particular moment are potent?
"Eyes uncovered,
she watches her own disintegration
like when I watch the fire
crawl down my Virginia Slim,
she ashed like that."
This is sorta a brilliant move--it brings in the "I" and it's an interesting image. But that last line, which is my favorite of this section, doesn't make sense syntactically, I think.
If you're looking for somewhere to expand, I'd say here:
"Yet her face kept its shape
despite the heat, the lack
of moisture"
The difficult task of staying beautiful as a lizard is...different.
But, overall, I'd disagree with your suggestion that it needs to be expanded. I think, size-wise, it's pretty solid. You just need to do a little bit more within those lines.
Extra Credit - Week 12 - Response to Pauline's "Week #12 - Improv #1"
riffed off of Dubrow’s “Bowl, in the Shape of a Bristol Boat”
Soup, in a Spoon for a Dying Mother
She spooned the soup for her, a stew so simple
it made itself overnight in the crockpot,
wafting aromas of onions, garlic, and greens,
its consistency, gumbo and tomato,
canned and seasoned, fresh and frozen from
the grocery store and the garden
which she tended herself. The thickening soup
mushroomed upward, began to boil.
No recipe required, no saucepan or cooktop.
The last taste of her daughter’s cooking or of any
of earth’s provision fed by human hand—
a sip of water, a pill for pain
from nurse or caregiver, a comfort.
She spooned the soup for her, as if to say
You are the daughter, I am the mother.
A brief point of clarity: the consistency is of gumbo? Or gumbo and tomato? Or neither? And watch for confusing pronouns.
Overall, an intruiging concept. I like that you focus on the soup rather than on the actual relationship. In class we seem to be very prone to always asking for more--until every poem becomes weighted with detail and memory. In this case, I think you did a good job of not needing all of that. It isn't important what the mother is dying of, just that she is.
Given that, I still want to know a little more about the soup. In the areas where it gets a little lofty--"or of any of earth's provisions fed by human hand," "No recipe required, no saucepan, no cooktop"--bring in more of the soup. Rather than saying she needs no recipe, say how often the soup has been cooked previously. You start to mention the smell of the soup, but it's all pretty general, very expected. I don't think the draft needs to be off the wall, the understatedness of it is great, but a little more wouldn't hurt.
Extra Credit - Week 12 - Junkyard Quote
"You've got to make contact with the alien leader. How will you tell when the conversation is finished?"
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Extra Credit - Week One - Improv "At Thirty-three" by Hans Magnus Enzensberger
At Thirty-three
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
At Twenty-Six
It was all so close to what she'd expected, really.
That one time she almost devirginized against a married
birdwatcher failed so she tried again: gyrated for a Latin
tap dancer,uncorked for a vineyard tour guide, drew
her V-card for a board game designer, do not pass go,
tap dancer,uncorked for a vineyard tour guide, drew
her V-card for a board game designer, do not pass go,
do not collect 200 dollars. Now she makes her bed
with word searches and Sudoku puzzles. She hoards
magazine articles on motorcycle repair, fly fishing,
and Call of Duty, then folds them in beside tagged lingerie:
a blue-ribboned baby doll, a chained and zippered bustier,
a peignore. Her walls shout techniques for proper tongue
flicking, hand cupping, the pressure of a pleasurable bite.
She's measured her age in quarter-years since she was eleven
and when she thinks of her last date, the swimsuit model
who asked her to hold his head underwater while he hooked
magazine articles on motorcycle repair, fly fishing,
and Call of Duty, then folds them in beside tagged lingerie:
a blue-ribboned baby doll, a chained and zippered bustier,
a peignore. Her walls shout techniques for proper tongue
flicking, hand cupping, the pressure of a pleasurable bite.
She's measured her age in quarter-years since she was eleven
and when she thinks of her last date, the swimsuit model
who asked her to hold his head underwater while he hooked
his pinkie behind her teeth, she wilts at the opportunity she refused.
Really, she wanted to submerge lobsters for dinner and place sliced
tomatoes on his tongue. She could read him her latest draft Cracking Open
a Suitcase in Gatsby’s Powder Room and tell him that, sometimes, her
gardener plants for the wrong season. She would show him her harmless history:
gardener plants for the wrong season. She would show him her harmless history:
the hula dancing, the sign language, maybe the tattoo of a Joker
juggling a rifle and a curling iron nestled against her spine and never
mention the men’s names, only the learned hobbies.
juggling a rifle and a curling iron nestled against her spine and never
mention the men’s names, only the learned hobbies.
Extra Credit - Week 2 - Sign Inventory of "Vanishing Lung Syndrom" by Holub
Vanishing Lung Syndrome*
*Burke (found on pages 184-185 of the anthology)
-Miroslav Holub, translated from the Czech by David Young and Dana Habova
1. The references in the poem. Two to writers: “a raven Nevermore” being Poe, of course, and Dostoevsky. I could probably add “Athena” to this if I broadened it from “writers” to famous figures (and then of course I’d have to narrow it at least a little because “famous people” is baggy.)
2. The onslaught of medical terminology. Similar to Dr. Davidson frequently citing the difference between “skull” and “cranium” in his classes, this one is all “fibrous mass,” “hypertension,” “angiography,” “cyst development,” etc.
3. The structure: the first stanza cites a particular person and then it shifts into “inside” and each stanza begins with “inside there may be.”
4. The two middle stanzas begin with a metaphor for sickness: the seas monster and a “huge muteness of fairytales” and then ends with all of the medical jargon. The last stanza, however, also begins with a metaphor but instead switches to “surgeons writ[ing] poems.”
5. A lot of abandonment, quietness, unfinished acts: “a raven Nevermore that can’t find a bust,” “a muteness of fairytales,” “dead-end road,” “a disappearance of perfusion,” “an abandoned room,/bare walls,” “a disconnected phone,” being “lost in a landscape,” and of course the title “Vanishing Lung Syndrome”
Extra Credit - Week Nine - Peer Response to Emmanuel's "Free Entry, Week 12"
The Meat Skin Lady
After service lets out,
we go and pray for Miss Annette--
the lady who sells meat skins
next door to the church.
One dollar a bag makes the saints rejoice
at the smell of fried pork fat
with tasty seasoning on it.
You can get plain, barbeque, or salt-n-vinegar
to make your lips crisp.
I am not racist when I say
only white folks eat pork rinds
and chicharrones are for Mexicans.
Black people eat meat skins,
but you have to be careful
'cause some hair hair on them.
On the sofa, we hold hands,
speak in tongues, and sing hymns
right before leaving and getting
free bags of skins.
My house shall be called a house of prayer,
but ye have made it a den of thieves.
After service lets out,
we go and pray for Miss Annette--
the lady who sells meat skins
next door to the church.
One dollar a bag makes the saints rejoice
at the smell of fried pork fat
with tasty seasoning on it.
You can get plain, barbeque, or salt-n-vinegar
to make your lips crisp.
I am not racist when I say
only white folks eat pork rinds
and chicharrones are for Mexicans.
Black people eat meat skins,
but you have to be careful
'cause some hair hair on them.
On the sofa, we hold hands,
speak in tongues, and sing hymns
right before leaving and getting
free bags of skins.
My house shall be called a house of prayer,
but ye have made it a den of thieves.
At first, I thought the opening was great. It drew me in. But Tim may be right. You definitely need more explanation of the meat skins, so why not begin there? And I say keep the racist line.
Something like:
Only white people at pork rinds.
(Explanation of pork rinds).
So I’m not racist when I say black people eat meat skins:
(explanation of meat skins, and how they’re obviously different than pork rinds).
My mama always told me to be careful of the hair.
She schooled me on the seasoning.
^That’s obviously horribly rough, but you get the point.^
What you have right now is a little odd, really. They go and pray for her *after* service. And yet the speaker knows all about her. So, is that the point? You could do a cool juxtaposition of the image of praying with begging for these meat skins, on their knees with their hands clasped. They talk about her badly at church but they all go over there.
And, as we’ve said before: watch for baggy sentences. “Right before leaving and getting free bags of skins” jumps to mind.
Extra Credit - Week 2 - Peer Response to LaRue's "Improv 1, Post 8, Week 12"
At Thirty-three
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
At Twenty-three
Casey LaRue
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Only one wheezing Ford for the two of them.
At one time she was almost engaged.
First she tried teaching, then writing.
Now she just tries for a paper.
Not enough men attempt to satisfy her.
One man convinced her to tithe, but she did not sing.
Her family makes sure she doesn't starve.
When she thinks of the Middle East she draws a blank.
Her last lover, the drunk, always wanted her to cry.
Blue jeans and T-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up.
She can only grow a cactus.
Really she wanted to sing, or surf.
Her major, Mass Communications with
a minor in English, her native tongue.
Grades, drafts, and a box of rejections.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her apples.
Fake ballet in the living room, a cat and a dog,
crying for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart.
When she giggles she sounds like a child.
LaRue--this is easily my favorite of yours this semester. Who doesn't want to know abou someone who "can only grow a cactus," whose "gradnmother sends her apples," who "just tries for paper." My main suggestion would be to be a little more unique--the three I just said are intruiging, but a few fall a little flat: "blue jeans a t-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up" and "She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart," for example. And a couple make me want to know more to the point of distraction: "Only one wheezing Ford between the two of them" (which two? Who?) and "Fake ballet in the living room," for example--don't cut these, just give us more. Now that you have the Improv done, expand on it. Not too much, because the simplification of a person's life to all of these one- or two-line details is sorta cool, but we do still need more.
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
At Twenty-three
Casey LaRue
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Only one wheezing Ford for the two of them.
At one time she was almost engaged.
First she tried teaching, then writing.
Now she just tries for a paper.
Not enough men attempt to satisfy her.
One man convinced her to tithe, but she did not sing.
Her family makes sure she doesn't starve.
When she thinks of the Middle East she draws a blank.
Her last lover, the drunk, always wanted her to cry.
Blue jeans and T-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up.
She can only grow a cactus.
Really she wanted to sing, or surf.
Her major, Mass Communications with
a minor in English, her native tongue.
Grades, drafts, and a box of rejections.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her apples.
Fake ballet in the living room, a cat and a dog,
crying for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart.
When she giggles she sounds like a child.
LaRue--this is easily my favorite of yours this semester. Who doesn't want to know abou someone who "can only grow a cactus," whose "gradnmother sends her apples," who "just tries for paper." My main suggestion would be to be a little more unique--the three I just said are intruiging, but a few fall a little flat: "blue jeans a t-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up" and "She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart," for example. And a couple make me want to know more to the point of distraction: "Only one wheezing Ford between the two of them" (which two? Who?) and "Fake ballet in the living room," for example--don't cut these, just give us more. Now that you have the Improv done, expand on it. Not too much, because the simplification of a person's life to all of these one- or two-line details is sorta cool, but we do still need more.
Extra Credit - Week 2 - Peer Response to MacKenzie's "Free Write Week 12"
A re-do of an earlier draft:
I agree with Pauline. It's a great idea, and in some places it's executed very, very well, but it's difficult to read. The sentences feel awkward and clunky. "So you lied about Jesus" is such an important line in the poem and it doesn't have any punch--for me, it falls a little flat (it may be the onslaught of "lie": it's the third time you use the word in as many lines.) Likewise, the line "One day left, then college, beer, boys, a bus to board" seems like it's supposed to be the daughter thinking about these things longingly, telling herself she only has one more day that she has to lie about her religion, right? But I'm not excited for her. Maybe you need a little more of her current home life there. "One day left of _____. Then: a bus to board for college, beer, boys." I don't understand the syntax of the line that follows that.
After that, it really takes off. The conflicting images of the daughter knowing a man and the mother unable to know God fully is beautiful.
A Man in the Attic
Your mother believed the lie
because you never lied. Not about the one-time
shoplift, the mouse in your brother’s bed. So you lied
about Jesus. One day left, then college, beer, boys,
a bus to board. You said you knew him, and she thought:
like a hand on your neck, beads which have slipped
through your fingers, prayers. But you knew
him in the night like a moth
flicking its wings against the porchlight.
When you were born, she scrubbed
until her knuckles flaked to put bread
on your tongue. In church, she rubbed
her empty hands and felt the warmth of God.
When you lied, she believed, because she had forgotten
When you lied, she believed, because she had forgotten
the marketplace of her body, her fruits
in their baskets spilling, her skin tangy
in the open air. She had forgotten
how to know the man in the attic, the way
her daughter knew a man, hot and metallic
in her teeth, hands sprung like bows.
I agree with Pauline. It's a great idea, and in some places it's executed very, very well, but it's difficult to read. The sentences feel awkward and clunky. "So you lied about Jesus" is such an important line in the poem and it doesn't have any punch--for me, it falls a little flat (it may be the onslaught of "lie": it's the third time you use the word in as many lines.) Likewise, the line "One day left, then college, beer, boys, a bus to board" seems like it's supposed to be the daughter thinking about these things longingly, telling herself she only has one more day that she has to lie about her religion, right? But I'm not excited for her. Maybe you need a little more of her current home life there. "One day left of _____. Then: a bus to board for college, beer, boys." I don't understand the syntax of the line that follows that.
After that, it really takes off. The conflicting images of the daughter knowing a man and the mother unable to know God fully is beautiful.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Extra Credit - Week 9 - Junkyard Quote
"Cones: Lick in swirling motion, dealing first with the overhang at the rim of the cone. When no one is looking, dart out tongue, snake-fashion, and push middle of scoop into cone. The ice cream cone is designed to teach children about symmetry and fairness, as anything but strict impartiality in the licing and the cone-nibbling is disastrous. Biting off the bottom of the cone and sucking the ice cream through it is illegal."
Extra Credit - Week 9 - Junkyard Quote
"The chief duty of the bridegroom's family is to pretend to be crazy about the bride. Some find this as difficult as the task to sustain as all the planning, financing, and execution of the bride's family's duties put together. Nevertheless, it must be borne constantly in mind, as the bridegroom's parents are run through a routine not of their own making. They have few tasks, but constantly repeating how lovely everything is--the bride's grandmother, the wedding silver, the bridesmaid's dresses, the striped tent on the lawn, the wedding breakfast, the promises about then thank you latters will be written--is essential."
^I keep imagining an angry draft of an annoyed member of the groom's family trying to compliment the bridge or characterize her through all of these weird things listed above.^
^I keep imagining an angry draft of an annoyed member of the groom's family trying to compliment the bridge or characterize her through all of these weird things listed above.^
Extra Credit - Week 9 - Junkyard Quote
"A game of telling or demanding embarrassing truths about individuals is wreaking pyschological havoc among the less sturdy guests."
Extra Credit - Week 9 - Junkyard Quote
"What you report is a sin, but it is not the cardinal sin. The cardinal sin is correcting the manners of one's guests. A true lady does not acknowledge that there is such a thing as a toilet. When someone leaves the room, she does not thin about where that person is going, and when she leaves the room herself, she is confident that everyone assumes she is retiring to powder her nose."
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Week Eleven - Free Write - New England Prostitutes
This is prosey and awful, but after recent conversation (MacKenzie, Sydney, Brandy...), I reeeally want to write a New England Prostitute poem, so I decided to do a freewrite on it... I'll be trying this again.
It's the streets of New England and there are corners that cross and bend around storefronts of baked bread and ship mending. Here, you picnic on leaves because that's all there is, the grounds saturated, the houses balanced on generations of tree-droppings, and everywhere is downtown. Families are cobblestoned in to Thomas Kinkade.
But look closer. At night, the Thompson family-- hanging tiny Kate from her wrists, swung wide over the rock ground, balanced for just a moment, brought back down-- avoids the halos of streetlight. They stick to the ally ways, where the garbage is properly boxed. They want to avoid Valerie, who never swung at her wrists until she was bound to a pole. She sets up at Chestnut and Fairway. They want to avoid Gianna, in all her hispanic lore, and so they skip over the crossing of Magnolia and Pickerton. Serena and Jasmine hold their two-for-one at Seaview and Pine, hands clasped around the light post, teetertottering. The girls hide themselves beneath parkas and fur-lined leather pants, earmuffs, waiting to be unwrapped.
It's the streets of New England and there are corners that cross and bend around storefronts of baked bread and ship mending. Here, you picnic on leaves because that's all there is, the grounds saturated, the houses balanced on generations of tree-droppings, and everywhere is downtown. Families are cobblestoned in to Thomas Kinkade.
But look closer. At night, the Thompson family-- hanging tiny Kate from her wrists, swung wide over the rock ground, balanced for just a moment, brought back down-- avoids the halos of streetlight. They stick to the ally ways, where the garbage is properly boxed. They want to avoid Valerie, who never swung at her wrists until she was bound to a pole. She sets up at Chestnut and Fairway. They want to avoid Gianna, in all her hispanic lore, and so they skip over the crossing of Magnolia and Pickerton. Serena and Jasmine hold their two-for-one at Seaview and Pine, hands clasped around the light post, teetertottering. The girls hide themselves beneath parkas and fur-lined leather pants, earmuffs, waiting to be unwrapped.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Week Eleven - Sign Inventory - York's Sensitivity
York's "Sensitivity," found on page 9 of Persons Unknown.
- An interest in the mouth/repertory area: “fold the sound of breath,” “bleeding throat,” “tongue’s last epileptic flutter,” mention of a microphone, maybe; “cough” of strings, “the breath is gone,” “the wood hums.” In particular, perhaps, associating these human-repertory functions/body parts with instruments.
- In addition, a dismantling of the body: the above mentioned throat and tongue could be added to a list that includes fingers.
- Recording: both the recording of sound and the story being written for the Times.-This may be obvious and necessary in this kind of a poem, but: harming a body. We have bruise, bleeding throat, and scars. None of these are in reference to an actual body.
- Again, maybe obvious in a poem that focuses on instruments and sound, but: an emphasis on things being heard. A “whisper,” “say this again,” “only the drinks are listening,” “they cannot hear/how the rivers heal their quiet,” “catch each clap/each note that falls.” I think these can be separated from the other mentions of sound, which are primarily about the actual sounds of mentioned instruments.
- An interest in the mouth/repertory area: “fold the sound of breath,” “bleeding throat,” “tongue’s last epileptic flutter,” mention of a microphone, maybe; “cough” of strings, “the breath is gone,” “the wood hums.” In particular, perhaps, associating these human-repertory functions/body parts with instruments.
- In addition, a dismantling of the body: the above mentioned throat and tongue could be added to a list that includes fingers.
- Recording: both the recording of sound and the story being written for the Times.-This may be obvious and necessary in this kind of a poem, but: harming a body. We have bruise, bleeding throat, and scars. None of these are in reference to an actual body.
- Again, maybe obvious in a poem that focuses on instruments and sound, but: an emphasis on things being heard. A “whisper,” “say this again,” “only the drinks are listening,” “they cannot hear/how the rivers heal their quiet,” “catch each clap/each note that falls.” I think these can be separated from the other mentions of sound, which are primarily about the actual sounds of mentioned instruments.
Week Eleven - Peer Response to LaRue's "Improv 2, Post 9, Week 10"
BonsaiBilly Collins
All it takes is one to throw a room
completely out of whack.
Over by the window
it looks hundreds of yards away,
a lone stark gesture of wood
on that distant cliff of a table.
Up close, it draws you in,
cuts everything down to its size.
Look at it from the doorway,
and the world dilates and bloats.
The button lying next to it
is now a earl wheel,
the book of matches is a raft,
and the coffee cup a cistern
to catch the same rain
that moistens its small plot of dark, mossy earth.
For it even carries its own weather,
leaning away from a fierce wind
that somehow blows
through the calm tropics of this room.
The way it bends inland at the elbow
makes me want to inch my way
to the very top of its spiky greenery,
hold onto for dear life
and watch the sea storm rage,
hoping for a tiny whale to appear.
I want to see her plunging forward
through the troughs,
tunneling under the foam and spindrift
on her annual, thousand-mile journey.
Fountain
Casey LaRue
All it takes is one to fill and swell
an entire room.
Over on the end table
its light bends through the flow
and dances on the lampshade
next to a long-burnt bulb.
Up close, its water sounds like an audience softly clapping,
blinking and choking
and smiling they nod,
each sending silent love to their children.
As the actors rush out
for the curtain call,
They join hands and bow,
Looking at their parents' faces in the tile.
I agree with Sydney, here. You have a good start on your images--I like water "swelling" a room, especially (strike the "dancing" that comes afterward; light "dancing" is a cliche). Am I reading it correctly--you're describing the fountain, and then likening the sound of the water running to an audience clapping, and that's where the theater comes in? If so, that's fine, it just becomes a little murky because, as of now, the draft doesn't return to the fountain. Also, starting a new sentence that is still about the theater, without really relating back to the fountain or to the *sound* of the production throws it a little.
Why this fountain? When? With whom? What's going on around it?
All it takes is one to throw a room
completely out of whack.
Over by the window
it looks hundreds of yards away,
a lone stark gesture of wood
on that distant cliff of a table.
Up close, it draws you in,
cuts everything down to its size.
Look at it from the doorway,
and the world dilates and bloats.
The button lying next to it
is now a earl wheel,
the book of matches is a raft,
and the coffee cup a cistern
to catch the same rain
that moistens its small plot of dark, mossy earth.
For it even carries its own weather,
leaning away from a fierce wind
that somehow blows
through the calm tropics of this room.
The way it bends inland at the elbow
makes me want to inch my way
to the very top of its spiky greenery,
hold onto for dear life
and watch the sea storm rage,
hoping for a tiny whale to appear.
I want to see her plunging forward
through the troughs,
tunneling under the foam and spindrift
on her annual, thousand-mile journey.
Fountain
Casey LaRue
All it takes is one to fill and swell
an entire room.
Over on the end table
its light bends through the flow
and dances on the lampshade
next to a long-burnt bulb.
Up close, its water sounds like an audience softly clapping,
blinking and choking
and smiling they nod,
each sending silent love to their children.
As the actors rush out
for the curtain call,
They join hands and bow,
Looking at their parents' faces in the tile.
I agree with Sydney, here. You have a good start on your images--I like water "swelling" a room, especially (strike the "dancing" that comes afterward; light "dancing" is a cliche). Am I reading it correctly--you're describing the fountain, and then likening the sound of the water running to an audience clapping, and that's where the theater comes in? If so, that's fine, it just becomes a little murky because, as of now, the draft doesn't return to the fountain. Also, starting a new sentence that is still about the theater, without really relating back to the fountain or to the *sound* of the production throws it a little.
Why this fountain? When? With whom? What's going on around it?
Week Eleven - Peer Response to Kamau's "Free Entry 1 Week 11"
The room is quiet, and no women whisper.
They wait for years in the quarters,
until around the corner, the story screams.
The might of the lip is as sharp as the blade.
Cliche enough to make them all gag.
They wait again for years in the quarters,
til finally a smiling story comes about.
The soul of a woman, like the sleeping volcano.
peace is at ease, until awaken.
To literally pummel everything in the way.
So, there are several lines in here worth using, for sure, but we need something more concrete. "Around the corner, the story screams"--what story, exactly? Give us the narrative, in detail. I would keep that rather than "a smiling story," which doesn't have the same pull, doesn't urge for further detail. "The soul of a woman, like the sleeping volcano" is a great notion and could be utilized better with some reordering and cutting, maybe. It reads a bit prosey, to me, though that may be the result of its place in this particular poem. What I mean is, there isn't enough punchy language around it to merit a line that quiet.
They wait for years in the quarters,
until around the corner, the story screams.
The might of the lip is as sharp as the blade.
Cliche enough to make them all gag.
They wait again for years in the quarters,
til finally a smiling story comes about.
The soul of a woman, like the sleeping volcano.
peace is at ease, until awaken.
To literally pummel everything in the way.
So, there are several lines in here worth using, for sure, but we need something more concrete. "Around the corner, the story screams"--what story, exactly? Give us the narrative, in detail. I would keep that rather than "a smiling story," which doesn't have the same pull, doesn't urge for further detail. "The soul of a woman, like the sleeping volcano" is a great notion and could be utilized better with some reordering and cutting, maybe. It reads a bit prosey, to me, though that may be the result of its place in this particular poem. What I mean is, there isn't enough punchy language around it to merit a line that quiet.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Week Eleven - Junkyard Quote 4
"There as a lot of toast in the 20's" -- I don't remember, at all, where this is from. I wrote it in my notebook, but I cannot at all recall when, who said it, or what the context was...
"We now sell chicken livers" -- on a sign outside of a gas station-turned-restaurant (the gas pumps and all are still there). I feel like this junkyard quote would be better represented as a photograph of this particular scene, but I guess that's the poet's job.
"We now sell chicken livers" -- on a sign outside of a gas station-turned-restaurant (the gas pumps and all are still there). I feel like this junkyard quote would be better represented as a photograph of this particular scene, but I guess that's the poet's job.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Week Eleven - Junkyard Quote 3
"They're going to fingerprint me. I'm actually an alien, I'm just hiding my antennas and my tentacles and stuff" - Dr. Erben, gesturing over his head like a kind of rooster mixed with a tribal dance, about citizenship.
Week Eleven - Junkyard Quote 1
"Sometimes, I'm just like, yeah, can I go back in my jar?" - Dr. Masters, talking about the benefits New Criticism.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Week Ten - Free Write
Subject: headless statue
Adjectives: sunken, clipped, truncated, glossy, fractured, slender, stuck
Appositives:
cracked kiln remnants
Leftover of heat
Relic of dug earth
Three acts:
Ignore on the shelf
Huddle with Nike
Write a poem about it
Three memories:
My mother threw away the Nike
The head cracked off in my backpack
The toddler stole the head
Declarations of importance:
Illustrates how thin pieces of clay crack in the kiln
Links back to the vacation when my now gone aunt bought me the cheap Nike statue
Glossy, sunken. A relic of cracked heat and earth dug kilns. Passed over on the shelf, huddled along Nike’s wing-cast dominance and forward footed stride. Once, deep in a purse, the head snapped off between a romance novel and check book. Once, it tipped off of a cosmetics shelf and fractured her long neck on Nascar model. The toddler popped the truncated head into her mouth and sucked. The slender pieces always fall to the kiln’s heat.
Adjectives: sunken, clipped, truncated, glossy, fractured, slender, stuck
Appositives:
cracked kiln remnants
Leftover of heat
Relic of dug earth
Three acts:
Ignore on the shelf
Huddle with Nike
Write a poem about it
Three memories:
My mother threw away the Nike
The head cracked off in my backpack
The toddler stole the head
Declarations of importance:
Illustrates how thin pieces of clay crack in the kiln
Links back to the vacation when my now gone aunt bought me the cheap Nike statue
Glossy, sunken. A relic of cracked heat and earth dug kilns. Passed over on the shelf, huddled along Nike’s wing-cast dominance and forward footed stride. Once, deep in a purse, the head snapped off between a romance novel and check book. Once, it tipped off of a cosmetics shelf and fractured her long neck on Nascar model. The toddler popped the truncated head into her mouth and sucked. The slender pieces always fall to the kiln’s heat.
Week Ten - Improv 2 - "Tree of Fire" and "Ulumbo, a Cat"
My poor attempts at short poems. I did two because one seemed like a cop out. I just don't get it...
Tree of Fire
-Adonis, translated from the Arabic by Samuel Hazo
The tree by the river
is weeping leaves.
It strews the shore
with tear after tear.
It reads to the river
its prophecy of fire.
I am that final
leaf that no one
sees.
My people
have died as fires
die--with a trace.
______
The juggler in the ring
is tossing balls.
He litters the ground
with drop after drop.
He feels the crowd
shutter him with embarrassment.
I am that final
Hackysack that teeters
on the fingertip. The crowd
rises as I’m caught.
I am
Blurred behind the
flurry of missed grasps.
Ulumbo, a Cat
-Rutger Kopland, translated from the Dutch by James Brockway
Like us he had his
quirks, but more
indifference.
In the winter he loved
stoves, in summer
little birds.
Sick and as indifferent
to death as to us.
dying he did himself.
___
Like us he danced on
his fears, but with more
sashaying arabesques.
In the locked box he
hugged proximity; with arachnids,
all eight legs cradled him.
Trembling and as tense
to laughter as to us.
Telling jokes he told himself.
Tree of Fire
-Adonis, translated from the Arabic by Samuel Hazo
The tree by the river
is weeping leaves.
It strews the shore
with tear after tear.
It reads to the river
its prophecy of fire.
I am that final
leaf that no one
sees.
My people
have died as fires
die--with a trace.
______
The juggler in the ring
is tossing balls.
He litters the ground
with drop after drop.
He feels the crowd
shutter him with embarrassment.
I am that final
Hackysack that teeters
on the fingertip. The crowd
rises as I’m caught.
I am
Blurred behind the
flurry of missed grasps.
Ulumbo, a Cat
-Rutger Kopland, translated from the Dutch by James Brockway
Like us he had his
quirks, but more
indifference.
In the winter he loved
stoves, in summer
little birds.
Sick and as indifferent
to death as to us.
dying he did himself.
___
Like us he danced on
his fears, but with more
sashaying arabesques.
In the locked box he
hugged proximity; with arachnids,
all eight legs cradled him.
Trembling and as tense
to laughter as to us.
Telling jokes he told himself.
Week Ten - Improv 1 - "Miniature"
My improv probably makes way more sense to me than it does to anyone else. I should preface it by saying I have a bit of an obsession with headless female statues. That might help a bit?
Miniature
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
______
The figurine slouched over toward her friend. Her melted hands
fuse to the cemented curve of her thigh
like mittens sewn into pockets
for safe keeping. Her fired friend, bent oppositely,
is drilled in the bottom of her dress. She doesn’t look at her.
She twists toward the heat. Her shoulders rest at a disco-dancers angle,
captured shine against her gutted throat and the elbows curve. The kiln
rains heat like the prick of rough cat tongue against their mutilation. Something has cracked.
The moisture has gone. It’s too slender. Let’s nurse our necks.
Is it possible, then, for claim to be voiced in this sort of state?
Will they pass by, ownership cast to the missing? And only these figures to remain,
with sloped shoulders cradling an exhausted spine,
resting upon hollowed dresses,
their screaming skulls at their feet?
Miniature
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
______
The figurine slouched over toward her friend. Her melted hands
fuse to the cemented curve of her thigh
like mittens sewn into pockets
for safe keeping. Her fired friend, bent oppositely,
is drilled in the bottom of her dress. She doesn’t look at her.
She twists toward the heat. Her shoulders rest at a disco-dancers angle,
captured shine against her gutted throat and the elbows curve. The kiln
rains heat like the prick of rough cat tongue against their mutilation. Something has cracked.
The moisture has gone. It’s too slender. Let’s nurse our necks.
Is it possible, then, for claim to be voiced in this sort of state?
Will they pass by, ownership cast to the missing? And only these figures to remain,
with sloped shoulders cradling an exhausted spine,
resting upon hollowed dresses,
their screaming skulls at their feet?
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Week Ten - Sign Inventory - "Minature" by Yannis Ritsos
Miniature
-Yannis Ritsos, translated from the Greek by Edmund Keeley
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
-Emphasis on the hands toward the beginning.
-Personification of inanimate objects: hands that are “sad,” the clock with a “heartbeat.”
-Actually, making things what they are not in general: the lemon wedges as wheels and maybe the armchair as coffin?
-Takes place in the present, but the first line has a level of past-ness to it. “Stood” before “begin,” “holding, “has gone,” etc.
-Movement from specific moments of narrative action (cutting the lemon, lighting the cigarette, not looking at each other) to abstraction (musings over death’s carriage, where Death would have gone, the image of the lemon wheels on an imagined dark street, etc.)
-Yannis Ritsos, translated from the Greek by Edmund Keeley
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
-Emphasis on the hands toward the beginning.
-Personification of inanimate objects: hands that are “sad,” the clock with a “heartbeat.”
-Actually, making things what they are not in general: the lemon wedges as wheels and maybe the armchair as coffin?
-Takes place in the present, but the first line has a level of past-ness to it. “Stood” before “begin,” “holding, “has gone,” etc.
-Movement from specific moments of narrative action (cutting the lemon, lighting the cigarette, not looking at each other) to abstraction (musings over death’s carriage, where Death would have gone, the image of the lemon wheels on an imagined dark street, etc.)
Week Ten - Response to Brandy's "Free Entry 1 Week 10"
It is when she wears those thinly spread,
flat yet ripe, radish lips, her thinking lips,
that I want to kiss her most. And even
though those same lips hoard speech,
fencing the words inside her mouth-cave,
rotary utters grazing the back of her tongue,
clicking the trigger, thrusting the hard swallow,
forcing the echo past the cork-chamber of her throat,
I would still risk my voice to cover the sparse
invalid heart-pink of her chin, with my own.
______
This may be one of those instances of language too high. Directly opposing Tim, though, "mouth-cave" is my favorite part. It's different, but not so different it's difficult to swallow (sorry for the lame pun) like "rotary utters" may be. That first sentence takes a lot of time to read, for me--it's dense. I love the "It is when" beginning, one of my favorite strategies. But after that it gets very muddled. It's a lot of words, a lot of descriptions, for the lips. I don't think you need, per se, to cut any of them, just relocate to a different place in the poem so they don't hit you all at once. Also, we definitely need the "settling down" line somewhere--the brief, perfectly placed, easily readable line that pulls us out of the intense poetic language for just a moment.
This probably wasn't intentional, but...Little Mermaid sort of feel to it? The speaker's voice as the thing potentially lost to gain this other person?
flat yet ripe, radish lips, her thinking lips,
that I want to kiss her most. And even
though those same lips hoard speech,
fencing the words inside her mouth-cave,
rotary utters grazing the back of her tongue,
clicking the trigger, thrusting the hard swallow,
forcing the echo past the cork-chamber of her throat,
I would still risk my voice to cover the sparse
invalid heart-pink of her chin, with my own.
______
This may be one of those instances of language too high. Directly opposing Tim, though, "mouth-cave" is my favorite part. It's different, but not so different it's difficult to swallow (sorry for the lame pun) like "rotary utters" may be. That first sentence takes a lot of time to read, for me--it's dense. I love the "It is when" beginning, one of my favorite strategies. But after that it gets very muddled. It's a lot of words, a lot of descriptions, for the lips. I don't think you need, per se, to cut any of them, just relocate to a different place in the poem so they don't hit you all at once. Also, we definitely need the "settling down" line somewhere--the brief, perfectly placed, easily readable line that pulls us out of the intense poetic language for just a moment.
This probably wasn't intentional, but...Little Mermaid sort of feel to it? The speaker's voice as the thing potentially lost to gain this other person?
Week Ten - Response to Sydney's Week 9 Improv of "Sexism"
The lamest excuse of a man
is when he lies about limp impotency,
telling the woman she's too fat in the
middle, too flabby in the thighs; patching
it up with a touching its not you, its me
spew, a thanks for dinner, and call
ya soon while rushing out the door
before she cries again.
The lamest excuse of woman
is when she lies prostrate and
moaning, faking the third orgasm
of the night--none of which she
actually felt-- to boost the guys
ego, or his shaft; let him feel like
a man, doing big man things, before
he shrinks back down to size.
_________
First of all, MacKenzie amuses me.
But on to the draft: I think this is sort of awesome. It still has draft-y qualities about it but, well, it's a draft. I agree with MacKenzie that it doesn't quite hit its mark (pun intended a bit, maybe).
One of the best parts isn't the language itself but the general use of each stanza. Like the original, this draft gives a reasoning behind the woman's actions and leaves the man's, basically, unexplained.
This section could definitely be more potent: "patching
it up with a touching its not you, its me
spew, a thanks for dinner, and call
ya soon while rushing out the door
before she cries again."
That end bit edges upon cliche, a woman crying yet again, and though the phrases are intended to be cliched, I'd like to see them woven into the stanza a bit more intruigingly. Does that make sense? What I mean is that right now it stands in only as what he says to her, obvious via the italics, and I think you're capable of doing more with it, which would also raise the phrases out of their simple cliche.
I say this on just about every improv, but: now that you've done the assignment, break out of the original form. Write more of this. Overwrite, then let us help you push it back down to size.
(...I don't know how to make this ugly text background coloring thing go away...)
is when he lies about limp impotency,
telling the woman she's too fat in the
middle, too flabby in the thighs; patching
it up with a touching its not you, its me
spew, a thanks for dinner, and call
ya soon while rushing out the door
before she cries again.
The lamest excuse of woman
is when she lies prostrate and
moaning, faking the third orgasm
of the night--none of which she
actually felt-- to boost the guys
ego, or his shaft; let him feel like
a man, doing big man things, before
he shrinks back down to size.
_________
First of all, MacKenzie amuses me.
But on to the draft: I think this is sort of awesome. It still has draft-y qualities about it but, well, it's a draft. I agree with MacKenzie that it doesn't quite hit its mark (pun intended a bit, maybe).
One of the best parts isn't the language itself but the general use of each stanza. Like the original, this draft gives a reasoning behind the woman's actions and leaves the man's, basically, unexplained.
This section could definitely be more potent: "patching
it up with a touching its not you, its me
spew, a thanks for dinner, and call
ya soon while rushing out the door
before she cries again."
That end bit edges upon cliche, a woman crying yet again, and though the phrases are intended to be cliched, I'd like to see them woven into the stanza a bit more intruigingly. Does that make sense? What I mean is that right now it stands in only as what he says to her, obvious via the italics, and I think you're capable of doing more with it, which would also raise the phrases out of their simple cliche.
I say this on just about every improv, but: now that you've done the assignment, break out of the original form. Write more of this. Overwrite, then let us help you push it back down to size.
(...I don't know how to make this ugly text background coloring thing go away...)
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Week Ten - Junkyard Quote 3
"It must be getting crowded up in the air, with airplanes, helicopters, and satellites having to share space with so many people. It seems as though everyone were up in the air about one thing or another."
"Of course, you can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar, but until someone tells me why I should want to attract flies, I'm going to stop talking about it. In fact, I'm going to leave a jar of vinegar on my veranda--to repel as many flies as possible."
"Of course, you can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar, but until someone tells me why I should want to attract flies, I'm going to stop talking about it. In fact, I'm going to leave a jar of vinegar on my veranda--to repel as many flies as possible."
Week Ten - Junkyard Quote 2
"Imagine that Facebook status: Man, my mom just wrote a poem about my penis" - in reference to a Sharon Olds poem.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Week Ten - Junkyard Quote 1
"People say to me, Yes, I agree, but you're not seeing the big picture or You're right in the short run, but we have to look at the big picture. Where is this big picture hanging? Is it over a very big sofa at the Guggenheim? I need to see the big picture; otherwise, I'm never going to be a smashing success in the business world, expecially if I don't want to use the same phrase over and over."
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Week Eight - Improv 2 - "Missing You," Again
This time, I did it with more intention of following the subject/verbs, etc., replacement method. It tends to yeild semi-worthwhile results, usually.
Missing You
-Shu Ting, translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with no solution;
A one-stringed lure that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
______
A luster-plucked eye without a plastic eyelid;
A doll sliced from a book of other dolls, with no tabs to attach her apron;
A cross-slinked slinky that collapsed metal against metal.
A pair of trike wheels that always sagged on nails.
Weighted seesaws in locked arrest;
The mature eye looks through a brand new microscope, looks through a fun house mirror, looks with kaleidoscope vision
Though in the recess of adulthood there may be an abandoned swing set,
What we dust off is the toy box: a pair of skates.
Yes, from this fledgling desert, from these captioned memories,
Only this.
Missing You
-Shu Ting, translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with no solution;
A one-stringed lure that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
______
A luster-plucked eye without a plastic eyelid;
A doll sliced from a book of other dolls, with no tabs to attach her apron;
A cross-slinked slinky that collapsed metal against metal.
A pair of trike wheels that always sagged on nails.
Weighted seesaws in locked arrest;
The mature eye looks through a brand new microscope, looks through a fun house mirror, looks with kaleidoscope vision
Though in the recess of adulthood there may be an abandoned swing set,
What we dust off is the toy box: a pair of skates.
Yes, from this fledgling desert, from these captioned memories,
Only this.
Week Eight - Improv 1 - "Missing You"
Well--this is terrible. Not gonna try to deny that! I wanted to try a smaller poem because I think it's much more difficult than a longer poem; it's difficult to say much and do much and show off any technique in a tiny poem. I was going to try an even smaller one, but I couldn't find anything I wanted to try. Maybe next week. Anyways--I hate this, but it's an Improv, and it gave me a better idea of what I wanted to write, which is less overtly whiney, so I guess that's good...
Missing You
-Shu Ting, translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with o solution;
A one-stringed lure that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
______
Because she can wear crumbled-bag boots
and trousers mud-dyed like the cracks of a spit can;
Because of the soft lullaby of her vowels;
Because I know you held hands like thumb-wrestling,
more like hayrides, more like deer carving, more like snapping on the camouflage vest--
I carve knish stains out of my blouses
and try to trade my sneakers for tennis shoes.
I crinkle at all the sound of my teeth-clacking consonants
I learn bow hunting in my cul-de-sac basketball court, aim between the Crape Myrtles
and set a trap to mangle your hand to mine.
Missing You
-Shu Ting, translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with o solution;
A one-stringed lure that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
______
Because she can wear crumbled-bag boots
and trousers mud-dyed like the cracks of a spit can;
Because of the soft lullaby of her vowels;
Because I know you held hands like thumb-wrestling,
more like hayrides, more like deer carving, more like snapping on the camouflage vest--
I carve knish stains out of my blouses
and try to trade my sneakers for tennis shoes.
I crinkle at all the sound of my teeth-clacking consonants
I learn bow hunting in my cul-de-sac basketball court, aim between the Crape Myrtles
and set a trap to mangle your hand to mine.
Week Eight - Junkyard Quote 4
We were given a long, awesome list in History of the English Language of insults from Shakespeare--three columns for you to design your own Shakespearean insult. It was pretty awesome. Here's just a few:
Thou mangled, milk-livered measle.
Thou loggerheaded, dog-hearted nut-hook.
Thou rottish, weather-bitten flax-wench.
Thou dankish, idle-headed strumpet.
Thou beslubbering, knotty-pated maggot-pie.
Thou paunchy, plum-plucked clack-dish.
Fun, yeah? Reminded me of the insults we had to come up with a few weeks ago.
Thou mangled, milk-livered measle.
Thou loggerheaded, dog-hearted nut-hook.
Thou rottish, weather-bitten flax-wench.
Thou dankish, idle-headed strumpet.
Thou beslubbering, knotty-pated maggot-pie.
Thou paunchy, plum-plucked clack-dish.
Fun, yeah? Reminded me of the insults we had to come up with a few weeks ago.
Week Eight - Free Write
So this one isn't going to be quite as creatively productive as a traditonal free write, though the language-generating paragraphs are incredibly helpful for me (I guess the first calisthenic we did was the most beneficial for my writing mentality), but I think this one has it its place in my writing life. Due to recent reading, I'm suddenly obsessed with the idea of persona writing. We've seen it a few times this semester, I guess, with the Penelope poems, but I wonder what everyone's take is on that kind of writing? Is it too much, at my level, to try a series of poems in random personas?
A few ideas I had, totally random, I know:
-Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen (which spawned all of this. I'd love to mimic the way he sees destruction and is completely numb to it, watching distantly. It'd be a challenge primarily because how do you create poetic language and evoke distance simultaneously? Also, I'd like to play with how, in the movie when he is explaining his "accident," he states the date (and time?) that these things happened. If you don't know the movie/character, this would obviously be a bit confusing, but...)
-Flat Stanley (please someone know who this is? It's a children's book character frequently used in classrooms--you make a flat Stanley and send him off to another state, to someone you know, who writes back about where they took him, along with pictures of his "adventures." Mine went to an Aunt in Colorado)
-Huck Finn, Age 21 (I have no commentary to go with this one but...I have to wonder how Huck would be when he's a bit older)
-Waldo from Where's Waldo. Maybe he'll hook up with Carmen SanDiego...
Just a few ideas... I really want to try some of them!
A few ideas I had, totally random, I know:
-Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen (which spawned all of this. I'd love to mimic the way he sees destruction and is completely numb to it, watching distantly. It'd be a challenge primarily because how do you create poetic language and evoke distance simultaneously? Also, I'd like to play with how, in the movie when he is explaining his "accident," he states the date (and time?) that these things happened. If you don't know the movie/character, this would obviously be a bit confusing, but...)
-Flat Stanley (please someone know who this is? It's a children's book character frequently used in classrooms--you make a flat Stanley and send him off to another state, to someone you know, who writes back about where they took him, along with pictures of his "adventures." Mine went to an Aunt in Colorado)
-Huck Finn, Age 21 (I have no commentary to go with this one but...I have to wonder how Huck would be when he's a bit older)
-Waldo from Where's Waldo. Maybe he'll hook up with Carmen SanDiego...
Just a few ideas... I really want to try some of them!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Week Eight - Sign Inventory - "Sixth Grade" by Marie Howe
Sixth Grade
The afternoon the neighborhood boys tied me and Mary Lou Matherto Donny Ralph's father's garage doors, spread-eagled,
it was the summer they chased us almost every day.
Careening across the lawns they'd mowed for money,
on bikes they threw down, they'd catch us, lie on top of us,
then get up and walk away.
That afternoon Donny's mother wasn't home.
His nine sisters and brothers gone - even Gramps, who lived with them,
gone somewhere - the backyard empty, the big house quiet.
A gang of boys. They pulled the heavy garage doors down,
and tied us to them with clothesline,
and Donny got the deer's leg severed from the buck his dad had killed
the year before, dried up and still fur-covered, and sort of
poked it at us, dancing around the blacktop in his sneakers, laughing.
Then somebody took it from Donny and did it.
And then somebody else, and somebody after him.
And then Donny pulled up Mary Lou's dress and held it up,
and she began to cry, and I became a boy again, and shouted Stop,
and they wouldn't.
And then a girl-boy, calling out to Charlie, my best friend's brother,
who wouldn't look
Charlie! to my brother's friend who knew me
Stop them. And he wouldn't.
And then more softly, and looking directly at him, I said, Charlie.
And he said Stop. And they said What? And he said Stop it.
And they did, quickly untying the ropes, weirdly quiet,
Mary Lou still weeping. And Charlie? Already gone.
Marie Howe
-The words become part of the poem. Nothing denotes/seperates speech from the descriptive acts of the boys (quotation marks, italics, etc.).
-The names--very specific, for one. But Mary Lou Mather really sticks out--sounds almost How the Grinch Stole Christmas? But eitherway it's very childish, highly innocent.
-Understandably, men are very much involved in this world--it's a father's garage door, it's lawns the boys cut, it's the emphasized action of them throwing down the bikes.
-Likewise, the gang-menality of the continual "they." The "they did it, and then they did it again, and again" moment, also.
-Interesting moment in the middle of the poem when the speaker teeters between genders.
Week Eight - Response to Kamau's "Improv 1 Week 8"
Improv 1 Week 8
Reality Demands - Szymborska 1st 15 lines
Reality demands
we also state the following:
life goes on.
It does so near Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There is a gas station
in a small plaza in Jericho,
and freshly painted
benches near Bila Hora.
Letters travel
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a furniture truck passes
before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea,
and only an atmospheric front advances
towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun.
Reality is.
Reality is fucked up,
we also need you to know that you've got to deal with it.
Its the same in Guyana, Trinidad, near the antiguan border and even
worse in jamacia and barbados.
There is a basketball court in Brooklyn and a small
corner store where one letter doesnt work
making the sign say Larys instead of Larrys
The mail man here moves on foot hoping the inhabitants dont take
his deliveries offensive.
Your draft shocks in the initial line but I don't know that it's entirely effective. You could definitely work with the remaining lines, though: showcase how awful life is all around not through big battles but, rather, the small, annoying details of the day.
Give us more about the Brooklyn basketball court. And keep the idea of Larry's, but take it out of it's prosaic(? prosey?) format. Maybe to play with the repetive/recursivity we've been talking about in class, you can make the mail man's name Larry...? That may be a bit confusing to read but it could always be cut if it's awful. And again, the last line (so far...because this needs to be expanded) is interesting, but it doesn't make sense structurally right now. If could just be a matter of making if "offensively" instead of "offensive," but I definitely want to know what he is delivering that may be offensive and to whom he is delivering them.
Reality Demands - Szymborska 1st 15 lines
Reality demands
we also state the following:
life goes on.
It does so near Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There is a gas station
in a small plaza in Jericho,
and freshly painted
benches near Bila Hora.
Letters travel
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a furniture truck passes
before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea,
and only an atmospheric front advances
towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun.
Reality is.
Reality is fucked up,
we also need you to know that you've got to deal with it.
Its the same in Guyana, Trinidad, near the antiguan border and even
worse in jamacia and barbados.
There is a basketball court in Brooklyn and a small
corner store where one letter doesnt work
making the sign say Larys instead of Larrys
The mail man here moves on foot hoping the inhabitants dont take
his deliveries offensive.
I think the first draft handles a topic like "reality" because it unexpectedly claims that it will continue even though these horrendous things have happened.
Your draft shocks in the initial line but I don't know that it's entirely effective. You could definitely work with the remaining lines, though: showcase how awful life is all around not through big battles but, rather, the small, annoying details of the day.
Give us more about the Brooklyn basketball court. And keep the idea of Larry's, but take it out of it's prosaic(? prosey?) format. Maybe to play with the repetive/recursivity we've been talking about in class, you can make the mail man's name Larry...? That may be a bit confusing to read but it could always be cut if it's awful. And again, the last line (so far...because this needs to be expanded) is interesting, but it doesn't make sense structurally right now. If could just be a matter of making if "offensively" instead of "offensive," but I definitely want to know what he is delivering that may be offensive and to whom he is delivering them.
Week Eight - Response to Pauline's "Week #8 - Improv #1"
Week #8—Improv #1
The Tree and the Sky
What you got from this draft, defiitely, is "leaves kaleidoscope into Autumn." New and awesome, love it. Hold it close and dear.
What I wonder is if you could add some more of that kind of language to the draft. The original is intruiging because it's so "off"--what does it mean for a tree to be walking around in the rain? Yours is kinda opposite: whyis a coyote in the suburbs? Odd, but understandable. Kaleidoscope as a verb, for me, conjurs an explosion? Or, maybe, a falling apart? I see it as colors falling into other colors, disappearing, etc.
I'd like to see that in your draft--you have the possibility with the sun, definitely. Likewise, can you make this really suburb-y, to pull out the contrast of the coyote a bit more?
The Tree and the Sky
by Tomas Tranströmer
There’s a tree walking around in the rain,
it rushes past us in the pouring grey.
It has an errand. It gathers life
out of the rain like blackbird in an orchard.
When the rain stops so does the tree.
There it is, quiet on clear nights
waiting as we do for the moment
when the snowflakes blossom in space.
Autumn and the Coyote
by Pauline Rodwell
A coyote prowls around my neighborhood.
It crossed the street one sunny morning.
The yardman saw it. It hunts prey
in the right-of-way like a lion in the outback.
When the sun sets it settles down.
I hear it, high-pitched and hungry,
howling for a mate like we do
when leaves kaleidoscope into autumn
What you got from this draft, defiitely, is "leaves kaleidoscope into Autumn." New and awesome, love it. Hold it close and dear.
What I wonder is if you could add some more of that kind of language to the draft. The original is intruiging because it's so "off"--what does it mean for a tree to be walking around in the rain? Yours is kinda opposite: whyis a coyote in the suburbs? Odd, but understandable. Kaleidoscope as a verb, for me, conjurs an explosion? Or, maybe, a falling apart? I see it as colors falling into other colors, disappearing, etc.
I'd like to see that in your draft--you have the possibility with the sun, definitely. Likewise, can you make this really suburb-y, to pull out the contrast of the coyote a bit more?
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Week Eight Free Write Challenge?
I came across this today and I feel fairly certain that it's the reason so much bad writing exists in the world...the must be working off of some of the prompts on this website:
http://www.davidrm.com/thejournal/tjresources-exercises.php#free
If anyone wants a serious challenge, you should try to write something good out of one of these horrendous prompts for your free write this week!
http://www.davidrm.com/thejournal/tjresources-exercises.php#free
If anyone wants a serious challenge, you should try to write something good out of one of these horrendous prompts for your free write this week!
Week Eight - Junkyard Quote 2
"The initial 'h' is a pretty ephemeral thing" - Dr. Davidson, in History of the English Language.
Week Eight - Junkyard Quote 1
"Tacos are not accepted as legal identification, even in Florida" - NPR.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Week Seven - Improv - O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died"
This is a pretty loose "Improv," but I read Frank O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died" and wanted to work with the chain of specifity within the peice:
The Day Lady Died
-Frank O'Hara
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
___
I thought to maybe use this draft along with the subject of the ridiculous GA road system--where everything has the same name, multiple names, and randomly stops being "Jimmy Campbell Parkway" to become "Jimmy Lee Smith Parkway" to become "Thorton Road." And finally, ending with the lovely tradition of giving directions using through landmarks that used to be there. As usual, I started writing and then...stopped. My peice being workshopped in class today is the same: I know it needs three more stanzas, I just don't know where to go with it.
Anyway, this seems rather prosey to me. And it's about six stanzas short of completion. But how do we feel about the current state of it? Too much? Too boring? Too pointless? Impossible to get to where I want to go with it?
It is 6:28 on a morning that began,
with overdrawn bank accounts and left-cracked car windows,
at 5:04: to farewell sounds of the carpool that stopped waiting.
At 6:26 I met Peachtree Street again, a long-running friendship of
6:02 CVS introductions, a 6:07 tip of the hat near the chained bagels,
6:12 greetings through the window of the Irish pub, and a 6:18 throttling
at Sage clothing supply. Our 6:26 meeting was more like a play date
that began with mismatched Legos jammed together:
I know where I am, do you know where you are?
It’s a bus stop kind of day, when the wind feels like the greasy shine
of newspaper on fingers and volcanic noses erupt and then decay at the tip. But
I am safe in my vehicle, a strip of ruled paper imprinting my hand.
...obviously not completed. Where to go from here?
The Day Lady Died
-Frank O'Hara
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
___
I thought to maybe use this draft along with the subject of the ridiculous GA road system--where everything has the same name, multiple names, and randomly stops being "Jimmy Campbell Parkway" to become "Jimmy Lee Smith Parkway" to become "Thorton Road." And finally, ending with the lovely tradition of giving directions using through landmarks that used to be there. As usual, I started writing and then...stopped. My peice being workshopped in class today is the same: I know it needs three more stanzas, I just don't know where to go with it.
Anyway, this seems rather prosey to me. And it's about six stanzas short of completion. But how do we feel about the current state of it? Too much? Too boring? Too pointless? Impossible to get to where I want to go with it?
It is 6:28 on a morning that began,
with overdrawn bank accounts and left-cracked car windows,
at 5:04: to farewell sounds of the carpool that stopped waiting.
At 6:26 I met Peachtree Street again, a long-running friendship of
6:02 CVS introductions, a 6:07 tip of the hat near the chained bagels,
6:12 greetings through the window of the Irish pub, and a 6:18 throttling
at Sage clothing supply. Our 6:26 meeting was more like a play date
that began with mismatched Legos jammed together:
I know where I am, do you know where you are?
It’s a bus stop kind of day, when the wind feels like the greasy shine
of newspaper on fingers and volcanic noses erupt and then decay at the tip. But
I am safe in my vehicle, a strip of ruled paper imprinting my hand.
...obviously not completed. Where to go from here?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Week Seven - Junkyard Quote 4
"I had a dream last night that I got married at Weddings-R-Us. It was part of the same store as Toys-R-Us and Babies-R-Us, people kept walking by with their bright blue shopping carts."
Week Seven - Response to Kamau's "Improv 1 Week 7"
The Vacation - Wendell Berry
Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
The Trip
There was a boy who recorded his death.
He went wrecklessly down the road in his 95 cadillac with his recorder mounted to the dash, making a motion picture of the concrete road he drove upon which his american muscle car smoothly allowed him to do.
He shared his death with his recorder, which captured it,
holding it forever within its grasps, the hills, the rocks, the mounatins, the street lights, the hood of his red cadillac which behind the steering wheel he sat with his recorder holding his death in a live manner. So that he would always be able to recall. It would always be remembered. Upon his finding someone would press play and be able to understand his pains, and why he did what he did. The recorder would be the only thing still in tact. But he would never be again. Only the recorded.
I think this is an intruiging draft, Kamau. Typically, and I say this somewhat ironically because I've written a horrible slew of it, death is a subject to be avoided. In this case, you may get a pass, though. I understand that this is an improv but if you want to go further with this, you'll need to seperate it substantially from the original. Keep the idea, alter the format.
Something you may want to retain from his: his ability to use repetition in a flipping awesome way. "Making a moving picture of the moving river upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation" is great because he uses "move" three times PLUS swiftly...and it works. I like your section that riffs off of this, but see if you can inject a little of this linguistic move into your own peice.
After that, I'd keep that section and your later part about the recorder being the only thing left in tact. Trash the expected lines like "always being remembered." Those two sections are your most promising, along with the concept of recording one's death. Using those three elements together will strengthen the draft and allow you to move away from the original. And do something with the form.
Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
The Trip
There was a boy who recorded his death.
He went wrecklessly down the road in his 95 cadillac with his recorder mounted to the dash, making a motion picture of the concrete road he drove upon which his american muscle car smoothly allowed him to do.
He shared his death with his recorder, which captured it,
holding it forever within its grasps, the hills, the rocks, the mounatins, the street lights, the hood of his red cadillac which behind the steering wheel he sat with his recorder holding his death in a live manner. So that he would always be able to recall. It would always be remembered. Upon his finding someone would press play and be able to understand his pains, and why he did what he did. The recorder would be the only thing still in tact. But he would never be again. Only the recorded.
I think this is an intruiging draft, Kamau. Typically, and I say this somewhat ironically because I've written a horrible slew of it, death is a subject to be avoided. In this case, you may get a pass, though. I understand that this is an improv but if you want to go further with this, you'll need to seperate it substantially from the original. Keep the idea, alter the format.
Something you may want to retain from his: his ability to use repetition in a flipping awesome way. "Making a moving picture of the moving river upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation" is great because he uses "move" three times PLUS swiftly...and it works. I like your section that riffs off of this, but see if you can inject a little of this linguistic move into your own peice.
After that, I'd keep that section and your later part about the recorder being the only thing left in tact. Trash the expected lines like "always being remembered." Those two sections are your most promising, along with the concept of recording one's death. Using those three elements together will strengthen the draft and allow you to move away from the original. And do something with the form.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Week Seven - Response to Sheila's "Week Seven - Free Entry"
Free Entry week Seven Revision of Good Weave
Good Weave
Old Version
Stunning mop, strands extend long
Beneath the shoulders, it falls and shimmers.
Mollified! The length works well,
Opted for straight, not kinky this time,
Number 17B, need to jot this down!
The price tag, oh well worth it,
Fingers benefit, gliding from side to side,
Hope to sleep okay, in spite of the torment,
Got to get out and show-off to my friends,
Love my new weave; it’s better than that nap!
Good Weave
Revised Version
Stunning mop, threads extended
below narrow blades, falls like Niagara and shimmers Brazilian dried.
Placated, the distance means all,
Opted for straight, no kinkiness for a time,
Figure 17B, required to dot down
The rate, worth its value for the pocket
Extremities profit, gliding from side to side,
Optimistic about dozing, in spite of the torment,
Countless companions to tell
Adore my garden-fresh weave; so better than nap
I can see clear improvement between the drafts, Sheila. Your word choice stepped up a bit and the second draft seems more a bit more daring. Still, your reader will only have the completed draft, so let's see what more we can do for your revision.
I'm going to contradict myself a bit: In most of the poems I've seen you share so far, you've utilized fragmented sentences or sentences that seem to be missing key components, like a subject. In some cases, fragments are great ways to emphasize an element of your writing--but overuse of them dulls the sensation.
Here, you do that. Notice the long strain of sentences that have no subject--who'se jotting down the rate? Who opted for no kinkiness? Who has countless companions to tell? The first line forefronts this issue: Putting an "A" before "stunning" easily remedies the subject problem--it makes the "stunning mop" the subject in a way your current draft does not. This isn't to say you should have a slew of "I" in your poems. Rather, go for some sentence variation in a way other than just cutting out words.
Despite that, the poem could do away with some unneccessary words here and there. For example, "falls like Niagara and shimmers Brazilan dried" is pretty good, but the "like" and "and" seem bulky to me; it could be personal preference, because the traditional simile structure seems too visible to me, but given how invested you appear to be in cutting out components of your sentences, these are easy words to toss.
You loose me toward the end. It's clearer what's going on in the first draft, but that's only because the original is in simplistic language. Retain your more sophisticated language (or, maybe, try to ironically use colloquial diction), but allow the poem to explain itself more clearly.
Punctuation would help.
Good Weave
Old Version
Stunning mop, strands extend long
Beneath the shoulders, it falls and shimmers.
Mollified! The length works well,
Opted for straight, not kinky this time,
Number 17B, need to jot this down!
The price tag, oh well worth it,
Fingers benefit, gliding from side to side,
Hope to sleep okay, in spite of the torment,
Got to get out and show-off to my friends,
Love my new weave; it’s better than that nap!
Good Weave
Revised Version
Stunning mop, threads extended
below narrow blades, falls like Niagara and shimmers Brazilian dried.
Placated, the distance means all,
Opted for straight, no kinkiness for a time,
Figure 17B, required to dot down
The rate, worth its value for the pocket
Extremities profit, gliding from side to side,
Optimistic about dozing, in spite of the torment,
Countless companions to tell
Adore my garden-fresh weave; so better than nap
I can see clear improvement between the drafts, Sheila. Your word choice stepped up a bit and the second draft seems more a bit more daring. Still, your reader will only have the completed draft, so let's see what more we can do for your revision.
I'm going to contradict myself a bit: In most of the poems I've seen you share so far, you've utilized fragmented sentences or sentences that seem to be missing key components, like a subject. In some cases, fragments are great ways to emphasize an element of your writing--but overuse of them dulls the sensation.
Here, you do that. Notice the long strain of sentences that have no subject--who'se jotting down the rate? Who opted for no kinkiness? Who has countless companions to tell? The first line forefronts this issue: Putting an "A" before "stunning" easily remedies the subject problem--it makes the "stunning mop" the subject in a way your current draft does not. This isn't to say you should have a slew of "I" in your poems. Rather, go for some sentence variation in a way other than just cutting out words.
Despite that, the poem could do away with some unneccessary words here and there. For example, "falls like Niagara and shimmers Brazilan dried" is pretty good, but the "like" and "and" seem bulky to me; it could be personal preference, because the traditional simile structure seems too visible to me, but given how invested you appear to be in cutting out components of your sentences, these are easy words to toss.
You loose me toward the end. It's clearer what's going on in the first draft, but that's only because the original is in simplistic language. Retain your more sophisticated language (or, maybe, try to ironically use colloquial diction), but allow the poem to explain itself more clearly.
Punctuation would help.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Week Seven - Sign Inventory - Tadic's "Antipsalm"
I don't have my book with me, so this is a copy found online. I hope the translation is good...
Antipsalm
Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Cover me with bumps. Reward me with boils.
In the fount of tears open a spring of pus mixed with blood.
Twist my mouth upside down. Give me a hump. Make me crooked.
Let moles burrow through my flesh. Let blood
circle my body. Let it be thus.
May all that breathes steal breath from me,
all that drinks quench its thirst in my cup.
Turn all vermin upon me.
Let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.
Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Tie every guilt around my ankles.
Make me deaf with noise and delirium. Uphold me
above every tragedy.
Overpower me with dread and insomnia. Tear me up.
Open the seven seals, let out the seven beasts.
Let each one graze my monstrous brain.
Set upon me every evil, every suffering,
every misery. Every time you threaten,
point your finger at me. Thus, thus, my Lord.
Let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.
Translated by Charles Simic
- High emphasis on the self. In this list of selfless actions, almost every sentence has some version of “me” within it. Obviously this has a practical function, but it seems severe for it to be an accident.
-Sudden repetition in the second stanza-- “every,” “Thus,” “seven.” (There is also a double mention of “blood” in the first stanza and multiple “all” in the first, I just noticed. So, really, it may just be a marker of religious statement.)
-Both stanzas end with “You.”
- “Monstrous brain” really seems to stick out. Seems out of place, in a way. All of the other language is obviously biblical references. This seems very modern, for some reason.
-Both stanzas begin with “Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.” “Take pity” seems contradictory given the list of things the speaker says to do to him--if you’re asking God to do them, why also ask him to pity you?
Antipsalm
Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Cover me with bumps. Reward me with boils.
In the fount of tears open a spring of pus mixed with blood.
Twist my mouth upside down. Give me a hump. Make me crooked.
Let moles burrow through my flesh. Let blood
circle my body. Let it be thus.
May all that breathes steal breath from me,
all that drinks quench its thirst in my cup.
Turn all vermin upon me.
Let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.
Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Tie every guilt around my ankles.
Make me deaf with noise and delirium. Uphold me
above every tragedy.
Overpower me with dread and insomnia. Tear me up.
Open the seven seals, let out the seven beasts.
Let each one graze my monstrous brain.
Set upon me every evil, every suffering,
every misery. Every time you threaten,
point your finger at me. Thus, thus, my Lord.
Let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.
Translated by Charles Simic
- High emphasis on the self. In this list of selfless actions, almost every sentence has some version of “me” within it. Obviously this has a practical function, but it seems severe for it to be an accident.
-Sudden repetition in the second stanza-- “every,” “Thus,” “seven.” (There is also a double mention of “blood” in the first stanza and multiple “all” in the first, I just noticed. So, really, it may just be a marker of religious statement.)
-Both stanzas end with “You.”
- “Monstrous brain” really seems to stick out. Seems out of place, in a way. All of the other language is obviously biblical references. This seems very modern, for some reason.
-Both stanzas begin with “Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.” “Take pity” seems contradictory given the list of things the speaker says to do to him--if you’re asking God to do them, why also ask him to pity you?
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Week Seven - Free Write
Another try at the callisthenic we did last week, with the repetition. I pulled my initial line from the fairly awesome, poetic book by Paul Beatty called The White Boy Shuffle
I dreamed I was a flying, fire-breathing foam stegosaurus starring in a schlock Japanese film called Destroy All Negroes. Flying beside the gilded grandmother, who kept rack on racks, I dreamt of a foam Japanese man. Japanese men cracked at the screw of opportunity. The stegosaurus roared at the mop on fire, gilded to the Negro by liquid foam. Fall back in to the cracked flight of a breaching stegosaurus. I strummed my pocket watch and stood beneath the firefly’s lighted breath. I dreamt I was a flying, fire-breathing foam stegosaurus screwing mops of liquid flight into racks of Japanese films that destroy grandmothers. Destroyed by liquid lips on the wracked and wrecked breath of Negro Japanese film stars, the stegosaurus pocketed the foam man’s breach of contract. Beneath the strumming fireflies I film the cracking light, the fire-breath of a watching Negro Stegosaurus. I dreamed I was a flying, fire-breathing stegosaurus strumming a pocket watch that stood in a schlock Japanese film beneath the fireflies called Destroy all Negroes With Your Lighted and Tickled Breath.
I dreamed I was a flying, fire-breathing foam stegosaurus starring in a schlock Japanese film called Destroy All Negroes. Flying beside the gilded grandmother, who kept rack on racks, I dreamt of a foam Japanese man. Japanese men cracked at the screw of opportunity. The stegosaurus roared at the mop on fire, gilded to the Negro by liquid foam. Fall back in to the cracked flight of a breaching stegosaurus. I strummed my pocket watch and stood beneath the firefly’s lighted breath. I dreamt I was a flying, fire-breathing foam stegosaurus screwing mops of liquid flight into racks of Japanese films that destroy grandmothers. Destroyed by liquid lips on the wracked and wrecked breath of Negro Japanese film stars, the stegosaurus pocketed the foam man’s breach of contract. Beneath the strumming fireflies I film the cracking light, the fire-breath of a watching Negro Stegosaurus. I dreamed I was a flying, fire-breathing stegosaurus strumming a pocket watch that stood in a schlock Japanese film beneath the fireflies called Destroy all Negroes With Your Lighted and Tickled Breath.
Week Seven - Junkyard Quote 1
"People don't look at both sides of the story because reading backwards is really hard!"
-This was edited a bit, and I would personally switch "hard" for "difficult," and I don't really like it all that much, but I'm having some trouble finding JYQs this week and I sorta like this as a possibility for a line...maybe...somehow.
-This was edited a bit, and I would personally switch "hard" for "difficult," and I don't really like it all that much, but I'm having some trouble finding JYQs this week and I sorta like this as a possibility for a line...maybe...somehow.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Week Six - Improv - "Fresco" by Marin Sorescu
I never thought I'd write an Iguana poem. I never thought I'd write a poem about excrement. I certainly never thought I'd write a poem about an iguana's excrement. But, well.
Likewise, I never anticipated wanting to write another iguana poem. Clarification: A friend of mine use to work at some kind of nature preservation or something. She mentioned that one of their jobs was squirting the iguanas with a hose for two reasons: 1.) The iguanas enjoyed it. 2.) It helped them go to the bathroom.
Now, I've looked all over the internet and haven't found any one else that practices this type of Iguana care, but when I read Sorescu's first line in "Fresco": "In hell, maximum use/Is made of the sinners" it seemed too prevelant to my recent conversation with my friend to pass up on the possible improv.
I ended up doing a little iguana research and jeez, those weird little animals are chock full of intruiging poetic images...one site in particular mentioned that they have no vocal chords and communicate via head bobbing. He mentions: "Hasbro (one of my iguanas) loves to bob his head every few minutes. He will bob his head every time he succeeds at something like climbing on top of something. He may climb on to my chest when I am in bed and bob and shake his head in my face."
The whole thing is just oddly fascinating to me. Anyways, here's what I've got. I'm seriously going to keep working with this (I don't care for it right now, other than the opening couplet) and I feel like I'm going to end up with a slew of Iguana references in my work. Jeez.
Iguanas Full of Shit
In the cage, maximum use
is made of the water spigot.
With the help of volunteers,
the ancestor to the
secretary that cracks her gum,
snuggles her glasses
between nose and bristled forehead,
and ticks down each disposable pen
crouching in the depths of your purse
is pleasured with the jolt of pressurized water.
Some slide to bellies
and bob heads of slow, gentle
excreted discourse.
Some bob and vibrate sideways,
in the glorified head dance
of success.
After, the men are employed
for the heaviest work,
for the remnant removal,
for the dregs discharged from bowels
(The original is on page 222).
Likewise, I never anticipated wanting to write another iguana poem. Clarification: A friend of mine use to work at some kind of nature preservation or something. She mentioned that one of their jobs was squirting the iguanas with a hose for two reasons: 1.) The iguanas enjoyed it. 2.) It helped them go to the bathroom.
Now, I've looked all over the internet and haven't found any one else that practices this type of Iguana care, but when I read Sorescu's first line in "Fresco": "In hell, maximum use/Is made of the sinners" it seemed too prevelant to my recent conversation with my friend to pass up on the possible improv.
I ended up doing a little iguana research and jeez, those weird little animals are chock full of intruiging poetic images...one site in particular mentioned that they have no vocal chords and communicate via head bobbing. He mentions: "Hasbro (one of my iguanas) loves to bob his head every few minutes. He will bob his head every time he succeeds at something like climbing on top of something. He may climb on to my chest when I am in bed and bob and shake his head in my face."
The whole thing is just oddly fascinating to me. Anyways, here's what I've got. I'm seriously going to keep working with this (I don't care for it right now, other than the opening couplet) and I feel like I'm going to end up with a slew of Iguana references in my work. Jeez.
Iguanas Full of Shit
In the cage, maximum use
is made of the water spigot.
With the help of volunteers,
the ancestor to the
secretary that cracks her gum,
snuggles her glasses
between nose and bristled forehead,
and ticks down each disposable pen
crouching in the depths of your purse
is pleasured with the jolt of pressurized water.
Some slide to bellies
and bob heads of slow, gentle
excreted discourse.
Some bob and vibrate sideways,
in the glorified head dance
of success.
After, the men are employed
for the heaviest work,
for the remnant removal,
for the dregs discharged from bowels
(The original is on page 222).
Week Six - Free Write
When the Street Lights Came On
As a child, I had that locked up in hopscotch feeling.
Garbled lines of jump rope and Laffy Taffy curled around
my world and I lived for Playdough blisters in elbows, in shoe soles.
I lived for sandy collisions on bikes that tarred up knees,
for mothers divulging pavement encrusted skin
in slathers of soap and slapping us with peroxide.
Puddles of Snoopy’s ears, jaw, nose,
collected for later keeping in the bend of your elbow
and berries like blisters smashed up with dinosaur leaves and mud.
When juggled teeth still crumbled Doritos,
no one noticed Fisher Price picnicking
with Crayola continents atop Matchbox racetrack mats.
When we had fence play, when we had box play,
when we had shed play and sewer play.
When the streetlights came on, the hierarchy emerged:
the kids willing to toss their ice cream man money
on that Fisher Price bench, and wager the bet
they could squeeze ten, fifteen, thirty minutes of
Tag time out of their parents, before they were
remembered, or succumbed to.
As a child, I had that locked up in hopscotch feeling.
Garbled lines of jump rope and Laffy Taffy curled around
my world and I lived for Playdough blisters in elbows, in shoe soles.
I lived for sandy collisions on bikes that tarred up knees,
for mothers divulging pavement encrusted skin
in slathers of soap and slapping us with peroxide.
Puddles of Snoopy’s ears, jaw, nose,
collected for later keeping in the bend of your elbow
and berries like blisters smashed up with dinosaur leaves and mud.
When juggled teeth still crumbled Doritos,
no one noticed Fisher Price picnicking
with Crayola continents atop Matchbox racetrack mats.
When we had fence play, when we had box play,
when we had shed play and sewer play.
When the streetlights came on, the hierarchy emerged:
the kids willing to toss their ice cream man money
on that Fisher Price bench, and wager the bet
they could squeeze ten, fifteen, thirty minutes of
Tag time out of their parents, before they were
remembered, or succumbed to.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Week Six - Peer Response Two - Response to Pauline's "Free Write"
Sign Inventory
Keep door closed
No shirt—no shoes—no service
No food allowed
Please use other door
All deliveries at rear
No smoking
Caution
Slow
Yield
Stop
Wet Floor
Blind drive
Bridge ices in winter
Neighborhood watch
Hospital
Church
City center
Roundabout.
Do Not Enter
Deer crossing
Watch for Children
Falling rocks
Dead End
Open
Closed
Turn cell phones off
Private
Be back at ?
Drive-thru
Keep out
Keep off grass
Pay here
Correct change only
Start
Save as
Don’t save
Restart
Turn off
Log in
Sign out
End Program
Neat idea, Pauline. I was thinking today about road construction jargon, actually. Without a doubt, you've got a pretty cool found-like poem available with this material. I'm sure you've heard it before, but it's definitely reminiscent of George Carlin's "Modern Man": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkCR-w3AYOE&feature=related
I know you've got a great grasp on language and I think you could definitely pull something like this off. In my opinion, you have to be careful about being obviously socially didactic. Some people are in to that, but don’t let it guide your poem before you even get the words out.
Anyways, I’d love to see you do something like this in a tight, short-lined, frequently enjambed poem.
Keep door closed
No shirt—no shoes—no service
No food allowed
Please use other door
All deliveries at rear
No smoking
Caution
Slow
Yield
Stop
Wet Floor
Blind drive
Bridge ices in winter
Neighborhood watch
Hospital
Church
City center
Roundabout.
Do Not Enter
Deer crossing
Watch for Children
Falling rocks
Dead End
Open
Closed
Turn cell phones off
Private
Be back at ?
Drive-thru
Keep out
Keep off grass
Pay here
Correct change only
Start
Save as
Don’t save
Restart
Turn off
Log in
Sign out
End Program
Neat idea, Pauline. I was thinking today about road construction jargon, actually. Without a doubt, you've got a pretty cool found-like poem available with this material. I'm sure you've heard it before, but it's definitely reminiscent of George Carlin's "Modern Man": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkCR-w3AYOE&feature=related
I know you've got a great grasp on language and I think you could definitely pull something like this off. In my opinion, you have to be careful about being obviously socially didactic. Some people are in to that, but don’t let it guide your poem before you even get the words out.
Anyways, I’d love to see you do something like this in a tight, short-lined, frequently enjambed poem.
Week Six - Sign Inventory - "Vista" by Faiz
Vista
-Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated from Urdu by Agha Shahid Ali
Deserted street, shadows of trees and houes, locked doors--
We watched the moon become a woman,
baring her breast, softly, on the edge of a rooftop.
Below the earth was blue, a lake of stilled shadows,
on which a leaf, the bubble of a second, floated
and then burst, softly.
Pale, very pale, gently, very slowly,
wind that is cold color
pouring into my glass,
and the roses of your hands, the decanter and the glass,
were, like the outline
of a dream, in focus, for a moment.
Then thye melted, softly.
My heart once against promised loved, softly.
You said, "But softly."
The moon, breathing as it went down, said,
"More, yet more softly."
- Cylical, in an expected sort of way. Begins with the cliched image of woman/moon pairing and ends with the moon as well.
- Composed, initially, of two very long sentences. A distinct shift in the 13th line when, suddenly, we get a series of short, end stopped lines.
- The use of "shadows" twice in a very short period of time.
- Actually, general repetition in small spaces: the previously mentioned "shadows," as well as "glass" in lines 9 and 10. Obviously "softly."
-Along with the cylical nature of the moon imagery, both times the moon is connected to breathing. With personification of the moon.
-Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated from Urdu by Agha Shahid Ali
Deserted street, shadows of trees and houes, locked doors--
We watched the moon become a woman,
baring her breast, softly, on the edge of a rooftop.
Below the earth was blue, a lake of stilled shadows,
on which a leaf, the bubble of a second, floated
and then burst, softly.
Pale, very pale, gently, very slowly,
wind that is cold color
pouring into my glass,
and the roses of your hands, the decanter and the glass,
were, like the outline
of a dream, in focus, for a moment.
Then thye melted, softly.
My heart once against promised loved, softly.
You said, "But softly."
The moon, breathing as it went down, said,
"More, yet more softly."
- Cylical, in an expected sort of way. Begins with the cliched image of woman/moon pairing and ends with the moon as well.
- Composed, initially, of two very long sentences. A distinct shift in the 13th line when, suddenly, we get a series of short, end stopped lines.
- The use of "shadows" twice in a very short period of time.
- Actually, general repetition in small spaces: the previously mentioned "shadows," as well as "glass" in lines 9 and 10. Obviously "softly."
-Along with the cylical nature of the moon imagery, both times the moon is connected to breathing. With personification of the moon.
Week Six - Peer Response One - Response to LaRue's Improv
At Daybreak
Adam Zagajewski
From the train window at daybreak,
I saw empty cities sleeping,
sprawled defenselessly on their backs
like great beasts.
Through the vast squares, only my thoughts
and a biting wind wandered;
linen flags fainted on towers,
birds started to wake in the trees,
and in the thick pelts of the parks
stray cats' eyes gleamed.
The shy light of morning, eternal
debutante, was reflected in shop windows.
Carousels, finally possessing themselves, spun
like prayer wheels on their invisible fulcrums;
gardens fumed like Warsaw's smoldering ruins.
The first van hadn't arrived yet
at the brown slaughterhouse wall.
Cities at daybreak are no one's,
and have no names.
And I, too, have no name,
dawn, the stars growing pale,
the train picking up speed.
At Midnight
Casey LaRue
From my bedroom window at midnight,
I saw empty mausoleums starving,
lids stacked crookedly across gaps
like mad hats.
Six feet under, only my soul
and a snaking worm wandered;
dampness crept in the cavities
souls started to awaken from bones,
and in the roots of the trees
water stretched to feed.
The transitive light of the moon, smiling
guardian, reached not to those depths.
Crickets, finally expressing themselves, rubbed
like twigs to create fiery songs;
plants curled like inked paper.
The first moment hadn't arrived yet
of the new and promising day.
Mausoleums at midnight are no ones yet,
but one day will have names.
And I, too, will have a name,
midnight, the stars glowing brightly,
the crickets' chorus rising.
I know this was a construct of the original piece, but this poem is a pretty good example of Dr. Davidson’s suggestion that we place our poem within a particular time/setting from the beginning: “From my bedroom window at midnight.” It’s a great start to the poem and adds an important level of specificity. Now that you’ve drafted the improv, though, you can break away from the original. So, in your next draft, why not make it a bit more specific? “Bedroom window at midnight” is just fine, but can’t you imagine the poem with something more potent? I imagine something both more detailed and more domestic to contrast with the outdoorsiness. The opening six lines are your strongest: “lids stacked crookedly across gaps/ like mad hats” and “only my soul/and a snaking worm wandered.” I usually nix anything that mentions such a lofty topic as a “soul,” but it may almost work in this case. Likewise, I would typically say it’s too obvious that “dampness crept in the cavities,” but it’s cool if you imply no the cavities of the crypts but, rather, of the bodies. Play around with the line a little, trying to keep the same general concept.
“The first moment hadn’t arrived yet/of the new and promising day” does get lost in cliché, though, and syntactically confuses the reader. The second half of the poem begins to sink into expectedness. Stay with the wicked images reminiscent of the “mad hats.” Feed off of the awesome original lines like “Carousels, finally possessing themselves, spun/like prayer wheels on their invisible fulcrums.”
Overall, break away from the original now, though. You have a great start. I’d like to see more from it.
Adam Zagajewski
From the train window at daybreak,
I saw empty cities sleeping,
sprawled defenselessly on their backs
like great beasts.
Through the vast squares, only my thoughts
and a biting wind wandered;
linen flags fainted on towers,
birds started to wake in the trees,
and in the thick pelts of the parks
stray cats' eyes gleamed.
The shy light of morning, eternal
debutante, was reflected in shop windows.
Carousels, finally possessing themselves, spun
like prayer wheels on their invisible fulcrums;
gardens fumed like Warsaw's smoldering ruins.
The first van hadn't arrived yet
at the brown slaughterhouse wall.
Cities at daybreak are no one's,
and have no names.
And I, too, have no name,
dawn, the stars growing pale,
the train picking up speed.
At Midnight
Casey LaRue
From my bedroom window at midnight,
I saw empty mausoleums starving,
lids stacked crookedly across gaps
like mad hats.
Six feet under, only my soul
and a snaking worm wandered;
dampness crept in the cavities
souls started to awaken from bones,
and in the roots of the trees
water stretched to feed.
The transitive light of the moon, smiling
guardian, reached not to those depths.
Crickets, finally expressing themselves, rubbed
like twigs to create fiery songs;
plants curled like inked paper.
The first moment hadn't arrived yet
of the new and promising day.
Mausoleums at midnight are no ones yet,
but one day will have names.
And I, too, will have a name,
midnight, the stars glowing brightly,
the crickets' chorus rising.
I know this was a construct of the original piece, but this poem is a pretty good example of Dr. Davidson’s suggestion that we place our poem within a particular time/setting from the beginning: “From my bedroom window at midnight.” It’s a great start to the poem and adds an important level of specificity. Now that you’ve drafted the improv, though, you can break away from the original. So, in your next draft, why not make it a bit more specific? “Bedroom window at midnight” is just fine, but can’t you imagine the poem with something more potent? I imagine something both more detailed and more domestic to contrast with the outdoorsiness. The opening six lines are your strongest: “lids stacked crookedly across gaps/ like mad hats” and “only my soul/and a snaking worm wandered.” I usually nix anything that mentions such a lofty topic as a “soul,” but it may almost work in this case. Likewise, I would typically say it’s too obvious that “dampness crept in the cavities,” but it’s cool if you imply no the cavities of the crypts but, rather, of the bodies. Play around with the line a little, trying to keep the same general concept.
“The first moment hadn’t arrived yet/of the new and promising day” does get lost in cliché, though, and syntactically confuses the reader. The second half of the poem begins to sink into expectedness. Stay with the wicked images reminiscent of the “mad hats.” Feed off of the awesome original lines like “Carousels, finally possessing themselves, spun/like prayer wheels on their invisible fulcrums.”
Overall, break away from the original now, though. You have a great start. I’d like to see more from it.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Week Six - Junkyard Quote Four
"We don't have puree in English. What? 'Blend to Shit'?" - Dr. Davidson in History of the English Language (you all are missing out, for real!)
"Americans are always eating their words" - in relation to pronunciation.
"Americans are always eating their words" - in relation to pronunciation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)