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.
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