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.

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,

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

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:

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.

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.

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.

Extra Credit - Week 2 - Peer Response to MacKenzie's "Free Write Week 12"

A re-do of an earlier draft:

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

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.

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.^