Response to Candis's "Free Write, Week 15"
Candis,
I like how the oxymorons were able to fuel your draft. I caught them throughout, such as "adult children," "little big," "baggy tights," etc. However, I think that sticking with them so strictly is limiting this piece's possibility. Expanding on the phrase "balancing insanity," trying to portray the act of balancing insanity instead of saying it outright, will allow for more concrete imagery and specificity. I suggest asking questions of all the oxymorons: How can people be "genuinely fake?" What does it mean to be "dysfunctionally functional?" I believe that this will help you create some surprising imagery that you may not have gotten without the oxymorons, but that you also cannot achieve with moving past them.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Response 1, Week 15
Response to Sydney's "Improv Week 15"
Sydney,
I respect the openness of this piece. It does not shy away from a taboo conversation; instead, it presents it in a calm, matter-of-fact way. I liked the male only speaks in cliches, but because of this, I think more of the poem should be devoted to non-cliches. The things he says dominate the piece; I felt like there should be more otherwise. What was the speaker thinking or feeling? Why does she believe him, or does she? Maybe you could borrow from the style of Old's poem: she documents this sort of time-line of the first weeks, detailing a span of feelings and responses. That could incorporated into this piece too, giving somewhat of a before and after along with a glimpse of thoughts throughout.
Sydney,
I respect the openness of this piece. It does not shy away from a taboo conversation; instead, it presents it in a calm, matter-of-fact way. I liked the male only speaks in cliches, but because of this, I think more of the poem should be devoted to non-cliches. The things he says dominate the piece; I felt like there should be more otherwise. What was the speaker thinking or feeling? Why does she believe him, or does she? Maybe you could borrow from the style of Old's poem: she documents this sort of time-line of the first weeks, detailing a span of feelings and responses. That could incorporated into this piece too, giving somewhat of a before and after along with a glimpse of thoughts throughout.
Calisthenic, Week 15
Recursivity Redux (p 216)
I started with:
"Do you remember my name?
The hornet gasps under misted glassware,
aware of the feeling of waking up.
Leaves, maroon ad always waxy,
seeping, fleshy green. Floorboards
strewn with marigold seeds; encen-
dedor, they call it. Enthendedor.
Bring up the anklet, the envelope, the
well-polished package with ocelot, ocelot,
ocelot feathers. Dancing on chardonnay,
born sea-borne blues, hand-me-down
arithmetic expecting the pyres, away tucked
away in the girl with the full let-down braids."
and generated:
A marigold-girl picking leaves off the
ground, arranging them in misted
glassware strewn with paint;
segmented hornets she puts in
an envelope, sends them to ocelots,
feathers, places of chardonnay
and waltzes. The arithmetic expected
to burn the pyres bares their blues, sings
sea-borne hand-me-downs, tucks away
fleshy green wax and better knows the
feeling when waking up on a dock.
I started with:
"Do you remember my name?
The hornet gasps under misted glassware,
aware of the feeling of waking up.
Leaves, maroon ad always waxy,
seeping, fleshy green. Floorboards
strewn with marigold seeds; encen-
dedor, they call it. Enthendedor.
Bring up the anklet, the envelope, the
well-polished package with ocelot, ocelot,
ocelot feathers. Dancing on chardonnay,
born sea-borne blues, hand-me-down
arithmetic expecting the pyres, away tucked
away in the girl with the full let-down braids."
and generated:
A marigold-girl picking leaves off the
ground, arranging them in misted
glassware strewn with paint;
segmented hornets she puts in
an envelope, sends them to ocelots,
feathers, places of chardonnay
and waltzes. The arithmetic expected
to burn the pyres bares their blues, sings
sea-borne hand-me-downs, tucks away
fleshy green wax and better knows the
feeling when waking up on a dock.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Free Entry, Week 15
I make lists, decide the way
my thought fall in lines. How
to expose oneself to the irony
of architecture? Something important,
something to be done.
A shiny black beetle
flexes spindly legs;
wings splinter on concrete.
Little insect struggles. Little insect
strangeness. Words tumble.
Battles, naming crystallizes
the whiteness of melody deflates.
Moving back and forth, the aristocrats
can't miss it. Qualify the question.
You are in this: floundering
on the page, crushing concrete.
my thought fall in lines. How
to expose oneself to the irony
of architecture? Something important,
something to be done.
A shiny black beetle
flexes spindly legs;
wings splinter on concrete.
Little insect struggles. Little insect
strangeness. Words tumble.
Battles, naming crystallizes
the whiteness of melody deflates.
Moving back and forth, the aristocrats
can't miss it. Qualify the question.
You are in this: floundering
on the page, crushing concrete.
Improv., Week 15
from Derek Walcott's "Sabbaths, W.I." (p 79)
"the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute"
the great salamander wings that always laugh
the windy-house birch that plays with crushing seagulls
the surrender dove in a church with bells that teem and
thunder and with whose right, tell it to thieves, bested witth
rushed fame split asunder the roof
my dear fedora felt with pictures light
and heavy, with gears all numb in waxen brightness
and linoleum on a floor cut out from straw with
plastic, forget the stars, beg in a skirt, and leave by
bus route back apparently hit
"the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute"
the great salamander wings that always laugh
the windy-house birch that plays with crushing seagulls
the surrender dove in a church with bells that teem and
thunder and with whose right, tell it to thieves, bested witth
rushed fame split asunder the roof
my dear fedora felt with pictures light
and heavy, with gears all numb in waxen brightness
and linoleum on a floor cut out from straw with
plastic, forget the stars, beg in a skirt, and leave by
bus route back apparently hit
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 15
"I am made entirely out of too many Persian glass bees. 100 to be exact." -a friend, on facebook
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 15 (!)
"Professor Willaim Winslow Crosskey" -mentioned in "Originalism: The Lesser Evil" by Antonin Scalia
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sign Inventory, Week 14
Corey Marks's "Gislebertus" (p 209)
-10 stanzas of varying constructions
-two main variants of stanza construction; the first is introduced in the second stanza and seen again in the fifth and ninth, the second is introduced in the third stanza and repeated in the 4th, 6th, 7th, and 10th
-this leaves the 1st and 8th stanzas as the only ones without corresponding stanzas
-four instances of italisizing: "12th century, St Lazare Cathedral, Autun" under the title, "craft", first word of the fifth stanza, two occurances of "his" in the ninth stanza's first line, and "Gislebertus/ hoc fecit" in the 2nd/3rd line of the 10th stanza
-frequent single- and two-word lines
-speaks of the Damned in the 6th stanza and refers to all damned in the 10th
-emphasis put on the making aspects of the art, such as hammering, pain, and decisions
-10 stanzas of varying constructions
-two main variants of stanza construction; the first is introduced in the second stanza and seen again in the fifth and ninth, the second is introduced in the third stanza and repeated in the 4th, 6th, 7th, and 10th
-this leaves the 1st and 8th stanzas as the only ones without corresponding stanzas
-four instances of italisizing: "12th century, St Lazare Cathedral, Autun" under the title, "craft", first word of the fifth stanza, two occurances of "his" in the ninth stanza's first line, and "Gislebertus/ hoc fecit" in the 2nd/3rd line of the 10th stanza
-frequent single- and two-word lines
-speaks of the Damned in the 6th stanza and refers to all damned in the 10th
-emphasis put on the making aspects of the art, such as hammering, pain, and decisions
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 14
"You are overencumbered" -came up in some video game
-encumbered is a funny word
-who would same that to someone?
-encumbered is a funny word
-who would same that to someone?
Friday, April 15, 2011
Response 2, Week 14
Response to Christine's "Free Write Week 13"
Christine,
I have been on that website before (it's hilarious), but never though about using it for writing material. Thank you! because it obviously works. I like how you took the theme of birds and ran with it, making use of the odd construction of gthe verb "bird." However, I do think the phrase should be kept consistent because of its strangeness and technical incorrectness. I do not know if I prefer "bird you" or "bird for you," but I think this is a decision for later drafts. "Frustrated straw" is an interesting combination. In addition, I definitely wanted to steal your last image: "Beware of your hands./ They bloom on my waist, unexplained." I really liked the last line especially, but I am not sure if I would stick with the bewaring. I noticed the slight paralleling of the two stanzas (nook, bloom, feahter, bird) and agree that this is a great way to generate material and keep yourself going. In later drafts though, I would either emphasize this or take it away completely; it stands awkwardly in between right now.
Christine,
I have been on that website before (it's hilarious), but never though about using it for writing material. Thank you! because it obviously works. I like how you took the theme of birds and ran with it, making use of the odd construction of gthe verb "bird." However, I do think the phrase should be kept consistent because of its strangeness and technical incorrectness. I do not know if I prefer "bird you" or "bird for you," but I think this is a decision for later drafts. "Frustrated straw" is an interesting combination. In addition, I definitely wanted to steal your last image: "Beware of your hands./ They bloom on my waist, unexplained." I really liked the last line especially, but I am not sure if I would stick with the bewaring. I noticed the slight paralleling of the two stanzas (nook, bloom, feahter, bird) and agree that this is a great way to generate material and keep yourself going. In later drafts though, I would either emphasize this or take it away completely; it stands awkwardly in between right now.
Response 1, Week 14
Response to Sydney's "Improv Week 14"
Sydney,
First off, I am always jealous of your language. It tends to be somewhat dense, but always very conscious, worked with, and image laden. I love the phrase "limb-like wrists" in reference to the oaks. A grammatical change needs made though, in that "oak's" should be "oaks'", otherwise the following agreements should be singular. I like the subtle repetitions such as "sweating, always feels like sweaters." This is a good techinique to drive the piece forward and create a coherency of style. I do suggest being careful with the density of language though. It's great to an extent, but at a certain point it starts getting in the way of comprehension. I get so sucked into the sounds and individual phrases and words that the wholeness of the piece is ambiguous. Overall, it is an interesting move away from Northrop's poem and a clearly talented draft
Sydney,
First off, I am always jealous of your language. It tends to be somewhat dense, but always very conscious, worked with, and image laden. I love the phrase "limb-like wrists" in reference to the oaks. A grammatical change needs made though, in that "oak's" should be "oaks'", otherwise the following agreements should be singular. I like the subtle repetitions such as "sweating, always feels like sweaters." This is a good techinique to drive the piece forward and create a coherency of style. I do suggest being careful with the density of language though. It's great to an extent, but at a certain point it starts getting in the way of comprehension. I get so sucked into the sounds and individual phrases and words that the wholeness of the piece is ambiguous. Overall, it is an interesting move away from Northrop's poem and a clearly talented draft
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Free Entry, Week 14
(pulling lines from a few pages of nonsense)
I crunch a guitar into burned mushrooms, making room
for decibals too small to drown flaking-off fingernails,
drastically more bitter than yesterday. Chords build
webs like spiders, silk. Gymnopedie, and I am
the tingling piano. My future skin found mustard seeds
and a cup of water in amber glass. My mother's
favorite vine extends its little channels. I drop bits
of white chocolate on deliberate mounds built by ants.
Gold-sandaled youth bakes bread for the archers, the
mathmeticians, and those from Nova Scotia. "Keep it
low key," softly requested at dawn, the time meetings
always end.
I crunch a guitar into burned mushrooms, making room
for decibals too small to drown flaking-off fingernails,
drastically more bitter than yesterday. Chords build
webs like spiders, silk. Gymnopedie, and I am
the tingling piano. My future skin found mustard seeds
and a cup of water in amber glass. My mother's
favorite vine extends its little channels. I drop bits
of white chocolate on deliberate mounds built by ants.
Gold-sandaled youth bakes bread for the archers, the
mathmeticians, and those from Nova Scotia. "Keep it
low key," softly requested at dawn, the time meetings
always end.
Improv., Week 14
The Neighbor -Kate Northrop
Now it's their daughter
laughing with a boy who calls from the window
something precise and obscure
to two men crossing the park,
carrying large instruments
in dark cases.
Snow hangs over the city
and when one man stops, shifting his weight,
the other looks at the sky.
Then they walk on, past the fountain; they go
straight from the shadows of trees. Perhaps
they don't hear, or aren't worried by girls; perhaps
they couldn't care less, but I live here beside her
and I know that laughter made exactly of angles.
I know her face
and her eyes that are hollow,
smooth as a place where a rock has been.
Improvisation:
Now it's her turn
to yell at the men carrying coffins
too dark and sterile for names.
They cross the park,
laying down their cold cases in autos
lined for the living.
Their eyes tinge her tongue.
The car ferries its newly bound passenger
to a clay hole, held out of sun
by his mother's first arms.
Perhaps he heard as she yelled,
agreed, death founds life;
perhaps he lay wishing the solemn-hatted men
would throw the whole absurd box open,
dumping loose skin thick down earth. A tree
bloomed above would lean from his ground,
laying petals into his eyes
all while those still living
hastily brush ants off arms.
Now it's their daughter
laughing with a boy who calls from the window
something precise and obscure
to two men crossing the park,
carrying large instruments
in dark cases.
Snow hangs over the city
and when one man stops, shifting his weight,
the other looks at the sky.
Then they walk on, past the fountain; they go
straight from the shadows of trees. Perhaps
they don't hear, or aren't worried by girls; perhaps
they couldn't care less, but I live here beside her
and I know that laughter made exactly of angles.
I know her face
and her eyes that are hollow,
smooth as a place where a rock has been.
Improvisation:
Now it's her turn
to yell at the men carrying coffins
too dark and sterile for names.
They cross the park,
laying down their cold cases in autos
lined for the living.
Their eyes tinge her tongue.
The car ferries its newly bound passenger
to a clay hole, held out of sun
by his mother's first arms.
Perhaps he heard as she yelled,
agreed, death founds life;
perhaps he lay wishing the solemn-hatted men
would throw the whole absurd box open,
dumping loose skin thick down earth. A tree
bloomed above would lean from his ground,
laying petals into his eyes
all while those still living
hastily brush ants off arms.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 13
"the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is" -Vladimir Nabokov, a friend's facebook post
I like the pairing of stronger and stranger.
I like the pairing of stronger and stranger.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 13
"polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons" -Nicolas Cheetham's book Universe: A Journey from Earth to the Edge of the Cosmos
though this looks like (and I guess really is) abstract physics jargon, it has such a little rhythm to it: it is in perfect iambic hexameter; the first four iambs are more annunciated and march-like, pushing the speaker/reader forward, and the last two iambs are fluidly strung-together and seemingly more final
though this looks like (and I guess really is) abstract physics jargon, it has such a little rhythm to it: it is in perfect iambic hexameter; the first four iambs are more annunciated and march-like, pushing the speaker/reader forward, and the last two iambs are fluidly strung-together and seemingly more final
Free Entry, Week 13
what to do in an array of basic star-clusters
do you remember my name? a hornet
gasping under misted glassware,
aware to the feeling of waking up.
leaves, maroon and always waxy
seeping fleshy green. floorboards
embellished in marigold seeds, ensen-
dador they call it, enthendador.
on an anklet, an envelope, a well-
polished package like oscelot, oscelot
feathers. dancing on chardonnay, we say
born sea-borne blues, hand-me-down
jewels, extended transpires tucked away
in the girl with the let-down braids.
do you remember my name? a hornet
gasping under misted glassware,
aware to the feeling of waking up.
leaves, maroon and always waxy
seeping fleshy green. floorboards
embellished in marigold seeds, ensen-
dador they call it, enthendador.
on an anklet, an envelope, a well-
polished package like oscelot, oscelot
feathers. dancing on chardonnay, we say
born sea-borne blues, hand-me-down
jewels, extended transpires tucked away
in the girl with the let-down braids.
Response 2, Week 13
Response to Pauline's Week 12 Improv
Pauline,
Ambitious improvisation! You kept your rhymes well without sounding forced. You also pick up on Roethke's somewhat ambiguous narration style geared more towards sound than meaning. I do not agree with the choice of "yearn" as a repetitive verb. It is a strangely closed kind of sound that tends to blend with "I" and "my"; maybe this is mere opinion, but it got bothersome. The other refrain, "I live by trusting what I think is right," seems too straightforwardly teach-y. Also, I would avoid "Grim Reaper." It carries too many connotations to be simply thrown in. Otherwise, this is a great draft of a difficult task. Keep playing with sounds, just saying things out loud a few times over to better guide your changes.
Pauline,
Ambitious improvisation! You kept your rhymes well without sounding forced. You also pick up on Roethke's somewhat ambiguous narration style geared more towards sound than meaning. I do not agree with the choice of "yearn" as a repetitive verb. It is a strangely closed kind of sound that tends to blend with "I" and "my"; maybe this is mere opinion, but it got bothersome. The other refrain, "I live by trusting what I think is right," seems too straightforwardly teach-y. Also, I would avoid "Grim Reaper." It carries too many connotations to be simply thrown in. Otherwise, this is a great draft of a difficult task. Keep playing with sounds, just saying things out loud a few times over to better guide your changes.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Calisthenic, Week 13
Sonic Translation: beginning of "Cancion primera" by Miguel Hernandez (from Spanish)
Cancer Primary
Say I retired old camp
over avalanche Sunday
Christ be the mentor all home pray.
Ok, abysmal enter hello leaving
eel abrasive discovered!
All animal can't die:
all animal Cape Verde
yours are eight-charge races.
Remember Zeus scars.
Cars re-vested
tastes dead and floral,
baroque, dolphin, death's nude
entitled cruel dad.
Crepe and tan in my men.
(This was a lot harder than I thought it would be!)
Cancer Primary
Say I retired old camp
over avalanche Sunday
Christ be the mentor all home pray.
Ok, abysmal enter hello leaving
eel abrasive discovered!
All animal can't die:
all animal Cape Verde
yours are eight-charge races.
Remember Zeus scars.
Cars re-vested
tastes dead and floral,
baroque, dolphin, death's nude
entitled cruel dad.
Crepe and tan in my men.
(This was a lot harder than I thought it would be!)
Response 1, Week 13
Response to Mackenzie's "Improv Week 13"
Mackenzie,
I like how you so well imitated the simplistic yet uniquely specific illustration of a scene, and I have mostly very centered comments. First, I think the word "vast" could be doing more. "[F]lashing" describes both the sky and a discotheque, but vast seems only relevant to the sky. I did, however, enjoy the parallelism between the thunderstorm and a firework show with people gathering "to watch the display." This could even be a source of expansion, trying to stay on track with the firework metaphor and see what other descriptive language it lends you. I love the phrase "hollow chest-rattle feeling"--I can picture/feel what it means well--but also suggest thinking about "hollow chest-rattle feel;" this is phonetically and grammatically a little more interesting. I don't agree with the phrase "vibrato crescendo settled" though. Both vibrato and crescendo imply movement; I don't think either ever settle. But, crescendo can be a verb, and vibrato can crescendo through/into (choose your preposition) a ribcage. One last specific comment: "brief illuminations" does not work for me. It sounds too trivial, and I feel that the piece is otherwise working to point out the extraordinary in this event. Good job, keep working!
Mackenzie,
I like how you so well imitated the simplistic yet uniquely specific illustration of a scene, and I have mostly very centered comments. First, I think the word "vast" could be doing more. "[F]lashing" describes both the sky and a discotheque, but vast seems only relevant to the sky. I did, however, enjoy the parallelism between the thunderstorm and a firework show with people gathering "to watch the display." This could even be a source of expansion, trying to stay on track with the firework metaphor and see what other descriptive language it lends you. I love the phrase "hollow chest-rattle feeling"--I can picture/feel what it means well--but also suggest thinking about "hollow chest-rattle feel;" this is phonetically and grammatically a little more interesting. I don't agree with the phrase "vibrato crescendo settled" though. Both vibrato and crescendo imply movement; I don't think either ever settle. But, crescendo can be a verb, and vibrato can crescendo through/into (choose your preposition) a ribcage. One last specific comment: "brief illuminations" does not work for me. It sounds too trivial, and I feel that the piece is otherwise working to point out the extraordinary in this event. Good job, keep working!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Sign Inventory, Week 13
Sylvia Plath's "Medallion"
-nine stanzas
-each stanza consists of three lines
-nearly all enjambed
-line 8 only non-enjambed sentence
-stanza 9 made of two sentences (only other stanza besides 3rd containing a full sentence)
-references to metals throughout ("Medallion", death's-metal, knifelike, pins, arrow, chainmail, bronze, gate, unhinged)
-and making/finding (forging) metals (smoldering, splitting a rock, flame, fire, "turned him in the light", worked)
-half-rhymes between 1st and 3rd line in each stanza (flame/time, that/trout)
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 13
"The only thing that didn't come back was acid wash" -I think it was Elizabeth that said this...it was in class anyway
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Improv., Week13
from "Crows" -Eric Smith (p 217)
It is too noon for noon.
A fan cuts heat into tatters,
and you tell me days should
unspool only like this.
It's just as effortless to burst
into the shiver of early
afternoon, open-mouthed,
and expect someone else
to do the work of crows.
Forgive them their voices,
the pillow fight of preening,
their ink deep eyes, too deep
to be aware of anything
but depth.
Improvisation:
It's all too right for right.
The twinkling asphalt cuts paths
through town, and you say roads
should cross countries like this.
It's just as infantile to jump
into murky ponds of late
afternoon, open-mouthed,
and reject working satellites
whizzing orbits through dark
matter. Forget the politics,
the race to rip out the stars,
the twinkling shards, too bright
to recognize anything but
their brightness.
It is too noon for noon.
A fan cuts heat into tatters,
and you tell me days should
unspool only like this.
It's just as effortless to burst
into the shiver of early
afternoon, open-mouthed,
and expect someone else
to do the work of crows.
Forgive them their voices,
the pillow fight of preening,
their ink deep eyes, too deep
to be aware of anything
but depth.
Improvisation:
It's all too right for right.
The twinkling asphalt cuts paths
through town, and you say roads
should cross countries like this.
It's just as infantile to jump
into murky ponds of late
afternoon, open-mouthed,
and reject working satellites
whizzing orbits through dark
matter. Forget the politics,
the race to rip out the stars,
the twinkling shards, too bright
to recognize anything but
their brightness.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Response 2, Week 12
Response to Elizabeth's "Improv Week 11"
Elizabeth,
This is a very successful improv. It's interesting how you chose to strictly mimic the content-structure of MacCaig's poem instead of simply taking cues from it. This gives you a greaet starting point for a piece. One aspect I'd like to comment on is your tendency toward abstractions whereas MacCaig stayed within the concrete. "You gape at me with possibilities" for example, is not illustrative, and I think could do more work. Try to paint a picture. I don't know what "complacent bricks" look like; "dirt guts" does a good job of showing though.
Elizabeth,
This is a very successful improv. It's interesting how you chose to strictly mimic the content-structure of MacCaig's poem instead of simply taking cues from it. This gives you a greaet starting point for a piece. One aspect I'd like to comment on is your tendency toward abstractions whereas MacCaig stayed within the concrete. "You gape at me with possibilities" for example, is not illustrative, and I think could do more work. Try to paint a picture. I don't know what "complacent bricks" look like; "dirt guts" does a good job of showing though.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Response 1, Week 12
Response to Mackenzie's "Improv Week 12"
Mackenzie,
I have mostly specific comments. Firstly, the last phrase in "stockings that twinkle and rub with desire" can be taken out entirely, leaving "stockings that twinkle and rub." The desire is implied (or "for free") in stockings, Bond, and the word "rub." Another phrase I think could be removed is "James Bond" in lines 4/5. I get the reference, but it distracts more than it adds. The section starting with "Two kids there" and ending with "I was told" needs a little clarification. I think you are refering to different rooms, but it is vague. Also, "half-brothers" comes after the games instead of the people, which is somewhat confusing. Overall, your imagery is great, specific and varied, and you have a very straight-forward kind of speaking style. Well done, keep revising.
Mackenzie,
I have mostly specific comments. Firstly, the last phrase in "stockings that twinkle and rub with desire" can be taken out entirely, leaving "stockings that twinkle and rub." The desire is implied (or "for free") in stockings, Bond, and the word "rub." Another phrase I think could be removed is "James Bond" in lines 4/5. I get the reference, but it distracts more than it adds. The section starting with "Two kids there" and ending with "I was told" needs a little clarification. I think you are refering to different rooms, but it is vague. Also, "half-brothers" comes after the games instead of the people, which is somewhat confusing. Overall, your imagery is great, specific and varied, and you have a very straight-forward kind of speaking style. Well done, keep revising.
Calisthenic 1, Week 12
The art of interrogation (p 102)
Excuse me, sir (or maybe
ma'am) but may I ask why
you are here in my house?
This is my brown-plaid blanket
you're crawling on, you see,
my gold plush chair. And
it's not that I am particularly
possessive; nevertheless,
you do have this stinger on
your backside. A beautiful
little evolution like this surely
does not demand the death
penalty, but I'm also afraid
I can talk no reason to you.
Where I'm getting is here:
Will you please be kind and
cooperative enough to hop
right into this glass jar? I will
set you free outside, to get back
to your hive, my butterfly bushes,
your sweet larvae. Why ever
leave these in the first place?
Why abandon the fresh smell
of dewy morning mist, each
flower's distinctive nectar, for
the fibers in my throw, the
coolness of air conditioning,
and the darkness accompanying
life played out under a roof?
Excuse me, sir (or maybe
ma'am) but may I ask why
you are here in my house?
This is my brown-plaid blanket
you're crawling on, you see,
my gold plush chair. And
it's not that I am particularly
possessive; nevertheless,
you do have this stinger on
your backside. A beautiful
little evolution like this surely
does not demand the death
penalty, but I'm also afraid
I can talk no reason to you.
Where I'm getting is here:
Will you please be kind and
cooperative enough to hop
right into this glass jar? I will
set you free outside, to get back
to your hive, my butterfly bushes,
your sweet larvae. Why ever
leave these in the first place?
Why abandon the fresh smell
of dewy morning mist, each
flower's distinctive nectar, for
the fibers in my throw, the
coolness of air conditioning,
and the darkness accompanying
life played out under a roof?
Improv. 1, Week 12
from "The Chiming of the Hour", Dan Albergotti
"The is the gray day that the Lord hath made.
She hears the soft, rapid ticking of the clock
beside her bed and how it mingles with
the bells outside. The woman does not know
why the wind chimes sound altogether different
in the winter months. She does no know
what puts her in her navy dress and heels,
behind the wheel of her husband's old sedan,
and into the pew they sat in all those years."
She does not know why she chooses
the color blue for her bedroom,
"seaside mist" to be specific, in
semi-gloss. Something brings her
to wicker weaving, simple chairs
with light, linen cushions, and chests
sanded down, corners rusted by time.
She hears the soft, rapid fluttering
as a mixture of snow, hail, and rain
fall outside her old Chicago bricks.
What drove her to law school in
the middle of a city whose trademark
grey-and-white birds are pigeons?
She leans over her fifth-floor
balcony when the salt trucks pass,
closing her eyes, imagining
the oily, melted ice to be the
friendly sea, the salty scent
foaming into the air, catching
the breeze and leaving a thin,
dusty layer on sun-worn skin.
"The is the gray day that the Lord hath made.
She hears the soft, rapid ticking of the clock
beside her bed and how it mingles with
the bells outside. The woman does not know
why the wind chimes sound altogether different
in the winter months. She does no know
what puts her in her navy dress and heels,
behind the wheel of her husband's old sedan,
and into the pew they sat in all those years."
She does not know why she chooses
the color blue for her bedroom,
"seaside mist" to be specific, in
semi-gloss. Something brings her
to wicker weaving, simple chairs
with light, linen cushions, and chests
sanded down, corners rusted by time.
She hears the soft, rapid fluttering
as a mixture of snow, hail, and rain
fall outside her old Chicago bricks.
What drove her to law school in
the middle of a city whose trademark
grey-and-white birds are pigeons?
She leans over her fifth-floor
balcony when the salt trucks pass,
closing her eyes, imagining
the oily, melted ice to be the
friendly sea, the salty scent
foaming into the air, catching
the breeze and leaving a thin,
dusty layer on sun-worn skin.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 12
"It's weird to think there's an infinite number of sounds you can make with your mouth." -a girl in the hallway
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 12
"Our bakers bake
fresh bread from
fresh dough every
day in every
bakery-cafe."
-Panera Bread advertisement on Pandora
The greatest thing is that it was written out like this, in a little stanza, complete with visual repetitions and a rhyme.
fresh bread from
fresh dough every
day in every
bakery-cafe."
-Panera Bread advertisement on Pandora
The greatest thing is that it was written out like this, in a little stanza, complete with visual repetitions and a rhyme.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Improv. 1, Week 11
from "Cigarettes" by B. H. Fairchild (p 106)
"Yes, they kill you, but so do television and bureaucrats
and the drugged tedium of certain rooms piped
with tasteful music where we have all sat waiting
for someone to enter with a silver plate laden
with Camels and Lucky Strikes, someone who leans
into our ears and tells us that the day's work is done,
and done well, offers us black coffee in white cups,
and whispers the way trees whisper, yes, yes, oh yes."
Yes, they kill you, but so do parents and plastic
and the bad taste of sudden allergies, passed
down from who-knows-who and triggered by
who-knows-what, swelling shut your throat
by the third bite of boiled shrimp laden
with garlic, basil, and set out upon
a silver plate. At least with cigarettes
the onset is never so sudden, so unexpected:
an early dinner with family friends, started
with coffee, and ended with you're done.
"Yes, they kill you, but so do television and bureaucrats
and the drugged tedium of certain rooms piped
with tasteful music where we have all sat waiting
for someone to enter with a silver plate laden
with Camels and Lucky Strikes, someone who leans
into our ears and tells us that the day's work is done,
and done well, offers us black coffee in white cups,
and whispers the way trees whisper, yes, yes, oh yes."
Yes, they kill you, but so do parents and plastic
and the bad taste of sudden allergies, passed
down from who-knows-who and triggered by
who-knows-what, swelling shut your throat
by the third bite of boiled shrimp laden
with garlic, basil, and set out upon
a silver plate. At least with cigarettes
the onset is never so sudden, so unexpected:
an early dinner with family friends, started
with coffee, and ended with you're done.
Calisthenic, Week 11
Lexical Accretion (p 208)
The day is good for a West Moreland stroll
the day is good for skipping the toll
the day seems good for skipping, or
trolling, because each day is good
when rolling, rolling; rolling is good
for loose-leaf tobacco, loose dough,
dogs in dirt or horses in dirt, and now
it's a good day for a ride on a horse
or a ride down Moreland Avenue
is good if you want to skip the toll
is good if this morning you broke a bowl
is good when there's nowhere else to go
there's nowhere to go to score your goal
whatever that may be, wherever that
may be; maybe forever you'll skip
the toll of tobacco, lungs rolled in dirt
The day is good for a West Moreland stroll
the day is good for skipping the toll
the day seems good for skipping, or
trolling, because each day is good
when rolling, rolling; rolling is good
for loose-leaf tobacco, loose dough,
dogs in dirt or horses in dirt, and now
it's a good day for a ride on a horse
or a ride down Moreland Avenue
is good if you want to skip the toll
is good if this morning you broke a bowl
is good when there's nowhere else to go
there's nowhere to go to score your goal
whatever that may be, wherever that
may be; maybe forever you'll skip
the toll of tobacco, lungs rolled in dirt
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Response 2, Week 11
Response to Ben's "Free Write 1, Week 10"
Ben,
I enjoy the theme to this poem. It's like the demonstration presentations I had to do in high school (and again in Public Speaking): first you do this, here's why you do this, etc. The structure itself may benefit from experimentation though. Many of your lines are very long, going all the way to the margin. Others ("to clay", "cigarettes, and "Such is life") are cut extremely short. I don't get the feeling that these break choices are actively helping the piece. And watch your grammar: "malleable", "an unreasonable", "taken seriously", and at the end, "too much...too little."
Ben,
I enjoy the theme to this poem. It's like the demonstration presentations I had to do in high school (and again in Public Speaking): first you do this, here's why you do this, etc. The structure itself may benefit from experimentation though. Many of your lines are very long, going all the way to the margin. Others ("to clay", "cigarettes, and "Such is life") are cut extremely short. I don't get the feeling that these break choices are actively helping the piece. And watch your grammar: "malleable", "an unreasonable", "taken seriously", and at the end, "too much...too little."
Free Entry, Week 11
(coffee shop, rainy day)
words cross air, repetitive like bricks, as a man in an orange fleece jacket tries to speak over the racket of blenders, ice, various unknown others. his tennis shoes do not intrigue me, sporting their own announcement. Nike and I complete it, Just do it. clearing away newspapers, books--all those novels: Kings, Grishams, Roberts--I set out a soft notebook. black dragon oolong tea, with a distinctive aroma that tea drinkers from around the world can recognize. "Just a green tea" she asks, and a toddler in a blue cap waddles under the table. the grey backdrop to the trees. I walk through miniscule droplets, brings up a memory where I sit at my kitchen table with lights off, staring into rain: gutter-spout gushes and occasional light-flashes, the silencing blanketed onto us: thunder and water, thunder and water.
words cross air, repetitive like bricks, as a man in an orange fleece jacket tries to speak over the racket of blenders, ice, various unknown others. his tennis shoes do not intrigue me, sporting their own announcement. Nike and I complete it, Just do it. clearing away newspapers, books--all those novels: Kings, Grishams, Roberts--I set out a soft notebook. black dragon oolong tea, with a distinctive aroma that tea drinkers from around the world can recognize. "Just a green tea" she asks, and a toddler in a blue cap waddles under the table. the grey backdrop to the trees. I walk through miniscule droplets, brings up a memory where I sit at my kitchen table with lights off, staring into rain: gutter-spout gushes and occasional light-flashes, the silencing blanketed onto us: thunder and water, thunder and water.
Sign Inventory, Week 11
"The Striking Blondes" by Kate Northrop
-three stanzas
-first stanza made up of sentence spanning three lines, each which end at the margin with no apparent "line break", much like prose
-2nd stanza formed much like first, but is a question containing a colon and a semicolon in the middle of the second and third lines, respectively
-third stanza: seven lines, 2 questions, 2 sentences, also prose-like
-second to last line ends with a period at the margin (no enjambent)
-last line: one full sentence
-first stanzas begin with "they" and later refer to "us"
-last stanza begins with "we" and seems a primarily "us"-centered stanza, with references to "them"
-three stanzas
-first stanza made up of sentence spanning three lines, each which end at the margin with no apparent "line break", much like prose
-2nd stanza formed much like first, but is a question containing a colon and a semicolon in the middle of the second and third lines, respectively
-third stanza: seven lines, 2 questions, 2 sentences, also prose-like
-second to last line ends with a period at the margin (no enjambent)
-last line: one full sentence
-first stanzas begin with "they" and later refer to "us"
-last stanza begins with "we" and seems a primarily "us"-centered stanza, with references to "them"
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 11
"How do we chart that accumulative ruin?" -this was in my notebook from the day Amy Pence came, but I don't remember specifically who said it
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 11
"the world started revolving at a different pace in another direction" -a friend in an email
Friday, March 25, 2011
Response 1, Week 11
Response to Pauline's Week 10 Improv.
Pauline,
Your mimicry of Gilbert's sort of confessional nostalgia comes across extremely well. I also like how your title provides a placement for the piece, which then is not referred to in the body. Your step by step imagery also works ("down the stairs, through the kitchen...lift the latch...tiptoed back"). One thing I would recommend paying attention to is line length. Some of them seem to drag out longer than they should (such as the one starting "I remember"). This is really a great draft though, keep it going.
Pauline,
Your mimicry of Gilbert's sort of confessional nostalgia comes across extremely well. I also like how your title provides a placement for the piece, which then is not referred to in the body. Your step by step imagery also works ("down the stairs, through the kitchen...lift the latch...tiptoed back"). One thing I would recommend paying attention to is line length. Some of them seem to drag out longer than they should (such as the one starting "I remember"). This is really a great draft though, keep it going.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 11
"She's like the Malcom X to his Martin Luther King." -a comment in Hermeneutics
Monday, March 21, 2011
Free Entry, Week 10
Every day:
she wakes up,
a black-and-white cat
curled against her arm,
head on her shoulder.
some days she showers;
on other days she stands,
counts bathroom tiles
counts quilted flowers.
Tuesdays she reads
Mesopotamian emperors,
ancient Indian religions,
the art of reflexology,
the art of the 17th century,
or what nail polish
goes with her sandals.
her mouth may taste
sticky and sweet
from nighttime wine.
later she makes tea,
grown in her yard:
spearmint, lemongrass,
the rind of an orange.
at work, the same
girl in the hallway:
tall, thin, dark-haired
tight clothes, always
black or grey. or both.
evenings she sits
outside, eating
avocados, pumpernickel.
stares down the street
until dusk falls.
then she thinks,
writes how weeds
sprout through cracks
in the driveway;
the way tiny, yellow,
lily-pad leaves
sprinkle the sidewalk
with regeneration.
she wakes up,
a black-and-white cat
curled against her arm,
head on her shoulder.
some days she showers;
on other days she stands,
counts bathroom tiles
counts quilted flowers.
Tuesdays she reads
Mesopotamian emperors,
ancient Indian religions,
the art of reflexology,
the art of the 17th century,
or what nail polish
goes with her sandals.
her mouth may taste
sticky and sweet
from nighttime wine.
later she makes tea,
grown in her yard:
spearmint, lemongrass,
the rind of an orange.
at work, the same
girl in the hallway:
tall, thin, dark-haired
tight clothes, always
black or grey. or both.
evenings she sits
outside, eating
avocados, pumpernickel.
stares down the street
until dusk falls.
then she thinks,
writes how weeds
sprout through cracks
in the driveway;
the way tiny, yellow,
lily-pad leaves
sprinkle the sidewalk
with regeneration.
Improv., Week 10
from "Aubade" by Philip Larkin (p. 133 in Writing Poetry)
"Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house."
Meanwhile, offices ring with the locks of postmen,
never on time, never knowing the time,
intricately readying themselves to rouse.
Work will not wait, so the uncaring sun,
white like clay, goes from house to house
urging all to rise. Light strengthens
the boredom of an office, locked out of sun,
doing intricate work like how-much-for-this
and where-to-with-that. The social world
is something like clay, malleable and sticky,
inevitably hardening. The telephone rings
like a telepathic postman, arriving at each house
as their needs are met, unlocking an escape,
accepting each day the world takes its shape.
"Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house."
Meanwhile, offices ring with the locks of postmen,
never on time, never knowing the time,
intricately readying themselves to rouse.
Work will not wait, so the uncaring sun,
white like clay, goes from house to house
urging all to rise. Light strengthens
the boredom of an office, locked out of sun,
doing intricate work like how-much-for-this
and where-to-with-that. The social world
is something like clay, malleable and sticky,
inevitably hardening. The telephone rings
like a telepathic postman, arriving at each house
as their needs are met, unlocking an escape,
accepting each day the world takes its shape.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Response 2, Week 10
Response to Candis's Improv, Week 10
Candis,
Though it is another good exercise to replace the major words in a published poem, this one seems a bit too direct. Think of substituting the verb "stay" or changing the noun away from a color. This would allow for a more surprising split from Frost's piece. Another suggestion is a movement toward the concrete, especially in a piece whose theme is death. What is a scrap of dirt? And why should I see that same word three times? (By the way, "scrap's" should be "scraps".) Just keep playing, this kind of exercise has endless substitution possibilities.
Candis,
Though it is another good exercise to replace the major words in a published poem, this one seems a bit too direct. Think of substituting the verb "stay" or changing the noun away from a color. This would allow for a more surprising split from Frost's piece. Another suggestion is a movement toward the concrete, especially in a piece whose theme is death. What is a scrap of dirt? And why should I see that same word three times? (By the way, "scrap's" should be "scraps".) Just keep playing, this kind of exercise has endless substitution possibilities.
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 10
"How's Heaven?"
"It's fine. There's a shortage of chairs." -an episode of Family Guy
"It's fine. There's a shortage of chairs." -an episode of Family Guy
Calisthenic 1, Week 10
Ch. 12: Imagining the unimaginable
a 40 year old woman,
half her life ahead.
a jar of coins,
colored silver and copper,
metals dead long ago.
she strums a ukelele,
waits for the jar to fill.
a ticket to her mother,
back to Oregon,
to pictures of the retreiver
she rolled with in grass
thirty-some years ago.
but her whole life
lies behind her.
an empty jar and a ticket,
seat thirty-three E,
won't save her from
the sleeping semi driver.
the woman waiting in Oregon
will fly to South Carolina.
She will sleep in a house
foreign to her, fold blankets
she never bought.
the flowered yard will dance
and smile, regardless.
purples and reds;
tulips and wildflowers.
her mother will spread the ashes
along some sandy coast
where singing girls,
barefoot, will unknowingly
blend into her life.
a 40 year old woman,
half her life ahead.
a jar of coins,
colored silver and copper,
metals dead long ago.
she strums a ukelele,
waits for the jar to fill.
a ticket to her mother,
back to Oregon,
to pictures of the retreiver
she rolled with in grass
thirty-some years ago.
but her whole life
lies behind her.
an empty jar and a ticket,
seat thirty-three E,
won't save her from
the sleeping semi driver.
the woman waiting in Oregon
will fly to South Carolina.
She will sleep in a house
foreign to her, fold blankets
she never bought.
the flowered yard will dance
and smile, regardless.
purples and reds;
tulips and wildflowers.
her mother will spread the ashes
along some sandy coast
where singing girls,
barefoot, will unknowingly
blend into her life.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Junkyard Quote 3, Week
"I would remain idignant even if I was wrong." -I don't know who this came from; I had it jotted down on the back of a piece of paper.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Response 1, Week 10
Response to Elizabeth Wood's Spring Break Improv.
Elizabeth,
I love the idea of list poems, and I like how you followed Albergotti's form and simply changed the topic of the list. Your list seems to contain a much higher percentage of long phrases. It would add more interest and texture to play with clipped phrases too, and even more one-worded ones like "admiration." Lines I am not sold with include "the growing power of godesses' smiles" and "Chinese food lunches of laughter." The first is too impersonal and vague for this piece, whereas the second is awkwardly phrased. "Early morning phone calls", "hot tea with honey", and "wailing women singers" do a better job with particularity and interest. I suggest branching out even more than you have, modeling this piece closer to Albergotti's poem (which ranges from fine beer to white shirts, olives, walnut speakers, to cold fingers).
Elizabeth,
I love the idea of list poems, and I like how you followed Albergotti's form and simply changed the topic of the list. Your list seems to contain a much higher percentage of long phrases. It would add more interest and texture to play with clipped phrases too, and even more one-worded ones like "admiration." Lines I am not sold with include "the growing power of godesses' smiles" and "Chinese food lunches of laughter." The first is too impersonal and vague for this piece, whereas the second is awkwardly phrased. "Early morning phone calls", "hot tea with honey", and "wailing women singers" do a better job with particularity and interest. I suggest branching out even more than you have, modeling this piece closer to Albergotti's poem (which ranges from fine beer to white shirts, olives, walnut speakers, to cold fingers).
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 10
"The Greeks would truce and put down their weapons to go watch the Olympics" -Dr. Leslie
(even better in that it's apparently true)
(even better in that it's apparently true)
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 10
"all the gears are visible, and the machine is thus visible" -Dr. Fraser
"Machine" and "gears" are both good, punchy words. Also, a strange way to look at it: usually one would think of seeing the machine and then uncovering the gears.
"Machine" and "gears" are both good, punchy words. Also, a strange way to look at it: usually one would think of seeing the machine and then uncovering the gears.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Free Entry, Spring Break Week
Light-hearted, I mock the wind as it blows through the open ceiling of Spanish architecture. I see how it quivers for me, speaks through me, each dog-eared leaf and coat-tailed branch shake, beg, and settle. The movement of this city makes it hard to find a breath, and I'm left black-faced in front of Planeta, each of its carefully selected ivies thriving in the concrete, tended for lush survival and hung in the air to join a parade of meticulous absurdities. This city has made me heavier, feet weighing down clouds with every step, pulled to the stamped sidewalks like skateboarders: up, down, hours, hours. Imagining the tiny hills of cold chills on their t-shirted bodies, watching the thrill of momentum rising from flexing, contact, calf-muscles; wheels, trucks, and the slight bend of black sandpaper glued on smoothly sanded wood, painted and branded. They mimick the wind. A face appears and stares. Waves politely, wordless empathy. The buzzing of mopeds, motorcycles, Nissan Micros, and two-toned taxi cabs; bees in a hive. They provide the background of my dreams until the wind picks up and sings in Russian, "Remember how like a tree you are" and settles back into the stillness of muscles spasms, blinking, or the stillness of earth in orbit.
Junkyard Quote 2, Spring Break Week
"a divinity whose brilliant smile glistened like oil in his gaze" -Albert Camus in A Happy Death
I love the idea of a tangible smile on a divinity, especially if it glistens like oil
I love the idea of a tangible smile on a divinity, especially if it glistens like oil
Junkyard Quote 1, Spring Break Week
"Consciousness is like a cardboard box thrown in the ocean" -my roomate
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sign Inventory 1, Week 7
Kate Northrop's "The Dog"
-8 stanzas, 1-3 lines each
-stanzas 4 and 5 are the only 3-line stanzas
-made up of four sentences, all enjambed
-sense of mystery in the language: "glitter/ though nothing is written", "dark [...] slick", "nothing's there", "drifts", "impossible to know"
-real and dreamlike coexist ("out of the closed door of my dreams" and "washing dishes", "he's off instantly into the woods")
-the middle lines of both three-line stanzas are indented, along with second lines in the 1st and 6th stanza
-"Washing dishes", "the living room", and "a vase" appear near the center of the poem, among otherwise natural images (dog, field, flower, river, woods)
-recurring theme of absence (nothing written on the tags, the dog isn't really there, he trails after a missing thing)
-no rhyme scheme
-the word "persist" appears in two lines in a row
-8 stanzas, 1-3 lines each
-stanzas 4 and 5 are the only 3-line stanzas
-made up of four sentences, all enjambed
-sense of mystery in the language: "glitter/ though nothing is written", "dark [...] slick", "nothing's there", "drifts", "impossible to know"
-real and dreamlike coexist ("out of the closed door of my dreams" and "washing dishes", "he's off instantly into the woods")
-the middle lines of both three-line stanzas are indented, along with second lines in the 1st and 6th stanza
-"Washing dishes", "the living room", and "a vase" appear near the center of the poem, among otherwise natural images (dog, field, flower, river, woods)
-recurring theme of absence (nothing written on the tags, the dog isn't really there, he trails after a missing thing)
-no rhyme scheme
-the word "persist" appears in two lines in a row
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 7
"If you believe in reincarnation, I believe your energy has been around a few times" -my mother
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 7
"I like to picture you jumping from block to block with a foot to your waist" -a friend
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Response 2, Week 7
Response to Ebef's "Free Entry, Week 7"
Ebef,
This entry is very rhythmic; I love the play between the long and short lines, along with the transition to a comma-list. I also feel that you did an awesome job of incorporating such an every-day phrase as "They're just ok." I think it works here because of the detail given in the beginning to what they are not, and "Squinty" follows well. "Secretly angry" could probably be worked with to be even more commonplace or unnoteworthy. Just ok, squinty, two dimensions;"Secretly angry" implies a little more depth and interest.
Ebef,
This entry is very rhythmic; I love the play between the long and short lines, along with the transition to a comma-list. I also feel that you did an awesome job of incorporating such an every-day phrase as "They're just ok." I think it works here because of the detail given in the beginning to what they are not, and "Squinty" follows well. "Secretly angry" could probably be worked with to be even more commonplace or unnoteworthy. Just ok, squinty, two dimensions;"Secretly angry" implies a little more depth and interest.
Improv. 1, Week 7
Improv. off excerpt from Kate Northrop's Three Women
"A longing--without clear
definition--pervades
like the smell of hay
which rising from a freshly
mowed field rises as well
from those we rode through, mist
in the vague mountains. Only scent
travels between worlds. Real things
refuse to be called back."
A grinning--without prime patterns
--glinting somewhere like hay
stacked like the backs
of semi-trucks, smelling
always like raw onions
Like the onions we dug
from the field near your house
in the vague mountains
we played, draped with mist
the mornings that tasted
like lilacs and fog, not onions
who refuse to be called back,
except by odor, and whose odor
always reminds me of you--
tasting blackberry bushes
--holding my hand in the rain,
in the woods on that long
gruelling walk from childhood
to a place where real things
are only brought about
by how well we smell them
"A longing--without clear
definition--pervades
like the smell of hay
which rising from a freshly
mowed field rises as well
from those we rode through, mist
in the vague mountains. Only scent
travels between worlds. Real things
refuse to be called back."
A grinning--without prime patterns
--glinting somewhere like hay
stacked like the backs
of semi-trucks, smelling
always like raw onions
Like the onions we dug
from the field near your house
in the vague mountains
we played, draped with mist
the mornings that tasted
like lilacs and fog, not onions
who refuse to be called back,
except by odor, and whose odor
always reminds me of you--
tasting blackberry bushes
--holding my hand in the rain,
in the woods on that long
gruelling walk from childhood
to a place where real things
are only brought about
by how well we smell them
Friday, February 25, 2011
Response 1, Week 7
Response to Ben's "Free Write 1, Week 6"
Ben,
First off, I love the structural idea of this free write. I think that listing off aspects of real-life situations is a great way to get poetic material. It would even be interesting to keep this list form, organized in bullet points, throughout revisions. However, I also think that you stuck too close to the expected, the known. These are more or less typical party observations (alcohol, pair-ups and loners, etc.). This can be transformed into ANY kind of party. Your eventual tone can be angry, depressed, remorseful, blaming, or even turned to show relief, reflection, you get the idea. The first two lines do the best job of individualizing THIS party, pointing it out as full of specific images. Another line I do really like is "Thirty red cups". It adds variation to line length and calls up a particular image and night-theme without being overly explicit.
Ben,
First off, I love the structural idea of this free write. I think that listing off aspects of real-life situations is a great way to get poetic material. It would even be interesting to keep this list form, organized in bullet points, throughout revisions. However, I also think that you stuck too close to the expected, the known. These are more or less typical party observations (alcohol, pair-ups and loners, etc.). This can be transformed into ANY kind of party. Your eventual tone can be angry, depressed, remorseful, blaming, or even turned to show relief, reflection, you get the idea. The first two lines do the best job of individualizing THIS party, pointing it out as full of specific images. Another line I do really like is "Thirty red cups". It adds variation to line length and calls up a particular image and night-theme without being overly explicit.
Free Entry 1, Week 7
The monotony of alone I cannot stand.
I want a morning friend, a speaking post,
someone to blow smoke in my eyes and
apologize, profusely. Leave leather shoes
in an incense-tinted room, hand me grapes,
greens, television screens. The carpet,
worn down with years of gravity, is
uncharacteristically quiet these days.
The ceiling fan in the first empty bedroom
spins a story until I flip the switch, pull
the plug to that stupid stereo or adjust
its revolting volume to tones of street lights
and watering cans, untended gardens and
unfinished drawings. I will not request;
I will not argue. I will center my spine
with an office chair in the center
of a living room, adjusting the orbit
of my legs to the tune of morning birds:
cherry-beep, cherry-beep.
The empathy of a piano
overrides their passion. My
computer blinks back, unknowingly,
silent as humidity.
Damn this graphite. Why don't you ever
throw your poetry on me?
But that's foolish.
I know you do.
The clicking of rain on abandoned cars assures me this.
I want a morning friend, a speaking post,
someone to blow smoke in my eyes and
apologize, profusely. Leave leather shoes
in an incense-tinted room, hand me grapes,
greens, television screens. The carpet,
worn down with years of gravity, is
uncharacteristically quiet these days.
The ceiling fan in the first empty bedroom
spins a story until I flip the switch, pull
the plug to that stupid stereo or adjust
its revolting volume to tones of street lights
and watering cans, untended gardens and
unfinished drawings. I will not request;
I will not argue. I will center my spine
with an office chair in the center
of a living room, adjusting the orbit
of my legs to the tune of morning birds:
cherry-beep, cherry-beep.
The empathy of a piano
overrides their passion. My
computer blinks back, unknowingly,
silent as humidity.
Damn this graphite. Why don't you ever
throw your poetry on me?
But that's foolish.
I know you do.
The clicking of rain on abandoned cars assures me this.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Calisthenic 1, Week 7
Odd Occupation Calisthenic
The chanel, ferry-driver's passage:
hundreds of people, trips,
a to b to a to b; days
drip like wax down his back.
I don't know his name, but
I'd shine his boots. Comb his
dark moustache, mend his
green sleeves. I would take him
to dinner, a Sunday night,
and leave the Sunday-guy
at the ferry place. He could
cross the Atlantic, forget his anchor,
along with his leather gloves,
sunglasses, aspirin, dramamine,
treaded shoes and waterproofed
watch. My shoulders sink
under his eyebrows. But
he assures me we are no burden.
What would life be
without the ferry-driver?
Alarm after alarm, he wakes
near dawn: later in the day,
he will point bankside,
his weather-worn hand moving
passengers safely onward.
The chanel, ferry-driver's passage:
hundreds of people, trips,
a to b to a to b; days
drip like wax down his back.
I don't know his name, but
I'd shine his boots. Comb his
dark moustache, mend his
green sleeves. I would take him
to dinner, a Sunday night,
and leave the Sunday-guy
at the ferry place. He could
cross the Atlantic, forget his anchor,
along with his leather gloves,
sunglasses, aspirin, dramamine,
treaded shoes and waterproofed
watch. My shoulders sink
under his eyebrows. But
he assures me we are no burden.
What would life be
without the ferry-driver?
Alarm after alarm, he wakes
near dawn: later in the day,
he will point bankside,
his weather-worn hand moving
passengers safely onward.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 7
"yawning abyss" - Gadamer, Truth and Method
-this reminded me of the conversation in class about the phrase "black abyss". yawning seems a much better descriptor. plus, what an interesting word (and action): yawn
-this reminded me of the conversation in class about the phrase "black abyss". yawning seems a much better descriptor. plus, what an interesting word (and action): yawn
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Improv. 1, Week 6
Improvisation on "The Egret and the Dawn" by Dan Albergotti
"The small, bright fish that slowly move/ among the reeds and grasses near the shore/ receive the dawn slowly. The first light/ of the sun seeps into the water from above,/ giving shape to the ceiling of their world,/ defining the shadows of clouds, trees, dragonflies,/ and egrets."
The bright orange fish that swim beneath the waves let the living current bend their small, flexible bodies. Light filters through water, shining on algae, water-bugs, minnows, and spider-eggs. The barrier between wet and dry constantly shifts, forming high-water marks on the egret's still legs. The trees around house clouds and dragonflies, unleashing them especially in the early dawn. This is when silver light bleeds from the sky, barrier between atmosphere and empty breath, illuminating each eye, each wing, each individual floating speck of unknown science and ungraspable poetry. The world ceases its spinning for a moss-covered turtle coming up for a sip of oxygen. Poking a pointed, orange-striped head through the water's surface, she quickly submerses herself again, showing but a flash of hopscotch-shell before disappearing back into a dark, green pool.
"The small, bright fish that slowly move/ among the reeds and grasses near the shore/ receive the dawn slowly. The first light/ of the sun seeps into the water from above,/ giving shape to the ceiling of their world,/ defining the shadows of clouds, trees, dragonflies,/ and egrets."
The bright orange fish that swim beneath the waves let the living current bend their small, flexible bodies. Light filters through water, shining on algae, water-bugs, minnows, and spider-eggs. The barrier between wet and dry constantly shifts, forming high-water marks on the egret's still legs. The trees around house clouds and dragonflies, unleashing them especially in the early dawn. This is when silver light bleeds from the sky, barrier between atmosphere and empty breath, illuminating each eye, each wing, each individual floating speck of unknown science and ungraspable poetry. The world ceases its spinning for a moss-covered turtle coming up for a sip of oxygen. Poking a pointed, orange-striped head through the water's surface, she quickly submerses herself again, showing but a flash of hopscotch-shell before disappearing back into a dark, green pool.
Sign Inventory 1, Week 6
Sign Inventory for "Song 378" by Dan Albergotti
-poem begins and ends with two three-line stanzas, which are broken up by two single line stanzas
-the word "song" appears at least once in every three-line stanza (twice in the second stanza)
-the concept of saying recurs throughout the piece ("They say" 2x; "says song" 2x; "It says" 1x; "song says" 1x)
-the "say" phrases diminish towards the end of the poem, occurring twice in the first two stanzas, once in the first single-line stanza, but only once in the third 3-line stanza and not at all in the last or third to last stanza
-moves from they saying to it saying to the song saying to a composer who "said" "No music"
-there is an underlying birth/death theme ("grace", "skull to smile", "dead and dying", etc.)
-only 5 out of 14 lines do not end in a period
--two of these are the single-line stanzas
-poem made up mostly of short sentences (the third line is even divided into two full sentences)
-the only italisized words are "No music", which are supposedly spoken
-poem begins and ends with two three-line stanzas, which are broken up by two single line stanzas
-the word "song" appears at least once in every three-line stanza (twice in the second stanza)
-the concept of saying recurs throughout the piece ("They say" 2x; "says song" 2x; "It says" 1x; "song says" 1x)
-the "say" phrases diminish towards the end of the poem, occurring twice in the first two stanzas, once in the first single-line stanza, but only once in the third 3-line stanza and not at all in the last or third to last stanza
-moves from they saying to it saying to the song saying to a composer who "said" "No music"
-there is an underlying birth/death theme ("grace", "skull to smile", "dead and dying", etc.)
-only 5 out of 14 lines do not end in a period
--two of these are the single-line stanzas
-poem made up mostly of short sentences (the third line is even divided into two full sentences)
-the only italisized words are "No music", which are supposedly spoken
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Calisthenic 1, Week 6
Recursivity Exercise
line from, "The Egret and the Dawn" by Dan Albergotti
"The egret extends his neck, preparing to speak"
The egret speaks, preparing his neck.
Speaking, the prepared egret extends himself.
Himself an egret, and speaking, he extended preparations.
The egret prepares to speak, snapping his neck.
To extend a snap, the egret speaks and prepares.
Preparing to snap, the extended egret speaks.
Speaking of egret, an extended snap prepares himself.
The egret outside prepares to fly, extending his neck.
With neck extended, the flying egret prepares to speak.
To the egret I speak, with neck extended.
Prepared to speak, I extend my hand to the egret.
line from, "The Egret and the Dawn" by Dan Albergotti
"The egret extends his neck, preparing to speak"
The egret speaks, preparing his neck.
Speaking, the prepared egret extends himself.
Himself an egret, and speaking, he extended preparations.
The egret prepares to speak, snapping his neck.
To extend a snap, the egret speaks and prepares.
Preparing to snap, the extended egret speaks.
Speaking of egret, an extended snap prepares himself.
The egret outside prepares to fly, extending his neck.
With neck extended, the flying egret prepares to speak.
To the egret I speak, with neck extended.
Prepared to speak, I extend my hand to the egret.
Response 2, Week 6
Response to Ben's "Free Write 1, Week 5"
Ben,
When writing about events or thoughts that actually occured in life, it is difficult not to stick to the story, so to say. Sometimes it is helpful to mix language play with communication, imagination with reality. This allows for more freedom and room for surprise. It also feels good to chanel real-world thoughts into questions you're not really asking, statements you don't really claim. I also suggest trying to answer some of your questions. They create amazing opportunity for imaginative (and imagistic) responses. I would like to see these, because the questions themselves intrigue me.
Ben,
When writing about events or thoughts that actually occured in life, it is difficult not to stick to the story, so to say. Sometimes it is helpful to mix language play with communication, imagination with reality. This allows for more freedom and room for surprise. It also feels good to chanel real-world thoughts into questions you're not really asking, statements you don't really claim. I also suggest trying to answer some of your questions. They create amazing opportunity for imaginative (and imagistic) responses. I would like to see these, because the questions themselves intrigue me.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Response 1, Week 6
Response to Pauline's Improv., Week 6
Pauline,
(I love this exercise, it's great fun). Anyway, I think it is a great tie-together using "three" in both the first and last lines, and interesting that you first chose to replace "nine" simply with a different number. The phrase, "redundant baby-boomer" is really a mouthful, and the first few times I read it out loud I tripped over it. I haven't decided whether I like that (the sounds together do form a bouncy, staccato effect), or not (it was somewhat distracting). I also think that your use of the verb "click-clack" is rhythmic and surprising. I noticed that a few of the piece's middle lines slant rhyme (sage/places, night/type); this is something I definitely think you could focus on and extend through the next revision.
Pauline,
(I love this exercise, it's great fun). Anyway, I think it is a great tie-together using "three" in both the first and last lines, and interesting that you first chose to replace "nine" simply with a different number. The phrase, "redundant baby-boomer" is really a mouthful, and the first few times I read it out loud I tripped over it. I haven't decided whether I like that (the sounds together do form a bouncy, staccato effect), or not (it was somewhat distracting). I also think that your use of the verb "click-clack" is rhythmic and surprising. I noticed that a few of the piece's middle lines slant rhyme (sage/places, night/type); this is something I definitely think you could focus on and extend through the next revision.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Free Entry 1, Week 6
Crazy: the word carries a new weight, sinking like a stone in a pond; it no longer tastes of citrus nor cinnamon, but now melts on my tongue in a mimicry of acid, distinctly indescribable, something between a drop of gold, liquid ice, and the bitter, numbing taste of cotton dipped in alcohol. There's no way to put any of it in your head, though your dying obsession speaks out otherwise. I whisper to the oblivion, "I am alive, and I am in love. You are alive, and you are in love." I worry nothing for dreams, and reality floats in my eyes like a seeding dandelion; yet I can't get over the fact that I've been your delusion all along. How did I throw you against the cracked siding of a house, beating your arms to bleed? And now I ask you: Where am I? A warm room filled with paisley and fruit, air fresheners and paint? I think today I spoke in a play, in slow motion, and it took me months to wake up. But I can't seem to remember ever waking up-- what is the feeling?-- I walk through my dreams as if I am alive, because I am, and someday you will be too. We'll move like newspaper in the city, or like the brown bat I watched dying on the sidewalk, exhausted, in love with the sidewalk, spreading wings over concrete, unable to walk. My fingers may have slipped at this time, as they may have slipped through your hair for the last time; my thighs on your side for the last time, my lips caressed your skin, my dear friend, I'm afraid, for the last time. Your voice would follow me if only I could recall it. And now my stomach revolves around empty nerves, something like apathy, something like sneaking out for the first time at age thirteen and getting caught-- that knot of guilt that speaks clearer than my messiah. The dull feeling of blood in my head now reminds me that tomorrow is Tuesday, and time won't stop, not even for you, lover, a diamond or a breath of air, my heart or the reflection of my face in your eyes, or waking up naked on a Sunday morning wrapped in limbs, blankets, and light. I am never the same, and yet...it is beautiful outside.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Response 1, Week 5
Response to Candis's "Free Write, Week 5"
Candis,
I like how the first two lines start out by simply listing words, moving from physical actions to states of being. However, I feel that "Hoping.Waiting.Dreaming" could use a more surprising or illustrative verb. Also, I am not sure if the periods without spaces are serving a real purpose here; it's a bit more distracting than anything. I also don't understand the phrase "fruitions really do come true", and think that you may want to play around with replacement words for "fruition". The differing line and sentence lengths keep the piece moving in a very interesting way. You could even exaggerate this for an even greater effect, making it the obvious driving force behind the peice.
Candis,
I like how the first two lines start out by simply listing words, moving from physical actions to states of being. However, I feel that "Hoping.Waiting.Dreaming" could use a more surprising or illustrative verb. Also, I am not sure if the periods without spaces are serving a real purpose here; it's a bit more distracting than anything. I also don't understand the phrase "fruitions really do come true", and think that you may want to play around with replacement words for "fruition". The differing line and sentence lengths keep the piece moving in a very interesting way. You could even exaggerate this for an even greater effect, making it the obvious driving force behind the peice.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Free Entry 1, Week 5
Oh God, how could I ever explain
the spinning of the cosmos?
To articulate the sparkling of dew?
Do I keep around me the ability to dream
of one thousand baby spiders, bright enough
to break through the daylight, weaving webs
of multicolored crystals in thin air? Do I dare?
The twinkling eye of a tiger-lily enthralls me
leads me to believe
there is a God after all. Not yours, of course.
But I do dream, and dream well. Yellow sphinxes
batting down jet planes like moths, and my mouth
opens wide, gasping in a cool night,
and my sight is of blue rivers disappearing,
blending into the gradient of misty church towers
long taken over by English ivy, and thankful
for their divine right to solitude, silence, peace,
and decay.
the spinning of the cosmos?
To articulate the sparkling of dew?
Do I keep around me the ability to dream
of one thousand baby spiders, bright enough
to break through the daylight, weaving webs
of multicolored crystals in thin air? Do I dare?
The twinkling eye of a tiger-lily enthralls me
leads me to believe
there is a God after all. Not yours, of course.
But I do dream, and dream well. Yellow sphinxes
batting down jet planes like moths, and my mouth
opens wide, gasping in a cool night,
and my sight is of blue rivers disappearing,
blending into the gradient of misty church towers
long taken over by English ivy, and thankful
for their divine right to solitude, silence, peace,
and decay.
Improv. 1, Week 5
from "Notes for a Poem in which God Does Not Appear" by Dan Albergotti
"Drought has hardened the earth enough
to break a shovel. The air is dry, the sky
cloudless. Do not make the bright sun irony.
Only let it burn, apart from everything."
burning at the heart of the solar system,
our sun sits alone. Yet it does not sit
but turns endlessly, pulling all the planets,
comets, asteroids, moons, satellites, and floating
bits of paper near. Nearer and nearer,
until we are all in drought. We dig
into the earth, searching endlessly
for even a single drop. But the dirt is dry,
the air, arid. Not a cloud in the sky
to warn us of oncoming water. In this sense,
the sun is irony. The birth of planets, the birth
of life; the birth of my brothers, sisters,
lovers, friends. For this, we love the sun.
That single burning mass, our own personal star;
that bringer of food, frolic, vision, breath:
This will be the death of us.
Its bloodthirsty rays will eat us alive.
"Drought has hardened the earth enough
to break a shovel. The air is dry, the sky
cloudless. Do not make the bright sun irony.
Only let it burn, apart from everything."
burning at the heart of the solar system,
our sun sits alone. Yet it does not sit
but turns endlessly, pulling all the planets,
comets, asteroids, moons, satellites, and floating
bits of paper near. Nearer and nearer,
until we are all in drought. We dig
into the earth, searching endlessly
for even a single drop. But the dirt is dry,
the air, arid. Not a cloud in the sky
to warn us of oncoming water. In this sense,
the sun is irony. The birth of planets, the birth
of life; the birth of my brothers, sisters,
lovers, friends. For this, we love the sun.
That single burning mass, our own personal star;
that bringer of food, frolic, vision, breath:
This will be the death of us.
Its bloodthirsty rays will eat us alive.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sign Inventory 1, Week 4
Sign inventory for "Dr Emeritus Speaks at the Department Meeting"
-26 lines of similar length
-one stanza
-first ten lines: aa, bb, cc, bb, dd
-pattern becomes more irregular in lines 11-19: e, f, e, g, g, h, i, j, j
-ryhme schemes finally dissipates starting in line 20
-language is very conversational; narrator says hello to an audience member and addresses another directly as "you"
-non-spoken conversational elements also added in ("tsk, tsk" and "cough")
-last six lines abandon the informal meeting lingo and subject
-all 26 lines make up only 1 sentence
-only 5 lines end with commas, and one ends with --
-spoken in first person from a grammarian/professor
-references to poetry and language throughout ("grammarian", "a word, you know", "articulation", "letter", "document", "New Critics", "poet's", "adjectives", and "foundational verbs")
-26 lines of similar length
-one stanza
-first ten lines: aa, bb, cc, bb, dd
-pattern becomes more irregular in lines 11-19: e, f, e, g, g, h, i, j, j
-ryhme schemes finally dissipates starting in line 20
-language is very conversational; narrator says hello to an audience member and addresses another directly as "you"
-non-spoken conversational elements also added in ("tsk, tsk" and "cough")
-last six lines abandon the informal meeting lingo and subject
-all 26 lines make up only 1 sentence
-only 5 lines end with commas, and one ends with --
-spoken in first person from a grammarian/professor
-references to poetry and language throughout ("grammarian", "a word, you know", "articulation", "letter", "document", "New Critics", "poet's", "adjectives", and "foundational verbs")
Response 2, Week 4
Response to Pauline's Free Entry 1, Week 4
Pauline,
First, I want to question the use of the phrase "blackened soul". I think this leans toward the category of "poesy". When I think typical dark poetry, soul would definitely be mentioned, along with something about it being dark, hurt, etc. An expansion tactic I have been working on that may help you: I take an abstract or expected word such as "soul" or "love" and just start writing what comes to my mind image-wise in relation to the word. It generally starts out more typical (love is the setting sun, a branch of cherry blossoms), but the more freely I get into the association, the images will get more interesting (love is a puddle of water, a coin in a gutter).
One more thing I want to mention is the structure of this piece. There is a little bit of rhyming going on that could be played with, maybe sharpened. And I am not sure if "detached" and "unearthed" deserve their own line, so line breaks can use some thinking and rearranging.
Otherwise, I love the interesting and ambiguous language used throughout. I hope you keep playing with this piece; I feel like it has high potential!
Pauline,
First, I want to question the use of the phrase "blackened soul". I think this leans toward the category of "poesy". When I think typical dark poetry, soul would definitely be mentioned, along with something about it being dark, hurt, etc. An expansion tactic I have been working on that may help you: I take an abstract or expected word such as "soul" or "love" and just start writing what comes to my mind image-wise in relation to the word. It generally starts out more typical (love is the setting sun, a branch of cherry blossoms), but the more freely I get into the association, the images will get more interesting (love is a puddle of water, a coin in a gutter).
One more thing I want to mention is the structure of this piece. There is a little bit of rhyming going on that could be played with, maybe sharpened. And I am not sure if "detached" and "unearthed" deserve their own line, so line breaks can use some thinking and rearranging.
Otherwise, I love the interesting and ambiguous language used throughout. I hope you keep playing with this piece; I feel like it has high potential!
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 4
"polymorphous sexualities" -Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality
There is a good rhythm in this word pair.
There is a good rhythm in this word pair.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Response 1, Week 4
Response to Christine's week 4 improv.
Christine,
You seem to have a good ear for lyrical/poetic words. Delilah is a lovely word to read and say out loud, "saffron grinders" is a great word pair, along with "Sorek wadi" and the phrase "wine-stained tongue". You actually say "hair" three times ("the hair's the thing", "longhair", and "with your hair") in this short piece; if you continued to build off this, that may be something to ride with. The phrase "mass of unkempt follicle growth" really distracted me. Not only does it contain a multitude of opposing, stressed, consonant sounds (m, f, l, g, th) that slow down the tongue, but the phrase itself sounds too trying. Overall, you have a good hold on language and are well able to use another piece to lead into your own words and images.
Christine,
You seem to have a good ear for lyrical/poetic words. Delilah is a lovely word to read and say out loud, "saffron grinders" is a great word pair, along with "Sorek wadi" and the phrase "wine-stained tongue". You actually say "hair" three times ("the hair's the thing", "longhair", and "with your hair") in this short piece; if you continued to build off this, that may be something to ride with. The phrase "mass of unkempt follicle growth" really distracted me. Not only does it contain a multitude of opposing, stressed, consonant sounds (m, f, l, g, th) that slow down the tongue, but the phrase itself sounds too trying. Overall, you have a good hold on language and are well able to use another piece to lead into your own words and images.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 4
"I wished I was a curtain...something similar to that" -Robert Plant in a interview
A curtain, of all things? Curtain. Say it a few times.
A curtain, of all things? Curtain. Say it a few times.
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 4
"a library with only four books, and a thousand copies of each" -a friend in group conversation
The image itself is more noteworthy than the language.
The image itself is more noteworthy than the language.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Free Entry 1, Week 4
Body-to-body, we fold together;
I press my hipbones against yours,
against you, who are the nerves in my palm,
the ache in my knees, taste on my tongue,
the grass in my toes and sand in my teeth,
the color green, and a wheelbarrow
the color of molasses. You, a sparrow
on a windowsill. A cat with a sparrow
in its mouth. Your texture
reminds me of my own. Alone,
I am an hourglass.
Together we are the hands of a clock,
going nowhere but around.
I press my hipbones against yours,
against you, who are the nerves in my palm,
the ache in my knees, taste on my tongue,
the grass in my toes and sand in my teeth,
the color green, and a wheelbarrow
the color of molasses. You, a sparrow
on a windowsill. A cat with a sparrow
in its mouth. Your texture
reminds me of my own. Alone,
I am an hourglass.
Together we are the hands of a clock,
going nowhere but around.
Improv. 1, Week 4
"your ragged arch foes,/ your bed in rock, in magma, in thick sea slime,/ our fascination still, our morbid heart,/ our scattering like leaves"
from "Questions for Godzilla" by Paul Guest, p. 102
your hungry burned hands, your ribs in a vice, in milk, in deep violet mountains, our shifting envy, our breaking fists, our scattering like marbles, multicolored blue and brown and the sound of empty bamboo in an air-tight room. There is no room to breathe, a bed of rock, we trudge through thick sea slime, our morbid hearts whispering dark green syllables in the glow of an otherworldly algae. We scatter like leaves, unwilling to spoil the glory of your face, unwilling to upset the shadowy smirk crawling across our faces when you arrive at the doorstep.
from "Questions for Godzilla" by Paul Guest, p. 102
your hungry burned hands, your ribs in a vice, in milk, in deep violet mountains, our shifting envy, our breaking fists, our scattering like marbles, multicolored blue and brown and the sound of empty bamboo in an air-tight room. There is no room to breathe, a bed of rock, we trudge through thick sea slime, our morbid hearts whispering dark green syllables in the glow of an otherworldly algae. We scatter like leaves, unwilling to spoil the glory of your face, unwilling to upset the shadowy smirk crawling across our faces when you arrive at the doorstep.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Calisthenic 1, Week 4
(the exercise from today based off the prose piece)
You were just a city then,
a bronze skyscraper,
the embodiment of headlights,
tailights, asphalt, amateur graffiti.
The fog in your hair froze
all the city's breakers, and I crawled
beneath your bridges, burning
Saturday afternoon traffic.
All the while you hung off cranes
aiming a slingshot to stun pidgeons
and place them in your central park.
Now you're something like a river,
making me dizzy, swimming through
flooded subway stations, where I pray
for the bubbling of a piano,
soundwaves under water-ways
where fish swallow arpeggios, chords,
rests. Your iron is wasting away,
but there is no hesitation. Wet feet
sink in pebbles, mud, landing
at the mouth of some great continent
without cities, without bronze,
whose Saturdays sink like silt.
You were just a city then,
a bronze skyscraper,
the embodiment of headlights,
tailights, asphalt, amateur graffiti.
The fog in your hair froze
all the city's breakers, and I crawled
beneath your bridges, burning
Saturday afternoon traffic.
All the while you hung off cranes
aiming a slingshot to stun pidgeons
and place them in your central park.
Now you're something like a river,
making me dizzy, swimming through
flooded subway stations, where I pray
for the bubbling of a piano,
soundwaves under water-ways
where fish swallow arpeggios, chords,
rests. Your iron is wasting away,
but there is no hesitation. Wet feet
sink in pebbles, mud, landing
at the mouth of some great continent
without cities, without bronze,
whose Saturdays sink like silt.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sign Inventory 1, Week 3
"Paramour" by Angie Estes (page 67 in Writing Poetry)
-free verse and recursive: repetition of sound is the motor of this poem, as in "par for/ l'amour is par/ for the course", "boeuf or beef", and "assignage [...]/ fromage [...] French call/ feet of the angels."
-total of 32 lines;
most are short (13-nearly half-consist of four or less words)
starting in line 18, longer lines become the norm (5 to 9 words; all in all, still not long)
-all ines enjambed
-besides the last line, only line 15 ends with a period
-italics occur throughout the poem, applied to foreign words, words pointed out to be chosen labels (home and love) and phrases specifically said or thought of (Picasso's she will or the French's feet of the angels)
-French is the only foreign language used, also claiming the title
-three people are named: a sculptor, a painter, and a poet
-there is an ongoing discussion of the discrepancy between art and reality (the relationship between name and thing, painter and painted, sculptor and sculpted)
-free verse and recursive: repetition of sound is the motor of this poem, as in "par for/ l'amour is par/ for the course", "boeuf or beef", and "assignage [...]/ fromage [...] French call/ feet of the angels."
-total of 32 lines;
most are short (13-nearly half-consist of four or less words)
starting in line 18, longer lines become the norm (5 to 9 words; all in all, still not long)
-all ines enjambed
-besides the last line, only line 15 ends with a period
-italics occur throughout the poem, applied to foreign words, words pointed out to be chosen labels (home and love) and phrases specifically said or thought of (Picasso's she will or the French's feet of the angels)
-French is the only foreign language used, also claiming the title
-three people are named: a sculptor, a painter, and a poet
-there is an ongoing discussion of the discrepancy between art and reality (the relationship between name and thing, painter and painted, sculptor and sculpted)
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 3
"Peace on earth seems easier when everyone is sleeping"
"Happiness is a puddle of shade"
from lessons of a turtle (the little book of life) by Sandy Gingras
"Happiness is a puddle of shade"
from lessons of a turtle (the little book of life) by Sandy Gingras
Response 2, Week 3
Response to Sydney's Improv. 1, Week 3
"Foggy-grey, funnel-cloud morning" creates a nice rhythm with twosyllable-one, twosyllable-one, twosyllable, with each of the - combinations starting with an f-word and moving to a double consonant beginning. Good phrase to keep. The dash within "under-neath" seems like a bit much, as if simply trying to keep up with a style. I don't disagree with any of the others. I love the visceral, somewhat creepy language used in describing the vaccuum. I also notice the use of "juggling" mentioned in chapter 5 of Writing Poetry. If you wanted to expand this or work out even more language, each of the competing themes (vaccuuming, scraping the finger, finding the diary) could be turned into a single-themed paragraph and afterwards recombined.
"Foggy-grey, funnel-cloud morning" creates a nice rhythm with twosyllable-one, twosyllable-one, twosyllable, with each of the - combinations starting with an f-word and moving to a double consonant beginning. Good phrase to keep. The dash within "under-neath" seems like a bit much, as if simply trying to keep up with a style. I don't disagree with any of the others. I love the visceral, somewhat creepy language used in describing the vaccuum. I also notice the use of "juggling" mentioned in chapter 5 of Writing Poetry. If you wanted to expand this or work out even more language, each of the competing themes (vaccuuming, scraping the finger, finding the diary) could be turned into a single-themed paragraph and afterwards recombined.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 3
"paid in beer and onions" -Dr. Leslie
I guess whatever's practical to be paid in works, but I wouldn't be overly excited for pay day.
I guess whatever's practical to be paid in works, but I wouldn't be overly excited for pay day.
Response 1, Week 3
Response to Ben's Improv. 1, Week 3
It's interesting the elements you built off of from "Carson McCullers". Without borrowing any language, "Hemingway" instead imitates short lines and the theme of losing an accomplished writer. In contrast, your piece employs bulkier and more ambiguous language. I like the phrase "scatter canon wrapped in battered paws" for the language play; it's very fun to say.
I agree with Pauline about the last line lacking impact and second the suggestion of expanding the imagery in order to find somewhere else to go with it. Maybe you could begin generating more images by describing broad terms such as "legend" and "grace".
It's interesting the elements you built off of from "Carson McCullers". Without borrowing any language, "Hemingway" instead imitates short lines and the theme of losing an accomplished writer. In contrast, your piece employs bulkier and more ambiguous language. I like the phrase "scatter canon wrapped in battered paws" for the language play; it's very fun to say.
I agree with Pauline about the last line lacking impact and second the suggestion of expanding the imagery in order to find somewhere else to go with it. Maybe you could begin generating more images by describing broad terms such as "legend" and "grace".
Calisthenic 1, Week 3
(Re-creation of the exercise from Thursday's class)
17 initial lines molded to the theme of the movement of sea turtles
Mayhem does not reign over this molecular water-ride
whose scenery holds keys to enciphered journeys across the sea;
migrations forever overcoming the screeching of friction
by giving into currents continuously, in double 12-hour shifts.
Each year is congruent: reflective, symmetric, transcendent.
He who condemned Io to its infernal fate ignored
the silently gliding sea turtle migrations, finitely primitive
and infinitely now. With the aid of extra men,
strategic use of sleeping pills, and ship-to-ship refueling,
we try to grasp their habits. But the world is round,
revolving endlessly in strands of earthly activity
forever beyond understanding. Not everything is expressed
in John's testimony, "The word becomes flesh".
Are their eyes fond of blues and spheres, snowflakes
of an almost stellar realm? Do they digest their meals
for a billion years, speaking in tones deeper
than the limits of human hearing? I would turn the moon inside out
to weave the web of water into which they cluster.
17 initial lines molded to the theme of the movement of sea turtles
Mayhem does not reign over this molecular water-ride
whose scenery holds keys to enciphered journeys across the sea;
migrations forever overcoming the screeching of friction
by giving into currents continuously, in double 12-hour shifts.
Each year is congruent: reflective, symmetric, transcendent.
He who condemned Io to its infernal fate ignored
the silently gliding sea turtle migrations, finitely primitive
and infinitely now. With the aid of extra men,
strategic use of sleeping pills, and ship-to-ship refueling,
we try to grasp their habits. But the world is round,
revolving endlessly in strands of earthly activity
forever beyond understanding. Not everything is expressed
in John's testimony, "The word becomes flesh".
Are their eyes fond of blues and spheres, snowflakes
of an almost stellar realm? Do they digest their meals
for a billion years, speaking in tones deeper
than the limits of human hearing? I would turn the moon inside out
to weave the web of water into which they cluster.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 3
"-Do you have power of will?
-I have the power of the sun."
q&a between me and my roomate
-I have the power of the sun."
q&a between me and my roomate
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Improv. 1, Week 3
From Mourning to Morning
-Eliot Kahlil Wilson
"I was the night man, told to dress crow-formal,/ to greet somberly, to point dismally,/ to look potentially sad/ or vaguely pious. No smiling and- like the airport- / no jokes. In the break room, aboce the veneered dresser/ where the shoe polish and pornography were kept,/ a laminated poster gave the rules in black magic marker"
I was the night moon, drawn in grey magic marker, or maybe white, painted above the treeline, vaguely angled, potentially falling, and dismally smitten with the clouds, bright, bright clouds, outlined in glowing sticks of reflection, crows of mist and shades of glow, greeting the comets above (what is above, really?) without telling them jokes, no room for humor when the smell of shoe polish and gasoline hovers over naked breasts and mouth-numbing powder. Potentially, I am sad. Doubtfully, I am pious. Hopefully, I am dreaming.
-Eliot Kahlil Wilson
"I was the night man, told to dress crow-formal,/ to greet somberly, to point dismally,/ to look potentially sad/ or vaguely pious. No smiling and- like the airport- / no jokes. In the break room, aboce the veneered dresser/ where the shoe polish and pornography were kept,/ a laminated poster gave the rules in black magic marker"
I was the night moon, drawn in grey magic marker, or maybe white, painted above the treeline, vaguely angled, potentially falling, and dismally smitten with the clouds, bright, bright clouds, outlined in glowing sticks of reflection, crows of mist and shades of glow, greeting the comets above (what is above, really?) without telling them jokes, no room for humor when the smell of shoe polish and gasoline hovers over naked breasts and mouth-numbing powder. Potentially, I am sad. Doubtfully, I am pious. Hopefully, I am dreaming.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 3
"the feeling of waking up"- yoga instructor
What is the feeling of waking up?
What is the feeling of waking up?
Monday, January 24, 2011
Free Entry 1, Week 3
[Untitled]
The orchid inside succeeds at prodding
and prying me open, as I try to capture
a picture of milkweeds. I pray for rain
and rule in Babylon, the next great Sargon
building gardens for Ishtar and the organiscism
of the cosmos. Like the navy blue waving
circular sky that frames arching flocks;
a silver halo that outlines each tree, swaying
with orgasm to the fruit of light. God breathes
humidity and exhales breeze, onto water-reeds.
And when God holds his breath, it is stillness.
Sign Inventory 1, Week 2
Stopping for Gas Near Cheat Lake
-poem comprised of seven four-line stanzas
-each stanza follows the pattern of short line, long line, short line, long line
-unknown narrator
-the last line of the forth stanza and first line of the fifth stanza are italisized
-no rhyming
-repitition of "white" (skin, gum, and face)
-four questions openly/rhetorically directed, along with one directed at the narrator from the doctors
-references to liquid appear throughout (lake, water, gas, windshield fluid, vials, blood)
-lines 16 and 17 (italized) along with line 8 are the only sentences not enjambed
-poem comprised of seven four-line stanzas
-each stanza follows the pattern of short line, long line, short line, long line
-unknown narrator
-the last line of the forth stanza and first line of the fifth stanza are italisized
-no rhyming
-repitition of "white" (skin, gum, and face)
-four questions openly/rhetorically directed, along with one directed at the narrator from the doctors
-references to liquid appear throughout (lake, water, gas, windshield fluid, vials, blood)
-lines 16 and 17 (italized) along with line 8 are the only sentences not enjambed
Response 2, Week 2
Response to Sydney's "Improv 2, Week 2"
I love how this improvisation captures so well the sound and style of Fireworks, August 25, but is still an individualized imitation (language wasn't overly mimicked, images were exchanged, etc.). I feel that riffing off of this could in turn define a direction, maybe focusing in on a particular event or feeling. I particularly enjoyed the line "A naked oak tree stares, the only witness to the dead world trampled under tattered fingerprints left from the souls of boots, and tire tracks". Much strong language is packed into this one sentence, and I think that working with it will be rewarding.
I love how this improvisation captures so well the sound and style of Fireworks, August 25, but is still an individualized imitation (language wasn't overly mimicked, images were exchanged, etc.). I feel that riffing off of this could in turn define a direction, maybe focusing in on a particular event or feeling. I particularly enjoyed the line "A naked oak tree stares, the only witness to the dead world trampled under tattered fingerprints left from the souls of boots, and tire tracks". Much strong language is packed into this one sentence, and I think that working with it will be rewarding.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Response 1, Week 2
Response to Elizabeth Bounds's Week 2 Calisthenic.
I see a definite linguistic ambience throughout this exercise. It is simple and personal, sounding almost like free association, saying whatever popped into your head first. That works well with the incorporation of the idea of zen and light, and even adds a dimension to "raucous love-making"; it no longer sounds raunchy, but rather like something simple, natural, and beautiful, despite its loudness and disturbance. One thing I would definitely change is "sort of tall". This phrase fails to convey any real size and leads me to doubt whether or not the author is intimately acquainted with this object, which the rest of the poem seems to imply is true.
I see a definite linguistic ambience throughout this exercise. It is simple and personal, sounding almost like free association, saying whatever popped into your head first. That works well with the incorporation of the idea of zen and light, and even adds a dimension to "raucous love-making"; it no longer sounds raunchy, but rather like something simple, natural, and beautiful, despite its loudness and disturbance. One thing I would definitely change is "sort of tall". This phrase fails to convey any real size and leads me to doubt whether or not the author is intimately acquainted with this object, which the rest of the poem seems to imply is true.
Calisthenic/Text Exercise 1, Week 2
Object Studies, Ex. 10, Ch. 6
Shoes
Tread-bearing, toe-worn, imprinted
Speakers of direction, standing supporters, protection for my feet
Jumping fences, lacing, crossing the bridge
Stumbling upon my first pair in my closet, screwing spikes into track shoes, taking them off before lying with my boy
Envelop nerve endings, barrier before stepping on glass, proof of movement
Tread-bearing, toe-worn, speakers of direction
Laced by steady hand, carrying travelers across bridges,
but dropped on the floor before lying with another
(another with feet exposed and toes gripping; close, open).
Envelop nerve endings and be a barrier before glass;
otherwise, to the world, prove our movement.
Free Entry 2, Week 2
Poetic Mantra #1
I am a poet and a dancer.
I am a poet and a dancer.
I am happy and centered.
I am happy and centered.
My life is full of beauty and love
My world is full of beauty and love
My life is poetry and dancing.
My world is poetry and dancing.
I am full of beauty and love
My soul is filled with beauty and love
I am happy and centered.
I am a poet and a dancer.
Response 2, Week 1
Response to Ben McClain's "Improv 1, Week 1"
First, I will be picky. "It's" should be "its" and "two" if meant is confusing, and otherwise should be "too". I like the ending as a period, following the straightforward simplicity and abruptness of the poem, but the last line is actually being asked. This can easily by reconciled, either by using a question mark (I less prefer that) or by a small change such as "I wonder/ whether mice want [...]". The contrast in the language is great (sun, decay, bones, second chance); I would only suggest to write on, McClain! The longer you improvise, the more imagery you award yourself.
First, I will be picky. "It's" should be "its" and "two" if meant is confusing, and otherwise should be "too". I like the ending as a period, following the straightforward simplicity and abruptness of the poem, but the last line is actually being asked. This can easily by reconciled, either by using a question mark (I less prefer that) or by a small change such as "I wonder/ whether mice want [...]". The contrast in the language is great (sun, decay, bones, second chance); I would only suggest to write on, McClain! The longer you improvise, the more imagery you award yourself.
Response 1, Week 1
Response to Christine's Free Entry, January 19
I agree with Mackenzie’s discrepancy with the word “overzealously”. Such a long word with a prominent (and harsh) “z” sound clashes with the preceding poem and left me stylistically confused. Another instance I want to pick with is the phrase “crouched with half-bored classmates”. Crouching seems to imply interest, intentness; it serves to get closer and involves a higher focus in stabilizing the muscles. As far as “half-bored” goes, I feel it is not as strong of a descriptive word as could be there. However, the imagery of this piece is particularly specific and vivid. In just the first stanza, we are introduced to a narrator, classmates, teacher, mother, ex-husband, and ex-mother-in-law. Both of the class projects are detailed in a way that I can easily picture.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Text Exercise 1, Week 1
Poem #1263
"Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant--
Successin Cicuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--"
-Emily Dickinson
Syntax Mimicry:
"Gather all the stones, but gather them softly--
Honesty in groves dissipates
Too humble for our golden ancestors
The stones' last stand
As temples to the sun decompose
With darkness found
The stones must lie quietly
Or every church be abandoned--"
"Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant--
Successin Cicuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--"
-Emily Dickinson
Syntax Mimicry:
"Gather all the stones, but gather them softly--
Honesty in groves dissipates
Too humble for our golden ancestors
The stones' last stand
As temples to the sun decompose
With darkness found
The stones must lie quietly
Or every church be abandoned--"
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 2
"even breathing feels all right" -All of my Days, song by Alexi Murdoch
The lyricality of this line works without music.
The lyricality of this line works without music.
Improv. 1, Week 2
"A single tethered horse,
stirrups glistening
with fallen snow."
-Yosa Buson
wintertime simplicity
and nighttime teeth
chewing through reigns, crisply whitened
like new found land and unstepped snow
tracks through snow
and hooves through crystals
glistening like plastic cheeks on the faces of mannequins
in a mall at Christmastime
dressed up like jockeys or football players
inspiring dreams of fulfilling the aims of capitalism
and forgetting the untrodden fluff of the forest
for the packed ice of a parking lot.
stirrups glistening
with fallen snow."
-Yosa Buson
wintertime simplicity
and nighttime teeth
chewing through reigns, crisply whitened
like new found land and unstepped snow
tracks through snow
and hooves through crystals
glistening like plastic cheeks on the faces of mannequins
in a mall at Christmastime
dressed up like jockeys or football players
inspiring dreams of fulfilling the aims of capitalism
and forgetting the untrodden fluff of the forest
for the packed ice of a parking lot.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Free Entry 1, Week 2
Every car that passes by is a ticking clock, and despair is the only thing my fingers yield. But even despair must be prodded, pried open and investigated. Nothing flows freely; nonsense is the hardest thing to come by, like a diamond but more valuable. So I will live as a honey bee and milk the nectar of sweet-smelling flowers. My despair will be winter, and I will endure it frozen in a snowflake, in a pond, alongside the icey shadowbox of a wooly mammoth. My love will be spring air, as I thaw from the deep slumber of stars and mountains, solemnly tasting the dewy sky. Every year my life begins there. And this year I'll go crazy, twisting my fingers through vast space, trying to capture the picture of honeybees. My nonsense requires too much thought, and suddenly I grow restless. Maybe tomorrow I will go mad, but not today. Today I am no orchid. I am a lowly tadpole, newly hatched and flopping in mud, barely able to dream a life of yellow and black stripes. My only hope is to swim fast enough to survive the day I sprout feet. With liberty to step on solid ground, I will journey to the Babylonian gardens, praying they're not as great as the pond.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 2
"My savior will not wear a shirt." This was the last line a friend spoke in my dream before I woke up.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sign Inventory 1, Week 1
"Color Fortunes" by Terri Witek
No ryhme scheme
No enjambment (each line is a complete sentence)
"Color" or "Colors" appears in every line but #1 and 2, which contain, respectively, the words "green" and "blue"
Addressed to a "you" referred to in 11 lines out of 17
Most of the sentences follow a logic pattern (If this, then that; Because this, then that) and the "if" constructions dominate the poem, appearing 9 times
Sentences tend to work in pairs ("If you color your lips, your words will do battle./ If you color your toes, you'll find directions confusing.", "If you paint lean colors over fat ones [...]/ If you paint fat colors over lean ones [...]."
Only three sentences do not have commas, two of which are the first lines, and the other is line 10. These make up three of 5 assertions without 'logical' cause or support; the other two are the last lines. This makes for structurally different claims at the beginning, end, and (nearly) middle of the poem
Subtle alliteration/assonance throughout ("blue on the bottom", "sex will be excellent", "war will be glorious", "feel further", etc.)
No ryhme scheme
No enjambment (each line is a complete sentence)
"Color" or "Colors" appears in every line but #1 and 2, which contain, respectively, the words "green" and "blue"
Addressed to a "you" referred to in 11 lines out of 17
Most of the sentences follow a logic pattern (If this, then that; Because this, then that) and the "if" constructions dominate the poem, appearing 9 times
Sentences tend to work in pairs ("If you color your lips, your words will do battle./ If you color your toes, you'll find directions confusing.", "If you paint lean colors over fat ones [...]/ If you paint fat colors over lean ones [...]."
Only three sentences do not have commas, two of which are the first lines, and the other is line 10. These make up three of 5 assertions without 'logical' cause or support; the other two are the last lines. This makes for structurally different claims at the beginning, end, and (nearly) middle of the poem
Subtle alliteration/assonance throughout ("blue on the bottom", "sex will be excellent", "war will be glorious", "feel further", etc.)
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 1
"For by stroking of him I have found out electricity" -Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno [My Cat Jeoffrey]
Specifically, I like the phrase, "I have found out electricity" as metaphor for the static shock often following petting his cat; it's lovely and poetic, but not without an air of humor.
Specifically, I like the phrase, "I have found out electricity" as metaphor for the static shock often following petting his cat; it's lovely and poetic, but not without an air of humor.
Improv. 1, Week 1
“An owl, yellow as a ladder, is hinged to the night./ Where is the place he carried from Paris/ like artificial fruit?”
Songbird, leader of the night, bite through flesh like fresh lemons
Imported from Paris, a cabinet, the navy blue waving of a boat
With side boards like owl wings, textured and beautiful through weather and wind
It rolls in from Sydney and rolls back to Paris
On the tip of my tongue, feathers grace color in thoughts
So bold, like artificial fruit, bleeding from the core
A nectar of plastic, so sweet to the unmoving
Mass of a hunted mouse, stricken down by the barn owl
Yellow as a ladder, green as a pear, you sit
And watch the nightbird hunt.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Free Write 1, Week 1
What of silence? Not shy, just quiet. You would speak of the things I see, maybe. I have experienced perfect bliss. It was a hammock, an arching flock of birds, a blue sky encircling a round world. “Dig a Pony” humming in my ears, and the trees outlined in silver vapors, emanating an overwhelming beauty; I lived for hours in orgasm. Sunshine, the Beatles swayed me in unison breath to the rock of the earth. Perfect bliss is harmony. But I dare not speak of it; it’s my secret. Not only my secret, but we dare not speak of it. We know too-good-to-be-true when we see it. Don’t we? But I know other things, other things to say. How’s the weather? The wind combs my eyelashes like lovers’ breath and God shines warmth, light on cheeks blessed by the aftertouch of a gentle hand. If I allow myself to speak so honestly. You don’t understand? Neither do I, generally. Trivial irrelevancies invade the commune like aphids on the wisteria outback. I will not be an aphid. Rather would I watch vague patterns on otherwise blank faces, playing games with which I have yet to accustom myself. I would love to monologue in front of you. However, the imposing silence (which is stillness, you know) calls to me, my mother in this inviting world. I won’t pass her by, with all she calls. But I would love to sit down for coffee sometime. Friday, you say? Well, never mind that. We can speak later.
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