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
Monday, February 28, 2011
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
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