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.
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
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