This started out as a collection of phrases from the blog Engrish Funny, which features a myriad of mistranslations:
-Please do not accompany the elevator door
-Beware of your hands
-You don't bird me. I don't bird you.
-Do not use on unexplained calf
-This machine chooses to use the transformer of power
-irony barbecue
-Please don't flash the octopus
And then ended up as this:
Your unexplained calf, wary hands
in an unaccompanied elevator door.
You bird me, smack against my window
every morning in a bloom of brown feathers. I
bird for you, stuffing frustrated straw into the nook
of some elm branch. This machine,
your feathered breath, chooses
barbecued irony. I birds-eye you,
I flash octopi to make them change
color and squeeze into the nook
of some coral branch. Beware of your hands.
They bloom on my waist, unexplained.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Free Write, Week 12
An edit of a previous poem:
How to Show Your Mother She Raised You Right
1—Be Well Read
Make sure she sees you
with a hardback once a week (try
some moony Whitman or savory Cervantes)
and hide Fabio-embossed
dust jackets. Know who Emily Post is.
Read Country Gardens and Vogue. Rattle
off the two species of Gallberry and identify
the stitch of a real Chanel. Translate
poems into languages her mouth can't handle—
Urdu or something sub-Saharan.
Study the obstinacy of kiwi bristles
and avoid the scowl of a lemon wedge. Always
have the intimacy of banana curves
at your fingertips. Know her birthday. Forget her age.
2—Be Clean and Neat
Exfoliate. Don't suck down your Evian
like Gatorade. Agree
that wicker furniture isn’t ugly. Agree
that the neighbor with her oversized dogs
and chicken-fried-chicken odor
is white trash, but don't describe
the smell of her nephew’s trailer hazy with spent
menthols, or the taste of Van Gogh
Vodka from his heated mouth in the torn
backseat of a Honda Accord. Wear floral prints,
A-line skirts. Agree that you won't talk
to the gardener while he’s working.
3—Converse Well
Call about her everyday
minutiae. Don’t tell her that she repeats
stories like writing lines in detention.
Don’t interrupt. Answer questions vaguely. Tell her
about a man hitting passengers on the bus
with dirty pink flip-flop heels,
sagging in his ragged airbrushed
t-shirt. Don’t mention that you bought
him a meal. Drink Moscato with dinner.
Listen to her mascara shade lectures.
Speak badly about your father, reaffirm
what a terrible choice she made, that he’s
got his fifth floozy already hanging
on every arm he sticks out.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 12
There's a wrench in wrong
-Catherine Wing
My grandmother thirsted for white hair
-me
Benedictive mumbling
-A Rolling Stones review
-Catherine Wing
My grandmother thirsted for white hair
-me
Benedictive mumbling
-A Rolling Stones review
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Calisthenics: Resurrecting the Classics
Antigone Going
I am impatient for these men
to roll their stone over my tomb. Their wives
made it cozy, or tried, with stacks of pita, cheap amphoras
filled with wine, olives. They didn't leave room for late-night cravings. That's
fine, just as well. I sit and pick my fingernails clean.
The dirt falls on my feet. I count the inches
of light the stone is carving away. These
are their inches, I do not need the inches of men more,
more than I need a half-inch of dirt over my brother.
I pick the dirt out of my thumbnail and sprinkle it on my foot.
The men grunt above me, behind me, somewhere between
my legs and ears, as they and their stone whittle away
my grief from their cows, wars, dependable wives.
That's fine. Just as well. I see a sliver of foot.
It disappears. They have finished. They will not
kill me, can not satisfy me like that. I can not
hear the rasp of their relief as they wipe foreheads
clean of my sweaty solemnity. I rip my own dress
and braid it like a daughter's hair--it's too white, too
dirty, smells too much like a rotting brother,
but I twist it, wring it into a beautiful noose.
I am impatient for these men
to roll their stone over my tomb. Their wives
made it cozy, or tried, with stacks of pita, cheap amphoras
filled with wine, olives. They didn't leave room for late-night cravings. That's
fine, just as well. I sit and pick my fingernails clean.
The dirt falls on my feet. I count the inches
of light the stone is carving away. These
are their inches, I do not need the inches of men more,
more than I need a half-inch of dirt over my brother.
I pick the dirt out of my thumbnail and sprinkle it on my foot.
The men grunt above me, behind me, somewhere between
my legs and ears, as they and their stone whittle away
my grief from their cows, wars, dependable wives.
That's fine. Just as well. I see a sliver of foot.
It disappears. They have finished. They will not
kill me, can not satisfy me like that. I can not
hear the rasp of their relief as they wipe foreheads
clean of my sweaty solemnity. I rip my own dress
and braid it like a daughter's hair--it's too white, too
dirty, smells too much like a rotting brother,
but I twist it, wring it into a beautiful noose.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sign Inventory, B. H. Fairchild's "Madonna and Child"
- In the beginning, the baby seems violent as its crying "[rips] through the store like a weed cutter," then turns divine as it becomes "the harangue of the gods." Once she begins nursing, the baby's characterization evolves to be more calm but still voracious with what Fairchild calls "the great suck of the infinite." By the end of the poem, however, the child seems angelic, "asleep, lips / on breast, drops of milk trickling down."
- Fairchild juxtaposes the overwhelming force of the baby with the speaker's "grievous / late-night stupor and post-marijuana hunger" and their "sad little plastic baskets full of crap."
- The poem includes dialogue in both English and Spanish, but only the Spanish is direct dialogue
- The baby is compared to a boat twice--in line 24 ("riding her knee like a little boat") and in lines 28-29 ("plump cheeks / pumping, billowing sails of the Santa Maria").
Junkyard Quotes, Week 11
Kisses fiddle with my mind
-Rockie
I'd live on the moon probably except I think I'd miss the moonlight
-Richard Siken
-Rockie
I'd live on the moon probably except I think I'd miss the moonlight
-Richard Siken
Free Write, Week 11
Notes on Chairs
Each city doles out spare seats: folding
chair theatres, dollar cinemas, outdated
booths in kitsch restaurants with catchy ads.
Benches squat on corners like tired whores,
sagging under bus riders and pinch-faced mothers.
Stools, though backless, are paradigms
of correct posture. They must stay stolid
under creaking weights of drunks and dunces.
Recliners, like the one my grandmother lived
and died in with its torn vinyl and cat piss
and spiderwebs of cotton spilling out, always
mouth remotes to imagine the taste of Animal
Planet or Jersey Shore.
Each city doles out spare seats: folding
chair theatres, dollar cinemas, outdated
booths in kitsch restaurants with catchy ads.
Benches squat on corners like tired whores,
sagging under bus riders and pinch-faced mothers.
Stools, though backless, are paradigms
of correct posture. They must stay stolid
under creaking weights of drunks and dunces.
Recliners, like the one my grandmother lived
and died in with its torn vinyl and cat piss
and spiderwebs of cotton spilling out, always
mouth remotes to imagine the taste of Animal
Planet or Jersey Shore.
"Improv"-ing on Amy Pence's "8th Grade Locker Combination"
8th Grade Locker Combination
If you remember the numbers now,
maybe the rest of your life will click open
on easy street: a winning lottery ticket.
Even then, when it didn't jam,
you considered yourself lucky. Saved
from humiliation, from the dreaded flicker of girls' eyes that meant something--.
Yet you didn't think then
that the locker would open
to all these riches: these woods,
this love, this child, even the deaths--
how they come to you in many forms:
wingspans radial, the heron,
the hummingbird: the whir metallic--
approaching, receding again.
7th Grade Suede Covered Journal
If you find it in the bookcase next to your half-
collection of The Babysitters Club, the rest
of your passion might crease open from
an eternal tropical themed birthday party.
Even then, when you scribbled down gossip
scraps it was guarded, discarded with a pen scratch. You can't say
whose eyes blink in the margins, changing
from green to black to blue to another blue
(your star-eyed scrawl says "periwinkle") each shining with some meaning--
When you turn the gel-penned pages
you didn't think that you would need
all these sketchy inkblots over those square dance
lessons, that sprained wrist, this pressed azalea petal,
even the solitude in so many forms:
linoleum echoes, the bread slice,
the fingerprint: your swirls inked--
un-hopscotched, blotched.
If you remember the numbers now,
maybe the rest of your life will click open
on easy street: a winning lottery ticket.
Even then, when it didn't jam,
you considered yourself lucky. Saved
from humiliation, from the dreaded flicker of girls' eyes that meant something--.
Yet you didn't think then
that the locker would open
to all these riches: these woods,
this love, this child, even the deaths--
how they come to you in many forms:
wingspans radial, the heron,
the hummingbird: the whir metallic--
approaching, receding again.
7th Grade Suede Covered Journal
If you find it in the bookcase next to your half-
collection of The Babysitters Club, the rest
of your passion might crease open from
an eternal tropical themed birthday party.
Even then, when you scribbled down gossip
scraps it was guarded, discarded with a pen scratch. You can't say
whose eyes blink in the margins, changing
from green to black to blue to another blue
(your star-eyed scrawl says "periwinkle") each shining with some meaning--
When you turn the gel-penned pages
you didn't think that you would need
all these sketchy inkblots over those square dance
lessons, that sprained wrist, this pressed azalea petal,
even the solitude in so many forms:
linoleum echoes, the bread slice,
the fingerprint: your swirls inked--
un-hopscotched, blotched.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Calisthenics: Sonic Translation
Per each seat, vain cities dole out,
for me, Shiva never sent colored letters.
Perms, if gone, try per duty, gentle.
Geosticking moss ills my alto fatigue:
for shimmy divvying pedestals,
winsome sap in Zales prime amore.
Dining a mean fury costs Cree tea.
Seen turning, better not Duracell.
Lash late cogs nests, walking nitrates.
---------------------
Each city doled out seats.
She never sent colored letters or
postcards of gentle perms.
Her altitude fatigue stuck like the ill
color of moss. She was a winsome sap
for Cree tea and Zales prime amore in
velvet boxes. Wasps nests seemed filled
with cogs turning in twitching Duracell ekes.
for me, Shiva never sent colored letters.
Perms, if gone, try per duty, gentle.
Geosticking moss ills my alto fatigue:
for shimmy divvying pedestals,
winsome sap in Zales prime amore.
Dining a mean fury costs Cree tea.
Seen turning, better not Duracell.
Lash late cogs nests, walking nitrates.
---------------------
Each city doled out seats.
She never sent colored letters or
postcards of gentle perms.
Her altitude fatigue stuck like the ill
color of moss. She was a winsome sap
for Cree tea and Zales prime amore in
velvet boxes. Wasps nests seemed filled
with cogs turning in twitching Duracell ekes.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Free Write, Week 10
Girl Talk
I lie in the bunk, listening.
They share chatter like childhood
toys: XL hoodies and their boyish smells,
soap operas, country singers' hometowns,
always stories heated over in the microwave.
My shirt drips outside with lake water.
My shoes are breaking, holing up
in strange places. Tucking into my sheets,
I avoid a whiff of coconut passion. Mike
is carved into my bedpost with Lauren
Loves Davie. The firewood still burns
under my fingernails, sticky like smores.
I lie in the bunk, listening.
They share chatter like childhood
toys: XL hoodies and their boyish smells,
soap operas, country singers' hometowns,
always stories heated over in the microwave.
My shirt drips outside with lake water.
My shoes are breaking, holing up
in strange places. Tucking into my sheets,
I avoid a whiff of coconut passion. Mike
is carved into my bedpost with Lauren
Loves Davie. The firewood still burns
under my fingernails, sticky like smores.
Calsisthenics: Odd Job
The Scrappler
I hang on with the last tailgaters, streetlamps glaring impatiently off our Ford F-whatevers.
The subject will come up soon enough with the shatter of my third-to-last Bud: Whatchya do ennyway?
My answer's always the same. I stir stews of pig guts. Aortas, gallbladders, glottises. That's it.
I smell the bubbling spleens and livers even when I pick out Hot Pockets or try
not to step on the Bible molding on the floor of my cousin's pickup. I'm always pulling
the lever that shoots pork slosh down the chutes. The backs of my eyelids
have been stamped with the curling edges of intestines.
I hang on with the last tailgaters, streetlamps glaring impatiently off our Ford F-whatevers.
The subject will come up soon enough with the shatter of my third-to-last Bud: Whatchya do ennyway?
My answer's always the same. I stir stews of pig guts. Aortas, gallbladders, glottises. That's it.
I smell the bubbling spleens and livers even when I pick out Hot Pockets or try
not to step on the Bible molding on the floor of my cousin's pickup. I'm always pulling
the lever that shoots pork slosh down the chutes. The backs of my eyelids
have been stamped with the curling edges of intestines.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Junkyard Quotes
There are characters in the background of Mary Worth strips that are more important than me.
-Fry, Futurama
The maiden voyage on yesterday's newspapers
-Adam on Mythbusters
Stories and smores by the microwave
-Kayla
Stick with me and you'll be sleeping through caviar!
-The Nanny
-Fry, Futurama
The maiden voyage on yesterday's newspapers
-Adam on Mythbusters
Stories and smores by the microwave
-Kayla
Stick with me and you'll be sleeping through caviar!
-The Nanny
Monday, March 21, 2011
Calisthenics: Eliminating Redundancies and Cleaning House
1. The colorless windows stared into the sizzling asphalt.
2. Our Eureka couldn't bring itself to snort your spilled coffee grounds.
3. He sifted the aftertastes of their drinks over the room with his piano.
4. This bird's mango feathers were a much better sight than the holiness of hymn books or the false smiles of housewives.
5. This scotch, he knew, would trickle into his stomach and tip him away from tipsy.
1. The sparrows kept to their business.
2. The sparrow's dusty feathers left me unexcited.
3. Shopping for school supplies sucked the beach trips, loungy days, and tall glasses of something from her eyes.
1. We leaned solemnly on the fence around the flamingos' pond.
2. The shrimp-feathered flamingos scooped into the barrels of algae, skimming off the impossibly thick layer.
3. Each slippery swallow settled in my mind with a happy plop.
1. Daily, the purple martin catches mosquitoes.
2. We now slip their nests into the tree, letting the martins laze into spring without the bother of construction.
3. The razor wings of our martins efface the sky.
2. Our Eureka couldn't bring itself to snort your spilled coffee grounds.
3. He sifted the aftertastes of their drinks over the room with his piano.
4. This bird's mango feathers were a much better sight than the holiness of hymn books or the false smiles of housewives.
5. This scotch, he knew, would trickle into his stomach and tip him away from tipsy.
1. The sparrows kept to their business.
2. The sparrow's dusty feathers left me unexcited.
3. Shopping for school supplies sucked the beach trips, loungy days, and tall glasses of something from her eyes.
1. We leaned solemnly on the fence around the flamingos' pond.
2. The shrimp-feathered flamingos scooped into the barrels of algae, skimming off the impossibly thick layer.
3. Each slippery swallow settled in my mind with a happy plop.
1. Daily, the purple martin catches mosquitoes.
2. We now slip their nests into the tree, letting the martins laze into spring without the bother of construction.
3. The razor wings of our martins efface the sky.
Free Write, March 20
This is an edit of a previous improv:
Grandpa chewed and swished
gray squirrel slowly in
a toothless mouth, sneaking
a mouthful of cheap gin and leaning
against the side of his acid-green Ranger
with a willow switch on the dash
and the dogeared Bible in the glovebox, and I saw
his lips crackle open like thin, boring
paper around a gift: the argyle socks buried
silently under pine leaves.
He was late that year, and we shut out
winter sun with Venetian blinds.
He was driven batshit crazy
by kids and BGH and welding
asbestos, wedding his best toes
to rough boots.
Every lunch, he read Outdoor Life
to learn intimately the glint of dogs' teeth on
Muscovy wings, the depth of walleyes,
the melancholy of fading fawn spots. I would like to fish
for words that rhyme with perch, shoot
pool or photos or for the moon, cast
a reel into the algaed water and pull out
the bass wriggling into a treble clef.
Grandpa chewed and swished
gray squirrel slowly in
a toothless mouth, sneaking
a mouthful of cheap gin and leaning
against the side of his acid-green Ranger
with a willow switch on the dash
and the dogeared Bible in the glovebox, and I saw
his lips crackle open like thin, boring
paper around a gift: the argyle socks buried
silently under pine leaves.
He was late that year, and we shut out
winter sun with Venetian blinds.
He was driven batshit crazy
by kids and BGH and welding
asbestos, wedding his best toes
to rough boots.
Every lunch, he read Outdoor Life
to learn intimately the glint of dogs' teeth on
Muscovy wings, the depth of walleyes,
the melancholy of fading fawn spots. I would like to fish
for words that rhyme with perch, shoot
pool or photos or for the moon, cast
a reel into the algaed water and pull out
the bass wriggling into a treble clef.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
"improv"-ing on Catherine Bowman's "I Want to be Your Shoebox"
I Want to Be Your Shoebox
Memphis Minnie’s classic blues line “I want to be your chauffer” was miscopied in an early Folkways recording song transcription as “I want to be your shoebox.”
I want to be your shoebox
I want to be your Fort Knox
I want to be your equinox
I want to be your paradox
I want to be your pair of socks
I want to be your paradise
I want to be your pack of lies
I want to be your snake eyes
I want to be your Mac with fries
I want to be your moonlit estuary
I want to be your day missing in February
I want to be your floating dock dairy
I want to be your pocket handkerchief
I want to be your mischief
I want to be your slow pitch
I want to be your fable without a moral
Under a table of black elm I want to be your Indiana morel
Casserole. Your drum roll. Your trompe l'oeil
I want to be your biscuits
I want to be your business
I want to be your beeswax
I want to be your milk money
I want to be your Texas Apiary honey
I want to be your Texas. Honey
I want to be your cheap hotel
I want to be your lipstick by Chanel
I want to be your secret passage
All written in Braille. I want to be
All the words you can't spell
I want to be your International
House of Pancakes. I want to be your reel after reel
Of rough takes. I want to be your Ouija board
I want to be your slum-lord. Hell
I want to be your made-to-order smorgasbord
I want to be your autobahn
I want to be your Audubon
I want to be your Chinese bug radical
I want to be your brand new set of radials
I want to be your old-time radio
I want to be your pro and your con
I want to be your Sunday morning ritual
(Demons be gone!) Your constitutional
Your habitual—
I want to be your Tinkertoy
Man, I want to be your best boy
I want to be your chauffeur
I want to be your chauf-
feur, your shofar, I want to be your go for
Your go far, your offer, your counter-offer
your two-by-four
I want to be your out and in door
I want to be your song: daily, nocturnal—
I want to be your nightingale
I want to be your dog's tail
The Other Woman
I want to be the ceiling fan that rattles
above your bedroom while
your wife watches Cheaters in silence.
I want to be your baby
carrot, I want to be the car
that you drive out of Rob's Used Autos.
I'll be your new headlights,
the head lice sorting
your hair into unseen rows.
I want to be a show, a shot,
the pot for your stew, the gum
in gumbo. I want to be okra
buried beneath the fishsticks in
your freezer. I'll be a fall breeze, the bee's
knees all rouged with ragweed
pollen. I'll call in your
prescriptions, favors. I want to. I
want to. I want to be the last
grains of yellow rice, crumbs
of yellow cake that you
will mash in with potatoes,
hoping for a nuclear explosion
that will carry off this whole family
picnic in a mushroom cloud.
I'll be the truffles you dig
for, the music you dug twenty
years ago, your Thirty Years War,
I want to be your armoire,
the half-empty glass of water
on your one nightstand.
Memphis Minnie’s classic blues line “I want to be your chauffer” was miscopied in an early Folkways recording song transcription as “I want to be your shoebox.”
I want to be your shoebox
I want to be your Fort Knox
I want to be your equinox
I want to be your paradox
I want to be your pair of socks
I want to be your paradise
I want to be your pack of lies
I want to be your snake eyes
I want to be your Mac with fries
I want to be your moonlit estuary
I want to be your day missing in February
I want to be your floating dock dairy
I want to be your pocket handkerchief
I want to be your mischief
I want to be your slow pitch
I want to be your fable without a moral
Under a table of black elm I want to be your Indiana morel
Casserole. Your drum roll. Your trompe l'oeil
I want to be your biscuits
I want to be your business
I want to be your beeswax
I want to be your milk money
I want to be your Texas Apiary honey
I want to be your Texas. Honey
I want to be your cheap hotel
I want to be your lipstick by Chanel
I want to be your secret passage
All written in Braille. I want to be
All the words you can't spell
I want to be your International
House of Pancakes. I want to be your reel after reel
Of rough takes. I want to be your Ouija board
I want to be your slum-lord. Hell
I want to be your made-to-order smorgasbord
I want to be your autobahn
I want to be your Audubon
I want to be your Chinese bug radical
I want to be your brand new set of radials
I want to be your old-time radio
I want to be your pro and your con
I want to be your Sunday morning ritual
(Demons be gone!) Your constitutional
Your habitual—
I want to be your Tinkertoy
Man, I want to be your best boy
I want to be your chauffeur
I want to be your chauf-
feur, your shofar, I want to be your go for
Your go far, your offer, your counter-offer
your two-by-four
I want to be your out and in door
I want to be your song: daily, nocturnal—
I want to be your nightingale
I want to be your dog's tail
The Other Woman
I want to be the ceiling fan that rattles
above your bedroom while
your wife watches Cheaters in silence.
I want to be your baby
carrot, I want to be the car
that you drive out of Rob's Used Autos.
I'll be your new headlights,
the head lice sorting
your hair into unseen rows.
I want to be a show, a shot,
the pot for your stew, the gum
in gumbo. I want to be okra
buried beneath the fishsticks in
your freezer. I'll be a fall breeze, the bee's
knees all rouged with ragweed
pollen. I'll call in your
prescriptions, favors. I want to. I
want to. I want to be the last
grains of yellow rice, crumbs
of yellow cake that you
will mash in with potatoes,
hoping for a nuclear explosion
that will carry off this whole family
picnic in a mushroom cloud.
I'll be the truffles you dig
for, the music you dug twenty
years ago, your Thirty Years War,
I want to be your armoire,
the half-empty glass of water
on your one nightstand.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sign Inventory,Kate Northrop's "Aspens"
- Each stanza is separated into four lines.
- Rhyme scheme AABB CACC DAEF GHHI
- Uses repetition heavily in the first two stanzas ("they are white / they are not white," "sound" is repeated three times in the second stanza)
- creates tension through contradiction early in the poem
- In the last stanza, the imagery moves into the domestic space "As if on a back stair / Or here at the window") briefly before ending with a "meadow"
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
"Improv"-ing on Angie Estes' "Gloss"
Gloss
My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violet litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at once when the string is pulled
in just the right place:
the water in the corn pot
boils, someone is slapped, and summer
rain splatters as you go out
to slop the hogs. We drove home
over the Potomac while the lights spread
their tails across the water, comets
leaving comments on a blackboard
sky like the powdered sugar
medieval physicians blew
into patients' eyes to cure
their blindness. At dusk,
fish rise, their new moons
etching the water like Venn Diagrams
for Robert's Rules of Order
surfaced at last, and I would like to
make a motion, move
to amend: point of information, point
of order. I move to amend
the amendment and want
to call the question, table
the discussion, bed
some roses, and roof the exclamation
of the Great Blue heron sliding
overhead, its feet following flight
the way a period haunts
a sentence: she said that
on the mountain where they grew
up, there were two kinds
of cherries--red heart and black heart--both of them
sweet.
Improv
Grandpa ate gray
squirrel, chewing and swishing
without teeth, leaning
against the scratched
side of his acid-green Ranger
with a willow switch
on the dash and the dogeared
Bible in the glovebox, and I saw
his lips open, unopen like thin,
boring paper around a gift
you thought you'd never get:
the argyle socks buried
silently under pine leaves,
someone is late, and winter sun
is shut out with vertical blinds. He was driven
batshit crazy with kids and
welding asbestos, wedding his best toes
to rough boots: day in, day out.
At lunch, he read Outdoor Life to learn
intimately the glint of dogs' teeth on
duck wings, the depth of salmon eyes,
the melancholy of fawn spots. I
would like to fish
for words that rhyme with perch, shoot
pool or photos or for the moon, cast
a reel into the algaed water and pull out
the bass wriggling into a treble clef: Granny
said her paintbrushes were made with either
horsehair or squirrel hair.
My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violet litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at once when the string is pulled
in just the right place:
the water in the corn pot
boils, someone is slapped, and summer
rain splatters as you go out
to slop the hogs. We drove home
over the Potomac while the lights spread
their tails across the water, comets
leaving comments on a blackboard
sky like the powdered sugar
medieval physicians blew
into patients' eyes to cure
their blindness. At dusk,
fish rise, their new moons
etching the water like Venn Diagrams
for Robert's Rules of Order
surfaced at last, and I would like to
make a motion, move
to amend: point of information, point
of order. I move to amend
the amendment and want
to call the question, table
the discussion, bed
some roses, and roof the exclamation
of the Great Blue heron sliding
overhead, its feet following flight
the way a period haunts
a sentence: she said that
on the mountain where they grew
up, there were two kinds
of cherries--red heart and black heart--both of them
sweet.
Improv
Grandpa ate gray
squirrel, chewing and swishing
without teeth, leaning
against the scratched
side of his acid-green Ranger
with a willow switch
on the dash and the dogeared
Bible in the glovebox, and I saw
his lips open, unopen like thin,
boring paper around a gift
you thought you'd never get:
the argyle socks buried
silently under pine leaves,
someone is late, and winter sun
is shut out with vertical blinds. He was driven
batshit crazy with kids and
welding asbestos, wedding his best toes
to rough boots: day in, day out.
At lunch, he read Outdoor Life to learn
intimately the glint of dogs' teeth on
duck wings, the depth of salmon eyes,
the melancholy of fawn spots. I
would like to fish
for words that rhyme with perch, shoot
pool or photos or for the moon, cast
a reel into the algaed water and pull out
the bass wriggling into a treble clef: Granny
said her paintbrushes were made with either
horsehair or squirrel hair.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Junkyard, Feb 24
that word, adore, you shouldn't have opened
-from a Leigh Anne Couch poem. I think it may have been "a door" in text, but either way I love the pun on adore/a door
-from a Leigh Anne Couch poem. I think it may have been "a door" in text, but either way I love the pun on adore/a door
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Free Write February 22
Because dusk's slow implosion makes room on our pale tongues
to ruminate the words that push up our throats, we collect
on the clumpy carpet at 8 o'clock to lip leaves off ignored budgets,
to pull your father's thick voicemails out by the roots.
We range widely, cropping gardens of your facial hair, burnt fishsticks;
my lost library books, tango-crushed toes. Since your potbelly shoves
its curve into my lumbar, I know you are an herbivore.
A paleontologist would unravel a name--Therizinosaur, perhaps--with a voice
full of typewriter clicks. She would hold your pelvis up to fluorescent bulbs,
estimate your girth; judge the purpose of each molar in your jaw.
I only examine the glint of your fingernails on the doorknob to know if you're coming or going.
to ruminate the words that push up our throats, we collect
on the clumpy carpet at 8 o'clock to lip leaves off ignored budgets,
to pull your father's thick voicemails out by the roots.
We range widely, cropping gardens of your facial hair, burnt fishsticks;
my lost library books, tango-crushed toes. Since your potbelly shoves
its curve into my lumbar, I know you are an herbivore.
A paleontologist would unravel a name--Therizinosaur, perhaps--with a voice
full of typewriter clicks. She would hold your pelvis up to fluorescent bulbs,
estimate your girth; judge the purpose of each molar in your jaw.
I only examine the glint of your fingernails on the doorknob to know if you're coming or going.
Calisthenics: Because-ing
Why my sister married an asshole
- Because she finds comfort in leather interiors
- Because his laugh is silent
- Because she thinks soul patches and playing percussion are artistic
- Because her finger needed a tan line
- Because she was late
- Because she knew nothing else
- Because she refuses to sign prenups
- Because they bring the wrong Bible to church
- Because he owns a python
- Because she laughs when he says "wicked pisser" in his Maine accent
- Because I already expect boring Christmas gifts
- Because it showcases the ultimate worst-case scenario
- Because he regularly gives her bouquets of the neighbors' flowers
- Because I didn't call her
- Because they both sing in the shower
- Because she prefers potbellies
- Because the empty motions of washing dishes gives room for rumination
- Because she's watched The Notebook too many damn times
- Because the arrangement of wall plaques is her forte
- Because the newspaper never comes on time
Monday, February 21, 2011
Comment on Elizabeth's Object Study: Dark Blue Mug
When you bring up ceramics in a cabinet that are mothers, I can't help but think of Mrs. Potts in Beauty and the Beast--which on one hand I think is fantastic, but on the other I feel like it might be a little expected. If you want to keep it around, it might be nice to acknowledge that association. I do definitely like the idea of a mug being "filled with silence," though. Instead of just "black tea," I would like to see a specific kind--I always love saying "darjeeling" for instance.
Comment on Sydney's Free Write, Week 6
I like this draft a lot--the narrative flows nicely, it's interesting, and you have some great words and phrases in here ("sorostitute", "Mr. Curly piggy-bank", "broken string of testosterone" "one hell of a hicktown taxidermist"). That being said, it needs to be pared down. It has some phrases that can be compacted into one image ("a black, discolored mirage of a dead oasis", for instance, would probably work better as just "a discolored mirage"). I think it could also benefit from some more specificity. For example, "earning a scarlet letter" has, well, been done. Not only by Hawthorne, but by a movie and even misused in a Taylor Swift song. It was nuanced by "carved in plastic", but I didn't feel like this was enough. I would love to see something like "I was earning a plastic letter magnet--an A in maraschino". I love the scene at the end, but I think it could probably stop it at "this poem dedicated to him" or even just say "this poem, his poem." By saying "my oppressor- / my anomaly, my catalyst, my muse" the draft ends by telling the reader what the speaker thinks about her boyfriend, while the poem should speak for itself on this matter. Once again, though, I really did like this draft overall.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
"Improv"-ing on Stephen Dunn's "Small Town: The Friendly"
Small Town: The Friendly
Stephen Dunn
I walk Main Street, a pelican,
my jaw full of hellos.
Hello lady I don't know!
Hello everyone! I have learned
to beat them to it.
That there are things sleeping
in the most inviting doorways
no longer matters. Hello green grocer!
Hello street! Hello cold morning!
I've always wanted to do this,
and they think I'm normal.
Improv:
We sit on the clumpy carpet, two cows,
our teeth ruminating unborn arguments.
Who calls you after ten at night? Look at me.
I have learned your droop-eyed lines
before you say them. I can mouth them with you
like I mouth your lips on breezy nights.
Was it important? Kind of.
I've always felt your fingertips worriedly tapping
the worn knees of my jeans.
Stephen Dunn
I walk Main Street, a pelican,
my jaw full of hellos.
Hello lady I don't know!
Hello everyone! I have learned
to beat them to it.
That there are things sleeping
in the most inviting doorways
no longer matters. Hello green grocer!
Hello street! Hello cold morning!
I've always wanted to do this,
and they think I'm normal.
Improv:
We sit on the clumpy carpet, two cows,
our teeth ruminating unborn arguments.
Who calls you after ten at night? Look at me.
I have learned your droop-eyed lines
before you say them. I can mouth them with you
like I mouth your lips on breezy nights.
Was it important? Kind of.
I've always felt your fingertips worriedly tapping
the worn knees of my jeans.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Calisthenics: Object Studies
Teeth
Already-ate-mine yellow, horsily squared,
a cage for awkward tongues.
They maul pockmarks
into pen caps.
I've watched them ground
by decades of angered
sleep into enamel flour.
In dive bars,
we'd brawlingly spray them
across the laminated floor.
Already-ate-mine yellow, horsily squared,
a cage for awkward tongues.
They maul pockmarks
into pen caps.
I've watched them ground
by decades of angered
sleep into enamel flour.
In dive bars,
we'd brawlingly spray them
across the laminated floor.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Free Write February 14
This is last week's poem, revised:
How to Show Your Mother She Raised You Right
Christine Couvillon
Don't suck down your Dr. Pepper
like a Gatorade. Make sure
she sees you with a hardback once
a week, and hide any Fabio-encrusted
dust jackets. Call her just to talk. Tell her
about a rude or ridiculous person
hitting children on the bus or waiting
for sold-out Superbowl tickets.
Don't laugh at South Park. Exfoliate.
Know who Emily Post is.
Only say "shit" when a semi
crushes your sternum. Read
Country Gardens and Vogue. Agree
about the curtains in the foyer. Agree
that the neighbor with her oversized dogs
and chicken-fried-chicken odor
is white trash. Don't describe
what a rotting trailer filled with spent
cigarettes smells like. Agree
that you won't marry someone who picks
his teeth at the dinner table or
his women by their fingernails.
Eat wheat germ or berries with breakfast.
Translate a poem for Mother's Day from a language
her mouth can't handle. Don't
tell her your favorite brand of vodka
or why you didn't want ballet lessons.
Listen to her mascara shade lectures.
Don't let her see you steal
glances at unhairy men.
How to Show Your Mother She Raised You Right
Christine Couvillon
Don't suck down your Dr. Pepper
like a Gatorade. Make sure
she sees you with a hardback once
a week, and hide any Fabio-encrusted
dust jackets. Call her just to talk. Tell her
about a rude or ridiculous person
hitting children on the bus or waiting
for sold-out Superbowl tickets.
Don't laugh at South Park. Exfoliate.
Know who Emily Post is.
Only say "shit" when a semi
crushes your sternum. Read
Country Gardens and Vogue. Agree
about the curtains in the foyer. Agree
that the neighbor with her oversized dogs
and chicken-fried-chicken odor
is white trash. Don't describe
what a rotting trailer filled with spent
cigarettes smells like. Agree
that you won't marry someone who picks
his teeth at the dinner table or
his women by their fingernails.
Eat wheat germ or berries with breakfast.
Translate a poem for Mother's Day from a language
her mouth can't handle. Don't
tell her your favorite brand of vodka
or why you didn't want ballet lessons.
Listen to her mascara shade lectures.
Don't let her see you steal
glances at unhairy men.
Calisthenics: Syntax Mimicry
Original poem:
A Romance
Stephen Dunn
He called eel grass
what she called seaweed.
He insulated their house with it.
She was interested in
the transparence of her skin.
He walled the bathroom
with barn-siding, he built the couch
with wood he had chopped.
She, a friend once said,
was a calligrapher of the dark.
He dug a root cellar
to store vegetables. He built a shack
for his ducks. Once, while asleep,
he said "the half-shut eye of the moon."
She spoke about the possible
precision of doubt.
He knew when the wind changed
what weather it would bring.
She baked bread, made jam
from sugar berries, kept a notebook
with what she called
little collections of her breath.
He said the angle the nail goes in
is crucial.
She fed the ducks, called them
her sentient beings.
She wondered how one becomes
a casualty of desire.
He said a tin roof in summer
sends back the sun's heat.
She made wine from dandelions.
She once wrote in her notebook
"the ordinary loveliness of the world."
He built a bookcase
for her books.
They took long walks.
Edited poem:
He trafficked technicolor childhoods--
what she termed magic crust.
He brushed their chalky sidewalk with it.
She was wavering in
the parlance of her townsfolk.
He stroked the rotary-dial telephones
with pages of Nancy Drew, he painted the Huffy
with bottle caps he had kept.
She, a mother once declared,
was a cartographer of the bed's underside.
He soaked a russet potato
to generate current. He tore a construction paper heart
for his collection. Once, while drinking,
he said "the forgotten gift of the squeaking bird."
She droned about the copper
memory of dog-day vacations.
He wondered when the window shuddered open
what new curtain patterns it would display.
She cradled marbles, made swans
from widerule looseleaf, kept a secret
with what she called
pink-eyed contortions of her tongue.
He said the box the X goes in
is yes.
She swung the hammocks, called them
her faked flights.
She bit back how one arranges
a payment of lunchboxes.
He said a broken molar in a jewelry box
grabs back the fairy's myth.
She made braids from clovers.
She once scribbled in her margins
"the bellicose peaceniks of the suburbs."
He kicked a baseball
for her laughter.
They lipped plastic straws.
A Romance
Stephen Dunn
He called eel grass
what she called seaweed.
He insulated their house with it.
She was interested in
the transparence of her skin.
He walled the bathroom
with barn-siding, he built the couch
with wood he had chopped.
She, a friend once said,
was a calligrapher of the dark.
He dug a root cellar
to store vegetables. He built a shack
for his ducks. Once, while asleep,
he said "the half-shut eye of the moon."
She spoke about the possible
precision of doubt.
He knew when the wind changed
what weather it would bring.
She baked bread, made jam
from sugar berries, kept a notebook
with what she called
little collections of her breath.
He said the angle the nail goes in
is crucial.
She fed the ducks, called them
her sentient beings.
She wondered how one becomes
a casualty of desire.
He said a tin roof in summer
sends back the sun's heat.
She made wine from dandelions.
She once wrote in her notebook
"the ordinary loveliness of the world."
He built a bookcase
for her books.
They took long walks.
Edited poem:
He trafficked technicolor childhoods--
what she termed magic crust.
He brushed their chalky sidewalk with it.
She was wavering in
the parlance of her townsfolk.
He stroked the rotary-dial telephones
with pages of Nancy Drew, he painted the Huffy
with bottle caps he had kept.
She, a mother once declared,
was a cartographer of the bed's underside.
He soaked a russet potato
to generate current. He tore a construction paper heart
for his collection. Once, while drinking,
he said "the forgotten gift of the squeaking bird."
She droned about the copper
memory of dog-day vacations.
He wondered when the window shuddered open
what new curtain patterns it would display.
She cradled marbles, made swans
from widerule looseleaf, kept a secret
with what she called
pink-eyed contortions of her tongue.
He said the box the X goes in
is yes.
She swung the hammocks, called them
her faked flights.
She bit back how one arranges
a payment of lunchboxes.
He said a broken molar in a jewelry box
grabs back the fairy's myth.
She made braids from clovers.
She once scribbled in her margins
"the bellicose peaceniks of the suburbs."
He kicked a baseball
for her laughter.
They lipped plastic straws.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sign Inventory, Amy Pence's "Age Defying, 1976"
- Every four lines are staggered; the last line is indented to the same amount as every fourth line
- The poem references France repeatedly: "Lido de Paris," "Marie Antoinette beehives," "a set-up of Versailles," "Lido" again, and "a languorous etude" (2, 3, 4, 13, 14)
- Pence uses imitation and reflection throughout the poem--"faces mirrored: duplicating, re-duplicating," "a set-up of Versailles" (Versailles is known as the Hall of Mirrors), "fluorescent jail scene," and the ironic naming of "the girls" (1, 4, 5, 11).
- "Girl" is used three times: "showgirls" in line 1, "the young girl" in line 7, and "the girls" in line 11.
- The poem uses luminescent imagery particularly heavily in its first half. This includes a "mass fluorescent jail scene" and "incremental diamonds" (5, 6)
- Synecdoche is employed twice--"Marie Antoinette beehives / frolicking" and "their mouths laughed, clutching cigarettes" (3, 10).
- The poem is split into two rough halves, changing with the word "Backstage" in line 8. The first half focuses on the stage performance and its flashiness. In the second half, the showgirls are shown up close, revealing "their eyes wedged / open by giant hideous lashes" and "moles and snagged body stockings" (8-9, 9). By the end, the girls are "Archival & quaint" and "so sexless"
- Body parts are mentioned throughout the poem: faces, vulva, eyes, moles, mouths, breasts, and "the roof of my mouth" in line 18.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Comment on Erickson's "Free Entry Week 4"
This draft wavers between being interesting and falling flat. I think that the biggest problem with this is a pretty common one--it's an attempt to take on a gigantic subject with deep historical and personal roots and put it all into one poem. The refrain/title is intriguing. You have some nice images ("towering mosques of Timbuktu", "ornate mud palaces", "Black as Cain") but they tend to get overshadowed by abstractions like "soul", "life's challenges", or "the atrocities of history". It also tends to use a few cliched terms toward the end ("brighter than a thousand suns / Burning through the sands of time / Shedding light on the atrocities of history"). The draft gets a little melodramatic in lines 10-12. There are so many better ways to express this trauma, and I think they could easily be better fleshed out and nuanced. Overall, I think that this draft has a lot of potential if you put plenty of work into it.
Comment on Mackenzie's "Free Write Week 4"
I really like a lot of the images in this (e.g., "face like a Michigan / icicle", "skin / draped across the bones like a circus tent"). I think the last line can be cut out, though--it includes the abstraction of "brave" and can be communicated with the present imagery. I would love to see a little more detail put into the "tiny city inside, abandoned / by the poachers." This draft has a great narrative to it, but I think that it can maybe be trimmed down a little bit.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Junkyard, February 6
"Reagan was a bellicose peacenik"
-Alex Seitz-Wald, in an article on Ronald Reagan
-Alex Seitz-Wald, in an article on Ronald Reagan
"Improv"-ing on Dan Albergotti's "Book of the Father"
Book of the Father
1Abraham is with us again. Yeah Abraham, with your God and your son and your rough bone knife. Yeah Abraham, Geographic cover boy, father of the three faiths, with your Belfast and your Beirut and your Promised Land. 2Yeah Abram to Abraham, patriarch with an extra ha dropped in your name. Yeah God's laughter. Yeah Sarah's laughter. Yeah Sarai to Sarah, faux sister to wife. Yeah primal fucking. 3Yeah Abraham, with your needling questions of the Lord. Yeah Abraham, with the questions and questions for Lot, but none for Isaac. Yeah knife man. Yeah Abraham, hearing God's voice and turning a murderous eye to a child. Yeah paranoid schizophrenia. 4Yeah Abraham, begetting and setting off begetting. Yeah generations of Abraham. Yeah Ibrahim to Ishmael, Abraham to Isaac. Yeah covenant and submission. 5Yeah contradictions, one true faith and one true faith. Yeah Abraham, ubiquitous Abraham, everywhere always. In the tank with Ariel Sharon,in the studio with Jerry Falwell, in the cockpit with Mohammed Atta. Yeah Abraham and the small dark fear. Yeah Sodom. Yeah Babel. Yeah down low. 6Yeah Abraham and your literal origins. The father is high. Yeah the father is high. Yeah Abraham, just like a father, just like a father with a knife. Yeah patriarch, making us all we are. Yeah Abraham. yeah heavenly father. Yeah testing, loving God. 7Yeah.
Delilah cried. Yeah Delilah
with your hair and your tits and your wine-stained
tongue. Yeah Delilah, sellout centerfold,
mired in your Sorek wadi with a longhair
Nazirite. Oh delicate Delilah,
de-lilah, not a lilac, not alike. Not like the saffron grinders,
the linen pounders. Not like the pinch-cheeked sisters
lingering by unsold sacks of lentils.
Yeah Delilah with your wheeling and dealing and wheedling.
Yeah Delilah with your pockets
full of bowstrings and new rope and scissors. Hey
Delilah, the hair's the thing--that mass of
unkempt follicle growth. Yeah rip it out. Mutter
Mata Hari's merci monsieur.
1Abraham is with us again. Yeah Abraham, with your God and your son and your rough bone knife. Yeah Abraham, Geographic cover boy, father of the three faiths, with your Belfast and your Beirut and your Promised Land. 2Yeah Abram to Abraham, patriarch with an extra ha dropped in your name. Yeah God's laughter. Yeah Sarah's laughter. Yeah Sarai to Sarah, faux sister to wife. Yeah primal fucking. 3Yeah Abraham, with your needling questions of the Lord. Yeah Abraham, with the questions and questions for Lot, but none for Isaac. Yeah knife man. Yeah Abraham, hearing God's voice and turning a murderous eye to a child. Yeah paranoid schizophrenia. 4Yeah Abraham, begetting and setting off begetting. Yeah generations of Abraham. Yeah Ibrahim to Ishmael, Abraham to Isaac. Yeah covenant and submission. 5Yeah contradictions, one true faith and one true faith. Yeah Abraham, ubiquitous Abraham, everywhere always. In the tank with Ariel Sharon,in the studio with Jerry Falwell, in the cockpit with Mohammed Atta. Yeah Abraham and the small dark fear. Yeah Sodom. Yeah Babel. Yeah down low. 6Yeah Abraham and your literal origins. The father is high. Yeah the father is high. Yeah Abraham, just like a father, just like a father with a knife. Yeah patriarch, making us all we are. Yeah Abraham. yeah heavenly father. Yeah testing, loving God. 7Yeah.
Delilah cried. Yeah Delilah
with your hair and your tits and your wine-stained
tongue. Yeah Delilah, sellout centerfold,
mired in your Sorek wadi with a longhair
Nazirite. Oh delicate Delilah,
de-lilah, not a lilac, not alike. Not like the saffron grinders,
the linen pounders. Not like the pinch-cheeked sisters
lingering by unsold sacks of lentils.
Yeah Delilah with your wheeling and dealing and wheedling.
Yeah Delilah with your pockets
full of bowstrings and new rope and scissors. Hey
Delilah, the hair's the thing--that mass of
unkempt follicle growth. Yeah rip it out. Mutter
Mata Hari's merci monsieur.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Calisthenics: Nuancing and Fleshing Out
1. Off the coast, the water is sort of icky.
Past the sandbar where clams glisten like garbage bags, the water drags itself away from the shore in mossy eddies.
2. The skunk looks into the trash can.
The striped stinkbomb crunched through last week's strewn waste.
3. The big monument bothers the people in the city.
Our Robert E. Lee hawkishly stares down the North while we all skirt around him, avoiding his stained pedestal.
4. Ice moves out of the bay very slowly.
With encroaching spring, the ice drags its feet through the water.
5. I looked through a bunch of stuff and saw the river there.
Past streets lined with wrought iron railings, loafing locals, and softly broken laughter, I watched the mousy churning of our river.
Past the sandbar where clams glisten like garbage bags, the water drags itself away from the shore in mossy eddies.
2. The skunk looks into the trash can.
The striped stinkbomb crunched through last week's strewn waste.
3. The big monument bothers the people in the city.
Our Robert E. Lee hawkishly stares down the North while we all skirt around him, avoiding his stained pedestal.
4. Ice moves out of the bay very slowly.
With encroaching spring, the ice drags its feet through the water.
5. I looked through a bunch of stuff and saw the river there.
Past streets lined with wrought iron railings, loafing locals, and softly broken laughter, I watched the mousy churning of our river.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Free Write, January 29
It's not done, but this is what I have so far:
How to Show Your Mother that She Raised You Right
Don't suck down your Dr. Pepper
like it's a sports bottle. Make sure
she sees you with a book once
a week. Call her just to talk. Tell her
about a rude or stupid person.
Don't laugh at South Park. Exfoliate.
Know who Emily Post is.
Only say "shit" to close friends or
when a car runs over you. Don't
bring a guy home unless
you can tell her unblushingly
where he lives and how you met. Read
Glamour and Vogue. Agree about the
curtains in the foyer. Agree
that the neighbor is white trash. Agree
that you won't marry an asshole.
Eat mango or berries with breakfast.
Translate a poem for Mother's Day. Don't
tell her your favorite brand of vodka
or why you didn't ask for ballet lessons.
Listen to her suggestions for mascara shades.
Be frugal. Don't steal. Correct her gently.
How to Show Your Mother that She Raised You Right
Don't suck down your Dr. Pepper
like it's a sports bottle. Make sure
she sees you with a book once
a week. Call her just to talk. Tell her
about a rude or stupid person.
Don't laugh at South Park. Exfoliate.
Know who Emily Post is.
Only say "shit" to close friends or
when a car runs over you. Don't
bring a guy home unless
you can tell her unblushingly
where he lives and how you met. Read
Glamour and Vogue. Agree about the
curtains in the foyer. Agree
that the neighbor is white trash. Agree
that you won't marry an asshole.
Eat mango or berries with breakfast.
Translate a poem for Mother's Day. Don't
tell her your favorite brand of vodka
or why you didn't ask for ballet lessons.
Listen to her suggestions for mascara shades.
Be frugal. Don't steal. Correct her gently.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
(Another) Junkyard, January 24
"You've got enough mouth for three lips."
-Mr. Roper, Three's Company
-Mr. Roper, Three's Company
Sign Inventory, Kate Northrop's "Museum Diorama"
- The speaker of this poem is part of a museum's exhibit. The speaker is left genderless, nameless, and even eraless. Northrop only offers the description of a "bowed / insulting background--haze // of hope & atmosphere" for the exhibit.
- The poem's first sentence ("I am not like you.") immediately establishes a contrast between the speaker and its audience that continues throughout the poem. Northrop leaves the identity of this audience ambiguous--while, perhaps, a literal viewer of the exhibit, this "you" is just as likely the reader of the poem.
- In lines 7-8, Northrop alters the expected syntax to "What you have done // with your hands?"
- Enjambments are the overwhelming norm for this poem at a 29:8 ratio. Even in non-enjambed lines, Northrop only uses a period at the end of the poem to end a line.
- The poet establishes a comparison between the stillness and endurance of the past and the (supposedly) more mobile yet fleeting present. While the speaker characterizes its existence within the museum with the "steady click" of the fan and by acknowledging that the "wind's implicit", it also appreciates that it is "free to remain here". The speaker characterizes this stillness as potential and then spent energy in its criticism of the modern audience: "What do you know // of drawn arrow, of spent shell?" When describing the modern world, the poem describes "schools of temporary children" and motion that is either reversed ("return to your cars and coats"), incremental ("step from the garage"), or altogether stationary ("roads stacked with traffic")
Friday, January 21, 2011
Calisthenics: Metaphor Substitutions
- Sleeping like a log
- Grimacing like a log
- Sleeping like day-old tomato soup
- Sleeping like a log in a wildfire
- Run like the wind
- Doubting like the wind
- Run like the stinking wind of the paper plant
- A heart of stone
- A heart of mint julep
- A liver of linoleum
- Music to my ears
- Music to my fingernails
- Yoga to my ears
- Zydeco to my ears
- Raining cats and dogs
- Gambling cats and dogs
- Raining cats and dogs along the wraparound porch
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Junkyard, January 20
"She put lipstick on her forehead because she wanted to make up her mind."
-blonde joke
"An awkward audience scolder"
-from an article (I forget what it was about)
-blonde joke
"An awkward audience scolder"
-from an article (I forget what it was about)
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Free Write, January 19
Class Projects
I crouched with half-bored classmates around the pot
of carefully-tended grease, watching
the teacher poke around
floating sizzling dough. Later
I told my mother about making donuts and she replied
with beignet mix--a gift
silently rotting in the pantry since her ex-
husband's mother had disdainfully gifted it.
In absence of butterflies or even moths,
we learned to care for mealworms.
We watched them burrow into pine
shavings that reeked of nibbled apple slices and sour oatmeal.
When they pupated, we buried them in the garden
where I hoed out rows overzealously.
I crouched with half-bored classmates around the pot
of carefully-tended grease, watching
the teacher poke around
floating sizzling dough. Later
I told my mother about making donuts and she replied
with beignet mix--a gift
silently rotting in the pantry since her ex-
husband's mother had disdainfully gifted it.
In absence of butterflies or even moths,
we learned to care for mealworms.
We watched them burrow into pine
shavings that reeked of nibbled apple slices and sour oatmeal.
When they pupated, we buried them in the garden
where I hoed out rows overzealously.
Junkyard, January 19
"The alien space commander is wearing an off-the-rack knight's jerkin"
-Caroline, on Plan Nine From Outer Space
-Caroline, on Plan Nine From Outer Space
Monday, January 17, 2011
"Improv"-ing on Amy Pence's "Haunting Marie Laveau"
"Haunting Marie Laveau"
Amy Pence
Three X's and the bones' rubble held aloft
on earth's marred and toxic surface. We lean in
to mark her monument--all three bracing
for different outcomes--a hex on the x,
agape. Hateship, friendship, courtship, loveship.
Voodoo happens though we lie awake nights,
undermined, breaking, coiled to our claws.
I fall into lurid dreams, roam among my wrecked
metaphors: the bruised hippie at the door,
an eyesore, shoving my ancestors' bones
back to make way for more. The past calls--
I crawl into the open maw of Marie Laveau.
Improv
We beeline for her double-D's blushing
under a see-through blouse. He didn't forgive her
breasts after all. Instead he let other
liquor-laden breaths ripple across the
ridges of her impolite stretch marks.
Virginity reeks elsewhere with busted
Madonnas that stand a tired guard on
Chalmatian steps.
Amy Pence
Three X's and the bones' rubble held aloft
on earth's marred and toxic surface. We lean in
to mark her monument--all three bracing
for different outcomes--a hex on the x,
agape. Hateship, friendship, courtship, loveship.
Voodoo happens though we lie awake nights,
undermined, breaking, coiled to our claws.
I fall into lurid dreams, roam among my wrecked
metaphors: the bruised hippie at the door,
an eyesore, shoving my ancestors' bones
back to make way for more. The past calls--
I crawl into the open maw of Marie Laveau.
Improv
We beeline for her double-D's blushing
under a see-through blouse. He didn't forgive her
breasts after all. Instead he let other
liquor-laden breaths ripple across the
ridges of her impolite stretch marks.
Virginity reeks elsewhere with busted
Madonnas that stand a tired guard on
Chalmatian steps.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Junkyard, January 16
I'm not really a waitress.
-OPI nail color
It's just a dinosaur!
-Toy Story 3
I need a real live loan shark.
-Tyler
Mama bear (grizzly) is in the Food Lion parking lot.
-Mom
Your breasts, however, I may never forgive.
-Jennifer
Ambassador Elvis
-Captcha
-OPI nail color
It's just a dinosaur!
-Toy Story 3
I need a real live loan shark.
-Tyler
Mama bear (grizzly) is in the Food Lion parking lot.
-Mom
Your breasts, however, I may never forgive.
-Jennifer
Ambassador Elvis
-Captcha
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