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.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
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.
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