** Here are two revisions of the same poem. The first one's going in the anthology, yet I feel more "needs doing" before the final portfolio. Thus, the second. I'd love to hear what you all think. I know many of you have commented before that you feel the draft begs for more detail surrounding the "you." Well, don't know if that's happening--any suggestions on how to circumvent that?**
--------------------------------------------------------------
South Street
From the kitchen window, a car and a tree
together, an invective against physics,
all hiss and autumn foliage. You lie in bed,
victim to a merciless sleep, your hair awash
in the blue-tinted sound of sirens.
How they didn’t wake you is a mystery
large as the moon, which installed itself
over South Street in this noir version.
For we’ve known each other too long,
swallowing each other like mirrors,
to believe in some fateful union.
Opening another beer, I advocated
for a detached calm—an accurate want,
a vision of myself somewhere in that marriage
of shattered oak and metal. While the moon,
still hanging there like a dead clock, refused
to offer South Street any premise of color.
---------------------------------------------------
A Car Hits A Tree On South Street
From my kitchen window, the brutal embrace
of a car and a tree is an invective against physics.
You're in bed, surrendered to a merciless sleep,
and the blue-tinted sound of sirens stains our walls.
How they didn't wake you is a mystery
the size of the moon, which, like a dead clock,
hung over South Street. We've known each other too long
and I've swallowed my image of you like a mirror.
Opening my last beer, the total grandeur
of the space between us washes against me
like the sea into a pier. Gazing out the kitchen window,
I want to be that machine crushed to the trunk of you.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Draft 3 Week 13
Plague
The year was long and summer
imposed itself on us like an obligation,
I remember the whole town seemed to sink under the weight of it.
July brought with it a recombinant, orange haze
that swarmed the streets in the afternoon, and even the platoons
of teenagers had conceded their parking-lot jurisdiction
to the indoors.
That summer you were like a factory, and
I was your column of smoke: the pollution
of your machine.
At night, I walk up the road to the abandoned industrial park,
past the mounds of twisted rubble and old conduits
strung-out along the embankments of the company lake.
This town will wear you down.
The year was long and summer
imposed itself on us like an obligation,
I remember the whole town seemed to sink under the weight of it.
July brought with it a recombinant, orange haze
that swarmed the streets in the afternoon, and even the platoons
of teenagers had conceded their parking-lot jurisdiction
to the indoors.
That summer you were like a factory, and
I was your column of smoke: the pollution
of your machine.
At night, I walk up the road to the abandoned industrial park,
past the mounds of twisted rubble and old conduits
strung-out along the embankments of the company lake.
This town will wear you down.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Draft 3 week 12
On South Street There Was An Accident
I remember seeing it through the kitchen window:
someone's car and a tree, clenched together
in an invective against physics, all hissing
and weird.
That night, the moon installed itself over South Street
and everything was a black & white version of itself.
Dinner was on the stove. It too, hissing
and weird.
Fueled by a beery logic, I advocated for a detatched
responsibility--an accurate want, like a vision of
myself out there in that marriage of shattered oak
and lonely metal.
The moon still up there like a dead clock.
South Street still refusing the premise of color.
You lie in bed, once again victim to a merciless
form of sleep, your blackish hair inhaling the blue-tinted
sounds of sirens.
I wonder, did they ever wake you?
We've known each other too long,
swallowing each other like mirrors on
a dazed planet.
I remember seeing it through the kitchen window:
someone's car and a tree, clenched together
in an invective against physics, all hissing
and weird.
That night, the moon installed itself over South Street
and everything was a black & white version of itself.
Dinner was on the stove. It too, hissing
and weird.
Fueled by a beery logic, I advocated for a detatched
responsibility--an accurate want, like a vision of
myself out there in that marriage of shattered oak
and lonely metal.
The moon still up there like a dead clock.
South Street still refusing the premise of color.
You lie in bed, once again victim to a merciless
form of sleep, your blackish hair inhaling the blue-tinted
sounds of sirens.
I wonder, did they ever wake you?
We've known each other too long,
swallowing each other like mirrors on
a dazed planet.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Draft. Week 11
The Foreigners
The year was long,
and the summer hung
over us like your father’s shotgun.
When July reared its drowsy head
our minds were flooded with irreducible patterns.
We interpreted phrases and made connections,
orchestrating a painfully complicated theory
about rivers.
You were a factory: and I
was your column of smoke,
tumbling, full and dark,
like blackstrap into the noontime haze.
I realize, now, that I have misspent too much time
closely examining the controlled melancholy
of a ticking wristwatch.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Draft 1 Week 10
**I'm still at work on this one. The last stanza needs work**
Adventures Close To Home
Adventures Close To Home
Here in the reluctant hills of Five A.M.
the skies are always that same indeterminate pallor—
a gray glaze injected into the morning’s undying geography…
Like you, the night must now retrace its steps,
regather overlooked information, discard old hulls,
and unravel those tangled versions of itself.
And so, you stumble toward home, unauthorized,
feeling like some displaced poacher—a corrupt official
with the all the wrong documents, forgetting what side he’s on…
The filtered halflight starts again its ancient brickwork,
spreading across Dawn’s bearded foothills like a rumor.
Haven’t you been here before?
Right there’s the house you grew up in,
can’t you hear father’s old shortwave radio?
Can’t you smell your high school now?
And Kathleen’s nightgown…
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Draft. Week 10.
Here in the reluctant hills of five a.m.
the skies are always that same colorless hue—
an indeterminate pallor, a gray glaze injected
into morning’s undying geography.
Like you, the night must now retrace its steps,
regather overlooked information, discard old hulls,
and unravel those tangled versions of itself.
Yes, these are the same agonizing foothills
of the forgotten things on earth. An old briefcase
and the smell of high school. Kathleen’s nightgown
lies blurred beside your first beer. Welcome back.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Junkyard Quotes Week 9
"Life is integrated" - Don Van Vliet
"You gone need somebody on your bond" - Blind Willie Johnson
"I ain't got no use for your red rocking chair"- Doc Boggs
"You gone need somebody on your bond" - Blind Willie Johnson
"I ain't got no use for your red rocking chair"- Doc Boggs
Improv Week 9
History
Robert Lowell
History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
Drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
---------------------------------------------------------------
To live with what was here, History has
all we had too close, clutching and fumbling --
how we die, it is so gruesome and dull,
never finishing, writing unlike life.
Death was remote; Abel is not so finished,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
like skulls, his cows, crowding against high-voltage wire,
a new machine, crying all night like a baby.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the hunter's beautiful moon ascends, mist-drunken--
Two holes, a child could give it a face: two holes,
them a skull's no-nose, 'tween my eyes, be my mouth--
O in my terrifying innocence there's a face
with silver salvage of the drenched mornfrost.
Robert Lowell
History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
Drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
---------------------------------------------------------------
To live with what was here, History has
all we had too close, clutching and fumbling --
how we die, it is so gruesome and dull,
never finishing, writing unlike life.
Death was remote; Abel is not so finished,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
like skulls, his cows, crowding against high-voltage wire,
a new machine, crying all night like a baby.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the hunter's beautiful moon ascends, mist-drunken--
Two holes, a child could give it a face: two holes,
them a skull's no-nose, 'tween my eyes, be my mouth--
O in my terrifying innocence there's a face
with silver salvage of the drenched mornfrost.
Pedagogy Forum Week 9
Plunging into the work of John Berryman this semester has provided me with a newly discovered appreciation of poetic form. If you had asked me earlier, I would have written it off--no doubt partly due to my own ignorance of it, but also, because I thought it was something archaic and long past in relevance.
Indeed, I agree with what Davidson and Fraser say in Writing Poetry that, especially in the outset of writing, to remain "committedly detached" from form and to "ride your drafts." Of course this is sage advice and promotes a wonderfully freeing writing environment. However, the authors also admit that to wholly ignore form would be, borrowing from Frost, "like playing tennis without a net." Ok, got it. Dig it. "Discover" form instead of writing 'into' it.
However, I also recall a class from a few weeks back where we discussed the imperative of writing everyday--possibly in relation to The Triggering Town, where Hugo mentions the famous Jack Nicholas quotation: "the more I practice, the luckier I get." In the same conversation, I also recall the mention of a Miles Davis quotation, which I located online: "When I am working on a piece of music, I will study the music, I will learn the music. Maybe that is what I meant when I said there is some kind of formal aspect to this, so I learn the melody, the chord progression, in preparation for my instrumental improvisation. Now when I improvise after learning formally these things, I forget them. I don't go up on the stage and think of them. I forget them and that is where the creativity comes in." I can totally relate to this as a musician. In fact, as a trained guitarist, the point at which I "forgot" my training, was the moment that I felt my creativity multiply infinitely.
So, while I'm reading Berryman, Lowell, Bishop--those confessionalists that gave a sardonic pat on the proverbial rear to the New Critics--I feel like I need to know about form, which I am embarrassingly ignorant of. Furthermore, in my own writing--while I feel I can grasp the "musicality" of words, I am but an novice. I feel I need to know these things, not only to watch how my favorite poets work in tthis sort of "give and take" with form, but also so I can ascribe it to my own writing--to see how I can, also, work with poetic form. It'll be a bit of catch-up game. Sign me up.
Indeed, I agree with what Davidson and Fraser say in Writing Poetry that, especially in the outset of writing, to remain "committedly detached" from form and to "ride your drafts." Of course this is sage advice and promotes a wonderfully freeing writing environment. However, the authors also admit that to wholly ignore form would be, borrowing from Frost, "like playing tennis without a net." Ok, got it. Dig it. "Discover" form instead of writing 'into' it.
However, I also recall a class from a few weeks back where we discussed the imperative of writing everyday--possibly in relation to The Triggering Town, where Hugo mentions the famous Jack Nicholas quotation: "the more I practice, the luckier I get." In the same conversation, I also recall the mention of a Miles Davis quotation, which I located online: "When I am working on a piece of music, I will study the music, I will learn the music. Maybe that is what I meant when I said there is some kind of formal aspect to this, so I learn the melody, the chord progression, in preparation for my instrumental improvisation. Now when I improvise after learning formally these things, I forget them. I don't go up on the stage and think of them. I forget them and that is where the creativity comes in." I can totally relate to this as a musician. In fact, as a trained guitarist, the point at which I "forgot" my training, was the moment that I felt my creativity multiply infinitely.
So, while I'm reading Berryman, Lowell, Bishop--those confessionalists that gave a sardonic pat on the proverbial rear to the New Critics--I feel like I need to know about form, which I am embarrassingly ignorant of. Furthermore, in my own writing--while I feel I can grasp the "musicality" of words, I am but an novice. I feel I need to know these things, not only to watch how my favorite poets work in tthis sort of "give and take" with form, but also so I can ascribe it to my own writing--to see how I can, also, work with poetic form. It'll be a bit of catch-up game. Sign me up.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sign Inventory Week 9
Dream Song # 29
John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart.
So heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an ordour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they maybe found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
----------------------------------
Inventory:
* The poem shifts rapidly from opposing "voices." It juxtaposes rather "elevated" language to, what I can best describe as the opposite of "elevated"--uneducated, simple, typically "un-poetic" language ( Ex. "in all them time," "Henry could not make good.")
*Similarly, the poem also contains a number of strange syntactical inversions. (Ex. " starts again always in Henry's ears" "like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of" "Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up." This might be read as a facet of my first sign. However, I won't argue that these inversions are particularly "un-poetic" ( like I found the juxtaposition of "high" and "low" language to operate.) Instead, these syntactical inversions call attention to themselves in a poem that seems to place a strict emphasis on poetic form- it consists of three, six line stanzas ( much like the rest of The Dream Songs. I think some further research'll help here: is this a traditional form? how closely has he followed it?
*Alhough its form appears to be "definite", or "traditional," Berryman continually obscures any literal surface level understanding of this poem. (ex. "there sat down, once, a thing," "and there is another thing he has in mind.) What these "things" are the reader is unclear of.
*The poem appears fixated on some sort of guilt or regret. (ex. the thing is described as "so heavy." Further more, we see words like " weeping, sleepless" and the mention of a"still profiled reproach of." Lastly, the poem ends with Henry thinking that he has murdered someone. This is interesting in the poem, because, however obscure the surface level meaning, we know that Henry hasn't committed this act--"he went over everyone, & nobody's missing." It's interesting--the one thing explicit in a poem largely focused around guilt has not occurred.
*The poem contains one metaphor--more of a simile, rather--and its highly specific, perhaps the most specific image in the poem: " And there is another thing he has in mind/ like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of." Though its a highly specific image--probably referring the Sienese portraits of the Madonna--its totally buried in this weird moment of syntactical breakdown.
* I noticed a rather intricate movement through the three, six line stanzas. The first sestet focuses on the "thing" that "starts again always in Henry's ears." The second sestet revolves around what Henry sees: "the grave Sienese face would fail to blur," "with open eyes, he attends, blind." And finally the last stanza chronicles Henry's "reckoning" "them up."
*There seem to be a heavy preoccupation with negation here. Ex. Henry is "sleepless" and can "NOT make good." "the gave Sienese face FAILS to blur," though Henry has "open eyes" he is "blind." The bells say "this is NOT for tears." "NEVER did Henry" "end anyone." Finally, Henry finds that "Nobody is missing."
John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart.
So heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an ordour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they maybe found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
----------------------------------
Inventory:
* The poem shifts rapidly from opposing "voices." It juxtaposes rather "elevated" language to, what I can best describe as the opposite of "elevated"--uneducated, simple, typically "un-poetic" language ( Ex. "in all them time," "Henry could not make good.")
*Similarly, the poem also contains a number of strange syntactical inversions. (Ex. " starts again always in Henry's ears" "like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of" "Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up." This might be read as a facet of my first sign. However, I won't argue that these inversions are particularly "un-poetic" ( like I found the juxtaposition of "high" and "low" language to operate.) Instead, these syntactical inversions call attention to themselves in a poem that seems to place a strict emphasis on poetic form- it consists of three, six line stanzas ( much like the rest of The Dream Songs. I think some further research'll help here: is this a traditional form? how closely has he followed it?
*Alhough its form appears to be "definite", or "traditional," Berryman continually obscures any literal surface level understanding of this poem. (ex. "there sat down, once, a thing," "and there is another thing he has in mind.) What these "things" are the reader is unclear of.
*The poem appears fixated on some sort of guilt or regret. (ex. the thing is described as "so heavy." Further more, we see words like " weeping, sleepless" and the mention of a"still profiled reproach of." Lastly, the poem ends with Henry thinking that he has murdered someone. This is interesting in the poem, because, however obscure the surface level meaning, we know that Henry hasn't committed this act--"he went over everyone, & nobody's missing." It's interesting--the one thing explicit in a poem largely focused around guilt has not occurred.
*The poem contains one metaphor--more of a simile, rather--and its highly specific, perhaps the most specific image in the poem: " And there is another thing he has in mind/ like a grave Sienese face a thousand years would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of." Though its a highly specific image--probably referring the Sienese portraits of the Madonna--its totally buried in this weird moment of syntactical breakdown.
* I noticed a rather intricate movement through the three, six line stanzas. The first sestet focuses on the "thing" that "starts again always in Henry's ears." The second sestet revolves around what Henry sees: "the grave Sienese face would fail to blur," "with open eyes, he attends, blind." And finally the last stanza chronicles Henry's "reckoning" "them up."
*There seem to be a heavy preoccupation with negation here. Ex. Henry is "sleepless" and can "NOT make good." "the gave Sienese face FAILS to blur," though Henry has "open eyes" he is "blind." The bells say "this is NOT for tears." "NEVER did Henry" "end anyone." Finally, Henry finds that "Nobody is missing."
Junkyard Quotes week 9
"I give it you back when I finish the lunch tea"
"As we roll down the highway toward the setting sun, I reflect on the life of the highway man yum-yum"
-Robert Wyatt
"As we roll down the highway toward the setting sun, I reflect on the life of the highway man yum-yum"
-Robert Wyatt
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Free Write week 9
It is the armpit of the morning
and I am a factory: a column of smoke,
a swarthy hull striking deep in the drunken paws
of the blackstrap afternoon...
By contemporary standards, it felt twice
as important as the entire state of Mississippi.
You know what I'm talking about:
the rolling of those of four syllables,
the thing imposed on me like an obligation,
the breaking and tumbling of it into the half-lit sky.
Often in these long mornings, I consider, again those bird-shaped days.
Perpetually beginning again
and again--I just had something on my mind
and wanted to tell you about it.
and I am a factory: a column of smoke,
a swarthy hull striking deep in the drunken paws
of the blackstrap afternoon...
By contemporary standards, it felt twice
as important as the entire state of Mississippi.
You know what I'm talking about:
the rolling of those of four syllables,
the thing imposed on me like an obligation,
the breaking and tumbling of it into the half-lit sky.
Often in these long mornings, I consider, again those bird-shaped days.
Perpetually beginning again
and again--I just had something on my mind
and wanted to tell you about it.
Classmate Response week 9
This entry is in response to Melissa's free write entry from week 8.
Melissa,
I don't think you're alone in your concern about the poem project. The thought of leading an hour long, in-depth semiotic discussion of a poem freaks me out too. Here's how I've been thinking about it--maybe it'll help shift your perspective as well.
** You know what you're talking about. I've read many of your sign inventories, heard your comments in class--you always offer brilliantly excavated signs and ways to place them in historical/cultural contexts. It's a skill you seem to have down.
** I think the purpose of this poem project is to facilitate discussion, to activate collaboration . You're not giving a lecture on your analysis of a poem. Instead, think of ways you can bring your ideas to the table ( the stuff you've gathered from your own sign inventory, your interpretation, historical/cultural contexts) and also collect ideas from other members of the class. Remember, everyone should come prepared--taking notes and coming up with signs of their own. They're probably going to come up with ideas of their own that will surprise you, stuff you didn't originally see. For me, this is going to be the most important and helpful aspect in my project overall. I saw this happen to James in last night's class--a few times, as a class, we found a few possible signs that he didn't see on his own. Similarly, he went down avenues I didn't think of. In this way, when James sits down to flesh out his finished project, this collaboration will ultimately help him. I recall Dr. Davidson saying something to the effect of " come well prepared, but with no plan."
So, this is how I've thought about approaching this thing. Thinking about it this way helps quell some of the natural anxiety about leading class for an hour. I hope this helps.
Melissa,
I don't think you're alone in your concern about the poem project. The thought of leading an hour long, in-depth semiotic discussion of a poem freaks me out too. Here's how I've been thinking about it--maybe it'll help shift your perspective as well.
** You know what you're talking about. I've read many of your sign inventories, heard your comments in class--you always offer brilliantly excavated signs and ways to place them in historical/cultural contexts. It's a skill you seem to have down.
** I think the purpose of this poem project is to facilitate discussion, to activate collaboration . You're not giving a lecture on your analysis of a poem. Instead, think of ways you can bring your ideas to the table ( the stuff you've gathered from your own sign inventory, your interpretation, historical/cultural contexts) and also collect ideas from other members of the class. Remember, everyone should come prepared--taking notes and coming up with signs of their own. They're probably going to come up with ideas of their own that will surprise you, stuff you didn't originally see. For me, this is going to be the most important and helpful aspect in my project overall. I saw this happen to James in last night's class--a few times, as a class, we found a few possible signs that he didn't see on his own. Similarly, he went down avenues I didn't think of. In this way, when James sits down to flesh out his finished project, this collaboration will ultimately help him. I recall Dr. Davidson saying something to the effect of " come well prepared, but with no plan."
So, this is how I've thought about approaching this thing. Thinking about it this way helps quell some of the natural anxiety about leading class for an hour. I hope this helps.
Calisthenics Week 9
The calisthenics exercise from yesterday's class really gave me some cool ideas. I'll post the original results from the exercise and then I'll post a revised version exhibiting the direction I see this going--sort of grouping these lines together.
---------------------------------------------------
Signifying mortality, it was
as personal as life itself.
Sneaking off to Magnolia,
things were looking up already
but there was no way she could tell
her girlfriends how it was.
That was what they craved unconditionally.
Doing their best to avoid going home.
But we do have something in common
and please, do not reject my very first love affair.
Mandy serves herself potatoes. Jill's having salad,
everything was picked out except for the iceberg lettuce.
It was a sidelong glance through the fissure.
His pajamas will slide out sight down
the laundry chute, a fresh pair, before
it will be come something completely different altogether.
Come breakfast, your thoughts have joined my own,
on a diplomatic mission to Venice.
A soldier is buried beneath the house, my teeth, this family.
I miss them terribly. So, then
what is the worst part about growing old.
I felt more profoundly impressed than ever.
-----------------
Revision:
Please, do not reject my first love affair.
Signifying mortality, it was as personal as life itself.
It was a sidelong glance through the fissure,
It was something completely different altogether.
Sneaking off to Magnolia,
On a diplomatic mission,
Things were looking up already.
By breakfast, your thoughts had joined my own.
I served myself the potatoes, you had a salad
everything picked out except lettuce.
I felt more profoundly than ever.
---------------------------------------------------
Signifying mortality, it was
as personal as life itself.
Sneaking off to Magnolia,
things were looking up already
but there was no way she could tell
her girlfriends how it was.
That was what they craved unconditionally.
Doing their best to avoid going home.
But we do have something in common
and please, do not reject my very first love affair.
Mandy serves herself potatoes. Jill's having salad,
everything was picked out except for the iceberg lettuce.
It was a sidelong glance through the fissure.
His pajamas will slide out sight down
the laundry chute, a fresh pair, before
it will be come something completely different altogether.
Come breakfast, your thoughts have joined my own,
on a diplomatic mission to Venice.
A soldier is buried beneath the house, my teeth, this family.
I miss them terribly. So, then
what is the worst part about growing old.
I felt more profoundly impressed than ever.
-----------------
Revision:
Please, do not reject my first love affair.
Signifying mortality, it was as personal as life itself.
It was a sidelong glance through the fissure,
It was something completely different altogether.
Sneaking off to Magnolia,
On a diplomatic mission,
Things were looking up already.
By breakfast, your thoughts had joined my own.
I served myself the potatoes, you had a salad
everything picked out except lettuce.
I felt more profoundly than ever.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Pedagogy Forum week 8
When I read over our classmates' writing journals, I'm continually struck by entries from the full time teachers in the class. It's probably not much of a surprise, but I wasn't much of a high school student--teetering on the edge of a C-/D average. Maybe it sounds strange, but I often felt buried by the rigid, task-oriented work so much a part of the daily grind of a high school student. I still struggle with this everyday as a graduate student and am baffled by it truthfully. My mind burns for inspiration, a spark somewhere--when it disappears, I am catapulted back to the land of the mundane--a truly miserable, rather suffocating landscape with no exit route. Perhaps everyone feels like this, I don't know. But in this way, I have battled with the structured world of school. Immaturity is certainly a possibility.
So, when I read our classmates' journals--especially those on teaching, by teachers--I find myself vastly interested, moved even. Zac wrote an interesting entry detailing his endeavor to "spark" this desire to "want to pass." So, the question is: how to spark this desire? No easy answer, I suppose--certainly not even limited to "one" answer, but instead a series of active engagements. I recall a class discussion from few weeks back where many of the young pedagogues explained their frustration about this issue. How do you reach the students that are uninspired--is it that creativity is so associated with the un-structured world of non-school? That's why I find Davidson's technique so unique-- it intricately weaves the world of art, inspiration, and creativity with that of the intensive world of study, practice. All the things that you need to really hone your art and creative energy. Through this, that old idea of art being so "un-structured" becomes obsolete.
The questions still remains: how to incorporate this to high schoolers, those who "have to be there." I guess I really don't know just yet. Interesting, this, though.
So, when I read our classmates' journals--especially those on teaching, by teachers--I find myself vastly interested, moved even. Zac wrote an interesting entry detailing his endeavor to "spark" this desire to "want to pass." So, the question is: how to spark this desire? No easy answer, I suppose--certainly not even limited to "one" answer, but instead a series of active engagements. I recall a class discussion from few weeks back where many of the young pedagogues explained their frustration about this issue. How do you reach the students that are uninspired--is it that creativity is so associated with the un-structured world of non-school? That's why I find Davidson's technique so unique-- it intricately weaves the world of art, inspiration, and creativity with that of the intensive world of study, practice. All the things that you need to really hone your art and creative energy. Through this, that old idea of art being so "un-structured" becomes obsolete.
The questions still remains: how to incorporate this to high schoolers, those who "have to be there." I guess I really don't know just yet. Interesting, this, though.
Junkyard Quotes week 8
"Ghosts are just dead people who were never real"- Sign outside of insurance agency on Maple Street
A "facebook friend" of mine posts poetry daily, many of which are wonderful displays of "emo poetry" to quote Amy Ellison. I thought I would mine his archives in search of these sort of cookie cutter lines in hopes of collecting some cliches to alter or play around with.
""you're always a step behind everything in my mind"
"I'm not a douche that makes these kinds of friends"
"I'm going to buy a portable chess set and just carry it around"--I kind of like this one as is.
" Looking in the mirror seeing a familiar person I've known beyond anyone elses understanding could ever touch my entire life, yet this figure is a shell coating a universe within, and I realize, I see me." --really like this, seems ripe with opportunity to play around with...
A "facebook friend" of mine posts poetry daily, many of which are wonderful displays of "emo poetry" to quote Amy Ellison. I thought I would mine his archives in search of these sort of cookie cutter lines in hopes of collecting some cliches to alter or play around with.
""you're always a step behind everything in my mind"
"I'm not a douche that makes these kinds of friends"
"I'm going to buy a portable chess set and just carry it around"--I kind of like this one as is.
" Looking in the mirror seeing a familiar person I've known beyond anyone elses understanding could ever touch my entire life, yet this figure is a shell coating a universe within, and I realize, I see me." --really like this, seems ripe with opportunity to play around with...
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Improv week 7
"Coming to This"
Mark Strand
We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.
And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.
Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart of saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have finished what I wanted.
I have concealed my ideas, and I have welcomed heartache,
preferring the brouchered look of my backyard in fall.
I located this small piece of you, a word impossible to define.
And now I am here.
Life has become accessible but I still cannot see.
I sit outside on a day extinguished by the sun.
And will wait.
Harboring these thoughts
has its advantage: no things are ever promised, no things are ever missing.
I don't have a reason for this,
no place to go, or even to stay.
Mark Strand
We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.
And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.
Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart of saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have finished what I wanted.
I have concealed my ideas, and I have welcomed heartache,
preferring the brouchered look of my backyard in fall.
I located this small piece of you, a word impossible to define.
And now I am here.
Life has become accessible but I still cannot see.
I sit outside on a day extinguished by the sun.
And will wait.
Harboring these thoughts
has its advantage: no things are ever promised, no things are ever missing.
I don't have a reason for this,
no place to go, or even to stay.
Sign Inventory Week 7
"Riprap"
Gary Snyder
Lay down these words
Before your mind like rocks
placed solid, by hands.
In choice of place, set
Before the body of the mind
in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way,
straying planets,
These poems, people,
lost ponies with
Dragging saddles--
and rocky sure-foot trails.
The worlds like an endless
four-dimensional
Game of Go.
ants and pebbles
In the thin loam, each rock a word
A creek-washed stone
Granite: ingrained
with torment of fire and weight
Crystal and sediment linked hot
all change, in thoughts,
As well as things.
-----------------------------------------------------
Sign Inventory
* The poem consistently connects "things" from the physical world with abstract "thoughts" (ex. "Lay down these words / before your mind like rocks" " These poems, people, / lost ponies with Draggin saddles--" "Crystal and sediment linked hot / all change, in thoughts, As well as things."
* The poem also seems very concerned with both the Earth and... "not" Earth---perhaps "metaphysical"? ex. "In choice of place, set before the body of the mind / in space and time: solidity of bark, leaf, or wall" "the worlds like an endless / four-dimensional game of Go." " Granite ingrained with torment of fire and weight."
*I noticed that the poem also avoids using gerund verbs. Strange in a poem already so concerned with "bridging" the physical and meta-physical.
*the poem also seems constructed around the employment of short, stark, monosyllabic words. ex. "rocky sure-foot trails" "solidity of bark, leaf, or wall" "each rock a word"
Gary Snyder
Lay down these words
Before your mind like rocks
placed solid, by hands.
In choice of place, set
Before the body of the mind
in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way,
straying planets,
These poems, people,
lost ponies with
Dragging saddles--
and rocky sure-foot trails.
The worlds like an endless
four-dimensional
Game of Go.
ants and pebbles
In the thin loam, each rock a word
A creek-washed stone
Granite: ingrained
with torment of fire and weight
Crystal and sediment linked hot
all change, in thoughts,
As well as things.
-----------------------------------------------------
Sign Inventory
* The poem consistently connects "things" from the physical world with abstract "thoughts" (ex. "Lay down these words / before your mind like rocks" " These poems, people, / lost ponies with Draggin saddles--" "Crystal and sediment linked hot / all change, in thoughts, As well as things."
* The poem also seems very concerned with both the Earth and... "not" Earth---perhaps "metaphysical"? ex. "In choice of place, set before the body of the mind / in space and time: solidity of bark, leaf, or wall" "the worlds like an endless / four-dimensional game of Go." " Granite ingrained with torment of fire and weight."
*I noticed that the poem also avoids using gerund verbs. Strange in a poem already so concerned with "bridging" the physical and meta-physical.
*the poem also seems constructed around the employment of short, stark, monosyllabic words. ex. "rocky sure-foot trails" "solidity of bark, leaf, or wall" "each rock a word"
Monday, October 4, 2010
Classmate Response week 7
Jeff,
I was reading journal the other day and found this awesome free write that you titled "Looking for my Bird Dog." Much like your workshop piece, "Typewriter," this piece just reeks of insanely cool language and employs this really interesting Ginsbergian "off-the-cuff-ness"throughout. Lines like "brown clouds jump the city;" "floating under the bamboo stick/ I am hunting for better days;" "the sunlamp turns and my synthetic/ slide closes to reveal men in gloves moving a mulberry bush." "plastic lies down everywhere and i am still looking for home." I get the impression through the emphasis of " hunting for better days" and "i am still looking for home" that the speaker, though all of this action is constantly churning around him, is kind of lonely. I like this free write and the bizarre connections it makes, I just wonder what could happen if you played up or worked within a certain tonality, like the one I mentioned above for example. It could make for a really compelling piece, more so than it already is. I really enjoy your work.
I was reading journal the other day and found this awesome free write that you titled "Looking for my Bird Dog." Much like your workshop piece, "Typewriter," this piece just reeks of insanely cool language and employs this really interesting Ginsbergian "off-the-cuff-ness"throughout. Lines like "brown clouds jump the city;" "floating under the bamboo stick/ I am hunting for better days;" "the sunlamp turns and my synthetic/ slide closes to reveal men in gloves moving a mulberry bush." "plastic lies down everywhere and i am still looking for home." I get the impression through the emphasis of " hunting for better days" and "i am still looking for home" that the speaker, though all of this action is constantly churning around him, is kind of lonely. I like this free write and the bizarre connections it makes, I just wonder what could happen if you played up or worked within a certain tonality, like the one I mentioned above for example. It could make for a really compelling piece, more so than it already is. I really enjoy your work.
Free Write week 7
American Side at 25
I was the world's worst.
Slowly, I re-enacted our lives through
a series terrifically executed mistakes,
composing a manifesto on the inconsistency of regret.
The moon goes up.
The moon comes down.
I realize, now, that I have misspent too much time
closely examining the controlled melancholy
of my ticking wristwatch.
A hundred years ago,
I would have climbed a mountain.
Mistaking heat-lightning for a spirit vision
an anti-legend would have been constructed:
at ten he suffers night tremors
at twenty, drunk for the first time
at twenty-five, climbs mountain.
I was the world's worst.
Slowly, I re-enacted our lives through
a series terrifically executed mistakes,
composing a manifesto on the inconsistency of regret.
The moon goes up.
The moon comes down.
I realize, now, that I have misspent too much time
closely examining the controlled melancholy
of my ticking wristwatch.
A hundred years ago,
I would have climbed a mountain.
Mistaking heat-lightning for a spirit vision
an anti-legend would have been constructed:
at ten he suffers night tremors
at twenty, drunk for the first time
at twenty-five, climbs mountain.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Improv week 6
The Rescue
Robert Creeley
The man sits in a timelessness
with the horse under him in time
to a movement of legs and hooves
upon a timeless sand.
Distance comes in from the foreground
present in the picture as time
he reads outward from
and comes from that beginning.
A wind blows in
and out and all about the man
as the horse ran
and runs to come in time.
A house is burning in the sand.
A man and horse are burning.
The wind is burning.
They are running to arrive.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
A dog ambles in a uselessness
with a boy guiding him in an operation
to a moment of both paws and feet
above the useless pavement.
A time bursts in from stage left
harboring this newly formed picture
as the dog looks to his right
four ideas in his head.
A stormcloud forms above
and inside the body of the boy
the dog barks twice
finally understanding.
A window is broken.
The dog and his boy are running.
The storm is forming.
The boy's father drinks a coke somewhere.
Robert Creeley
The man sits in a timelessness
with the horse under him in time
to a movement of legs and hooves
upon a timeless sand.
Distance comes in from the foreground
present in the picture as time
he reads outward from
and comes from that beginning.
A wind blows in
and out and all about the man
as the horse ran
and runs to come in time.
A house is burning in the sand.
A man and horse are burning.
The wind is burning.
They are running to arrive.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
A dog ambles in a uselessness
with a boy guiding him in an operation
to a moment of both paws and feet
above the useless pavement.
A time bursts in from stage left
harboring this newly formed picture
as the dog looks to his right
four ideas in his head.
A stormcloud forms above
and inside the body of the boy
the dog barks twice
finally understanding.
A window is broken.
The dog and his boy are running.
The storm is forming.
The boy's father drinks a coke somewhere.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Free Write week 6
Back to Carrollton.
Young me, face like a dishrag, keeper of the scene,
back from the unyielding redsand oceans
of the great wasted land:
watch me lie,
Stomping, mind flooded with irreducible patterns.
And so, back home
to the cow town.
Where the weary Kathleen aims an exalted kick at the groin,
and old Rabbit trots out, greeting her roadworn master.
For home is the fool,
home from his revelries.
An odor on his breath
of some kind of malted hop.
And whether or not he knows,
there is always bad weather.
An electric atmosphere hovers above
the blue-tinted sounds
of Lake Carroll.
Young me, face like a dishrag, keeper of the scene,
back from the unyielding redsand oceans
of the great wasted land:
watch me lie,
Stomping, mind flooded with irreducible patterns.
And so, back home
to the cow town.
Where the weary Kathleen aims an exalted kick at the groin,
and old Rabbit trots out, greeting her roadworn master.
For home is the fool,
home from his revelries.
An odor on his breath
of some kind of malted hop.
And whether or not he knows,
there is always bad weather.
An electric atmosphere hovers above
the blue-tinted sounds
of Lake Carroll.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
the cutting floor. revising.
There was an accident on South Street,
The night that old prostrate moon installed itself,
And held its breath.
I advocated for a new, calmer method
Of motivation—detached.
Wanting so accurately, my face, out in that long night,
Somewhere in that wreckage, had to see it.
But, in the dark, as you slept,
Demanded it from you.
Beyond those sirens, gazing, I saw,
In our house on that same darkened street,
Tonight’s silent, unvoiced boundary—
Your sweet, blackish hair slowly recharging itself.
Who diagnoses these memories,
And counts the hours of sleep's relentless poverty?
It is only me: dis-remembered and unhitched,
A collision under that same salient moon.
We’ve known each other far too much—
And, in fact, far too long—swallowing one another
Like mirrors on this dazed, nice planet.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Sign Inventory week 6
The River of Bees
William Stanley Merwin
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
beside two mills myhouse
Into whose courtyard a blind man followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name
Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he was not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not meant to survive
Only to live
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Inventory
*The poem exhibits a preoccupation with the passage of time (ex. "The goats stood singing/ of what was older"; "soon it will be fifteen years"; "he was old", the speaker travels "a long way to the calendars"; "we are the echo of the future")
*Alongside this concern with passing time is a fixation with aging. For instance, "he was old" appears twice in the text--also, "the blind man" sings "of what was older."
*Additionally (and perhaps this can all be ONE large multi-faceted sign), this preoccupation with time and aging develops into a concentration on mortality in the last 5 stanzas. (Ex. "nor the noise of death drawing water," "we were not born to survive/ only to live," ""in the same city I was born"
*The poem centers around the number/word/ idea of "one" ( literally, as this sign appears only in the two middle stanzas. (ex. "one of the ends is made of streets," "one man processions," "once once and once" Interesting, this fascination with "one," especially in a poem that is largely concentrated with the passage of years on a large scale.
*I see the poem also concerned with this idea of, what I want to call "repetition"--but that's not the right word. Perhaps "revisitation"?? Anyway, the poem seems to be hinged upon this idea. (ex. the opening line of the poem is "In a dream I returned to the river of bees," the "blind man" "sings of what was older"--perhaps implying a sort of "revisiting" of the past?; the speaker also visits "the same city I was born" ; "I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay"; also, the line "we are the echo of future" carries itself on this idea of "an echo." Fascinating also because this is a poem already so concerned with the nature of time and aging and death!
*Also, in the middle of the poem there's this strange moment where "men think they are better than grass" immediately followed in the next line by " I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay." So, we have this image of man's idea of the natural world, instantly followed by this image of "hay" which is dried, dead grass as fodder. Strange little juxtaposition perhaps connected to a larger sign working its way through here.
* As maybe a facet of the previous sign, I noticed that nearly every mention of the natural world aligns itself with the commodization of it! For instance, the speaker travels to the river of "bees"--whom are farmed and maintained for honey production; next is the mention of "five orange trees," followed by the mention of "two mills" ; then we have "a blind man following goats." This seems like it might be a stretch, but I think it could work here.
William Stanley Merwin
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
beside two mills myhouse
Into whose courtyard a blind man followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name
Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he was not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not meant to survive
Only to live
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Inventory
*The poem exhibits a preoccupation with the passage of time (ex. "The goats stood singing/ of what was older"; "soon it will be fifteen years"; "he was old", the speaker travels "a long way to the calendars"; "we are the echo of the future")
*Alongside this concern with passing time is a fixation with aging. For instance, "he was old" appears twice in the text--also, "the blind man" sings "of what was older."
*Additionally (and perhaps this can all be ONE large multi-faceted sign), this preoccupation with time and aging develops into a concentration on mortality in the last 5 stanzas. (Ex. "nor the noise of death drawing water," "we were not born to survive/ only to live," ""in the same city I was born"
*The poem centers around the number/word/ idea of "one" ( literally, as this sign appears only in the two middle stanzas. (ex. "one of the ends is made of streets," "one man processions," "once once and once" Interesting, this fascination with "one," especially in a poem that is largely concentrated with the passage of years on a large scale.
*I see the poem also concerned with this idea of, what I want to call "repetition"--but that's not the right word. Perhaps "revisitation"?? Anyway, the poem seems to be hinged upon this idea. (ex. the opening line of the poem is "In a dream I returned to the river of bees," the "blind man" "sings of what was older"--perhaps implying a sort of "revisiting" of the past?; the speaker also visits "the same city I was born" ; "I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay"; also, the line "we are the echo of future" carries itself on this idea of "an echo." Fascinating also because this is a poem already so concerned with the nature of time and aging and death!
*Also, in the middle of the poem there's this strange moment where "men think they are better than grass" immediately followed in the next line by " I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay." So, we have this image of man's idea of the natural world, instantly followed by this image of "hay" which is dried, dead grass as fodder. Strange little juxtaposition perhaps connected to a larger sign working its way through here.
* As maybe a facet of the previous sign, I noticed that nearly every mention of the natural world aligns itself with the commodization of it! For instance, the speaker travels to the river of "bees"--whom are farmed and maintained for honey production; next is the mention of "five orange trees," followed by the mention of "two mills" ; then we have "a blind man following goats." This seems like it might be a stretch, but I think it could work here.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Junkyard Quotes week 6
"the proof will be in the pudding when they realize what he's done is good" --from a conversation with my mother about president Obama.
Pedagogy Forum week 6
I really cannot imagine the ride it must be to teach high school. Tuesday's class made me realize exactly how challenging it must be to make some sort of learned connection with high schoolers--especially 150 of them! It's really staggering to imagine teaching that many students, more than half of whom desperately don't want to be there, meanwhile somehow crafting an effective pedagogy. It seems like it would have to be constructed in the most basic and fundamental way--convincing students that critical thinking is a vastly important skill. However, I am ignorant to all of this. I really do not know what it takes to manage, let alone teach a class of high school freshman. And its a frightening thought, and also incredibly fascinating. After hearing Jeff and Rachael's ( and our other H.S teacher classmates) speak about these pedagogical challenges they face on a daily basis, truly got me thinking in some different ways about the craft of the educator.
Classmate Response week 6
Trista,
I was just reading over your journal and found this really great calisthenics piece from last week. I don't know if this came from the translation exercise, but I guess that doesn't matter--I see some interesting things happening here. The piece is chock full of all this puzzling language and this almost Merwinesque dreamlike register. I especially dig the moments where the images of the rabbit (or foot) (or really just the natural world, ex. "footprints criss-crossing the pasture and out into tomorrow") are bordered against this sort of broken, ahem, human world? or civilization? (ex. "full of soured wristwatches/ belts graze dinner plates, concrete polaroid dinners").
So, I agree with Dr. Davidson's commentary about utilizing some sort of guiding image to try to "contain" all of this great ethereal language. I know because this is where I struggle. When I write I get so involved with the words themselves--mad scientist mode takes over, anything goes. I think the key is in the "housing" or in the containing of the thing with a guiding image or a maybe a constellation of these images.
I hope this makes sense. It's really cool things.
I was just reading over your journal and found this really great calisthenics piece from last week. I don't know if this came from the translation exercise, but I guess that doesn't matter--I see some interesting things happening here. The piece is chock full of all this puzzling language and this almost Merwinesque dreamlike register. I especially dig the moments where the images of the rabbit (or foot) (or really just the natural world, ex. "footprints criss-crossing the pasture and out into tomorrow") are bordered against this sort of broken, ahem, human world? or civilization? (ex. "full of soured wristwatches/ belts graze dinner plates, concrete polaroid dinners").
So, I agree with Dr. Davidson's commentary about utilizing some sort of guiding image to try to "contain" all of this great ethereal language. I know because this is where I struggle. When I write I get so involved with the words themselves--mad scientist mode takes over, anything goes. I think the key is in the "housing" or in the containing of the thing with a guiding image or a maybe a constellation of these images.
I hope this makes sense. It's really cool things.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Junkyard Quotes week 5
"steamboat gwine 'round de bend" - charlie patton lyric, and j. fahey song title.
Calisthenics Week 5
We are ten, so arm the volcano and dole out the regimented cacti.
Infrequently, multiple, important and trained animals caused
the memories that I owe you often. I tell you, this, fatso, as the genus
un-dies. Hurry, do the people remember their dumb concerts? Let us
admire their labor. Quick, antiquate the radio at Bell's House and pirate those
damned combustible insignias, OK?
My cause makes no numbered losses, only multiple eyes on the taciturn roads.
______________________________________________________________________
Revision:
We are ten.
So, arm the volcano and dole the grasp.
Multiple important and trained animals have caused
these memories that I owe you often.
I tell you this, fatso, as the genus un-dies.
Hurry, dose people with memories of shit films
and we'll admire their labor.
Quick, let's isolate the radio at Bell's House and pirate
combustible insignias, alright?
My cause makes no numbered losses,
only the multiple eyes on the taciturn roads.
Infrequently, multiple, important and trained animals caused
the memories that I owe you often. I tell you, this, fatso, as the genus
un-dies. Hurry, do the people remember their dumb concerts? Let us
admire their labor. Quick, antiquate the radio at Bell's House and pirate those
damned combustible insignias, OK?
My cause makes no numbered losses, only multiple eyes on the taciturn roads.
______________________________________________________________________
Revision:
We are ten.
So, arm the volcano and dole the grasp.
Multiple important and trained animals have caused
these memories that I owe you often.
I tell you this, fatso, as the genus un-dies.
Hurry, dose people with memories of shit films
and we'll admire their labor.
Quick, let's isolate the radio at Bell's House and pirate
combustible insignias, alright?
My cause makes no numbered losses,
only the multiple eyes on the taciturn roads.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Calisthenics Week 4
Today's definition of infinity is broken, let's fix it.
The road to a breakup defines infinity.
Today, our definitions won't last.
Today's definition of infinity was de-scoped
and somehow more clear, reminding us
that we were once ghosts, too.
Today, 100 red crayolas coalesced and deposited color in our brains.
Tomorrow showed me how fragile it all is, establishing a clouded binary.
Today, our definition of infinity won't last if we don't try.
The road to a breakup defines infinity.
Today, our definitions won't last.
Today's definition of infinity was de-scoped
and somehow more clear, reminding us
that we were once ghosts, too.
Today, 100 red crayolas coalesced and deposited color in our brains.
Tomorrow showed me how fragile it all is, establishing a clouded binary.
Today, our definition of infinity won't last if we don't try.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Improv week 4
"Dream Song 29"
John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
--------------------------------------------------------------
There lay down, once, a procedure in my mind
so molten, that if I had more time
& longer, & faster, awake, from all that year
I cannot install these ideas.
Beginning again perpetually in my ears
a tiny dream somewhere, a version, a token.
And this other thing in my mind
like a swollen, lifeless mass that
ceases to launch this incredible sleepless panic. Gleefully,
with open arms, I consider, unbridled.
All the broken things say: so long. This is not for you;
blinking.
But never did I, as I once thought,
act upon any thing and hunts down that very thing
hiding the various segments, where I can finally be discovered.
I know: I saw the document, & it is not gone.
Often I have calculated, in the long mornings, that too.
No thing is ever truly gone.
John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
--------------------------------------------------------------
There lay down, once, a procedure in my mind
so molten, that if I had more time
& longer, & faster, awake, from all that year
I cannot install these ideas.
Beginning again perpetually in my ears
a tiny dream somewhere, a version, a token.
And this other thing in my mind
like a swollen, lifeless mass that
ceases to launch this incredible sleepless panic. Gleefully,
with open arms, I consider, unbridled.
All the broken things say: so long. This is not for you;
blinking.
But never did I, as I once thought,
act upon any thing and hunts down that very thing
hiding the various segments, where I can finally be discovered.
I know: I saw the document, & it is not gone.
Often I have calculated, in the long mornings, that too.
No thing is ever truly gone.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Inventory Week 4
"Soonest Mended"
John Ashbery
Barely tolerated, living on the margin
In our technological society, we were always having to be
rescued.
On the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando Furioso
Before it was time to start all over again.
There would be thunder in the bushes, a rustling of coils,
And Angelica, in the Ingres painting, was considering
The colorful but small monster near her toe, as though
wondering, whether forgetting
The whole thing might not, in the end, be the only solution.
And then there always came a time when
Happy Hooligan in his rusted green automobile
Came plowing down the course, just to make sure everything
was OK,
Only by that time we were in another chapter and confused
About how to receive this latest piece of information.
Was it information? Weren't we rather acting this out
For someone else's benefit, thoughts in a mind
With room enough to spare for our little problems (so they
began to seem),
Our daily quandry about food and the rent and bills to be paid?
To reduce all this to a small variant,
To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau--
This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free.
Alas, the summer's energy wanes quickly,
A moment and it is gone. And no longer
May we make the necessary arrangements, simply as they are.
Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it.
Now there is no question even of that, but only
Of holding on to the hard earth so as not to get thrown off,
With an occasional dream, a vision: a robin flies across
The upper corner of the window, you brush your hair away
And cannot quite see, or a wound will flash
Against the sweet faces of the others, something like:
This is what you wanted to hear, so why
Did you think of listening to something else? We are all talkers
It is true, but underneath the talk lies
The moving and now wanting to be move, the loose
Meaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.
These then were some hazards of the course,
Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing else
It was still a sock when, almost a quarter of a century later,
The clarity of the rules dawned on you for the first time.
They were the players, and we who had struggled at the game
Were merely spectators, though subject to its vicissitudes
And moving with it out the tearful stadium, borne on
shoulders, at last.
Night after night this message returns, repeated
In the flickering bulbs of the sky, raised past us, taken away
from us,
Yet ours over and over until the end that is past truth,
That being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them,
Not ours to won, like a book, but to be with, and sometimes
To be without, alone and desperate.
But the fantasy makes it ours, a kind of fence-sitting
Raised to the level of an esthetic ideal. These were moments,
years,
Solid with reality, faces, nameable events, kisses, heroic acts,
But like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression
Not too reassuring, as though meaning could be cast aside
some day
When it had been outgrown. Better, you said, to stay cowering
Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning
Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that
Timorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,
That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from
this standpoint
None of us ever graduates from college,
For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow up
Is the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.
And you see, both of us were right, though nothing
Has somehow come to nothing; the avatars
Of our conforming to the rules and living
Around the home have made--well, in a sense, "good citizens"
of us,
Brushing the teeth and all that, and learning to accept
The charity of the hard moments as they are doled out,
For this is action, this not being sure, this careless
Preparing, sowing the seeds crooked in the furrow,
Making ready to forget, and always coming back
To the mooring of starting out, that day so long ago.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sign Inventory
*The poem seems heavily engaged with the "receiving" of information, the act of learning and exactness of meaning.
Ex. "About how to receive this latest piece of information," "solid with reality, faces, nameable events, kisses, heroic acts, but like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression," Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned, That the learning process is extended in this way," "None of us ever graduates from college," "learning to accept the charity," etc...
* Though the poem remains preoccupied with this "acquisition of information," it also resists clear, surface level understanding. Indeed, most of the lines are filled with obscure images and high ambiguity. For example, the speaker wonders "how to receive this latest piece of information" And follows with "Weren't we rather acting this out/For someone else's benefit, thoughts in a mind/ With room enough and to spare for out little problems." The speaker continually entangles the "desire" for exact meaning highly obscure language. "Better, you said, to stay cowering / Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning/Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that / Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned, / That the learning process is extended in this way..." Ashbery 's use of unclear referents--"this" and "what had been"-- keep a clear surface level reading at bay.
* In a poem otherwise concerned with the abstractions and ambiguity as I noted above, it also manages to contain three moments of hyper specificity. In the first 15 lines of the poem, the speaker makes the following highly specific references: "...like heroines in Orlando Furioso" (Italian romantic epic), "Anglica, in the Ingres Painting" (referring to a 19th century french painting & painter) and "Happy Hooligan in his green automobile..." (influential Opper comic strip).
These are strange, both for there textual proximity (all three moments of hyper specificity occur within the first 15 lines) and also for the simple fact that the poem is largely engineered by abstractions.
*The poem also contains these odd moments of repetition, typically occurring within lines concerning learning and the retrieval of information. Ex. "About how to receive this latest piece of information/ Was it information?", "the promise of learning," the sense of what had already been learned," "the learning process is extended in this way."
*The poem also seems very concerned with the "daily" experience. For instance--many times the speaker refers to "food and the rent and bills to be paid," "Conforming to the rules and living/ Around the home.." "Brushing teeth." etc.
* The speaker refers three times to sort of "textual realities." Ex. "only by that time we were in another chapter and confused," "the being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them" "not ours to won, like a book, but to be with." In all three moments, the mention of the textual takes on a more, I want to say, corporeal or landscape quality. I'm still working this one out.
*The poem also contains a few other moments of odd repetition-- not necessarily concerning "the search for knowledge" but instead moments of removal? or obstacles?
Ex. "These then were some hazards of course, / Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing else", "The moving and now wanting to be moved, the loose meaning..." "To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau--/ This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free."
John Ashbery
Barely tolerated, living on the margin
In our technological society, we were always having to be
rescued.
On the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando Furioso
Before it was time to start all over again.
There would be thunder in the bushes, a rustling of coils,
And Angelica, in the Ingres painting, was considering
The colorful but small monster near her toe, as though
wondering, whether forgetting
The whole thing might not, in the end, be the only solution.
And then there always came a time when
Happy Hooligan in his rusted green automobile
Came plowing down the course, just to make sure everything
was OK,
Only by that time we were in another chapter and confused
About how to receive this latest piece of information.
Was it information? Weren't we rather acting this out
For someone else's benefit, thoughts in a mind
With room enough to spare for our little problems (so they
began to seem),
Our daily quandry about food and the rent and bills to be paid?
To reduce all this to a small variant,
To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau--
This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free.
Alas, the summer's energy wanes quickly,
A moment and it is gone. And no longer
May we make the necessary arrangements, simply as they are.
Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it.
Now there is no question even of that, but only
Of holding on to the hard earth so as not to get thrown off,
With an occasional dream, a vision: a robin flies across
The upper corner of the window, you brush your hair away
And cannot quite see, or a wound will flash
Against the sweet faces of the others, something like:
This is what you wanted to hear, so why
Did you think of listening to something else? We are all talkers
It is true, but underneath the talk lies
The moving and now wanting to be move, the loose
Meaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.
These then were some hazards of the course,
Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing else
It was still a sock when, almost a quarter of a century later,
The clarity of the rules dawned on you for the first time.
They were the players, and we who had struggled at the game
Were merely spectators, though subject to its vicissitudes
And moving with it out the tearful stadium, borne on
shoulders, at last.
Night after night this message returns, repeated
In the flickering bulbs of the sky, raised past us, taken away
from us,
Yet ours over and over until the end that is past truth,
That being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them,
Not ours to won, like a book, but to be with, and sometimes
To be without, alone and desperate.
But the fantasy makes it ours, a kind of fence-sitting
Raised to the level of an esthetic ideal. These were moments,
years,
Solid with reality, faces, nameable events, kisses, heroic acts,
But like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression
Not too reassuring, as though meaning could be cast aside
some day
When it had been outgrown. Better, you said, to stay cowering
Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning
Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that
Timorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,
That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from
this standpoint
None of us ever graduates from college,
For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow up
Is the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.
And you see, both of us were right, though nothing
Has somehow come to nothing; the avatars
Of our conforming to the rules and living
Around the home have made--well, in a sense, "good citizens"
of us,
Brushing the teeth and all that, and learning to accept
The charity of the hard moments as they are doled out,
For this is action, this not being sure, this careless
Preparing, sowing the seeds crooked in the furrow,
Making ready to forget, and always coming back
To the mooring of starting out, that day so long ago.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sign Inventory
*The poem seems heavily engaged with the "receiving" of information, the act of learning and exactness of meaning.
Ex. "About how to receive this latest piece of information," "solid with reality, faces, nameable events, kisses, heroic acts, but like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression," Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned, That the learning process is extended in this way," "None of us ever graduates from college," "learning to accept the charity," etc...
* Though the poem remains preoccupied with this "acquisition of information," it also resists clear, surface level understanding. Indeed, most of the lines are filled with obscure images and high ambiguity. For example, the speaker wonders "how to receive this latest piece of information" And follows with "Weren't we rather acting this out/For someone else's benefit, thoughts in a mind/ With room enough and to spare for out little problems." The speaker continually entangles the "desire" for exact meaning highly obscure language. "Better, you said, to stay cowering / Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning/Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that / Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned, / That the learning process is extended in this way..." Ashbery 's use of unclear referents--"this" and "what had been"-- keep a clear surface level reading at bay.
* In a poem otherwise concerned with the abstractions and ambiguity as I noted above, it also manages to contain three moments of hyper specificity. In the first 15 lines of the poem, the speaker makes the following highly specific references: "...like heroines in Orlando Furioso" (Italian romantic epic), "Anglica, in the Ingres Painting" (referring to a 19th century french painting & painter) and "Happy Hooligan in his green automobile..." (influential Opper comic strip).
These are strange, both for there textual proximity (all three moments of hyper specificity occur within the first 15 lines) and also for the simple fact that the poem is largely engineered by abstractions.
*The poem also contains these odd moments of repetition, typically occurring within lines concerning learning and the retrieval of information. Ex. "About how to receive this latest piece of information/ Was it information?", "the promise of learning," the sense of what had already been learned," "the learning process is extended in this way."
*The poem also seems very concerned with the "daily" experience. For instance--many times the speaker refers to "food and the rent and bills to be paid," "Conforming to the rules and living/ Around the home.." "Brushing teeth." etc.
* The speaker refers three times to sort of "textual realities." Ex. "only by that time we were in another chapter and confused," "the being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them" "not ours to won, like a book, but to be with." In all three moments, the mention of the textual takes on a more, I want to say, corporeal or landscape quality. I'm still working this one out.
*The poem also contains a few other moments of odd repetition-- not necessarily concerning "the search for knowledge" but instead moments of removal? or obstacles?
Ex. "These then were some hazards of course, / Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing else", "The moving and now wanting to be moved, the loose meaning..." "To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau--/ This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free."
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Classmate Response Week 4
In his pedagogy entry last week, James suggested compiling alternative methods of wording lines or phrases during our class workshops. Personally, I would find all of this additional language to be of a tremendous help. Leaving a workshop with essentially a mountain of language to work through, I know would aid my writing in many differing and interesting ways. Also, I would imagine that helping to rework and rephrase other students work may also prove beneficial to both parties here. With the next workshop, I'm going to give this a shot and see what comes of it. Thanks for the idea, James.
Free Write Week 4
On South Street there was an accident:
that night the old prostrate moon mounted.
I advocated for detached variation
and suggested a new method for a dissolved re-invigoration.
Wanting so accurately, my own face had to see it,
but in the dark, then, as you slept, demanded it from you.
Beyond the walls of tonight, gazing, I saw,
downstream, your archaic origin steeped in translocation.
What if we could diagnose various remembrances?
Once we analyze the poverty of sleep.
I knew her too long:
swallowing each other like reflections.
Do I want to be remembered
bellow the black midpoint of this November?
O actual events!
that night the old prostrate moon mounted.
I advocated for detached variation
and suggested a new method for a dissolved re-invigoration.
Wanting so accurately, my own face had to see it,
but in the dark, then, as you slept, demanded it from you.
Beyond the walls of tonight, gazing, I saw,
downstream, your archaic origin steeped in translocation.
What if we could diagnose various remembrances?
Once we analyze the poverty of sleep.
I knew her too long:
swallowing each other like reflections.
Do I want to be remembered
bellow the black midpoint of this November?
O actual events!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Junkyard Quote Week 3
A friend of mine showed me this and I thought it was just a really interesting display of homonyms in the English language.
This is a grammatically valid sentence:
"Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." The sentence reads as description of the social hierarchy of buffalos living in Buffalo. There are three different meanings of the word bufallo at work here: Buffalo- a city in New York, buffalo which means to bully or intimidate, and buffalo the animal. Thus, the a different way of saying this is: Bison, from Buffalo, New York who are intimidated by other bison in Buffalo also happen to intimidate other bison from Buffalo.
This is a grammatically valid sentence:
"Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." The sentence reads as description of the social hierarchy of buffalos living in Buffalo. There are three different meanings of the word bufallo at work here: Buffalo- a city in New York, buffalo which means to bully or intimidate, and buffalo the animal. Thus, the a different way of saying this is: Bison, from Buffalo, New York who are intimidated by other bison in Buffalo also happen to intimidate other bison from Buffalo.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Pedagogy Forum Week 2
Well, with two full weeks of journaling behind me I thought now would a prime moment to ponder my journaling experience thus far.
For me, writing has always been an astoundingly daunting act. There is something about looking at a blank page that literally causes me to exhibit strange and irrational behavior. At my desk, I may become slightly uncomfortable and will perhaps seek out a more satisfying chair or pillow. Then, there is a pretty good chance I may notice a book out of place on the shelf or a record I forgot to put back into the sleeve. And after I do some sweeping or dishwashing or other household chores a cold beer sounds like just what I need transition from housework back into writing. And so after my third beer is when the distractions begin to really work their magic. As you can see, the act of writing has turned into a fight between myself and...well, my self.
This daily journalling, I think, is slowly helping me overcome these difficulties. I am noticing the language that surrounds me and my life and when I'm not writing I constantly tease out possibilties in my mind and think of different techniques to explore. I feel the pressure is off here in journal land and it feels damn good.
For me, writing has always been an astoundingly daunting act. There is something about looking at a blank page that literally causes me to exhibit strange and irrational behavior. At my desk, I may become slightly uncomfortable and will perhaps seek out a more satisfying chair or pillow. Then, there is a pretty good chance I may notice a book out of place on the shelf or a record I forgot to put back into the sleeve. And after I do some sweeping or dishwashing or other household chores a cold beer sounds like just what I need transition from housework back into writing. And so after my third beer is when the distractions begin to really work their magic. As you can see, the act of writing has turned into a fight between myself and...well, my self.
This daily journalling, I think, is slowly helping me overcome these difficulties. I am noticing the language that surrounds me and my life and when I'm not writing I constantly tease out possibilties in my mind and think of different techniques to explore. I feel the pressure is off here in journal land and it feels damn good.
Classmate Response Week 2
This is a response to Billy's most recent "improv" entry:
Billy, I love how you have essentially created a conversation with Donald Justice's poem "Men at Forty." Your "riff" stands out to me because it issues a compelling shift from both the perspective and tonality of Justice's poem. "Men at Forty" centers around these metaphors of aging, regret and memory. With your "Men at Twenty-Five" you have reversed these elements. Justice's poem gathers its momentum and impact from the symbolization of the past, in yours you really utilize this same effect but aim it towards the "weight" of the future. "their faces,haggard/ by the weight of decades"--I especially admire this great line.
Great stuff, Billy. Can't wait to read more.
Billy, I love how you have essentially created a conversation with Donald Justice's poem "Men at Forty." Your "riff" stands out to me because it issues a compelling shift from both the perspective and tonality of Justice's poem. "Men at Forty" centers around these metaphors of aging, regret and memory. With your "Men at Twenty-Five" you have reversed these elements. Justice's poem gathers its momentum and impact from the symbolization of the past, in yours you really utilize this same effect but aim it towards the "weight" of the future. "their faces,haggard/ by the weight of decades"--I especially admire this great line.
Great stuff, Billy. Can't wait to read more.
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 2
"do you think Greece would help if we took Turkey from the rear?" -Jason Willett, aural sage.
Sign Inventory Week 2
"Facing It"
Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against the morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the boob trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
Sign Inventory
* Three instances of high specificity occur in this otherwise rather "non-specific" poem. Ex. "Vietnam Veterans Memorial, " "58,022" and "Andrew Johnson."
* The action of the poem seems to occur entirely in a reflection.
*The poem utilizes short, enjambed lines occuring within a single block of text. Almost "list-like."
*The poem repeats certain colors throughout the poem. "Black" occurs three times, "white"- twice, and "red" once.
*The poem seems constructed around a notion of 'erasure'- for instance- the opening line of the poem is "my black face fades." The poem ends: "a woman's trying to erase names."
* The naming of Andrew Johnson seems a strange, important choice here. Although a common name, it's a loaded one to boot. Trail of Tears????
*At about halfway through the poem, the rather "grounded" language takes off into more metaphorical and symbolic language. This is marked with the image of "Brushstrokes" and a "red bird's wings cutting accross my stare."
Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against the morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the boob trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
Sign Inventory
* Three instances of high specificity occur in this otherwise rather "non-specific" poem. Ex. "Vietnam Veterans Memorial, " "58,022" and "Andrew Johnson."
* The action of the poem seems to occur entirely in a reflection.
*The poem utilizes short, enjambed lines occuring within a single block of text. Almost "list-like."
*The poem repeats certain colors throughout the poem. "Black" occurs three times, "white"- twice, and "red" once.
*The poem seems constructed around a notion of 'erasure'- for instance- the opening line of the poem is "my black face fades." The poem ends: "a woman's trying to erase names."
* The naming of Andrew Johnson seems a strange, important choice here. Although a common name, it's a loaded one to boot. Trail of Tears????
*At about halfway through the poem, the rather "grounded" language takes off into more metaphorical and symbolic language. This is marked with the image of "Brushstrokes" and a "red bird's wings cutting accross my stare."
Friday, August 27, 2010
Free Write Week 2
Breakfast is over, and now some unlucky bastard is sitting on the fender of a late starting dawn.
I'll tell you what I mean:
It was us in a log cabin in Oregon in the late nineteenth century. It was September and there were a few traces of summer left, you're in bed, just given birth and I'm not much of a midwife. On weekends I smoke a pipe and drink rosepetal wine out of a jelly jar and say things like "it's getting dangerous to be poor in this country!" as I wash the stagecoach.
But its 11:18am on a twenty-first century Friday. Last night I heard someone yell something about "staying gold" or "laying cold" into a french dictaphone that hadn't worked since the late 1980s.
I'll tell you what I mean:
It was us in a log cabin in Oregon in the late nineteenth century. It was September and there were a few traces of summer left, you're in bed, just given birth and I'm not much of a midwife. On weekends I smoke a pipe and drink rosepetal wine out of a jelly jar and say things like "it's getting dangerous to be poor in this country!" as I wash the stagecoach.
But its 11:18am on a twenty-first century Friday. Last night I heard someone yell something about "staying gold" or "laying cold" into a french dictaphone that hadn't worked since the late 1980s.
Junkyard quotes 2-3, Week 2
"DO NOTTATTO PACK BELONGINGS
Time is precious. Save your life first. Take your room spoon out of door lock,
have locked if exporting urgently, you can return room again perhaps, keep calm, it is
scared to be of no help."--From a Chinese emergency hotel binder.
"chrome things never change..." -Gary Wilson
Time is precious. Save your life first. Take your room spoon out of door lock,
have locked if exporting urgently, you can return room again perhaps, keep calm, it is
scared to be of no help."--From a Chinese emergency hotel binder.
"chrome things never change..." -Gary Wilson
Improv week 2
John Ashberry
"As One Put Drunk into the Packet-Boat"
I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
Elsewhere we are as sitting in a place where sunlight
Filters down, a little at a time,
Waiting for someone to come. Harsh words are spoken,
As the sun yellows the green of the maple tree...
So this was all, but obscurely
I felt the stirrings of new breath in the pages
Which all winter long had smelled like an old catalogue.
New sentences were starting up. But the summer
Was well along, not yet past the mid-point
But full and dark with the promise of that fullness,
That time when one can no longer wander aaway
And even the least attentive fall silent
To watch the thing that is prepared to happen.
A look of glass stops you
And you walk on shaken: was I the perceived?
Did they notice me, this time, as I am,
Or is it postponed again? The children
Still at their games, clouds that arise with a swift
Impatience in the afternoon sky, then dissipate
As limpid, dense twilight comes.
Only in that tooting of a horn
Down there, for a moment, I thought
The great, formal affair was beginning, orchestrated,
Its colors concentrated in a glance, a ballade
That takes in the whole world, now, but lightly,
Still lightly, but with wide authority and tact.
The prevalence of those gray flakes falling?
They are sun motes. You have slept in the sun
Longer that the sphinx, and are non the wiser for it.
Come in. And I thought a shadow fell across the door
But it was only her come to ask once more
If I was coming in, and not to hurry in case I wasn't.
The night sheen takes over. a moon of cistercian pallor
Has climbed to the center of heaven, installed,
Finally involved with the business of darkness.
And a sigh heaves from all the small things on earth,
The books, the papers, the old garters and union-suit buttons
Kept in a white cardboard box somewhere, and all the lower
Versions of cities flattened under the equalizing night.
The summer demands and takes away too much,
But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes.
______________________________________________________________
"As One Forded The Pale Vapor"
I tried each method, but only a few would seem nameable or real.
Once, I was that standing in a room where fantasy
Struggles around, in baby-steps,
Holding out for something to happen. Soft phrases were interpreted,
As the sun blurred the beery pre-dusk...
So that was it, but uncertainly
I saw the sphere of a new planet
That all through last year kept quiet.
New thought explains this. But the year
Was good and long, and summer had not yet past
But instead sulked with the design of that expanse,
Once you can no longer wander
And even your children are perceptive
Ready for each and every system.
A moment of reality shakes you
And you continue delirious: is this me?
Can they conceive of me, once, this time,
Or will it be delayed again? The lakes
Still mechanized, the skies become diluted
With restlessness in the noontime haze, then descends
As crystallized, thick night approaches.
Only once in that tactful darkness
Down there, for a minute, I dreamt
That the event became real, calculated,
Its reasons connected in a sentence, a configuration
That comprehends a universe, now, but slowly
Even slowly, but with dilated jurisdiction and subtlety.
The motive behind those mossgrown ruins?
They are weathered marbled robes. You have crept
Long and blue, and feel like some misplaced poacher.
Welcome. And I thought I felt slattern and waxen,
But it was only the damp midnight come to ask
If I was here to gather some strange report.
The night retraces its steps. A welded moon
Looks like an enormous turtle going to the river, nameless,
Finally concerned with the brickwork of sleep.
And a whine rattles from the forgotten things on earth,
Rubble, twisted steel, old conduits and sheets of newsprint
In agonizing fields somewhere, and all the smaller
Translations of rivers canceled beneath the muted landscape.
The dawn addresses our theory of rivers,But at night, drunkenly, stumbles homeward.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Calisthenics Week 2
American side, I was the world's worst.
The gold magnetic sand,
as a way of emphasizing a pop-culture phenomenon
was more like a barrel of prayers that began
by looking for peaches.
The closest large city was foggia
transference is, then, an illusion.
The carcasses were there wrapped in tinfoil
to rest by a field of grass.
The belief in Bigfoot signifies a hyped contemporary.
This delicate little Aeolin harp that nature has set at the entrance.
He had left the party without a word. What was I buying?
I believe worthwhile things can't be justified.
I reach for my mug to warm my hands on it.
The granville arms was somewhat lacking in heat.
___________________________________________________________________________________
American side, I was the world's worst.
The gold magnetic sand was
a barrel of prayers that began by looking for peaches.
The closest large city was Foggia
the carcasses wrapped in tinfoil
rest by a field of grass.
Transference is an illusion.
The gold magnetic sand,
as a way of emphasizing a pop-culture phenomenon
was more like a barrel of prayers that began
by looking for peaches.
The closest large city was foggia
transference is, then, an illusion.
The carcasses were there wrapped in tinfoil
to rest by a field of grass.
The belief in Bigfoot signifies a hyped contemporary.
This delicate little Aeolin harp that nature has set at the entrance.
He had left the party without a word. What was I buying?
I believe worthwhile things can't be justified.
I reach for my mug to warm my hands on it.
The granville arms was somewhat lacking in heat.
___________________________________________________________________________________
American side, I was the world's worst.
The gold magnetic sand was
a barrel of prayers that began by looking for peaches.
The closest large city was Foggia
the carcasses wrapped in tinfoil
rest by a field of grass.
Transference is an illusion.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 2
"this is what happens when you find a stranger in the alps." ---hilarious TV edit of a famous scene in The Big Lebowski. The original-- "this is what happens when you f__ and stranger in the a___.
Junkyard Quotes 3-4, Week 1
"in speckled speculation.." --this popped into my head while driving home from the university this morning.
"The kleenex exposition of 1988 brought us many new avenues of discourse. New forms of sorrow for discerning Asian dissidents and fawning leather articulators." -- some words I collected from old newspaper clippings....
"The kleenex exposition of 1988 brought us many new avenues of discourse. New forms of sorrow for discerning Asian dissidents and fawning leather articulators." -- some words I collected from old newspaper clippings....
Pedagogy Forum, Week 1
In my last post, I referred to an idea Richard Hugo presents in The Triggering Town. Hugo encourages his students to switch their allegiance away from the triggering subject and instead focus upon the words themselves. In a sense, embrace your linguistic and aesthetic predispositions, or "obsessions" and to work within them.
Now, that being said: the writing workshop can work in a somewhat opposing direction. In Chad Davidson and Greg Fraser's manual, Writing Poetry, they warn that "the biggest danger in critiquing poems resides in affective reasoning and 'just becausing'" (89). In Michael's journal he simply created a list of words that he felt attracted to for unknown reasons. I think that this "submission to obsession" works well in many cases and I think is essential to the writing process. However, in the workshop if one were to simply reject the quality of a poem using simple "just because" reasoning, I think the workshop essentially ceases to work effectively. In other words--and to borrow from Writing Poetry again--workshopping should act towards "forming meanings with the text, of helping to create significance rather than passively waiting for it to be delivered." We cannot escape our own aesthetic obsessions, but a workshop, I think, should help form meanings that are multiple and various--to expand meaning rather than to confine it.
Now, that being said: the writing workshop can work in a somewhat opposing direction. In Chad Davidson and Greg Fraser's manual, Writing Poetry, they warn that "the biggest danger in critiquing poems resides in affective reasoning and 'just becausing'" (89). In Michael's journal he simply created a list of words that he felt attracted to for unknown reasons. I think that this "submission to obsession" works well in many cases and I think is essential to the writing process. However, in the workshop if one were to simply reject the quality of a poem using simple "just because" reasoning, I think the workshop essentially ceases to work effectively. In other words--and to borrow from Writing Poetry again--workshopping should act towards "forming meanings with the text, of helping to create significance rather than passively waiting for it to be delivered." We cannot escape our own aesthetic obsessions, but a workshop, I think, should help form meanings that are multiple and various--to expand meaning rather than to confine it.
Classmate Response Week 1
I'm writing in response to Michael Brown's "Free Write" entry for week one.
For Michael's "free entry," he chose to create a list of words that he felt--with "no particular reason why"--predisposed to and then wrote a short poem hinged upon those words. After reading this in Michael's journal I immediately thought of what Richard Hugo writes early on in The Triggering Town.
He writes: "Our triggering subjects, like our words, come from obsessions we must submit to, whatever the social cost [...] It is narcissistic, vain, egotistical, unrealistic, selfish and hateful to assume emotional ownership of a town or a word. It is also essential" (14).
I think truth of the matter is that we all have these sort of unknown "obsessions"--certain aesthetic predispositions or lexical inclinations that are inescapable. I find it really interesting that the excavation and interrogation of these "obsessions" unmask these almost hidden triggering subjects.
For Michael's "free entry," he chose to create a list of words that he felt--with "no particular reason why"--predisposed to and then wrote a short poem hinged upon those words. After reading this in Michael's journal I immediately thought of what Richard Hugo writes early on in The Triggering Town.
He writes: "Our triggering subjects, like our words, come from obsessions we must submit to, whatever the social cost [...] It is narcissistic, vain, egotistical, unrealistic, selfish and hateful to assume emotional ownership of a town or a word. It is also essential" (14).
I think truth of the matter is that we all have these sort of unknown "obsessions"--certain aesthetic predispositions or lexical inclinations that are inescapable. I find it really interesting that the excavation and interrogation of these "obsessions" unmask these almost hidden triggering subjects.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Junkyard Quotes Week 1
"He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine." -- James Joyce, Ulysses.
Improv Week 1
In an effort to kick off and really get rolling with this blog thing, I thought I'd try "improv"-ing a children's poem by Shel Silverstein for fun (indeed, it was).
"Where the Sidewalk Ends"
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
"Where Resolution Ends"
"Where the Sidewalk Ends"
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
"Where Resolution Ends"
There is a place where resolution ends
Right before accordance begins,
And there, bored salesmen sift through the various seasons
And reconstruct imperfect definitions
And there, confidence hides from decisions
To rest from her concept of time.
Let us leave this place where skyscrapers push against last year
And next Wednesday steadily gets out of hand.
Past those particular avenues when our stories sounded somehow more clear
We shall walk with a walk that is abstract and unfamiliar
And watch civilization slowly become less sincere
To a some place in an unknown county.
Yes we will walk within this single implication,
troubled by a newly fashioned and finite boundary
For the river, is a device, and the river, it surrounds
A place where colors are characterized by their blindness.
Sign Inventory Week 1
"One Art"
Elizabeth Bishop
* In regards to form, the poem is sort of cloaked by the villanelle. Initially, the poem appears to be a clear attempt at the form, yet it also employs minor variations that declassify it.
* The poem begins with a devotion to candid, proselike language and increasingly becomes obscure. Ex. the first two stanzas' literal meaning seems rather clear. By stanza three, the direct language gives way to language that's increasingly figurative.
* Mimicking this increasing employment of figurative language, the poem's rhyming also seems increasingly fractured and or strained. Example: "faster" and "last, or" and "gesture"
* The speaker seems concerned with both the loss of time and the loss of space. For example, the speaker urges the reader to "accept" the loss of an "hour badly spent," and recalls losing "my mother's watch." The speaker encourages the reader to practice losing "faster." Additionally, the speaker is concerned with the loss of space, or perhaps distance: along with urging the reader to practice losing "faster," the speaker is insistent upon "losing farther." Recalling the loss of a house, the speaker then lists the losses of "two cities," "some realms," "two rivers," "a continent" and even "where it was you meant to travel."
* The poem seems to revolve around the idea of ownership in interesting ways. For example: the speaker loses " my mother's watch," "my last, or/ next-to-last, of three loved houses" and "some realms I owned."
* The poem hinges itself around continual negation: " the art of losing ISN'T hard to master" "their loss is NO disaster" "NONE of these will bring disaster" "WASN'T a disaster" "I SHAN'T have lied" "Wasn't a disaster" "the art of losing''s NOT too hard to master"
* At several instances the speaker directly speaks to the reader in a conversational manner: stanzas two and three and the final stanza.
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Sign List
* In regards to form, the poem is sort of cloaked by the villanelle. Initially, the poem appears to be a clear attempt at the form, yet it also employs minor variations that declassify it.
* The poem begins with a devotion to candid, proselike language and increasingly becomes obscure. Ex. the first two stanzas' literal meaning seems rather clear. By stanza three, the direct language gives way to language that's increasingly figurative.
* Mimicking this increasing employment of figurative language, the poem's rhyming also seems increasingly fractured and or strained. Example: "faster" and "last, or" and "gesture"
* The speaker seems concerned with both the loss of time and the loss of space. For example, the speaker urges the reader to "accept" the loss of an "hour badly spent," and recalls losing "my mother's watch." The speaker encourages the reader to practice losing "faster." Additionally, the speaker is concerned with the loss of space, or perhaps distance: along with urging the reader to practice losing "faster," the speaker is insistent upon "losing farther." Recalling the loss of a house, the speaker then lists the losses of "two cities," "some realms," "two rivers," "a continent" and even "where it was you meant to travel."
* The poem seems to revolve around the idea of ownership in interesting ways. For example: the speaker loses " my mother's watch," "my last, or/ next-to-last, of three loved houses" and "some realms I owned."
* The poem hinges itself around continual negation: " the art of losing ISN'T hard to master" "their loss is NO disaster" "NONE of these will bring disaster" "WASN'T a disaster" "I SHAN'T have lied" "Wasn't a disaster" "the art of losing''s NOT too hard to master"
* At several instances the speaker directly speaks to the reader in a conversational manner: stanzas two and three and the final stanza.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Calisthenics Week 1
"Five Ways of Avoiding a Marriage"
The lullaby wave of fingernails on a window
still reflects the ash--the split whimpers
of walnuts, dried peaches, your face.
We walk barren, as if glass.
The lullaby wave of fingernails on a window
still reflects the ash--the split whimpers
of walnuts, dried peaches, your face.
We walk barren, as if glass.
Free Entry Week 1
He was somewhere once.
A rooftop. Looking out.
Saw lots of mountains. And a sky.
He saw lots of things.
What else? Birds? Sunrise?
A low-hanging cloud.
But, that's not where he was.
He was home. In bed.
That's where he is now. Thinking of the time.
Now he's got it:
He was sitting on the mantle with a small piece of twine--roped around his tooth--
feeling something like an echo. His parents were drinking coffee and smiling. They had on bathrobes.
Slowly forgetting things.
A rooftop. Looking out.
Saw lots of mountains. And a sky.
He saw lots of things.
What else? Birds? Sunrise?
A low-hanging cloud.
But, that's not where he was.
He was home. In bed.
That's where he is now. Thinking of the time.
Now he's got it:
He was sitting on the mantle with a small piece of twine--roped around his tooth--
feeling something like an echo. His parents were drinking coffee and smiling. They had on bathrobes.
Slowly forgetting things.
Junkyard Quotes Entry 1, Week 1
Scrapped Band Name Ideas:
Dangerous Gardening
The Black-Dot Maybes
Planet of the Tapes
June Moons
Real as Rainbows
Dangerous Gardening
The Black-Dot Maybes
Planet of the Tapes
June Moons
Real as Rainbows
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