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. 

 

Draft 1 Week 10

**I'm still at work on this one. The last stanza needs work**

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…

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.  

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

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.

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. 

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."

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

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.

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.

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.

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.   

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...

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.

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"

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.

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.