Thank you for your interest in my poetry and come find me on WordPress and subscribe via email. :-)
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Hello Blogger
I had originally switched to Blogger because I couldn't use Google AdSense on WordPress but... looks like Google has frozen my account without explanation so... Back to WP for me!
Thank you for your interest in my poetry and come find me on WordPress and subscribe via email. :-)
Thank you for your interest in my poetry and come find me on WordPress and subscribe via email. :-)
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 24/30 - Someday I Will Grow Old
Today is not from a prompt. I found out that my mother (who lives in Mexico and is hard to keep in touch with) passed away a few months ago. I think now about life and how things go. This poem came from that.
~~~~~
Someday I Will Grow Old
Someday I will grow old.
Gray hair will flow from my scalp,
and my face will be a road map
of the many miles I've traveled.
The hearts I've broken
will march in the distance
along the river
made from their tears,
but I will have forgotten
all of their names.
The mirror will taunt me
with a face I don't recognize
because time has written
sonnets in the corners
of my eyes and mouth
in print too small to read.
Someday my shoulders will turn
slowly towards the earth
in spite of my insistence
that my arms touch the sky.
My feet will be the crossed oceans'
waves cresting and rolling onto the shores
that I have seen.
Dreams will follow behind me
whispering their motives
and thanking me
for listening so they could be true.
Someday the joke will be the future.
Time looks at her watch constantly,
tapping her wrist in impatience.
Red and yellow falling leaves
marking the procession of seasons.
Youth will sound foreign
and I will laugh at their strangeness
someday when I grow old.
~~~~~
Someday I Will Grow Old
Someday I will grow old.
Gray hair will flow from my scalp,
and my face will be a road map
of the many miles I've traveled.
The hearts I've broken
will march in the distance
along the river
made from their tears,
but I will have forgotten
all of their names.
The mirror will taunt me
with a face I don't recognize
because time has written
sonnets in the corners
of my eyes and mouth
in print too small to read.
Someday my shoulders will turn
slowly towards the earth
in spite of my insistence
that my arms touch the sky.
My feet will be the crossed oceans'
waves cresting and rolling onto the shores
that I have seen.
Dreams will follow behind me
whispering their motives
and thanking me
for listening so they could be true.
Someday the joke will be the future.
Time looks at her watch constantly,
tapping her wrist in impatience.
Red and yellow falling leaves
marking the procession of seasons.
Youth will sound foreign
and I will laugh at their strangeness
someday when I grow old.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 23/30 - Too Many Things (volume 1)
The following poem was made from pieces of the eight poems in my last post. See below for the prompt that led to those eight poems and why the poem below exists. I hope you try the prompt! I would love to read what you come up with. Post it in the comments or post a link to your blog. Happy writing!
~~~~~
Too Many Things (volume 1)
when songs were caught in my throat
it gives itself
sleep comes with difficulty
The Not Enough
not just surviving and existing
in the way
the time when I was a child
I didn't have enough heart
I had to tone down my brightness
the new job
of invisibility
into the universe
a heart breaks
I think
Too Many Things
the only way
Be quiet
from the inside.
flashing and sparking
I must tell my story somehow
Supple waves
love wasn't enough
like a jagged knife
When I worked
When I Close My Eyes
too many SHOES
I am blessed
of the ground.
so many things
it reminds me
Never Budge
the need to purge
the first scary thing
when the music didn't lift my feet
women ruined
don't tell me
the fridge was empty
home alone
to be very content
the idea
to be alone with just my body
the latch and the key
The First Fear
stray bullets
of infinity.
I am doing something
felt the need
take all the THINGS
too much FURNITURE
The blue sky hides
bad sex...
general things
to bake everyone
to the faerie guides
of Mother Milky Way
too many PANTS
more examples
against the edge
something that overwhelms
the things that overwhelm
darkness on the path
crosses the great divide
from the heart chakra
strictly for my own enjoyment.
when I was alone
learn to be ALIVE
of living things
move them out
there is death
to outshine others was to breed animosity
downy points of light
with joy
too many BOOKS to carry
children taken
mayo and hot dog buns
to drag things out further
money issues
stories my friends told
is bordering
strong
but I did
did not need supervision
my spirit
threaten
when the poems wouldn't come
I feel so unmoving
in my life
of Love
showing through the weave
an inky blanket
as a child or an adult
It covers itself
with so much
I will not
trapped in silence
curb my enthusiasm
the lack of their presence
too much
into the nostrils
the things that burden
the Arizona desert
she doesn't want to be alone
Scary things
the sun shines
foreign to me.
green light
I had to leave
calm down
in the regular corporate sector
don't say
school
I REFUSE to tone myself down
filled
misery loves company
life was safe
of the threads
gives me trouble
emanating upward
honey sandwich
the concept
it was only supposed to be a fling
fills my lids
The scariest times
Change for Them
the unrequited love
in the arm of the star loops
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 20
[Click the link above for Rachel's personal update for that year's end.]
Ingredients:
1. Something very hot
2. The first object you see when you close your eyes and think of him/her
3. The not enough, list them and be specific
4. The too many things, list them and be specific
5. The first thing that ever scared you. Make it up.
6. What did you change to accommodate _____ ?
7. What inside you will never budge.
8. Where does the blue sky go at night?
- - -
Now, take all of the answers you've written, and move them around. They don't have to make sense. The morning skillet. Somewhere, at the end of the woods. This bone of survival. Love and vitamins and secrets. . .
List them. Then, decide for this group the title. It will be what makes this poem come together. Make sure the title is a little too long. Like, "The other things you took from me the night you came back to the apartment to get the last of your belongings out of the medicine cabinet."
Add lines. Move them. DO NOT TITLE and then arrange. Arrange. Title. Re-arrange. Re-write. Remember what never happened. Write whatever the hell you want. This is yours. No one else could have written it but you. This last exercise was inspired by whomever and whatever and wherever you choose.
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
INGREDIENTS:
1. Something very hot
AZ desert
2. The first object you see when you close your eyes and think of him/her
green light from the heart chakra
3. The not enough, list them and be specific
This one geve me trouble. Not enough? Not enough of what? I am blessed to be very content with so much in my life that the concept of "not enough" is bordering on foreign to me so I really had to work on it and think of general things:
- the time when I was a child home alone and the frige was empty but for mayo and hot dog buns so I had a mayo and honey sandwich (not sure why I added honey)
- those times when love wasn't enough and I had to leave... one because of money issues and bad sex... one because it was only supposed to be a fling and I didn't have enough heart to drag things out further... others I'm sure but those two are the ones that stick in my mind
- seems like there should be more examples... times when the poems wouldn't come... when the music didn't lift my feet... when songs were caught in my throat trapped in silence
4. The too many things, list them and be specific
Another one that was hard at first... what does this mean "the too many things"? The connotation seems negative so it implies something that overwhelms like "too much" instead of "too many"... this is what my attempt came up with:
- too many THINGS... my spirit felt the need to take all the THINGS and move them out into the universe as though to be alone with just my body was the only way to really learn to be ALIVE and not just surviving and existing... to many SHOES... too many PANTS... too much FURNITURE... too many BOOKS to carry... the need to purge was strong
- the thing that overwhelms... like the unrequited love... the new job... school
5. The first thing that ever scared you. Make it up.
Yet another thing that my mind was like "What?"... Make it up? Scary things? The first scary thing? I'd rather tell my story somehow. Even then "scared" is such an odd word for me. The scariest times were when I was alone (as a child or an adult). Making it up proved to be hard for me.
6. What did you change to accommodate _____ ?
This whole prompt is filled with things I find hard. I know that I have at some point in my life changed to accomodate someone/something. The only thing that really came to mind was how when I worked in the regular corporate sector, I always felt like I had to tone down my brightness because to outshine others was to breed animosity.
7. What inside you will never budge.
This should have been easy but then again, no. I feel so unmoving about so many things. Related to the accomodation above, I REFUSE to tone myself down when I am doing something strictly for my own enjoyment. It used to really irritate me when someone told me to calm down or be quiet at a poetry reading when I was enthusiastically reacting to the person on the stage.
8. Where does the blue sky go at night?
This is a poem all by itself...
The blue sky hides in the arm of the star loops of Mother Milky Way... It gives itself to the faerie guides and crosses the great divide of infinity... It covers itself in an inky blanket of invisibility filled with downy points of light showing through the weave of the threads...
INSTRUCTIONS:
After all of the above I was to take it and move it all around. I didn't write a real list so it was a little different than I would have imagined. Instead of doing strictly what the instructions called for, I wrote a poem for each section first and that first series looked like a numbered list poem. For the record, I don't like the idea of the numbered list poem even though so many poets have performed really good ones over the years that I have thoroughly enjoyed and I have written and performed one or two as well. But, my latest incarnation of this format was inadvertently born. I decided that this was really eight short poems instead (see prior post).
TEARING IT ALL DOWN AND STARTING OVER...
In an attempt to be more in the spirit of the prompt, I dissected all of the above into small pieces forming a list of words and phrases The resulting list felt like a nearly intentional list poem so I am keeping it as part of this month's collection (#22 for the month, see below).
I then took the list and put it into an online list randomizer (https://www.random.org/lists/). I didn't like the way the shortened phrases looked shuffled so I redid the list as longer phrases and did the randomization again. The end result is an experiment but I think it turned out interesting.
~~~
Nearly Intentional List Poem
The Arizona Desert
death
the sun shines
a jagged knife
the edge of the ground
Supple waves
the nostrils of living things
My Eyes
Flashing
sparking
Love.
Not Enough
trouble.
blessed
content
so much
my life
concept
bordering
foreign
think
general things
The time
when I was a child
home alone
the frige
empty
mayo and hot dog buns
honey
sandwich
Those times
when love wasn't enough
I had to leave
money issues
bad sex
a fling
have enough heart
drag things out
the poems
the music
lift
my feet
songs
caught
my throat
trapped
silence
Too Many Things
overwhelms
"too much"
my spirit
felt
need
move
the universe
be alone
my body
ALIVE
surviving
existing
SHOES
PANTS
FURNITURE
BOOKS
carry
purge
strong
unrequited
new job
school
burden
Fear
Scary
story
times
alone
a child
an adult
latch
key
lack
their presence
the idea
life
safe
supervision
The darkness
the path
the stories
my friends
children
taken
women
ruined
stray
bullets
A heart breaks
sleep comes with difficulty
misery loves company
she doesn't want to be alone
Change
worked
regular
corporate
sector
tone down
brightness
outshine
others
breed
animosity
Never
Budge
unmoving
REFUSE
myself
down
doing something
strictly
enjoyment
Calm down
Be quiet
curb
enthusiasm
blue sky
night
hides
arm
star loops
Milky Way
faerie guides
crosses
great divide
infinity.
inky
blanket
invisibility
downy
points of light
showing
weave
threads
~~~~~
Too Many Things (volume 1)
when songs were caught in my throat
it gives itself
sleep comes with difficulty
The Not Enough
not just surviving and existing
in the way
the time when I was a child
I didn't have enough heart
I had to tone down my brightness
the new job
of invisibility
into the universe
a heart breaks
I think
Too Many Things
the only way
Be quiet
from the inside.
flashing and sparking
I must tell my story somehow
Supple waves
love wasn't enough
like a jagged knife
When I worked
When I Close My Eyes
too many SHOES
I am blessed
of the ground.
so many things
it reminds me
Never Budge
the need to purge
the first scary thing
when the music didn't lift my feet
women ruined
don't tell me
the fridge was empty
home alone
to be very content
the idea
to be alone with just my body
the latch and the key
The First Fear
stray bullets
of infinity.
I am doing something
felt the need
take all the THINGS
too much FURNITURE
The blue sky hides
bad sex...
general things
to bake everyone
to the faerie guides
of Mother Milky Way
too many PANTS
more examples
against the edge
something that overwhelms
the things that overwhelm
darkness on the path
crosses the great divide
from the heart chakra
strictly for my own enjoyment.
when I was alone
learn to be ALIVE
of living things
move them out
there is death
to outshine others was to breed animosity
downy points of light
with joy
too many BOOKS to carry
children taken
mayo and hot dog buns
to drag things out further
money issues
stories my friends told
is bordering
strong
but I did
did not need supervision
my spirit
threaten
when the poems wouldn't come
I feel so unmoving
in my life
of Love
showing through the weave
an inky blanket
as a child or an adult
It covers itself
with so much
I will not
trapped in silence
curb my enthusiasm
the lack of their presence
too much
into the nostrils
the things that burden
the Arizona desert
she doesn't want to be alone
Scary things
the sun shines
foreign to me.
green light
I had to leave
calm down
in the regular corporate sector
don't say
school
I REFUSE to tone myself down
filled
misery loves company
life was safe
of the threads
gives me trouble
emanating upward
honey sandwich
the concept
it was only supposed to be a fling
fills my lids
The scariest times
Change for Them
the unrequited love
in the arm of the star loops
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 20
[Click the link above for Rachel's personal update for that year's end.]
Ingredients:
1. Something very hot
2. The first object you see when you close your eyes and think of him/her
3. The not enough, list them and be specific
4. The too many things, list them and be specific
5. The first thing that ever scared you. Make it up.
6. What did you change to accommodate _____ ?
7. What inside you will never budge.
8. Where does the blue sky go at night?
- - -
Now, take all of the answers you've written, and move them around. They don't have to make sense. The morning skillet. Somewhere, at the end of the woods. This bone of survival. Love and vitamins and secrets. . .
List them. Then, decide for this group the title. It will be what makes this poem come together. Make sure the title is a little too long. Like, "The other things you took from me the night you came back to the apartment to get the last of your belongings out of the medicine cabinet."
Add lines. Move them. DO NOT TITLE and then arrange. Arrange. Title. Re-arrange. Re-write. Remember what never happened. Write whatever the hell you want. This is yours. No one else could have written it but you. This last exercise was inspired by whomever and whatever and wherever you choose.
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
INGREDIENTS:
1. Something very hot
AZ desert
2. The first object you see when you close your eyes and think of him/her
green light from the heart chakra
3. The not enough, list them and be specific
This one geve me trouble. Not enough? Not enough of what? I am blessed to be very content with so much in my life that the concept of "not enough" is bordering on foreign to me so I really had to work on it and think of general things:
- the time when I was a child home alone and the frige was empty but for mayo and hot dog buns so I had a mayo and honey sandwich (not sure why I added honey)
- those times when love wasn't enough and I had to leave... one because of money issues and bad sex... one because it was only supposed to be a fling and I didn't have enough heart to drag things out further... others I'm sure but those two are the ones that stick in my mind
- seems like there should be more examples... times when the poems wouldn't come... when the music didn't lift my feet... when songs were caught in my throat trapped in silence
4. The too many things, list them and be specific
Another one that was hard at first... what does this mean "the too many things"? The connotation seems negative so it implies something that overwhelms like "too much" instead of "too many"... this is what my attempt came up with:
- too many THINGS... my spirit felt the need to take all the THINGS and move them out into the universe as though to be alone with just my body was the only way to really learn to be ALIVE and not just surviving and existing... to many SHOES... too many PANTS... too much FURNITURE... too many BOOKS to carry... the need to purge was strong
- the thing that overwhelms... like the unrequited love... the new job... school
5. The first thing that ever scared you. Make it up.
Yet another thing that my mind was like "What?"... Make it up? Scary things? The first scary thing? I'd rather tell my story somehow. Even then "scared" is such an odd word for me. The scariest times were when I was alone (as a child or an adult). Making it up proved to be hard for me.
6. What did you change to accommodate _____ ?
This whole prompt is filled with things I find hard. I know that I have at some point in my life changed to accomodate someone/something. The only thing that really came to mind was how when I worked in the regular corporate sector, I always felt like I had to tone down my brightness because to outshine others was to breed animosity.
7. What inside you will never budge.
This should have been easy but then again, no. I feel so unmoving about so many things. Related to the accomodation above, I REFUSE to tone myself down when I am doing something strictly for my own enjoyment. It used to really irritate me when someone told me to calm down or be quiet at a poetry reading when I was enthusiastically reacting to the person on the stage.
8. Where does the blue sky go at night?
This is a poem all by itself...
The blue sky hides in the arm of the star loops of Mother Milky Way... It gives itself to the faerie guides and crosses the great divide of infinity... It covers itself in an inky blanket of invisibility filled with downy points of light showing through the weave of the threads...
INSTRUCTIONS:
After all of the above I was to take it and move it all around. I didn't write a real list so it was a little different than I would have imagined. Instead of doing strictly what the instructions called for, I wrote a poem for each section first and that first series looked like a numbered list poem. For the record, I don't like the idea of the numbered list poem even though so many poets have performed really good ones over the years that I have thoroughly enjoyed and I have written and performed one or two as well. But, my latest incarnation of this format was inadvertently born. I decided that this was really eight short poems instead (see prior post).
TEARING IT ALL DOWN AND STARTING OVER...
In an attempt to be more in the spirit of the prompt, I dissected all of the above into small pieces forming a list of words and phrases The resulting list felt like a nearly intentional list poem so I am keeping it as part of this month's collection (#22 for the month, see below).
I then took the list and put it into an online list randomizer (https://www.random.org/lists/). I didn't like the way the shortened phrases looked shuffled so I redid the list as longer phrases and did the randomization again. The end result is an experiment but I think it turned out interesting.
~~~
Nearly Intentional List Poem
The Arizona Desert
death
the sun shines
a jagged knife
the edge of the ground
Supple waves
the nostrils of living things
My Eyes
Flashing
sparking
Love.
Not Enough
trouble.
blessed
content
so much
my life
concept
bordering
foreign
think
general things
The time
when I was a child
home alone
the frige
empty
mayo and hot dog buns
honey
sandwich
Those times
when love wasn't enough
I had to leave
money issues
bad sex
a fling
have enough heart
drag things out
the poems
the music
lift
my feet
songs
caught
my throat
trapped
silence
Too Many Things
overwhelms
"too much"
my spirit
felt
need
move
the universe
be alone
my body
ALIVE
surviving
existing
SHOES
PANTS
FURNITURE
BOOKS
carry
purge
strong
unrequited
new job
school
burden
Fear
Scary
story
times
alone
a child
an adult
latch
key
lack
their presence
the idea
life
safe
supervision
The darkness
the path
the stories
my friends
children
taken
women
ruined
stray
bullets
A heart breaks
sleep comes with difficulty
misery loves company
she doesn't want to be alone
Change
worked
regular
corporate
sector
tone down
brightness
outshine
others
breed
animosity
Never
Budge
unmoving
REFUSE
myself
down
doing something
strictly
enjoyment
Calm down
Be quiet
curb
enthusiasm
blue sky
night
hides
arm
star loops
Milky Way
faerie guides
crosses
great divide
infinity.
inky
blanket
invisibility
downy
points of light
showing
weave
threads
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - Eight Short Poems (poems #14-21 for 30/30)
I was trying to do the instructions for a prompt but ended up writing eight short poems instead... I'll post the prompt and the personal notes in a separate entry.
1.
The Arizona Desert
Supple waves emanating upward
into the nostrils of living things
threaten to bake everyone from the inside.
There is death
in the way the sun shines
like a jagged knife
against the edge of the ground.
2.
When I Close My Eyes
Green light from the heart chakra
fills my lids with joy.
Flashing and sparking,
it reminds me of Love.
3.
The Not Enough
Gives me trouble.
I am blessed to be very content
with so much in my life
that the concept of "not enough"
is bordering on foreign to me.
I think of general things:
The time when I was a child home alone
and the frige was empty
but for mayo and hot dog buns
so I had a mayo and honey sandwich
(not sure why I added honey)
Those times when love wasn't enough
and I had to leave...
one because of money issues and bad sex...
one because it was only supposed to be a fling
and I didn't have enough heart to drag things out further...
More examples...
times when the poems wouldn't come...
when the music didn't lift my feet...
when songs were caught in my throat trapped in silence
4.
The Too Many Things
something that overwhelms like "too much"
too many THINGS...
my spirit felt the need
to take all the THINGS
and move them out into the universe
as though to be alone with just my body
was the only way to really learn to be ALIVE
and not just surviving and existing...
to many SHOES...
too many PANTS...
too much FURNITURE...
too many BOOKS to carry...
the need to purge was strong
And the things that overwhelm...
the unrequited love...
the new job...
school
These are the things that burden
5.
The First Fear
Scary things
The first scary thing
I must tell my story somehow.
The scariest times
were when I was alone
(as a child or an adult).
The latch and the key
the lack of their presence
the idea that life was safe
and did not need supervision
but I did
The darkness on the path
the stories my friends told
children taken
women ruined
stray bullets
A heart breaks
sleep comes with difficulty
misery loves company
because she doesn't want to be alone
this is the first fear.
6.
Change for Them
When I worked in the regular corporate sector,
I always felt like I had to tone down my brightness
because to outshine others was to breed animosity.
7.
Never Budge
I feel so unmoving about so many things.
I REFUSE to tone myself down
when I am doing something
strictly for my own enjoyment.
Don't tell me to "Calm down".
Don't say "Be Quiet".
I will not curb my enthusiasm
8.
Where does the blue sky go at night?
The blue sky hides
in the arm of the star loops
of Mother Milky Way.
It gives itself to the faerie guides
and crosses the great divide of infinity.
It covers itself in an inky blanket of invisibility
filled with downy points of light
showing through the weave of the threads.
1.
The Arizona Desert
Supple waves emanating upward
into the nostrils of living things
threaten to bake everyone from the inside.
There is death
in the way the sun shines
like a jagged knife
against the edge of the ground.
2.
When I Close My Eyes
Green light from the heart chakra
fills my lids with joy.
Flashing and sparking,
it reminds me of Love.
3.
The Not Enough
Gives me trouble.
I am blessed to be very content
with so much in my life
that the concept of "not enough"
is bordering on foreign to me.
I think of general things:
The time when I was a child home alone
and the frige was empty
but for mayo and hot dog buns
so I had a mayo and honey sandwich
(not sure why I added honey)
Those times when love wasn't enough
and I had to leave...
one because of money issues and bad sex...
one because it was only supposed to be a fling
and I didn't have enough heart to drag things out further...
More examples...
times when the poems wouldn't come...
when the music didn't lift my feet...
when songs were caught in my throat trapped in silence
4.
The Too Many Things
something that overwhelms like "too much"
too many THINGS...
my spirit felt the need
to take all the THINGS
and move them out into the universe
as though to be alone with just my body
was the only way to really learn to be ALIVE
and not just surviving and existing...
to many SHOES...
too many PANTS...
too much FURNITURE...
too many BOOKS to carry...
the need to purge was strong
And the things that overwhelm...
the unrequited love...
the new job...
school
These are the things that burden
5.
The First Fear
Scary things
The first scary thing
I must tell my story somehow.
The scariest times
were when I was alone
(as a child or an adult).
The latch and the key
the lack of their presence
the idea that life was safe
and did not need supervision
but I did
The darkness on the path
the stories my friends told
children taken
women ruined
stray bullets
A heart breaks
sleep comes with difficulty
misery loves company
because she doesn't want to be alone
this is the first fear.
6.
Change for Them
When I worked in the regular corporate sector,
I always felt like I had to tone down my brightness
because to outshine others was to breed animosity.
7.
Never Budge
I feel so unmoving about so many things.
I REFUSE to tone myself down
when I am doing something
strictly for my own enjoyment.
Don't tell me to "Calm down".
Don't say "Be Quiet".
I will not curb my enthusiasm
8.
Where does the blue sky go at night?
The blue sky hides
in the arm of the star loops
of Mother Milky Way.
It gives itself to the faerie guides
and crosses the great divide of infinity.
It covers itself in an inky blanket of invisibility
filled with downy points of light
showing through the weave of the threads.
Monday, April 13, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 13/30 - Grey Dwelling
Today's prompt is another one with a photo to go along with it. Yet again I wrote a poem that may not have really been along the prompt's guidelines but I suppose the point of a prompt is creation and if I asked Ms. McKibbens, she would probably say the poem writing is the point. Speaking of the poem writing, I would love to see what YOU come up with! Post in the comments or put a link to your blog entry! Happy writing!
~~~~~
Grey Dwelling
from a throat of doors
comes a call unknown
creaking floors,
clattering roof,
whistling windows
taken over
by spiders
and mice
small snakes
creepy things
a house found sleeping
in the density of existence
in the corner of place
in the space beside life
in the bed of now
wondering the words
to the common songs
happy birthday
auld lang syne
find waiting inside it
the stuffed rabbit
that wished it was velveteen
old habits
that died hard
a structure surviving
by eating
memories
lies
dreams
sorrow
it is named Mary or Shelley
or Bela Lugosi
the simplicity of appearances
the possibility of haunting
hiding its condemned hands
under its frame
~~~~~
From Rachel McKibben's blog:
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 18
I took this photo [click on it to enlarge] while adventuring with the fam deep, deep in Ohio. I love the sag and bow. The aching windows. How the corners are like a child's tippy toes, trying to reach the ground from grandpa's big chair.
What would you do if you saw this house in the supermarket? What would its voice be made of? What small and furious thing(s) have taken over? Where does this house sleep? What songs does it not remember? What forgotten things are waiting inside? What does it eat? Who would you name this house after, and why? Where does it hide its condemned hands?
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
I have to admit that whenever Rachel puts a bunch of questions in a prompt, I want to answer them all. The list of questions is a poem in itself, and each question nearly begs its own separate poem. What I posted above is almost not a poem really, but a list of things to build a poem with, but since I am feeling less than my poetic best lately, that is all that I could muster today. :-/ If I read the poem without the prompt in mind, it has a certain amount of merit I suppose. If I rewrite this (a rare occurrence, but it could happen), I will post a link as an update to this entry.
~~~~~
Grey Dwelling
from a throat of doors
comes a call unknown
creaking floors,
clattering roof,
whistling windows
taken over
by spiders
and mice
small snakes
creepy things
a house found sleeping
in the density of existence
in the corner of place
in the space beside life
in the bed of now
wondering the words
to the common songs
happy birthday
auld lang syne
find waiting inside it
the stuffed rabbit
that wished it was velveteen
old habits
that died hard
a structure surviving
by eating
memories
lies
dreams
sorrow
it is named Mary or Shelley
or Bela Lugosi
the simplicity of appearances
the possibility of haunting
hiding its condemned hands
under its frame
~~~~~
From Rachel McKibben's blog:
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 18
I took this photo [click on it to enlarge] while adventuring with the fam deep, deep in Ohio. I love the sag and bow. The aching windows. How the corners are like a child's tippy toes, trying to reach the ground from grandpa's big chair.
What would you do if you saw this house in the supermarket? What would its voice be made of? What small and furious thing(s) have taken over? Where does this house sleep? What songs does it not remember? What forgotten things are waiting inside? What does it eat? Who would you name this house after, and why? Where does it hide its condemned hands?
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
I have to admit that whenever Rachel puts a bunch of questions in a prompt, I want to answer them all. The list of questions is a poem in itself, and each question nearly begs its own separate poem. What I posted above is almost not a poem really, but a list of things to build a poem with, but since I am feeling less than my poetic best lately, that is all that I could muster today. :-/ If I read the poem without the prompt in mind, it has a certain amount of merit I suppose. If I rewrite this (a rare occurrence, but it could happen), I will post a link as an update to this entry.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 12/30 - Alive Inside
Another day in National Poetry Month, another post from a prompt by Rachel McKibbens. In case you hadn't guessed, I am a big fan of her poetry so I really like to do the prompts she came up with over the years. I hope you are attempting these prompts whether you post them or not. If you do want to share them, put it in the comments or post a link to your blog. Happy NaPoWriMo!
~~~~~
Alive Inside
The broken bricks of her stare
took space in omniverses outside
blistered bones beneath a tired surface.
Life as defined by beat and breath
continued.
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #17
Today's ghost line is:
Wall me up alive in my own body.
_ _ _ _ _
(This ghost line is from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing")
~~~~~
My personal note on the process... aka "the back story"...
I've done ghost line poems before... but somehow this one gave me trouble. I did notes on the idea... Wall me up alive in my own body... skin/scales/bricks... trapped/secured/safer?... hiding/hidden... voluntary? The imagery was in my head but would not come out as poetry per se. I turned off my usual soundtrack in an attempt to find the "her" that this poem is about... somehow it had to be a "her"... a woman inside of herself, aware of the world, but not interactive with it... I tried to read the original poem the ghost line came from. An excellent poem but not really the point of the prompt... and so... how to BEGIN???
What is her story? Rapunzel comes to mind. Trite, I know, but there it was. I didn't like the Rapunzel idea so I didn't go with it. I ended up with just the short stanza posted here. I would love to expand on this thought, but if my years of poetry writing is any indication, I will leave it as is indefinitely.
~~~~~
Alive Inside
The broken bricks of her stare
took space in omniverses outside
blistered bones beneath a tired surface.
Life as defined by beat and breath
continued.
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #17
Today's ghost line is:
Wall me up alive in my own body.
_ _ _ _ _
(This ghost line is from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing")
~~~~~
My personal note on the process... aka "the back story"...
I've done ghost line poems before... but somehow this one gave me trouble. I did notes on the idea... Wall me up alive in my own body... skin/scales/bricks... trapped/secured/safer?... hiding/hidden... voluntary? The imagery was in my head but would not come out as poetry per se. I turned off my usual soundtrack in an attempt to find the "her" that this poem is about... somehow it had to be a "her"... a woman inside of herself, aware of the world, but not interactive with it... I tried to read the original poem the ghost line came from. An excellent poem but not really the point of the prompt... and so... how to BEGIN???
What is her story? Rapunzel comes to mind. Trite, I know, but there it was. I didn't like the Rapunzel idea so I didn't go with it. I ended up with just the short stanza posted here. I would love to expand on this thought, but if my years of poetry writing is any indication, I will leave it as is indefinitely.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 11/30 - Spirit of the Hare
This is another one that I don't think I did what the prompt asked for but I still like the poem that came from it.
~~~~~
Spirit of the Hare
Gentle are the days
when the lion-lamb
gives way to showers.
The bounty prevails
from the woods to the desert.
Easter held no joy
for Peter Cotton Tail
that year
when he was found abandoned
in sight of the bold sky,
the bubbly clouds, and
the laughing sun.
Mother gave kindness
to all living things,
healed the wounded
and took in the motherless.
There was hope in his new home,
a chance to survive
and begin again.
Daughter was small
blessed in youth
curious of all things.
Beautiful bunny was
reflected in brown
shining eyes of wonder.
She held him that night
with the love of a child
given to sincere exaggeration
of affection.
She held him that night
with the best dreams
until his fear broke free
escaped her embrace and
was lost in the darkness.
Fear broke the neck of hope
and crushed the possibility of more.
Daughter took Cotton Tail,
held a small ceremony
praying to a God she knew not
for the peace of his soul
and forgiveness
for her part in his demise.
Lies can hide
even in the throats of small girls,
flying out as a murder of crows,
an unkindness of ravens,
a clamor of rooks.
These birds flew recklessly
to Mother's ears.
Hidden beneath the refuse,
Mother's eyes still saw through the untruth,
the hiding of the act,
the supression of guilt.
Spoken to in hushed whispers
by the spirit of the unfortunate hare.
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #16
Ingredients:
1. what you stole
2. what you should not have let him/her take
3. what you want back
__________________
Write an apology list poem. To everyone. One per line. DO NOT list who the apology belongs to. If you broke mom's favorite picture frame, write "broken picture frame." then let that image graduate into something else, like, "cracked third grade smile." If you stole someone's car, let that graduate into, "the missing engine." see?!?!? that's IT. None of these have to be real. Except for the things you listed in #1 & 2. When referencing #2, of course, it is an apology to yourself. The importance here is in the specific details. And in keeping each apology as private as possible. And in never actually writing the word "sorry" or "apology." After all that, figure out a way to squeeze some of the lines into a poem about what you wrote for #3.
- - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by my obsession with creating new lists to mine from.)
~~~~~
My personal note on the process...
This time I read the whole instructions before writing the ingredients. Not that it really changed how I end up writing but usually I do the ingredients before reading the actual instructions.
Ingredients:
1. what you stole
- his heart
- her words
- their plans
2. what you should not have let him/her take
- my heart
- my words
- my plans
3. what you want back
- my heart
- my words
- my plans
The above is what came to me naturally, but I don't feel like it really fits the spirit of the prompt... seems like it should be more specific. Hmmm... I couldn't really think of anything really important that I stole. Trinkets here and there from entities rather than individuals long long ago.
Thought about the instructions where it talked about breaking a picture and that reminded me of when I was 5 or 6 and my mother rescued and abandoned baby jack rabbit from the desert near our house and I took it to bed with me and it got away and I found it the next morning dead under my bed. I buried it in the corral under a pile of wood. When my mom asked me about it, I lied and said I had no idea how the little rabbit got out of the big box in the living room and suggested maybe one of the cats got in during the night and ate the bunny. I think that was my very first bold faced lie directly to my mother's face. THAT could be something to write about. So "dead rabbit" would become "spirit of the hare" or "angel bunny" or something like that...? I think.
Then I looked at the instructions about this being an apology poem. Who would I apologize to really? There are so many small infractions on a nearly daily basis, but what LINGERS? Drawing a blank. Writer's block SUCKS. Seriously.
SO... decided on "Spirit of the Hare" which means I am on an unintended "bunny" theme between this and the last poem! I also decided to narrate this as being separate from my 5 year old self who is now young "she" instead of myself.
The end result was not exactly as instructed but I like the poem.
~~~~~
Spirit of the Hare
Gentle are the days
when the lion-lamb
gives way to showers.
The bounty prevails
from the woods to the desert.
Easter held no joy
for Peter Cotton Tail
that year
when he was found abandoned
in sight of the bold sky,
the bubbly clouds, and
the laughing sun.
Mother gave kindness
to all living things,
healed the wounded
and took in the motherless.
There was hope in his new home,
a chance to survive
and begin again.
Daughter was small
blessed in youth
curious of all things.
Beautiful bunny was
reflected in brown
shining eyes of wonder.
She held him that night
with the love of a child
given to sincere exaggeration
of affection.
She held him that night
with the best dreams
until his fear broke free
escaped her embrace and
was lost in the darkness.
Fear broke the neck of hope
and crushed the possibility of more.
Daughter took Cotton Tail,
held a small ceremony
praying to a God she knew not
for the peace of his soul
and forgiveness
for her part in his demise.
Lies can hide
even in the throats of small girls,
flying out as a murder of crows,
an unkindness of ravens,
a clamor of rooks.
These birds flew recklessly
to Mother's ears.
Hidden beneath the refuse,
Mother's eyes still saw through the untruth,
the hiding of the act,
the supression of guilt.
Spoken to in hushed whispers
by the spirit of the unfortunate hare.
 |
| a detail from the painting The Vision of Saint Eustace by Pisanello. |
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #16
Ingredients:
1. what you stole
2. what you should not have let him/her take
3. what you want back
__________________
Write an apology list poem. To everyone. One per line. DO NOT list who the apology belongs to. If you broke mom's favorite picture frame, write "broken picture frame." then let that image graduate into something else, like, "cracked third grade smile." If you stole someone's car, let that graduate into, "the missing engine." see?!?!? that's IT. None of these have to be real. Except for the things you listed in #1 & 2. When referencing #2, of course, it is an apology to yourself. The importance here is in the specific details. And in keeping each apology as private as possible. And in never actually writing the word "sorry" or "apology." After all that, figure out a way to squeeze some of the lines into a poem about what you wrote for #3.
- - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by my obsession with creating new lists to mine from.)
~~~~~
My personal note on the process...
This time I read the whole instructions before writing the ingredients. Not that it really changed how I end up writing but usually I do the ingredients before reading the actual instructions.
Ingredients:
1. what you stole
- his heart
- her words
- their plans
2. what you should not have let him/her take
- my heart
- my words
- my plans
3. what you want back
- my heart
- my words
- my plans
The above is what came to me naturally, but I don't feel like it really fits the spirit of the prompt... seems like it should be more specific. Hmmm... I couldn't really think of anything really important that I stole. Trinkets here and there from entities rather than individuals long long ago.
Thought about the instructions where it talked about breaking a picture and that reminded me of when I was 5 or 6 and my mother rescued and abandoned baby jack rabbit from the desert near our house and I took it to bed with me and it got away and I found it the next morning dead under my bed. I buried it in the corral under a pile of wood. When my mom asked me about it, I lied and said I had no idea how the little rabbit got out of the big box in the living room and suggested maybe one of the cats got in during the night and ate the bunny. I think that was my very first bold faced lie directly to my mother's face. THAT could be something to write about. So "dead rabbit" would become "spirit of the hare" or "angel bunny" or something like that...? I think.
Then I looked at the instructions about this being an apology poem. Who would I apologize to really? There are so many small infractions on a nearly daily basis, but what LINGERS? Drawing a blank. Writer's block SUCKS. Seriously.
SO... decided on "Spirit of the Hare" which means I am on an unintended "bunny" theme between this and the last poem! I also decided to narrate this as being separate from my 5 year old self who is now young "she" instead of myself.
The end result was not exactly as instructed but I like the poem.
Friday, April 10, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 10/30 - Wild Warren in the Woods by the Road
This prompt was yet another challenge for me. I decided to be light hearted in the end. I didn't do the prompt exactly but I did get a poem out of it. I hope you do this prompt! I would love to see what you come up with serious or funny or what. Please share your poem in the comments or post a link to your blog entry. Happy poeming!
~~~~~
Wild Warren in the Woods by the Road
(or What the Rabbits Saw)
Spring is our time
Gathering our brood beside us
We were witness to near atrocity
The clouds
floating softly in light breeze
through bright blue sky
did not give hint to the events to come.
Giant metal monsters
hold our harshest fears
rolled up in their tires
snarling across their grills.
Then it happened
The raging screech of near intervention
struck our cousin down,
stunned him into near unconsciousness!
Sunlit green leaves
chattered among themselves,
overseeing the scene of the crime.
The arrogant ones ride.
They step to the street,
lumber over to our dear cousin
as he lay.
BUT LOOK!
Our fallen cousin is risen!
He rose up to strike
and that was our call.
Generations of us
march hopped to his side,
buck teeth baring our animosity.
We are one!
Solidarity of Rodentia!
Brothers and cousins attack!
Let the arrogant upright know our wrath!
And this
is how we small
showed our power
our strength in numbers.
Don't mess with the Rodents.
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #15
Ingredients:
1. a bad day
2. an act that requires deep concentration
3. a small space
First off, don't choose a day that has the potential to ruin this day. Cool? Cool. Now that we have that all cleared up:
write a poem or story in third person. You don't get to be "I" in your worst day story. You have to be He or She or the man or the woman or the girl or the boy or the invisible dog.
Describe the atmosphere of the worst day (#1). What fruits weren't in season? What song was caught in your hair? What animal was in the road? What word was painted on the butcher's wrists? What stepped off of the train? Which one of your teeth snuck away? If you don't remember, that's even better. MAKE IT UP. If you do remember! Lie! Perfect.
Narrate yourself through this day. What was your heart doing to avoid all of this (#2). Narrate the importance of its ignorance. Finally, pick something or someone (real or not real) that was waiting for you when you got home. Where, exactly, was it? (#3) Oh, and don't tell what the thing was doing there. This should be left between the thing and the reader.
- - - - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by A Series of Unfortunate Events.)
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
Ingredients:
1. a bad day
- ??? (see notes below)
2. an act that requires deep concentration
- intricate needlepoint
3. a small space
- kitchen drawer
Ingredient number one was a bit of a stretch for me. I've had bed days, but I tend to just move on from most things. Denial? Possibly, but the truth is that I find it hard to take my mind back to a "worst day"... but I tried for this prompt. I tried to remember the times that I wanted to just fall into a hole not to be seen or cried until I nearly puked.
I didn't want to pick my ACTUAL worst day. I have enough poems about THAT. The times I've cried until I nearly puked were usually because of a boy when I was younger (teens and twenties) and that just annoys me now so not sure if I wanted to write about that mess. So I read some of the things posted to the link in the prompt. Most of them were humorous like that is a rule of FML or something. I thought about writing a poem as an observer of one of the posts to FML... hmmmm. The starting of the poem is sometimes the hardest part.
I saw a link on FML for the best of the worst and there was this morbidly odd yet mildly humorous thing:
Prince drives 4 U
Today, while carpooling with a Coworker to our office, he began to rant on about how my underwear are always purple. I block him out until I hit a lady crossing the street, who just so happened to be wearing purple underwear. FML
and there was this one:
Warren
Today, as I was driving this morning I ran over a squirrel and as I stop to see if it was going to be ok, it got back up and started to attack me, now I have rabbits. FML
Then there was the link to where the person who posts does follow up comments. A few gems there like this horrible one:
Today, after getting a pay raise at work after 15 years and pulling a loan for a new house, I went back to work from a two-week paid vacation to find out that I had been fired two weeks ago for "no call, no show". My manager claims he doesn't recall ever signing a paper for my paid vacation. FML
I kept a copy but my boss claims it is not his signature that someone forged it. To make it worse, he claims he has never seen my face at work. This is beyond FML
-- OUCH! :-/
I decided to be more light hearted with it and chose the one who had "rabbits" for the poem of his worst day as told from the rabbits' perspective.
Voila! Another poem is born! :-)
I did forget to add ingredients two and three though! OOPS!
~~~~~
Wild Warren in the Woods by the Road
(or What the Rabbits Saw)
Spring is our time
Gathering our brood beside us
We were witness to near atrocity
The clouds
floating softly in light breeze
through bright blue sky
did not give hint to the events to come.
Giant metal monsters
hold our harshest fears
rolled up in their tires
snarling across their grills.
Then it happened
The raging screech of near intervention
struck our cousin down,
stunned him into near unconsciousness!
Sunlit green leaves
chattered among themselves,
overseeing the scene of the crime.
The arrogant ones ride.
They step to the street,
lumber over to our dear cousin
as he lay.
BUT LOOK!
Our fallen cousin is risen!
He rose up to strike
and that was our call.
Generations of us
march hopped to his side,
buck teeth baring our animosity.
We are one!
Solidarity of Rodentia!
Brothers and cousins attack!
Let the arrogant upright know our wrath!
And this
is how we small
showed our power
our strength in numbers.
Don't mess with the Rodents.
~~~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #15
Ingredients:
1. a bad day
2. an act that requires deep concentration
3. a small space
First off, don't choose a day that has the potential to ruin this day. Cool? Cool. Now that we have that all cleared up:
write a poem or story in third person. You don't get to be "I" in your worst day story. You have to be He or She or the man or the woman or the girl or the boy or the invisible dog.
Describe the atmosphere of the worst day (#1). What fruits weren't in season? What song was caught in your hair? What animal was in the road? What word was painted on the butcher's wrists? What stepped off of the train? Which one of your teeth snuck away? If you don't remember, that's even better. MAKE IT UP. If you do remember! Lie! Perfect.
Narrate yourself through this day. What was your heart doing to avoid all of this (#2). Narrate the importance of its ignorance. Finally, pick something or someone (real or not real) that was waiting for you when you got home. Where, exactly, was it? (#3) Oh, and don't tell what the thing was doing there. This should be left between the thing and the reader.
- - - - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by A Series of Unfortunate Events.)
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
Ingredients:
1. a bad day
- ??? (see notes below)
2. an act that requires deep concentration
- intricate needlepoint
3. a small space
- kitchen drawer
Ingredient number one was a bit of a stretch for me. I've had bed days, but I tend to just move on from most things. Denial? Possibly, but the truth is that I find it hard to take my mind back to a "worst day"... but I tried for this prompt. I tried to remember the times that I wanted to just fall into a hole not to be seen or cried until I nearly puked.
I didn't want to pick my ACTUAL worst day. I have enough poems about THAT. The times I've cried until I nearly puked were usually because of a boy when I was younger (teens and twenties) and that just annoys me now so not sure if I wanted to write about that mess. So I read some of the things posted to the link in the prompt. Most of them were humorous like that is a rule of FML or something. I thought about writing a poem as an observer of one of the posts to FML... hmmmm. The starting of the poem is sometimes the hardest part.
I saw a link on FML for the best of the worst and there was this morbidly odd yet mildly humorous thing:
Prince drives 4 U
Today, while carpooling with a Coworker to our office, he began to rant on about how my underwear are always purple. I block him out until I hit a lady crossing the street, who just so happened to be wearing purple underwear. FML
and there was this one:
Warren
Today, as I was driving this morning I ran over a squirrel and as I stop to see if it was going to be ok, it got back up and started to attack me, now I have rabbits. FML
Then there was the link to where the person who posts does follow up comments. A few gems there like this horrible one:
Today, after getting a pay raise at work after 15 years and pulling a loan for a new house, I went back to work from a two-week paid vacation to find out that I had been fired two weeks ago for "no call, no show". My manager claims he doesn't recall ever signing a paper for my paid vacation. FML
I kept a copy but my boss claims it is not his signature that someone forged it. To make it worse, he claims he has never seen my face at work. This is beyond FML
-- OUCH! :-/
I decided to be more light hearted with it and chose the one who had "rabbits" for the poem of his worst day as told from the rabbits' perspective.
Voila! Another poem is born! :-)
I did forget to add ingredients two and three though! OOPS!
Thursday, April 9, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 9/30 - Secrets of the Birthing Machines
I have to admit that I love the challenge of doing prompts in general but especially these prompts from Rachel McKibbens.
~~~~~
Secrets of the Birthing Machines
Do you remember the day you were born?
We do. Charged with your care, we did our duty:
Our job to care for small humans not able to care for themselves
when the others are not there to see.
--
I remember.
I recall the shock of emergence.
Stories of generations came from the spilled blood.*
All the mothers of my family since the beginning of time back to Eve
wrote their tales into my genes.
A lover's name came riding out on my first gasp for life.*
This premonition of perfection held no clues
yet I held on to it all my days.
Mama's breath was perfect on my scalp
The soft kisses she gave me told me the purest truth and
her embrace was the only home I needed.
Why wouldn't I cry when glove-handed nurses
separated me from the only place I knew?
--
Do you remember your time with us?
We were always with you.
When you slept and all the others were away
folded into chairs in the corner,
evaporated through vents in the ceiling,
turned to rolled wheels
and painted stripes on the highway,
we were there.
--
I remember.
You kept me company in the dust of midnights
until they returned me to Mama's comfort
and the soothing warm milk from her heart.
I borrowed her face and voice as mirror and echo.
Her hands held all the things I could not yet grasp.
--
Do you remember what we shared with you?
Life is electric.
The beep/beat is how you know you're alive.
Sometimes the things that help you live are cold.
--
I remember.
Papa held me as if I might not come back.
Even though he knew that I was not the one who would leave.
He would be the one to become a faded Polaroid
in the back of a dusty forgotten album.
Although I am light years and millennia away,
I still feel the things from born day.
These are the foundation for my mind
and all the things since and to come.
~~~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
THURSDAY, JUNE 18, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #14
Remember the day you were born? Which person in that room did you trust? Which person had the coldest hands? What secrets did the machines pass to you? Who held you as if you might not come back? What lover's name came riding out on your first breath? Where did everyone go when you slept? What soothed your hunger? What stories came from the spilled blood? Whose face/voice/legs/eyes did you borrow before you learned your own?
- - - -
(With love and great thanks to the remarkably phenomenal heart and eye of Diane Arbus.)
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
The instructions didn't have "ingredients" this time, just a lot of questions about how to describe the day I (the writer) was born. The one that jumped out at me was "What secrets did the machines pass to you?" These are the things that came to me:
- Life is electric
- The beep beat is how you know you're alive <<< This one makes me want to do a poem about how to know your alive or the things that make me feel alive or something like that.
- sometimes the things that help you live are cold
The whole list of questions could have each been a single prompt really. The next question that stuck out at me was "What lover's name came riding out on your first breath?" The very idea was intriguing to me. It reminded me somewhat of how I once imagined what if I travelled back in time and was there the day my first lover was born when I was six years old (surprisingly, I never wrote a poem about that thought). This is not the same as what the prompt question asks though. I don't know how I would express the answer to this question even though I really like the idea of it.
The next question that piqued my interest was "What stories came from the spilled blood?" My mind immediately had the image of a middle ages birth on a kitchen table with the blood splashing out onto the floor as the baby was released from her gestation home. This also reminded me of things I thought years ago. I had a vision once of the memory my blood has in my X chromosomes like a computer drive constantly gathering information (and wrote a poem about it that I now can't find). In the vision, I read the story of my mothers going backwards in time through the generations all the way to the house of David about 2000 years ago. Since I can't find the original poem, I thought I would try to put a bit of this idea in this new poem.
Rachel didn't post an example for this prompt. I know that I don't write in the same style as her and my imagery is much softer (for lack of a better word), but I like to see what she does and how she expresses the idea of the prompt. Ah well, I'm on my own this time.
So... I took the idea of the secrets from the machines as my theme and basically decided to have the machines narrate the poem and go through and answer the questions. I decided to alternate and have the born (me) tell parts of the story too. I copy/pasted the questions in a notepad and wrote a stanza from each of them. Found as I went that it was harder to answer the questions from the machines' point of view than I thought. So I wrote it like a conversation between me and the machines.
I started just answering the questions in the order that they were in the prompt but then realized that "What stories came from the spilled blood?" and "What lover's name came riding out on your first breath?" should probably be in the beginning of the poem. Then came the part where I had to find a way to END the thing. GAH! The hardest part sometimes. I think I did OK after a bit more shuffling of sections.
Voila! Another poem is born.
~~~~~
Secrets of the Birthing Machines
Do you remember the day you were born?
We do. Charged with your care, we did our duty:
Our job to care for small humans not able to care for themselves
when the others are not there to see.
--
I remember.
I recall the shock of emergence.
Stories of generations came from the spilled blood.*
All the mothers of my family since the beginning of time back to Eve
wrote their tales into my genes.
A lover's name came riding out on my first gasp for life.*
This premonition of perfection held no clues
yet I held on to it all my days.
Mama's breath was perfect on my scalp
The soft kisses she gave me told me the purest truth and
her embrace was the only home I needed.
Why wouldn't I cry when glove-handed nurses
separated me from the only place I knew?
--
Do you remember your time with us?
We were always with you.
When you slept and all the others were away
folded into chairs in the corner,
evaporated through vents in the ceiling,
turned to rolled wheels
and painted stripes on the highway,
we were there.
--
I remember.
You kept me company in the dust of midnights
until they returned me to Mama's comfort
and the soothing warm milk from her heart.
I borrowed her face and voice as mirror and echo.
Her hands held all the things I could not yet grasp.
--
Do you remember what we shared with you?
Life is electric.
The beep/beat is how you know you're alive.
Sometimes the things that help you live are cold.
--
I remember.
Papa held me as if I might not come back.
Even though he knew that I was not the one who would leave.
He would be the one to become a faded Polaroid
in the back of a dusty forgotten album.
Although I am light years and millennia away,
I still feel the things from born day.
These are the foundation for my mind
and all the things since and to come.
~~~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
THURSDAY, JUNE 18, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #14
Remember the day you were born? Which person in that room did you trust? Which person had the coldest hands? What secrets did the machines pass to you? Who held you as if you might not come back? What lover's name came riding out on your first breath? Where did everyone go when you slept? What soothed your hunger? What stories came from the spilled blood? Whose face/voice/legs/eyes did you borrow before you learned your own?
- - - -
(With love and great thanks to the remarkably phenomenal heart and eye of Diane Arbus.)
~~~~~
Personal note on the process...
The instructions didn't have "ingredients" this time, just a lot of questions about how to describe the day I (the writer) was born. The one that jumped out at me was "What secrets did the machines pass to you?" These are the things that came to me:
- Life is electric
- The beep beat is how you know you're alive <<< This one makes me want to do a poem about how to know your alive or the things that make me feel alive or something like that.
- sometimes the things that help you live are cold
The whole list of questions could have each been a single prompt really. The next question that stuck out at me was "What lover's name came riding out on your first breath?" The very idea was intriguing to me. It reminded me somewhat of how I once imagined what if I travelled back in time and was there the day my first lover was born when I was six years old (surprisingly, I never wrote a poem about that thought). This is not the same as what the prompt question asks though. I don't know how I would express the answer to this question even though I really like the idea of it.
The next question that piqued my interest was "What stories came from the spilled blood?" My mind immediately had the image of a middle ages birth on a kitchen table with the blood splashing out onto the floor as the baby was released from her gestation home. This also reminded me of things I thought years ago. I had a vision once of the memory my blood has in my X chromosomes like a computer drive constantly gathering information (and wrote a poem about it that I now can't find). In the vision, I read the story of my mothers going backwards in time through the generations all the way to the house of David about 2000 years ago. Since I can't find the original poem, I thought I would try to put a bit of this idea in this new poem.
Rachel didn't post an example for this prompt. I know that I don't write in the same style as her and my imagery is much softer (for lack of a better word), but I like to see what she does and how she expresses the idea of the prompt. Ah well, I'm on my own this time.
So... I took the idea of the secrets from the machines as my theme and basically decided to have the machines narrate the poem and go through and answer the questions. I decided to alternate and have the born (me) tell parts of the story too. I copy/pasted the questions in a notepad and wrote a stanza from each of them. Found as I went that it was harder to answer the questions from the machines' point of view than I thought. So I wrote it like a conversation between me and the machines.
I started just answering the questions in the order that they were in the prompt but then realized that "What stories came from the spilled blood?" and "What lover's name came riding out on your first breath?" should probably be in the beginning of the poem. Then came the part where I had to find a way to END the thing. GAH! The hardest part sometimes. I think I did OK after a bit more shuffling of sections.
Voila! Another poem is born.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 8/30 - Watching from the Other Side
I have done a ghost line poem before but sadly I can't find it so I used the ghost line given in this prompt to build the new poem. I'd love to see what you come up with, post in the comments or post a link to your blog entry. Happy National Poetry Month!
~~~
Watching from the Other Side
Things have never been better than this
Heaving in slow purposeful breaths in dreaming
Every moment is rest and ecstasy
Resting on laurels yet earned
Each accolade whispered into the necklace's home
Is there a reason to this contemplation
Searching the backs of eyes for more
A day is an eternity
While we watch she sits quietly
Inside her thoughts with only she knows who
Needing to feel what she feels
Getting closer to the finish
Everyone watches
Donning the cap of voyeur
Woman in pleasure is beauty
Ohm or Oh are so close together
My imagination demands her story
Another life, another time
Never taking flight though obviously free
Kneeling at the edges
Next is the divine
Each is divine
Each is sin
Living here where the walls meet
Inclined to the sky
No one can take it away
God is in the details
In case we thought we mattered
Names have been erased from the stairs to heaven
The silent vigil continues
Hex and incantations imagined
Etherial and supernatural
Cunning linguists think they can break her code
Or at least get closer than any other
Running mouth marathons
Needle and thread in small strokes
Each is simple and only good enough
Reaching a summit of everything
Our minds come up with our own ideas
Fornicating softly in her heartbeats
This is nothing and all
Help us to understand, Sweet Vision
Each of us is grand in our own mind
Rich men have tried to buy her
Others tried flattery
Only she knows the key
Many have tried to get it from her
~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
MONDAY, JUNE 15, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #12
Let's use a "ghost line," shall we?
"There is a winged-woman kneeling in the corner of the room."
________________________
The Patient
Her face is a jittery hare torn out of its fur.
The bottom of her dress is pinned beneath
one of the machines, but she does not seem to care.
We sit in the blue room together. The news anchor
is done up in lipstick and crime as the roses are dying of thirst.
There is a baby screaming down the hall,
and my old body hears her.
My breasts sulk in the trash can, shriveled
like tongues.
- - -
(From an image by the artist, Snik.) <-- color="#999999" font="">The link in the original post no longer had an image so I linked to a different article with the winged woman shown above. The artist also has a facebook page if you're interested)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
As if the prompt image itself wasn't a challenge enough, I considered doing an acrostic using the ghost line! First though I looked at the image... I also looked up instrumetal tracks online using "winged woman instrumental" and the two most promising were Stevie Nicks "Edge of Seventeen" (Just like the white winged dove) and a Celtic mix... I prefer to use music that I am not familiar with so I started with the Celtic mix. but it didn't suite the obviously urban American image... so... to Stevie Nicks. Still no... so... just tried to see the story in the image without reading Rachel's example (which usually throws me off because our styles are so different and she is so much more edgy than I am).
What I saw:
the ecstasy
elegance
sensuality
dark feathers
cleavage
dreaming?
It still wasn't forming into a (good) poem for me yet so I gave in and read Rachel's example. She included the cleavage in her own hyper imagery way. Back to the thought palace to find out where this "angel" lives and how... back to the acrostic idea. Something about having a letter to start with seems to help. Then the poem was finally born!
~~~
Watching from the Other Side
Things have never been better than this
Heaving in slow purposeful breaths in dreaming
Every moment is rest and ecstasy
Resting on laurels yet earned
Each accolade whispered into the necklace's home
Is there a reason to this contemplation
Searching the backs of eyes for more
A day is an eternity
While we watch she sits quietly
Inside her thoughts with only she knows who
Needing to feel what she feels
Getting closer to the finish
Everyone watches
Donning the cap of voyeur
Woman in pleasure is beauty
Ohm or Oh are so close together
My imagination demands her story
Another life, another time
Never taking flight though obviously free
Kneeling at the edges
Next is the divine
Each is divine
Each is sin
Living here where the walls meet
Inclined to the sky
No one can take it away
God is in the details
In case we thought we mattered
Names have been erased from the stairs to heaven
The silent vigil continues
Hex and incantations imagined
Etherial and supernatural
Cunning linguists think they can break her code
Or at least get closer than any other
Running mouth marathons
Needle and thread in small strokes
Each is simple and only good enough
Reaching a summit of everything
Our minds come up with our own ideas
Fornicating softly in her heartbeats
This is nothing and all
Help us to understand, Sweet Vision
Each of us is grand in our own mind
Rich men have tried to buy her
Others tried flattery
Only she knows the key
Many have tried to get it from her
~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
MONDAY, JUNE 15, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE #12
Let's use a "ghost line," shall we?
"There is a winged-woman kneeling in the corner of the room."
________________________
The Patient
Her face is a jittery hare torn out of its fur.
The bottom of her dress is pinned beneath
one of the machines, but she does not seem to care.
We sit in the blue room together. The news anchor
is done up in lipstick and crime as the roses are dying of thirst.
There is a baby screaming down the hall,
and my old body hears her.
My breasts sulk in the trash can, shriveled
like tongues.
- - -
(From an image by the artist, Snik.) <-- color="#999999" font="">The link in the original post no longer had an image so I linked to a different article with the winged woman shown above. The artist also has a facebook page if you're interested)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
As if the prompt image itself wasn't a challenge enough, I considered doing an acrostic using the ghost line! First though I looked at the image... I also looked up instrumetal tracks online using "winged woman instrumental" and the two most promising were Stevie Nicks "Edge of Seventeen" (Just like the white winged dove) and a Celtic mix... I prefer to use music that I am not familiar with so I started with the Celtic mix. but it didn't suite the obviously urban American image... so... to Stevie Nicks. Still no... so... just tried to see the story in the image without reading Rachel's example (which usually throws me off because our styles are so different and she is so much more edgy than I am).
What I saw:
the ecstasy
elegance
sensuality
dark feathers
cleavage
dreaming?
It still wasn't forming into a (good) poem for me yet so I gave in and read Rachel's example. She included the cleavage in her own hyper imagery way. Back to the thought palace to find out where this "angel" lives and how... back to the acrostic idea. Something about having a letter to start with seems to help. Then the poem was finally born!
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 7/30 - Far, Far Away
I have to say that unlike when I was still fresh in my nearly daily poetry writing, writing from these Rachel McKibbens prompts is more than challenging. Before they seemed to bring out a part of my poetry that I was unable to reach alone. Now that I am really only writing in April for the past three years, it is a totally different experience. A good experience, just a bit daunting as I look at these at first.
The prompt and my process are after the poem. I would love to see what you make of the prompt so please post your poem in the comments or post a link to your blog entry. Write on!
~~~
Far, Far Away
an ancient constellation opened her palm and released a star
who drew graffiti in american english on jogging steel with the tip of a whip
he learned the voice of time in the middle of an aged cheddar
throwing stones from his glass house with his zircon arm
it's a fine line for the brave and the foolhardy
his shooting meteorite heart gave three times a charm flocking to the most beautiful name
prior seeds sown in fertile fields fathered from a distance
there is no recrossing the split oceans on his one-way flight
so the gray of his beard passed on looking across at the things that never were
~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 11
Write a bio in verse for someone. You don't have to know them personally. Include:
1. An act lifted from a fairy tale, myth, or bible/fable
2. Something you only assume of the person (but state it as fact)
3. What a part of their body is made of (preferably not humanly possible)
____________________
The cradle fell and out he spilled.
He was the fourth of five sons.
His mouth was a gun tornado.
His first kiss was a lonesome man.
He went to school in a small town where a bottle of gin was elected mayor.
The love of his life had twelve toes and sang like an arsonist.
He married her and had two brilliant mistakes.
He worked in a high heel factory until his hair turned white.
He died in the arms of an unsent love letter.
- - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by Gerald Stern's "Pennsylvania Bio," from Last Blue)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
The first instructionwas that it was a bio in verse of someone... so technically #1 should be the who... So who should I write a poem about... hmmmmmmm... tempted to write a poem about the singer whose song I've had on repeat all day but then I would want to send it to him and that would just be awkward so... who? I decided to do a famous person and there is actually a random celebrity generator online! (https://www.randomlists.com/random-celebrities). It gave a few and I decided on Harrison Ford or Han Solo (who after all these years is still the first character of his that pops into my head).
Then, the "ingredients" from the prompt
1. An act lifted from a fairy tale, myth, or bible/fable
parting the red sea
2. Something you only assume of the person (but state it as fact)
(Thinking of Mr Ford here) brave?
3. What a part of their body is made of (preferably not humanly possible)
Zircon (random generated by http://www.rdinn.com/gem_generator.php because I wanted a gemstone body part) Nipple (randomly generated by http://www.generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=251)<-- ...which="" 2nd="" arm="" choice:="" ford="" go="" harrison="" i="" inapproriate="" is="" it="" lol="" man="" me="" of="" one-armed="" one="" p="" related.="" reminded="" since="" so="" sort="" the="" think="" this="" will="" with="">
I love/hate when Rachel puts an example. The hate part is because her writing is so harshly original. I feel shoddy and trite in comparison and nothing in my head feels like poetry anymore. *sigh*
Back to my poem... BIO... born, grew up, life events (accomplishments, school, marriage, kids), death... pretending this is a postumous historical reference of Mr Ford as his most famous characters (the president, han solo, the fugitive, indiana jones, etc) done by someone who only had the films as a reference... I think...
The preliminary poem skeleton looked like this:
born,
grew up,
school,
marriage,
kids,
best known for,
death
Wrote the poem and then realized it had NONE of the listed items! So...
The prompt and my process are after the poem. I would love to see what you make of the prompt so please post your poem in the comments or post a link to your blog entry. Write on!
~~~
Far, Far Away
an ancient constellation opened her palm and released a star
who drew graffiti in american english on jogging steel with the tip of a whip
he learned the voice of time in the middle of an aged cheddar
throwing stones from his glass house with his zircon arm
it's a fine line for the brave and the foolhardy
his shooting meteorite heart gave three times a charm flocking to the most beautiful name
prior seeds sown in fertile fields fathered from a distance
there is no recrossing the split oceans on his one-way flight
so the gray of his beard passed on looking across at the things that never were
~~~
From Rachel's blog:
WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 11
Write a bio in verse for someone. You don't have to know them personally. Include:
1. An act lifted from a fairy tale, myth, or bible/fable
2. Something you only assume of the person (but state it as fact)
3. What a part of their body is made of (preferably not humanly possible)
____________________
The cradle fell and out he spilled.
He was the fourth of five sons.
His mouth was a gun tornado.
His first kiss was a lonesome man.
He went to school in a small town where a bottle of gin was elected mayor.
The love of his life had twelve toes and sang like an arsonist.
He married her and had two brilliant mistakes.
He worked in a high heel factory until his hair turned white.
He died in the arms of an unsent love letter.
- - - - -
(This exercise was inspired by Gerald Stern's "Pennsylvania Bio," from Last Blue)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
The first instructionwas that it was a bio in verse of someone... so technically #1 should be the who... So who should I write a poem about... hmmmmmmm... tempted to write a poem about the singer whose song I've had on repeat all day but then I would want to send it to him and that would just be awkward so... who? I decided to do a famous person and there is actually a random celebrity generator online! (https://www.randomlists.com/random-celebrities). It gave a few and I decided on Harrison Ford or Han Solo (who after all these years is still the first character of his that pops into my head).
Then, the "ingredients" from the prompt
1. An act lifted from a fairy tale, myth, or bible/fable
parting the red sea
2. Something you only assume of the person (but state it as fact)
(Thinking of Mr Ford here) brave?
3. What a part of their body is made of (preferably not humanly possible)
Zircon (random generated by http://www.rdinn.com/gem_generator.php because I wanted a gemstone body part) Nipple (randomly generated by http://www.generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=251)<-- ...which="" 2nd="" arm="" choice:="" ford="" go="" harrison="" i="" inapproriate="" is="" it="" lol="" man="" me="" of="" one-armed="" one="" p="" related.="" reminded="" since="" so="" sort="" the="" think="" this="" will="" with="">
I love/hate when Rachel puts an example. The hate part is because her writing is so harshly original. I feel shoddy and trite in comparison and nothing in my head feels like poetry anymore. *sigh*
Back to my poem... BIO... born, grew up, life events (accomplishments, school, marriage, kids), death... pretending this is a postumous historical reference of Mr Ford as his most famous characters (the president, han solo, the fugitive, indiana jones, etc) done by someone who only had the films as a reference... I think...
The preliminary poem skeleton looked like this:
born,
grew up,
school,
marriage,
kids,
best known for,
death
Wrote the poem and then realized it had NONE of the listed items! So...
Monday, April 6, 2015
NaPoWriMo 2015 - 6/30 - Lionfish Made of Stars, Waves, and Wishes
The quest to do prompt poems continues. After nearly 2 years hiatus from writing new poetry regularly is showing in my mind as I make these attempts.
I would love to see what you make from the prompt. Post it in the comments or post a link to your blog. Happy writing! :-)
~~~
Lionfish Made of Stars, Waves, and Wishes
Constellated into the form of something human,
these shining flashes of millenniums and light-speed
illuminate transcontinental currents.
This collection of thoughts and images
needs no currency
only the current seeing of familiar faces
which in the end is all I have to give.
I placed the shard of emerald heart stone
in its chest in vain hope
that it would remember love.
Without meaning to,
I took a cloud from the sunny part of its night sky
as a reflection of my own floating sadness
and possibilities of growth.
As sculpted,
it hovered between sky and earth,
between day and night.
It felt the shadow of a former being,
of a life lived once.
Memories gathered at the border of
its light and darkness
just out of its grasp
which made me wonder
if it had any idea what it formed.
Does it remember it was a prophet?
How does it feel in its current form?
Can it swim in crystal seas like before?
Does it know its real name?
In the presence of this Lionfish
there were more questions than answers.
~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
TUESDAY, MARCH 31, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 10
List
1. A person (real or imagined) that you have not seen/heard from in a long time
2. the first object(s) that comes to mind when you think of that person (it could be the Zippo they always carried, a specific brand of shaving cream they always smelled like, a tube of red lipstick and an emptied shotglass...)
Write a poem or story about how this person(#1) has now been replaced, in your universe, by a sculpture of objects (#2)
It is up to you to decide the shape of the sculpture. It is up to you to decide if that sculpture walks, sleeps, eats, moans, goes grocery shopping...
If it can speak, would you finish a long-lost conversation with it?
What would you offer it? What would you add to it, if anything? What would you take from it? Where does it live? If it works, what does it do for a living? Does it know who it is the ghost of? Does it know its real name?
_____________________
Of blood and doormats
Her voice cracks from her mouth like a lobster. The organ hisses its good-bye song. A hive of blood and doormats, she tippy-toes down the aisle in a dress made of broken water and shotgun shells. Two mothers weep in the front row, noses pressed deep into their corsages. The limo driver polishes the rearview mirror as the groom's twisted arm squeals I do. I do.
- - -
(This exercise was inspired by Khara Koffel's exhibit and, specifically, "The Delicacy of Meetinghouse Road.") <-- a="" an="" but="" find="" href="http://www.kharakoffel.com/the-eventual.html" i="" image="" of="" particular="" piece="" target="_blank" this="" to="" unable="" was="">"in case of the eventual"
on the artist's website intrigued because of what it is.)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
First the "ingredients"
List
1. A person (real or imagined) that you have not seen/heard from in a long time
Lionfish
2. the first object(s) that comes to mind when you think of that person (it could be the Zippo they always carried, a specific brand of shaving cream they always smelled like, a tube of red lipstick and an emptied shotglass...)
The sky/universe/stars/clouds
Water/oceans
The list of people I have not seen/heard from in a long time numbers in the HUNDREDS. I am lightly linked to over a thousand people via social media but my actual interaction with people is quite limited. Today a heart I haven't felt beat in quite a while commented on one of my posts so I decided to use that person for #1. The problem with using Lionfish as the person for this is that the first thing I think of is the sky and that seemed too abstract or surreal but... used it anyway.
Then I read the actual instructions...
Replace Lionfish with a sculpture of the object(s) in #2... A sculpture of stars? I think I like the image, but how to poem this? So I looked at Rachel's inspirational artist for this prompt. The sculpture that intrigued me was a series of trophy cases on the wall with letters the artist wrote to her friends to be given to them after she dies.
I read Rachel's example and these can make or break me depending on the prompt and the day. She is such a powerful writer that her examples are a hard act to follow mentally. Then came the marination on the idea... had to take a chai break to process the possibilities.
ARGH... the chai break only gave me the first line... so I looked at the questions:
If it can speak, would you finish a long-lost conversation with it?
What would you offer it?
What would you add to it, if anything?
What would you take from it?
Where does it live?
If it works, what does it do for a living?
Does it know who it is the ghost of?
Does it know its real name?
The questions are almost a found poem in and of themselves. For lack of any better ideas, I took the questions and answered them to make the lines of the poem (all but the first one). I made each answer into a stanza. And thus, a poem was born. I have a different style than Rachel for sure. She cracks words together like volatile thunderclaps too close to the lightening. I am more of a whisper into the distant cosmos. It is what it is.
~~~
I would love to see what you make from the prompt. Post it in the comments or post a link to your blog. Happy writing! :-)
~~~
Lionfish Made of Stars, Waves, and Wishes
Constellated into the form of something human,
these shining flashes of millenniums and light-speed
illuminate transcontinental currents.
This collection of thoughts and images
needs no currency
only the current seeing of familiar faces
which in the end is all I have to give.
I placed the shard of emerald heart stone
in its chest in vain hope
that it would remember love.
Without meaning to,
I took a cloud from the sunny part of its night sky
as a reflection of my own floating sadness
and possibilities of growth.
As sculpted,
it hovered between sky and earth,
between day and night.
It felt the shadow of a former being,
of a life lived once.
Memories gathered at the border of
its light and darkness
just out of its grasp
which made me wonder
if it had any idea what it formed.
Does it remember it was a prophet?
How does it feel in its current form?
Can it swim in crystal seas like before?
Does it know its real name?
In the presence of this Lionfish
there were more questions than answers.
~~~
From Rachel McKibbens' blog:
TUESDAY, MARCH 31, 2009 WRITING EXERCISE # 10
List
1. A person (real or imagined) that you have not seen/heard from in a long time
2. the first object(s) that comes to mind when you think of that person (it could be the Zippo they always carried, a specific brand of shaving cream they always smelled like, a tube of red lipstick and an emptied shotglass...)
Write a poem or story about how this person(#1) has now been replaced, in your universe, by a sculpture of objects (#2)
It is up to you to decide the shape of the sculpture. It is up to you to decide if that sculpture walks, sleeps, eats, moans, goes grocery shopping...
If it can speak, would you finish a long-lost conversation with it?
What would you offer it? What would you add to it, if anything? What would you take from it? Where does it live? If it works, what does it do for a living? Does it know who it is the ghost of? Does it know its real name?
_____________________
Of blood and doormats
Her voice cracks from her mouth like a lobster. The organ hisses its good-bye song. A hive of blood and doormats, she tippy-toes down the aisle in a dress made of broken water and shotgun shells. Two mothers weep in the front row, noses pressed deep into their corsages. The limo driver polishes the rearview mirror as the groom's twisted arm squeals I do. I do.
- - -
(This exercise was inspired by Khara Koffel's exhibit and, specifically, "The Delicacy of Meetinghouse Road.") <-- a="" an="" but="" find="" href="http://www.kharakoffel.com/the-eventual.html" i="" image="" of="" particular="" piece="" target="_blank" this="" to="" unable="" was="">"in case of the eventual"
on the artist's website intrigued because of what it is.)
~~~
Personal note on the process...
First the "ingredients"
List
1. A person (real or imagined) that you have not seen/heard from in a long time
Lionfish
2. the first object(s) that comes to mind when you think of that person (it could be the Zippo they always carried, a specific brand of shaving cream they always smelled like, a tube of red lipstick and an emptied shotglass...)
The sky/universe/stars/clouds
Water/oceans
The list of people I have not seen/heard from in a long time numbers in the HUNDREDS. I am lightly linked to over a thousand people via social media but my actual interaction with people is quite limited. Today a heart I haven't felt beat in quite a while commented on one of my posts so I decided to use that person for #1. The problem with using Lionfish as the person for this is that the first thing I think of is the sky and that seemed too abstract or surreal but... used it anyway.
Then I read the actual instructions...
Replace Lionfish with a sculpture of the object(s) in #2... A sculpture of stars? I think I like the image, but how to poem this? So I looked at Rachel's inspirational artist for this prompt. The sculpture that intrigued me was a series of trophy cases on the wall with letters the artist wrote to her friends to be given to them after she dies.
I read Rachel's example and these can make or break me depending on the prompt and the day. She is such a powerful writer that her examples are a hard act to follow mentally. Then came the marination on the idea... had to take a chai break to process the possibilities.
ARGH... the chai break only gave me the first line... so I looked at the questions:
If it can speak, would you finish a long-lost conversation with it?
What would you offer it?
What would you add to it, if anything?
What would you take from it?
Where does it live?
If it works, what does it do for a living?
Does it know who it is the ghost of?
Does it know its real name?
The questions are almost a found poem in and of themselves. For lack of any better ideas, I took the questions and answered them to make the lines of the poem (all but the first one). I made each answer into a stanza. And thus, a poem was born. I have a different style than Rachel for sure. She cracks words together like volatile thunderclaps too close to the lightening. I am more of a whisper into the distant cosmos. It is what it is.
~~~
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