Monday, February 8, 2010
Stratgey Response, Week 5
What I found myself being particularly drawn to this week was the issue of subject in Writing Poetry’s chapter 11. What is really interesting and useful in helping remain committedly detached from one’s own work is channeling or filtering one subject through another subject. Looking at Ashley’s poem, Laundry, the common, every-day task of hang clothes out to dry becomes a vein for detailing a young girl’s first period. The subject of a girl “blooming” into a woman is an event that seems highly covered by other female poets (I am really thinking here of Rita Dove’s Adolescence II) and Ashley’s own way of exploring the topic captures the ordinary without making the moment overwrought or melodramatic. Mother and daughter discovering the period almost takes on the feeling of completing tasks or a checklist, just like doing daily chores. “Just like that,” the speaker becomes a woman. Even after finding the period the mother and daughter continue to pass each other laundry and clothespins. Keeping the language at a conversational level helps keep the subject of menstruation from becoming too fantastical, keeps the subject from pointing too much at itself. The subject of the poem may not even be the event of discovering a period, but the speaker’s nonchalance or apathy on the matter seems to take focus. The ennui is what becomes appealing after several read throughs of the poem. After reading this poem I started to think casually off the top of my head about events that may seem monumental and continued along a similar vein as the young female speaker’s concerns in Ashley’s piece: death of loved one, losing one’s virginity, a wedding, birth of a child, etc. Would this speaker, if her voice was carried on through a series of poems or a whole collection carry the same nonchalance towards other events? Would that be believable? While losing her virginity could she be eating a pear? When learning she is suddenly pregnant could she be polishing silver for a formal dinner party? Is she sweeping the kitchen floor hours before getting married? I like these odd pairings; they could potentially produce fresh narratives, images, juxtaposing sentiments, and help deflect otherwise “melodramatic” moments with the ordinary, mundane tasks that we all face every day.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Improv 2, Week 5
Meditation at Lagunitas
by Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All new thinking is about loss.
Or about oil on canvas which generates more pondering.
The principle is this: Antarctica’s dry valleys
hold enough blackberry bushes to camouflage
an airplane factory. Blue smoldering more blue
until only the memory of blue exists. Mixed in unison
with some family recipe for courage the word
blue shields like the idea to erase. In Naperville, Illinois
the locals mummify old words. More precious than Egyptian
cats, rolled in oils of the gold, the mayor elects
old words once they dry in the mouths of pondering.
The first word ousted was found crusted
on the wooden molar of an abacus, not sliding
but flaking so slow that it could have been a scene
from canvas. No amount of blueberry bushes can hide
all the dead words, there is only the blue and what it signifies.
by Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All new thinking is about loss.
Or about oil on canvas which generates more pondering.
The principle is this: Antarctica’s dry valleys
hold enough blackberry bushes to camouflage
an airplane factory. Blue smoldering more blue
until only the memory of blue exists. Mixed in unison
with some family recipe for courage the word
blue shields like the idea to erase. In Naperville, Illinois
the locals mummify old words. More precious than Egyptian
cats, rolled in oils of the gold, the mayor elects
old words once they dry in the mouths of pondering.
The first word ousted was found crusted
on the wooden molar of an abacus, not sliding
but flaking so slow that it could have been a scene
from canvas. No amount of blueberry bushes can hide
all the dead words, there is only the blue and what it signifies.
Junkyard Quotes 1-5, Week 5
"I stopped claiming Indian blood [...]"
-Adrian Matejka from The Devil's Garden
"I'm going to sit down and I'm not going to get up again."
-Tom Lux at McEver reading in regards to giving the first round of reader introductions
"Antarctica's dry valleys."
"Camouflaging An Airplane Factory"
-Mental Floss
"An email to the universe"
-blurp from the internet
"The days of man are like grass, blooms like a flower in a field, the wind barely graze it,and it is gone, and the place where he was no longer recognize."
-caption from Malgorzata Niegel painting
"Moment of luck is oil on canvas."
-my own twist on another Malgorzata painting
"Every bird has hit the road this morning."
--lyric from Chris Black's Pass Away
-Adrian Matejka from The Devil's Garden
"I'm going to sit down and I'm not going to get up again."
-Tom Lux at McEver reading in regards to giving the first round of reader introductions
"Antarctica's dry valleys."
"Camouflaging An Airplane Factory"
-Mental Floss
"An email to the universe"
-blurp from the internet
"The days of man are like grass, blooms like a flower in a field, the wind barely graze it,and it is gone, and the place where he was no longer recognize."
-caption from Malgorzata Niegel painting
"Moment of luck is oil on canvas."
-my own twist on another Malgorzata painting
"Every bird has hit the road this morning."
--lyric from Chris Black's Pass Away
Improv 1, Week 5
Integration
-Adrian Matejka
using the first line of the poem:
"No amount of hoodoo could convince"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
No apple seed or half eaten cod could commiserate
the plate like the dinner-side blares of water-logged trumpets.
When the chef recommends a garnish of caramelized pie crust
on the diners’ chocolate mousse, they chuckle at his wet boot
tongue for which they can’t place the origin. Loose tie gentlemen
twitch for the company of a cigarette and the women buckle
their slender fingers tighter around the stems of wine glasses.
Crumbs glaze the beard of chef and they all know that he must dip
into the wares. But the night can’t be helped. The dinner was meant
to erupt with each soggy note of the trumpeter, sword fishing the jaws
of patrons in a rigged collection of laughter. Cigarettes held the hand
of the unwanted conversation—even the dog bone centerpiece
could not arouse flapping from a single tongue. One might suspect
that the cod froze to their mouths or the chef forgot to nail in the heat.
The get-down feeling of Mars trumps all pennies found good luck side up.
Ghosts haul the train tracks with them, leaving all the vandalized copper
for the pockets of the young. Originally origins floated like ghosts,
but then slowly started to mutt like dogs. Lip a baby’s ear to sleep:
the soft, rolled part that feels like soggy graham cracker.
-Adrian Matejka
using the first line of the poem:
"No amount of hoodoo could convince"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
No apple seed or half eaten cod could commiserate
the plate like the dinner-side blares of water-logged trumpets.
When the chef recommends a garnish of caramelized pie crust
on the diners’ chocolate mousse, they chuckle at his wet boot
tongue for which they can’t place the origin. Loose tie gentlemen
twitch for the company of a cigarette and the women buckle
their slender fingers tighter around the stems of wine glasses.
Crumbs glaze the beard of chef and they all know that he must dip
into the wares. But the night can’t be helped. The dinner was meant
to erupt with each soggy note of the trumpeter, sword fishing the jaws
of patrons in a rigged collection of laughter. Cigarettes held the hand
of the unwanted conversation—even the dog bone centerpiece
could not arouse flapping from a single tongue. One might suspect
that the cod froze to their mouths or the chef forgot to nail in the heat.
The get-down feeling of Mars trumps all pennies found good luck side up.
Ghosts haul the train tracks with them, leaving all the vandalized copper
for the pockets of the young. Originally origins floated like ghosts,
but then slowly started to mutt like dogs. Lip a baby’s ear to sleep:
the soft, rolled part that feels like soggy graham cracker.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 5
No apple seed or half eaten cod could commiserate
the plate like the dinner-side blares of water-logged trumpets.
When the chef recommends a garnish of caramelized pie crust
on the diners’ chocolate mousse, they chuckle at his wet boot
tongue for which they can’t place the origin. Loose tie gentlemen
twitch for the company of a cigarette and the women buckle
their slender fingers tighter around the stems of wine glasses.
Crumbs glaze the beard of chef and they all know that he must dip
into the wares. But the night can’t be helped. The dinner was meant
to erupt with each soggy note of the trumpeter, sword fishing the jaws
of patrons in a rigged collection of laughter. Cigarettes held the hand
of the unwanted conversation—even the dog bone centerpiece
could not arouse flapping from a single tongue. One might suspect
that the cod froze To their mouths or the chef forgot to nail in the heat.
the plate like the dinner-side blares of water-logged trumpets.
When the chef recommends a garnish of caramelized pie crust
on the diners’ chocolate mousse, they chuckle at his wet boot
tongue for which they can’t place the origin. Loose tie gentlemen
twitch for the company of a cigarette and the women buckle
their slender fingers tighter around the stems of wine glasses.
Crumbs glaze the beard of chef and they all know that he must dip
into the wares. But the night can’t be helped. The dinner was meant
to erupt with each soggy note of the trumpeter, sword fishing the jaws
of patrons in a rigged collection of laughter. Cigarettes held the hand
of the unwanted conversation—even the dog bone centerpiece
could not arouse flapping from a single tongue. One might suspect
that the cod froze To their mouths or the chef forgot to nail in the heat.
Free Entry 1, Week 5
As if to harp: Please return the wicker patio set,
mold and all, would hurt my patient feelings.
Or to sergent out all your belongings only to roll
call them back falls in the rut of my hammock. I sop up
the information of your pleasantries like a cruller
sops up coffee. And in the Florida heat as I tote
spoons, one from every state and then some, I begin
to dread the burn of silver on my fingertips.
You are mistaken about your possessions, they go
after you. Instead you perch with pen in hand
to mark lamp, dish, and screwdriver with familial
letter. The neighbors take in the scene from the edge
of the driveway, hovering like yard sale scavengers,
eyeing the racks of evening gowns sailing from stoop
to backseat. Even if two weeks later you ask for it all
back, after results of minor surgery, I find nothing useful
in your blunder. So as I haul that same broken down,
Off-white wicker chair that you said once cradled
the plump body of my mother, back up the stoop,
into the now naked living room of your misfortunes,
I try to forget that mason jar of silver forming in my chest.
mold and all, would hurt my patient feelings.
Or to sergent out all your belongings only to roll
call them back falls in the rut of my hammock. I sop up
the information of your pleasantries like a cruller
sops up coffee. And in the Florida heat as I tote
spoons, one from every state and then some, I begin
to dread the burn of silver on my fingertips.
You are mistaken about your possessions, they go
after you. Instead you perch with pen in hand
to mark lamp, dish, and screwdriver with familial
letter. The neighbors take in the scene from the edge
of the driveway, hovering like yard sale scavengers,
eyeing the racks of evening gowns sailing from stoop
to backseat. Even if two weeks later you ask for it all
back, after results of minor surgery, I find nothing useful
in your blunder. So as I haul that same broken down,
Off-white wicker chair that you said once cradled
the plump body of my mother, back up the stoop,
into the now naked living room of your misfortunes,
I try to forget that mason jar of silver forming in my chest.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Strategy Response, Week 4
One technique that Matejka uses in “Colloquialism” particularly is deflecting the possible emotional connection to subject matter by playing with the structure of the poem. In “Colloquialism” he sets up a “manual-style” form to detail racial and/or gang violence that helps keep a level of committed detachment. Numerating certain lines of the poem that features the process of a gang mutilation acts as one possible way to alleviate some of the psychology connections that poet, speaker, readers may have with such heavy, political subject matter. I would like to try to mimic such a filter, possibly through numeration or another technique, in which I could present subject matter that, may be of an emotional, political, or racial matter. How does one write about the death of a family member or loved one without sounding to attached, emotional, and even precious at times? How does one write about a memory of child abuse without becoming too “fantastic” with the violence or so vague that it remains unclear what the speaker is addressing in the poem? Form and structure may be just one place to start in keeping a distance from emotional subject matter. I plan to use this technique in the near future to tackle some delicate issues.
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