Week #3 - Improv

Facing It

       by Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades,

hiding inside the black granite.

I said I wouldn't,

dammit. No tears.

I'm stone. I'm flesh.

My clouded reflection eyes me

like a bird of prey, the profile of night

slanted against morning. I turn

this way--the stone lets me go.

I turn that way--I'm inside

the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

again, depending on the light

to make a difference.

I go down the 58,022 names,

half-expecting to find

my own in letters like smoke.

I touch the name Andrew Johnson,

I see the booby trap's white flash.

Names shimmer on a woman's blouse

but when she walks away

the names stay on the wall.

Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's

wings cutting across my stare.

the sky. A plane in the sky.

A white vet's image floats

closer to me, then his pale eyes

look through mine. I'm a window.

He's lost his right

inside the stone. In the black mirror

a woman's trying to erase names:

No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

    London 1972

              by Pauline Rodwell

My camera clicks,

capturing concrete and glass.

I thought nothing of it,

dammit: No warning sign.

I’m entitled. I’m American.

Unseen eyes chart my every move,

like a terrorist—an IRA type. I maneuver

through parked cars—

I take more pictures of the highrise.

I enter, curious—

needing to know.

The security officer confronts me,

cautious and inquisitive—

asks for ID.

Hoping to go up the elevator,

I ask about the building’s name.

Instead I get the third degree:

Where are you from?

Why are you here?

Why were you taking pictures?

I answer all with patriotic pride.

"The name on my passport matches
the name on the building." He tells me

Her Majesty’s Secret Service

occupies the building

and I am suspect.

He points to agents

inspecting the innocent cars for

any bomb I might have planted.
He radios them to quit.

I apologize and exit.

Week #3 - Sign Inventory

Sign Inventory for Robert Lowell’s “Father’s Bedroom”

The first half of the poem catalogs articles and furnishings as if the speaker is taking an inventory of some kind. It is sparingly descriptive suggesting a kind of Spartan simplicity; but the second half describes a hardier character to the book since it has been “punished.”

The color “blue” is mentioned four times and lends a melancholy aura to the poem. White and olive are the only other colors mentioned. Line two, “blue threads as thin as pen-writing on the bedspread” denotes the delicate handiwork of Oriental women. It stands in stark contrast to “was punished like a rhinoceros hide” in line sixteen.

The Chinese sandals and reference to the Yangtze River in China contrast the kimono and book title about Japan. The father’s mother may have been Japanese or partial to Japan as reflected in the furnishings and book, but her son went to China instead, or perhaps also.

The word “unfamiliar” in the book’s title is not capitalized as it should be, as if to emphasize that Japan is/was more unfamiliar to the speaker’s father than China. It invites the question as to why

Modifiers like “broad-planked,” “sandpapered,” “punished,” and “rhinoceros hide” give off a macho quality to the tone of the poem, as does “hard usage.” Other words, like “thin,” “dots,” “plush,” and “doily” lend a feminine tone.

The implication of the inscription seems to be that the speaker’s father spent some time in China and not Japan, as his mother had intended by giving him the book. One wonders why he felt the need to write an explanation for its condition.

The poem acts like a porthole through which the speaker views his father’s bedroom and its contents. It reflects the son’s curiosity about his father’s life and the association of his belongings with his travels or work. The contrast between the “neatness” of the room and the battered book implies that his father brought the Asian cultures home with him because he felt more at home with them.

The use of colons gives the impression of “showing” and not just telling.

Enjambment reinforces the “list” character of all the articles being presented.

Week #3—Junkyard Quotes

“Russia is the greatest cleptocracy in history.”

David Stockman on “Real Time” (rerun on 1/27/11).

“The Zodiac killer”

Bill Maher’s reference to astrology expert, Paul Kunkel.

“cellfish” = description of one who talks too loud on cell phone in public arenas

 "bi-sidual" = term my tennis partner uses to refer to our individual abilities to play the forehand or backhand side of the court.

Week #3 - Calisthenics

Syntax mimicry of Robert Lowell’s “Father’s Bedroom”

In my mother’s handbag:

Chocolates as old

as the beveled glass window,

hairbrush at the bottom,

a rose-red lipstick,

painted mirror with Art Deco cats.

The braided roping

had a textured weave.

The compact, black sac-a-main

With matching curved handle

was still stuffed

with initialed hankie and leather billfold

boasting shillings and pence.

Its worn zipper

was tattered like a gypsy’s rags.

In the flap-pocket:

“This bag belongs to.”

Below this type in her print:

“Would the finder of this purse

please return it to the

WRAF Auxiliary Radar Patrol,

Bristol, England.”

Week #3 - Free Entry #1

  Just for fun...  

             Retirement

Just down from Peppi’s Pizzeria,

next to the Tug ‘n’ Tote bag stand,

Cara Cara Navels squat shamelessly

in sunny, money-drenched La-La Land.

Shoppers stare in senile stupor

at the sumptuous, orange orbs,

and wonder if such exotic luxury

within their budgets might be absorbed.

With limps and wheels and canes they come

to stock up on their cream of wheat.

Their baskets brim with deli-fare,

‘cause cooking went the way of sweet.

Eyes bulge with mingy anticipation

of tropical gastronomic delight,

sensually sucking on succulent navels

while waiting to fall into fathomless night.

Week #2—Sign Inventory

Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “The Fish”

The style is confessional spoken in first person, although it sounds almost like third person because of its report-like format. Colors and similes add dimension to the poem, making it seem bigger than life, like the fish.

The repetition of “He” in lines 5-7 and 16 imply that the fish has a personality. It also has human characteristics of “homely” and a “beard of wisdom.”

The speaker goes into relationship with the fish when she “looked into his eyes” in line 34 and “admired his sullen face” in line 45. Her descriptions reveal that she obtained intricate knowledge of her catch.

The length of the poem and all the descriptive details tell of the import of this fish to the speaker. Her admiration of it and respect for its ability to survive several captures make the last line satisfying.

The short lines and the use of enjambment make the poem jerky, like a fish jerks a fishing line. The switching back and forth from the speaker to the fish imitates the rocking of the boat.

Using flower references to describe body parts endows a feminine quality to the fish, but they contrast the grosser descriptions of it. What other significance could the flowers have? Do they correlate to the rainbow?

Week #2 - Free Entry

       Stupidity

It is constantly there

for all to see,

although some do not.

Like we used to be,

            they are oblivious.

It is painful to look at

            but necessary.

How could you have . . .?

Why didn’t I. . .?

And then there is the refuse pile

            of all the burdensome consequences.

One of us rummages through it

            while the other

wanders

back into

                        oblivion.

Week #2--Calisthenics

I made a list of oxymoronic terms and used them to make a crazy narrative.

Once, a downtrodden upstart wrote a humorous tragedy about a dumb intellectual who lived with a sympathetic murderer in the northern South. Since he was a serious joker, not to mention a cold-hearted hottie, he created a writing style of uninterrupted enjambment to express his silent babble. The sympathetic murderer, being a courageous coward, thought the veracious thinker was a redeeming prankster and buried him under the capital footings of their first-floor penthouse. Then a disastrous calm came over the entire individual community for nobody ever knew that the downtrodden upstart met with such an uplifting downfall.

Week #2 - Improv Poem

A take-off on Gertrude Stein’s “Susie Asado” poem. It was hard not to try to add meaning to the phrases, and I did not really succeed; but it was fun to write.

Susie Asado

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.

       Susie Asado.

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.

       Susie Asado.

Susie Asado which is a told tray sure.

A lean on the shoe this means slips slips hers.

When the ancient light grey is clean it is yellow, it is a silver seller.

This is a please this is a please there are the saids to jelly. These are the wets these say the sets to leave a crown to Incy.

Incy is short for incubus.

A pot. A pot is a beginning of a rare bit of trees. Trees tremble, the old vats are in bobbles, bobbles which shade and shove and render clean, render clean must.   

       Drink pups.   

Drink pups drink pups lease a sash hold, see it shine and a bobolink has pins. It shows a nail.

What is a nail. A nail is unison.

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.

          Florida Friday

Fun fun fun fun fun day.

     Florida Friday.

Fun fun fun fun fun day.

     Florida Friday.

Florida Friday which is a top trip found.

A ride on the plane jives with sun sun mine.

How the young sky blue is glad it is bright, it is a truthful teller.

This is a yes this is a yes there are the wins for tennis. These are the rounds these go abounds to

   play a set with Bonster.

Bonster is nick for Bonnie.

A suit. A suit is a garment for swimming in the sea. Waves wobble, the sea foam is in bubbles, bubbles which tease and tickle and shuttle air, shuttle air free.

    Zip snaps.

Zip snaps zip snaps let a cat paw, watch it giggle and a seagull drops poop. It throws a line.

What is a line. A line is twosome.

Fun fun fun fun fun day.

Week #2 - Junkyard Quotes

“. . . signals of transcendence, hints of hope…;”

and

“I think your argument is a God of the gaps type argument. . .”

Physicist John Pulkinghorne speaking to Krista Tippett during “Quarks and Creation” during onbeing.com radio program 1/16/2011

If the DOT could get a do-over, what would the DOT want to do?

WSB radio news reporter on 1/19/2011

Obviously, a take-off on the ‘woodchuck’ tongue-twister, meant to gain listeners’ attention. I’ve never thought of the DOT in this sort of idiomatic context before.

“We’d like to go home with you.”

Pianist promoting CD’s of the Spanish Harlem Orchestra.

“Is this just hollow symbolism?”

Karen Tumulty of The Washington Post on “Washington Week” 2/23/11.

Week #1 - Calisthenics

This is an expansion-contraction exercise. The text has been partially edited from the original freewrite. I plan to contract it from its current narrative status into a more concise reading. Eventually, I will give it a title and some kind of form.

White Styrofoam hand-buoys pump like silent popcorn above the buttery, blue water of the natatorium. Bare-breasted Diana, the huntress in effigy, aims her poised arrow at oak trees which tower above the lattice tops of a white fence just beyond glass walls —dormant limbs veining a vapid sky. Their complex weave wends spaces only lofty creatures can navigate. The intricate patterns encourage endless imaginings. Our leader interrupts the badinage: “10—9—8—7—pump—3—2—1—and soccerball kicks!” I check the clock on the wall and turn to gaze at the trees, my legs flicking á tempo. I am seduced into silence. Lured by a bare limb stenciled onto a cloudy slate, I walk along its rough, round slenderness. It quickly narrows so I float over to a larger one and feel an earned strength underfoot. It undulates to my soles’ caresses. Airborn, alive, I meld into the maze. Cool breezes shoot a quiver through my trunk. I leap, Tarzan-like, to grasp a still stronger limb and dangle daringly in the void. I graze on the air and nest into the sky, held aloft by the strong, firm muscles of the trees. This is who I am—not that quark sloshing around in muted muliebrity. In some long-ago forest, I must have chosen to crawl.

Week #1--Free Entry #2

A geriatric gangster? Come on—a gregarious gangster maybe but old men don’t make good gangsters—just deadbeats. What the hell? Where do we draw the line on old anyway. It’s all relative as Einstein would say with his fussy-mussy hair, round face, and spectacles. If you’re twenty, forty’s old, if your forty, sixty’s old, and so on. Why do we attain wisdom when we’re too old to implement it? Go figure. Maybe God does make mistakes. Time is distance in the mind and when you’re in the middle where you can look forward and backward with your third eye you can get paralyzed and freeze. But if you put one foot in front of the other you start to forge a path. Where it will go is or is not totally up to you. Unexpected circumstances jerk you around, distract and make you fall. But up you get and keep walking into the sun or the moon. Much prefer the moon and its whiter light, don’t you?  Nature’s white is always whiter. Yellow-white houses sit on white snow. And Snow White is blue, red, and yellow, isn’t she? Things get confusing in this world of colors and words. They’re all mixed up in a potpourri pot and the smell is profuse. Write on, write on—ye old gangster of verse.

Week #1--Sign Inventory

Below is a sign inventory of Sylvia Plath's poem, "Medallion":

The poem curiously mixes inert natural objects with animate ones, using the sun’s reflected light to illuminate the speaker’s observations. Hard elements like rock, garnet, jewels, glass, and metal are softened by colors of orange, bronze, rose, ochre and white. The creatures in the poem, (snake, mouse, maggots) are all crawly ones and set the yardman up to seem creepy, too.

The three-line structure with wrap-around sentences and stanza breaks give a disjointed feel to the poem while reading it, even jaunty and uneven, although it looks concise as viewed on the page.

Light plays a major role in the poem, something like a magnifying glass, because the speaker observes the object through its reflections of sunlight. References to “a glasses flame” and “Sunset looked at through milk glass” reinforce this sense of inspector-like examination.

The word ‘shoelace’ seems out of place amongst the other more primitive objects. Are shoelaces really inert? If so, how do they become untied? It is a strange choice of simile, in my opinion. However, it adds a common, even mundane, quality to the poem's collection of more extraordinary objects.

Chainmail perfectly describes the scaly skin of a snake but it is a garment made of metal for chivalric knights. The word “chaste” in the last stanza seems to connect to this idea, as if the snake were some kind of virtuous hero, instead of the evil serpent of the garden of Eden.

The location is vague but really not necessary for observation of snake. However, “By the gate with star and moon/” sounds specific but not specific enough to know if star and moon are part of the gate or just appear at the time of discovery.

The only sound in the poem comes from the last word, “laugh.” It seems a macabre intrusion to an otherwise silent experience and jolts the reader. It seems to refer back to the snake’s ‘crooked grin,’ having been killed by the brick which the yardman flung at it. But why would a snake laugh? Or is it the yardman who laughs? It paints a strange picture.

Week #1--Junkyard Quotes

“This guy’s catching up on some snow-rays – no shirt, no shoes…”

Channel 11 news reporter 1/10/11
I like the term snow-rays because of its irony.

“From your mouth to God’s ears.”

Michael Douglas to Matt Lauer on the Today Show 1/11/11
I did not hear the context of this phrase, but surmised that it was solicitous of praise or prayer.

"Uncheck all but the Cache and choose Everything in the timeframe."

ITS person at UWG helping me to reset my password. 1/12/11
The weirdness of technological jargon can sometimes seem to apply to universal concepts. This statement inspires the mystic in me. 

"Chinese parents can get away with things that Western parents can't."
from the WSJ, Jan 8-9, 2011 article "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" by Amy Chua.
The irony here is that, like children, the Chinese parents "can get away with things," making the Western parents seem like the better parents, but the writer argues the opposite.

"But I want to carry this remembrance with me—this call to honor our heart’s longing for downtime—and not have to wait until another ice storm comes along to force me off the road."
From "Connecting," the online newsletter of Atlanta Diocese of the Episcopal Church in an essay by Lalor Cadley entitled "Snow Days."
I just like the wording Cadley uses to describe the human longing for peace and quiet.

Week #1--Improv poem

The following is a riff of Sylvia Plath's "Medallion" poem. I wanted to retread the logistical path and mimic the same three-line stanza structure, while relating a similar personal experience. It became more difficult near the end, but I favored my personal experience over a more exact replication.

          
            Half-Note

At the pond with koi and leaves

Sucked into the powerful pump

The bullfrog stared into my face.

Dead as a doornail; stiff

Yet still warm, his front legs

Splayed and his body swollen,

Eyes like glassy black marbles.

My hand wrapped around him.

His slimy-slick upper half

Protruded like a fat man

shooting from a cannon;

Once when I tried to climb a tree

My brother pulled my legs like this.

Water made his colors murky

Just like it fades fingerpaints.

But his belly held his pride

Serving no purpose in the end,

His search for warmth took him

To an unexpected respite.

I pulled him from the deadly hole

And saw his insides fall out

Brown as mud in the dark water

His hind legs lost to him and me

A half-a-being in my hand.

Boastless, he was some crooner,

Nature’s bass note. The pondkeeper’s

Carelessness silenced his song.

Week #1--Free Entry

Thief

Desperate to grasp the holy grail of seedy suet,

tiny claws strain through the iron grid

meant for long-billed birds—

not pesky, tall-tailed thieves.

Most of us want out, not in,

but, like this scavenger,

have no one to help us

unlatch the door to freedom

or possession.

Taking pity

I toss out a corn cob—

and later hear him scramble

inside my bedroom wall—

intruding on my privacy

and precarious peace.

What is it with compassion?

It feeds a hungry heart

but leaves the thief at liberty

to steal again.

Seeds of dreams sit just outside my window

imprisoned by grids of pain and fear

awaiting some new filcher to spring the lock

and chew them up again.