Week #5--My Response to Emmanuel's Free Entry

Emmanuel,

This draft really delivers some strong imagery of a rape scene, therefore perhaps the title could be more subtle to contrast it. The opening line really draws the reader into the scene, but "Rivers of living waters" sounds a bit too prosy, in my opinion. I think the description of the perpetrator's breath says a lot and might even say as much in a condensed form, using more adjectives than nouns. (Do you really need "uncomfortably"? Also, "want" and "need" might pack more punch as "craving" or "urge."

The religious overtones in this piece contrast the bullying threats of the rapist nicely. I suggest you 'show' more than 'tell' about the victim's virtuous nature, which could still be done through her interior thoughts but in an angrier, more desperate tone. Some more action would paint a clearer picture, too. Nice start!

Week #5-My Response to Kamau's Free Entry

There's so much rhythm in this draft it reads like a rap song, and that's not a bad thing. I like the speaker's rebellious tone toward social conformity and the quirky "left" and "right" dilemma. I think the speaker makes it clear he wants to do "Life" his way.

On the other hand, abstractions like "Life" and "Progress" deny the reader any deeper insight into the speaker's world, like what music he listens to and what he really wants to do. Offering some details on those "endless fields of possibilities" might provide more interest and lend this draft some depth. Nice start though, Kamau!

Week #5—Sign Inventory

Penelope’s Despair

                        By Yannis Ritsos

It wasn’t that she didn’t recognize him in the light from the

        hearth: it wasn’t

the beggar’s rags, the disguise—no. The signs were clear:

the scar on his knee, the pluck, the cunning in his eye. Frightened,

her back against the wall, she searched for an excuse,

a little time, so she wouldn’t have to answer,

give herself away. Was it for him, then, that she’d used up twenty

        years,

twenty years of waiting and dreaming, for this miserable

blood-soaked, white-bearded man? She collapsed voiceless into a

       chair,

slowly studied the slaughtered suitors on the floor as though

       seeing

her own desires dead there. And she said “Welcome,”

hearing her voice sound foreign, distant. In the corner, her loom

covered the ceiling with a trellis of shadows, and all the birds

       she’d woven

with bright red thread in green foliage, now,

on this night of the return, suddenly turned ashen and black,

flying low on the flat sky of her final enduring.

Narrative in third-person voice

Twenty lines parallels “twenty years”

Repetition in “It wasn’t” and “twenty years.”

Five indentations, three with one word lines.

Eight lines of enjambment

Alliteration in “wall,” “wouldn’t” “Was” “waiting” and “white-bearded”; “slowly studied the slaughtered suitors on the floor as though / seeing / her own desires dead there.”; Also in “foliage” and “flying low on the flat sky of her final enduring.”

Assonance in “pluck” and “cunning”; “collapsed voiceless into a chair”; “ceiling with a trellis of shadows”;

Internal rhyme in “red thread”, “black” and “flat.”

No end rhymes

Metaphor of tapestry on loom for subject’s lifespan

Rhythm scheme in gerunds: “waiting and dreaming,” and verbs “seeing,” “hearing” and “flying” augmented by nouns: “cunning” and “ceiling”

Week #5--Junkyard Quotes

[He was so small] “he looked like a fetus with shoes.”

Dana Carvey referring to his son when he entered his teens.

“It was like a human soup.”

Actress describing new movie cast’s ethnic diversity.

“I’m a derrierist.”

Sitcom character who works on derrieres as a fitness trainer.

“Now there are nearly as many osprey nests in Georgia as there are Dunkin’ Donuts franchises.”

Quoted from Stanley Tate’s “Osprey comes back from the brink” in the Times-Georgian.

Week #5--Free Entry

Here's the latest revision of my workshop draft:

Instructions for Diligent Poets

                                    By Pauline Rodwell

Ignore the ones who say they know.

Do it your way and avert the struggle.

Don’t suffer the strain of trying to change

your ingrained ways of wording a muddle:

The rambunctious rain wrought Wednesday a puddle?

Don’t imitate Whitman, Stevens, or Plath—

instead insert expletives that shock your readers.

Spurn strong metaphors to speak for wrath

and dispense with primers on iambs and meters—

(why waste time slashing feet?)

Indulge the urge to rip slang words

such as skank or wack  in your cracks at rhyme;

and when you run dry with nada to say,

show your elite side with some foreign phrase—

paté de foie gras or c’est si passé!

or whip up some luscious, archaic cliché—

like rise and shine or seize the day!

Never practice any proven calisthenics

such as nuancing or syntax mimicry,

for you can always put in some stray prosthetic

to bestow a sense of symmetry.

If terms like trope or negative capability

trigger a cerebral freeze,

just recall that in his time

Keats’ sweet prose was not well-received.

Keep writing ‘til you’ve honed a style

critics could consider yours alone;

it’s likely to prove as much worthwhile

as countless poems still unknown.

Week #5--Improv #2

Autumn

                                    by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

            Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him to lead and bless

            With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run,

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

            And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

                 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

            With a sweet kernel, to set budding more

And still more, later lovers for the bees;

Until they think warm days will never cease;

            For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.

Georgia

by Pauline Rodwell

Land of pines and fall flamboyance!

            Neighborly terrain steeped in iron-rich soil;

Plowed and sown to yield yearly abundance

            To growers and anyone willing to toil

At pruning the peach trees to deep shades of summer

            And plucking sweet specimens in their prime;

                  To harness quick streams and plant fertile dreams

            Of soybeans, peanuts, and muscadine wine,

And at moon-harvest time, sharing her yield with every newcomer;

So that no pioneer pains from his homesick hunger;

            For other states pale beside her palette of greens.

Week #5--Improv #1

Following Jenna's critique, here's a second attempt at riffing off of Andrei Voznesensky's "Two Poems" (see Week #4)

En Suite

I

Under a bright and treeless sky

in tandem we stroll—but crow when

a Whistling Heron wings by

portending a coyote’s den.

II
 

It’s uplifting when your opponent

nets every returning ball;

but if you pound her with all aces
she will not need to swing at all.

Week #4—Improv #2

Two Poems

            By Andrei Voznesensky

I

Over a dark and quiet empire

alone I fly—and envy you,

two-headed eagle who at least

have always yourself to talk to.

II

To hang bare light bulbs from a ceiling

simple cord will always serve;

it’s only the poet who must hang

by has glaring white spinal nerve.

I

Under a bright and treeless sky

in tandem we stroll—but gasp when

a wide-winged heron swoops by

to warn us of a close coyote’s den.

II

In putting bone china teacups away

extra care must be the rule;

it’s always the sloppy one

who must play the part of fool.

Week #4--My Response to Kamau's "Spidey"

Kamau,

This draft offers an interesting reverse perspective of "Spidey" and includes some nice alliteration, like "condoning of confinement," "crude thoughts of calamity," and "a plan for the poor." The form of separate stanzas reads a little awkwardly to me and may reflect the "off-balance" nature of the subject matter, but I wonder if it might not sound more congruent as one verse. You could have some fun expanding on the concept of an unresponsive hero and juice this draft up even more. I suggest you go for it since you have made a great start.

Week #4--My Response to MacKenzie's "Caldera"

MacKenzie,

I like--no, love--the connection you have made in this draft between an archeological dig and present day life in a rather comic-tragic tone. You have created some great word-pairs, like "exponential frustration," "miscreant night," "people cakes," but my favorite phrase is "the ships stopped mid-bob in the harbor." Superb writing!

I suggest you economize and combine sentences two and three, and I'm not sure you need sentence three in the second stanza. Even if you don't do these changes, I think you have an enjoyable read. Nicely done!

Week #4--Junkyard Quotes

“Dem chickens ain’t dead.”

Kentucky farmer drunk on moonshine to my friend whose dog killed three of his chickens.

“There are 22,000 pieces of space junk orbiting our earth.”

Brian Williams on NBC Nightly News.

“He’s got his dough, so I’ll see him no mo’.”

My neighbor referring to a paint contractor who did not return to finish the job.

“I’d love to have what you take for granted.”

Moi.

Week #4--Free Entry

Derived from Salt

                        by Pauline Rodwell

Tears alleviate even the driest of eyes,

like those of Lot, who did not know

of his wife’s weakness for looking back.

Had he borne or blindfolded her,

he could have prevented Sodom’s fire

from freezing her fleeing form behind him,

from leaving him to mourn her saltiness.

Shame on him for not knowing her better.

I am also salt.

I know this from the cat’s tongue

which scrapes my skin at night—

a convenient complement to nibbles

from her bowl beside the bed.

I know it when I perspire and lick my upper lip.

I know it again when I crave potato chips,

condensed soup, or a box of Cheez-its.

I am not yet a pillar—just coarse and non-Kosher—

like the partially-used emery boards cast about the house,

intent on smoothing rough edges.

What I need is water—not fluoridated,

chlorinated, or fruit-flavored—

just clean, unadulterated H₂O.

It used to freely flow

from spring and summer storms

to nourish all our land.

Now we lie as dry as Lot’s wife,

our residue crystallizing in September’s sun.

We pray for pregnant clouds to appease

this unneeded season of desiccation.

Where does our water reign these days?

What alien country welcomes the vapors

of our corruption? Where does the bruised gray

sky green parched pastures of hay

and pour into broad basins unsullied

by Coke cans and dock debris?

Tell me, where do kindred souls convene

under the spill of baptismal streams

that restore and replenish them?

Surely a rush of rain will soon come

from some distant land less salty than ours.