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.