Free Write 1, Week 3

I love to leave the free write for last it seems. Build up of suspense or neurotic fear of judgement? You decide. A friend, in an attempt to inspire me provided me with this video by Air called "Sex Born Poison". I stole a line off the sight that I plan on using here. I'm also attempting Erika no longer Meitner's calisthenic in this. Can't think of a title... it's no where near done so why bother? Here goes:


I remember thin skies on day-painted shifts.
I remember I wore nothing underneath.

What started these suggestions, the ideas
to transcend physical nuisances, denim zippers?
What dared me to circuit our connection
of intermingled, intertwined and oh so satisfying--

I remember my legs were thinner, pliable.
I remember broader shoulders marred by naked nails.

creeping on sacred concrete, sandwiched between
a lawnmower and last year's beach balls.
Who is snoring on top us right before the baby
screams? The ground is cold, the noise, God, my noise--

I remember you sweating Gillette and mold.
I remember tasting salt and unsanctioned prayers.

hovered over the edge of frozen intensity. You fingered
every scrap, every morsel, devoured slippery pieces
of my hesitation like a rabid dog in Spring, panting and foaming
until the pain became too clumsy to endure.

I remember how loud that door screeched.
I remember squeezing but never molding.
I remember not getting caught.
Do you remember that it felt right?

And instead of dancing, I remember we swam
in the atom juice of my joy, so basic.
Brought down to the smallest levels
of ecstatic animalism and awkwardness.

There's a first time for everything.
I remember it never happened.

Junkyard Quotes 1--4, Week 3

 Number 1:
"Aspire to be almost remembered"

Number 2:
"An underwhelming entrance"

Number 3:
"Moral Man, Immoral Society"

Number 4:
"Here I am expecting just a little too much from the wounded." A Perfect Circle

Sign-Inventory 1, Week 3

Amaryllis
Ellen Bryant Voigt

Having been a farmer’s daughter
she didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife, didn’t want
the smell of ripe manure in all his clothes,
the corresponding flies in her kitchen,
a pail of slop below the sink,
a crate of baby chicks beside the stove, piping
beneath their bare lightbulb, cows calling at the gate
for him to come, cows standing in the chute
as he crops their horns with his long sharp shears.
So she nagged him toward a job in town;
so she sprang from the table, weeping, when he swore;
so, after supper, she sulks over her mending
as he unfolds his pearl pocketknife
to trim a callus on his palm.
Too much like her mother, he says, not knowing
any other reason why she spoils the children,
or why he comes in from the combine with his wrenches
to find potatoes boiled dry in their pot,
his wife in the parlor on the bench
at her oak piano—not playing
you understand, just sitting like a fern
in that formal room.
So much time to think,
these long hours: like her mother,
each night she goes to bed when her husband’s tired,
gets up when he gets up, and in between tries
not to move, listening to the sleep of this good man
who lies beside and over her. So much time alone,
since everything he knows is practical.
Just this morning, he plunged an icepick
into the bloated side of the cow unable to rise,
dying where it fell, its several stomachs having failed—
too full, he said, of sweet wet clover.

--This poem is only five sentences long.

--In the first stanza there is a repetition of alliteration like "cows calling" and "sharp shears".

--She uses the image of cows three times in the poem, though she uses the baby chicks only once.

--There is a suggestion that the speaker's mother did not appreciate the lifestyle of a farmer's wife as she is compared to her mother twice in the piece. 

--The speaker describes her husband as a good man, but then suggests that he sleeps "beside and over her," suggesting a role of male dominance in the relationship. 

--The speaker puts the words "didn't want" in the first stanza on the same line twice.

--The husband is often depicted with a tool or weapon of some sort: shears, pocketknife, and ice pick.

--The speaker puts a lot of emphasis on time, having use the phrase "so much time" twice in the same second stanza. 

--The poet ends both stanzas with images of plants-- a fern and sweet, wet clover.

--The formal room is described with the word "that" as opposed to "the" providing more emphasis or alienation to the room itself. 

Improv 1, Week 3

William Stafford
Traveling through the Dark

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.


-------

Waking Up At Night

My fingers traverse blankets of darkness
and find disappointment in barren bedsheets.
I roll over, because staring at your empty pillow
usually evokes banished necessities, like worthless meanderings

Thoughts pulse. I left you a sliver in the back of my head,
illuminated by the translucent glow of a Droid,
your name dancing light in nightmares until it too
disappears in the void of the frigid pillowcase.

How could I forget I no longer own you?
My lease is up on that armed shelter.
The heat's been turned off, and the bedroom's flooding
but I never got a bill and there is no insurance

that you'll ever come back, I don't
want you back. I don't. I can't forget I left you
for emotionally abusive reasons that turn the comforter
to tattered fragments of faked polyester blend. I can't.

I flip my pillowcase over to remind me,
that cold can feel better, and then I fall asleep.

Classmate Response 2, Week 3

In response to Dawn's 3rd week freewrite:


I really enjoyed this. Each line was something interesting and worth deciphering. Like the first line, "birth a child." It sounds so obligatory. Like you have to have a kid if you get married. And the tone sounds like its a necessity so I think that phrasing really ties in. In fact, I'd like for this tone to exist throughout the rest of the piece. It sounds like the speaker is obligating a need to change, but a change she (I'm going to assume its a she because she's wanting to give birth and guys can't quite do that yet) does not want to make. 

I like the specifics you have here. "factory on myrtle street" and "1,000 Egyptian threads". I feel there is a suggestion of some sexual discomfort in this piece. Secrets between sheets, a need to clean in Twilight Woods, and once again--- birthing babies.

I do not believe "they exist at bed, bath, and beyond" does anything for you here and that the line would be stronger without it. It confused me at first. 

I like the "truly, deeply, do believe." It makes it seem so obvious there is no truth or commitment in those words. I really adore this tone here, Dawn. 

This also has nothing to do with this poem, but my dog is part Shar Pei, part Beagle. Hah. Really did enjoy this. Please work on this some more, I'd like to see more of this one.

Classmate Response 1, Week 3

To Spencer's Freewrite:




I like how much you play with alliteration. I'm pretty sure I'm an alliteration junkie so when you play up on those elements I'm always sure to enjoy myself. However, I feel like there could be an overkill in some lines? "dynamite the doctors call a disorder". Initially it seems like a nice line but for the mood I think you're trying to achieve here it seems a little heavy-handed. I could understand why you would want to include the idea of the disorder but honestly, I think the line is just as strong without it. I find the two lines following this really wordy as well. 

I love the tick-tock of the playground swing. I can sort of see it and I think sandy shoes and ticking swings really work for you here. I like the images you provide. Also, I'm a set of three's girl and this is mostly personal preference so you can ignore this entirely if you like. But, you only have two images here. The speaker as a child on the playground. The speaker in college. I feel like I need another image. I'm not sure where the dead mother (God, that sounds horrible) fits on the timeline but perhaps...?

I feel like a line break could make that "smack" more powerful somehow. And I love the "unrecognizable fuzz". That just feels right. Way to work out that repetition. Hope this helps, can't think of anything else at the moment.

Calisthenics 1, Week 3

Butter I
Kathy Fagan

The doors of my town are yellow, like a canary.
It would melt if you tried to touch it.
Like mother love, it would burn your hand.
It could kill you.
Is how soft and how yellow--like Sandra Dee’s hair,
she married Mack the Knife.
Her hair like pale butter next to his full-fat
unsalted similes, pale beside true poetry
I’m told, but without them aren’t we a hard and sorry bunch?
Like unripe bananas. Like most all girls I wanted  to be.
Like her bright as a newborn chick.
Like a canary in a mine shaft.
Like satin in the grave.
The pale yellow things die first in my experience.
Easter the canaries of Woolworth's, the sign of the cross, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her make
as the motorcade passed slowly to our left,
how bracing these yellow doors are like a cool drink,
like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
every year about this time.



Butter II
Kathy Fagan

The doors of my town are yellow.
Like a canary, it would melt if you tried to touch it.
Like mother love, it would burn your hand.
It could kill you is how soft--
And how yellow like Sandra Dee’s hair.
She married Mack the Knife, her hair like
 pale butter next to his full-fat unsalted similes,
pale beside true poetry, I’m  told.
But without them aren’t we a hard and sorry bunch?
Like unripe bananas?
 like most--all girls--I wanted  to be?
like her bright as a newborn
chick like a canary in a mine
shaft like satin in the grave
the pale yellow things die first.
In my experience, Easter, the canaries of Woolworth’s, the sign of the cross
out of the corner of my eye I saw her make as the motorcade passed slowly to our left.
How bracing these  yellow doors are.
Like a cool drink.
 like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
 like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
 every year about this time.

Now we'll switch word order.


Butter III

The doors of my town are like a yellow canary,
would melt it if you tried to touch it like mother love.
It would burn your hand, it could kill you.
How soft and how yellow like Sandra Dee’s hair. Is she married?
 Mack the Knife, her hair like pale butter
 next to his full-fat unsalted similes
I’m told pale beside true poetry but without them--
a hard and sorry bunch. Aren't we like
ripe bananas, like all girls?
I wanted most to be like her.
Bright as a newborn chick, like a canary.
In a mine shaft like yellow satin in the grave.
the pale things die first.
In my experience  I saw her make Easter, the canaries of Woolworth’s,
 the sign of the cross out of the corner of my eye.
As the motorcade passed slowly to our left, how bracing,
these yellow doors are like a cool drink.
Like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
Like the light that hardly ever happens anymore.
Every year about this time.

Butter IV

My town doors are the yellow of a canary,
like it would melt if you tried to touch it.
It would burn your hand like mother love.
It is how soft and how yellow? It could kill you
 like Sandra Dee’s hair--she married Mack the Knife.
 like pale butter her hair next to his full-fat.
 Unsalted similes pale beside true poetry.
 But without them I'm told we aren't a hard and sorry
 bunch, like all unripe bananas.
 I wanted to be like most girls, like a newborn chick
bright like a canary in a mine as her shaft,
like satin in the grave.
The pale, yellow things die first in my experience: of Easter,
the canaries, the Woolsworth's sign of the cross are out of the corner of my eye.
I saw her make these yellow doors, as the motorcade passed slowly to our left.
how bracing, like a cool drink. Someone with his thumb on your forehead
like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
like every year about this time