Wrote this by blending parts of Facebook news feeds. Makes little to no sense.
Why I Cheated On You
Nothing is more delicious than simplicity
in the realm of the paranormal.
A hard job supporting new episodes
of adoration on a couch cushion.
I'm out of ideas.
This is me, telling you
that sweet potatoes could multiply
in Buffalo in a few days,
but it'll amount to what you blame
me for when the tickets sell out.
I want a clean dog like that.
I want a pure trick on my 21st.
I want to hang-on mid-argument.
Discovering laziness beneath the drama
of a girl I know. Removed myself
that moment when I realized
I was stronger than a Spanish hen.
And I built my secret empire
on a scrap of corporal hocus pocus.
Thursday, October 20
Calisthenics 1, Week 8
How a House Wife Hangs Laundry
Winter gone, my room longed for spring,
cleaning my crushing mess, remove the trash
by gathering the trinkets, gifts, and things
I could not collect and pawn for cash.
That eighty dollar Christmas watch
I half expect you to give away.
I expel a pile of hoodies, a swatch
among books, bears, and roses past their day.
And wasting the fabric on the earth
I released each armload into the sky
in a fluttering display of its worth,
I learned how well a wedding ring can fly.
And your shorts become a red flag on trees,
a banner waving to fidelity.
Winter gone, my room longed for spring,
cleaning my crushing mess, remove the trash
by gathering the trinkets, gifts, and things
I could not collect and pawn for cash.
That eighty dollar Christmas watch
I half expect you to give away.
I expel a pile of hoodies, a swatch
among books, bears, and roses past their day.
And wasting the fabric on the earth
I released each armload into the sky
in a fluttering display of its worth,
I learned how well a wedding ring can fly.
And your shorts become a red flag on trees,
a banner waving to fidelity.
Improv 1, Week 8
Improv of Li-Young Lee's "Eating Alone"
Summer with Friends, 2010
I've found a place for last year's scrapbook.
Pressed between the dictionary and the history
book, complete with primary documents. I find
the way the scrapbook pages cry, as cellophane often does,
mocks each strained grin at birthday bonanzas and drunken
barbecues, each wail makes the album hard to open.
How long did the album sit on the coffee table?
Dust films the cover, mucking the black and white
lace pattern meant for wedding albums. I liked
the cover, not for matrimony, but for candid moments
of the time we dueled on the putt-putt course
with our golf clubs brandished like javelins.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there, but I liked the way she looked
in white, and you in red. Your faces forge
each other in the snowy drifts. She smiles.
But you look off, not at the camera,
but into the fourth wall, staring down dimensions
into planes we promised we would never cross
or wring a ring, just lines that marked boundaries
implied by the edge of a polaroid.
I drag a finger into a thick line of dust
admiring the dull sheen of ignored plastic
before I slip it into place beside
the novel about our founding fathers.
Beside Merriam-Webster. In front
Tangible forget-me-nots, forgotten between
meaning and the pursuit of happiness--
what more can I, a young girl, want?
Summer with Friends, 2010
I've found a place for last year's scrapbook.
Pressed between the dictionary and the history
book, complete with primary documents. I find
the way the scrapbook pages cry, as cellophane often does,
mocks each strained grin at birthday bonanzas and drunken
barbecues, each wail makes the album hard to open.
How long did the album sit on the coffee table?
Dust films the cover, mucking the black and white
lace pattern meant for wedding albums. I liked
the cover, not for matrimony, but for candid moments
of the time we dueled on the putt-putt course
with our golf clubs brandished like javelins.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there, but I liked the way she looked
in white, and you in red. Your faces forge
each other in the snowy drifts. She smiles.
But you look off, not at the camera,
but into the fourth wall, staring down dimensions
into planes we promised we would never cross
or wring a ring, just lines that marked boundaries
implied by the edge of a polaroid.
I drag a finger into a thick line of dust
admiring the dull sheen of ignored plastic
before I slip it into place beside
the novel about our founding fathers.
Beside Merriam-Webster. In front
of a promise of another album that you and I
will not be in together. The perfect spot.
Tangible forget-me-nots, forgotten between
meaning and the pursuit of happiness--
what more can I, a young girl, want?
Sign-Inventory 1, Week 8
Li-Young Lee
Eating Alone
I’ve pulled the last of the year’s young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can’t recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way—left hand braced
on knee, creaky—to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
Eating Alone
I’ve pulled the last of the year’s young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can’t recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way—left hand braced
on knee, creaky—to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
--repetition of the "y" in the first line, "year's young"
--rhyme of the lines, "The ground is cold,/ brown and old."
--the first stanza contrasts these images of hot and cold with words like "flames" and images of red "cardinals" in composition to the "icy metal spigot."
--Both the first and second stanza open their lines discussing years past.
--the adjectives of the last line in the second stanza are lumped together and coupled with several commas to slow the reader's recitation of the line, just as the hornet is slowed.
--The third and last stanza launches into this brief remark about color: "deep green, white rice, green peas..."
--There is a repetition of the word "young" in this piece, that contrasts the image of the "creaky" old father in the second stanza.
Classmate Response 2, Week 8
In Response to David's Week 8 Freewrite:
You have an interesting concept here and I'm wondering where you fished this up from? I'm glad you love me so much or I'd be force to kill you to figure out where you stole this--I kid. I do, though, love crazy old people. That aside, I also think you handled this relatively well. Not too heavy-handed, even tone. Nice.
That said, I think this piece starts at the second stanza. You might have weird, if not, somewhat interesting things to say about trains, but whether a train attacks somewhat has little to do with the rest of the work. That's why I think you can start with, "On a day..." and changing the attack in the second line to include and become "train attack" so that we know what the speaker is referring to and so that we as readers can draw our own conclusions as to whether trains attack. I will relent that because of some of the interesting points you make in the first stanza, you can incorporate a small amount into the rest of the piece, but there is a point where you reach overkill on an idea and that first stanza as a whole does it.
I love the informative style this piece takes in contrast to the concrete images, but I feel some of the sentences could be condensed. For instance, "on a day that was both sunny and windy, she heard the news from the radio before her family could call her, and the attack that she laughed about would later pester her into insomnia and wide-eyed she would stare at walls" can become, "on a day that was both sunny and windy, she heard the news from the radio, and the train attack she laughed about would pester her into wide-eyed insomnia." I'm also debating whether we even need to know what kind of day it was...
Did her family actually serve a purpose in this piece? You go on to mention the walls later so is it ok to condense this part? There is a lot of repetition. Go ahead and cut some away, that way, each line does not get bogged down in unnecessary information.
I'm wary of funeral pyres. I'm only half-convinced. Seems... archaic in a sense? and heavy. Perhaps that's just me.
I like the negative progression of certainty here. She heard about it, maybe she heard about it, it might not have even happened.
All in all, enjoyable. Just do some condensing. Hope this helps.
You have an interesting concept here and I'm wondering where you fished this up from? I'm glad you love me so much or I'd be force to kill you to figure out where you stole this--I kid. I do, though, love crazy old people. That aside, I also think you handled this relatively well. Not too heavy-handed, even tone. Nice.
That said, I think this piece starts at the second stanza. You might have weird, if not, somewhat interesting things to say about trains, but whether a train attacks somewhat has little to do with the rest of the work. That's why I think you can start with, "On a day..." and changing the attack in the second line to include and become "train attack" so that we know what the speaker is referring to and so that we as readers can draw our own conclusions as to whether trains attack. I will relent that because of some of the interesting points you make in the first stanza, you can incorporate a small amount into the rest of the piece, but there is a point where you reach overkill on an idea and that first stanza as a whole does it.
I love the informative style this piece takes in contrast to the concrete images, but I feel some of the sentences could be condensed. For instance, "on a day that was both sunny and windy, she heard the news from the radio before her family could call her, and the attack that she laughed about would later pester her into insomnia and wide-eyed she would stare at walls" can become, "on a day that was both sunny and windy, she heard the news from the radio, and the train attack she laughed about would pester her into wide-eyed insomnia." I'm also debating whether we even need to know what kind of day it was...
Did her family actually serve a purpose in this piece? You go on to mention the walls later so is it ok to condense this part? There is a lot of repetition. Go ahead and cut some away, that way, each line does not get bogged down in unnecessary information.
I'm wary of funeral pyres. I'm only half-convinced. Seems... archaic in a sense? and heavy. Perhaps that's just me.
I like the negative progression of certainty here. She heard about it, maybe she heard about it, it might not have even happened.
All in all, enjoyable. Just do some condensing. Hope this helps.
Classmate Response 1, Week 8
In response to one of Queenie's many Freewrites for Week 8, Interrupted:
I love how you play up sounds in this piece, repeat consonants like in "motor mounting" and "snap sizzle." These sounds bounce the speaker's words when coupled with the double syllables of the first line and I automatically slip into a rhythm. I feel like the rhythm changes up a bit, muddled in the second line only to pick back up in the repetition of the third, before it finally dies out around the 5th, 6th line. This rhythm shift is not necessarily a bad thing, I'm just pointing it out.
As a writer, Queenie, you seem to like to play on the juxtaposition of interesting words and the images they create. From my own perception, this work seems to go more for a shocking and refreshing image as opposed to any real meaning before we reach the 12th line, where the focus seems to change. Perhaps consider something concrete for the reader to grasp on to. A mood is created and the images are there, but they become simply lists without something to connect it to. It's hard to understand what the speaker is referring to from what I assume is a drunken night with a man (I assume this is a man of course, what is it called--heteronormative?) who the speaker doesn't want to leave.
"Smell your sweat" though it might not be something typical to say, falls flat and almost expected in contrast to the rest of the images provided here.
I'm also rather curious about these repeated references to motor vehicles? Is the guy a mechanic? I'd like to see this played up more.
"Tiny" and "little" together in the last line slips somewhat into excessive, but I love this ending. Keep up the good work, hope this helps.
I love how you play up sounds in this piece, repeat consonants like in "motor mounting" and "snap sizzle." These sounds bounce the speaker's words when coupled with the double syllables of the first line and I automatically slip into a rhythm. I feel like the rhythm changes up a bit, muddled in the second line only to pick back up in the repetition of the third, before it finally dies out around the 5th, 6th line. This rhythm shift is not necessarily a bad thing, I'm just pointing it out.
As a writer, Queenie, you seem to like to play on the juxtaposition of interesting words and the images they create. From my own perception, this work seems to go more for a shocking and refreshing image as opposed to any real meaning before we reach the 12th line, where the focus seems to change. Perhaps consider something concrete for the reader to grasp on to. A mood is created and the images are there, but they become simply lists without something to connect it to. It's hard to understand what the speaker is referring to from what I assume is a drunken night with a man (I assume this is a man of course, what is it called--heteronormative?) who the speaker doesn't want to leave.
"Smell your sweat" though it might not be something typical to say, falls flat and almost expected in contrast to the rest of the images provided here.
I'm also rather curious about these repeated references to motor vehicles? Is the guy a mechanic? I'd like to see this played up more.
"Tiny" and "little" together in the last line slips somewhat into excessive, but I love this ending. Keep up the good work, hope this helps.
Junkyard Quote 1-4, Week 8
1. "intensive psychotherapy" --so clunky, so unpoetic
2. "It cures a multitude of ills." --Audrey Hepburn on laughing.
3. "A Tightly Knit Network..Says Network Analysis."
4. "Civilization is the limitless multiplication of unnecessary necessities." Mark Twain
2. "It cures a multitude of ills." --Audrey Hepburn on laughing.
3. "A Tightly Knit Network..Says Network Analysis."
4. "Civilization is the limitless multiplication of unnecessary necessities." Mark Twain
Free Write 0.5, Week 8
Not a freewrite I actually intended this time around. Just an old improv (of William Stafford) I wanted to edit some. Italicized are things I want to change later.
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 that Valentine's you forgot to get me a gift.
Thoughts pulse. I leave you a sliver in the back,
of junk drawers and drooping eyes, illuminated
by the translucent glow of a Droid,
your name and face dances light in nightmares
until it too disappears beyond the recesses of the backlight,
soon lost deep into the void of the frigid pillowcase. (delete?)
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 can't forget I left you
for reasons that turn the downy comforter
to tattered fragments of faked polyester blend.
I can't forget that all those times
I thought we slept in the finest linens
we were really squatting in muslin tunics,
until those too burned into wisps of hemp. I can't.
I don't forget the times you fell
silent on phone conversations as I spilled fears
into the receiver of a future I knew
might never happen, because of a past
that repeated on itself like a cross-stitch.
I won't forget the times that you yelled
"I'm still here" even though you were miles
ahead of me, in a memory of a girl
who might've stood a chance
if you met her first.
I can't forget your heat. I won't. I shouldn't.
I did.
I flip my pillow over to the cool side
to ease the tossing, and cease the turning
because I sleep better this way.
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 that Valentine's you forgot to get me a gift.
Thoughts pulse. I leave you a sliver in the back,
of junk drawers and drooping eyes, illuminated
by the translucent glow of a Droid,
your name and face dances light in nightmares
until it too disappears beyond the recesses of the backlight,
soon lost deep into the void of the frigid pillowcase. (delete?)
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 can't forget I left you
for reasons that turn the downy comforter
to tattered fragments of faked polyester blend.
I can't forget that all those times
I thought we slept in the finest linens
we were really squatting in muslin tunics,
until those too burned into wisps of hemp. I can't.
I don't forget the times you fell
silent on phone conversations as I spilled fears
into the receiver of a future I knew
might never happen, because of a past
that repeated on itself like a cross-stitch.
I won't forget the times that you yelled
"I'm still here" even though you were miles
ahead of me, in a memory of a girl
who might've stood a chance
if you met her first.
I can't forget your heat. I won't. I shouldn't.
I did.
I flip my pillow over to the cool side
to ease the tossing, and cease the turning
because I sleep better this way.
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