Dear Everyone
Here's a new post, to link to your blog poems. Perhaps we can use different threads for each assignment, if the blog site cooperates with us!
Tan
I realized too that for weds, please everyone bring in maybe two copies of the mutual use texts. And since we'll prob not get to workshop the blog poems in class (but perhaps invidually in conference) people start posting comments on line. Everyone shd post about other poems--criticisms and praise both useful of course.
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14 comments:
Hi all - I put my link th my blog poem in the comments to the other posting, but I'll put it here, too. I posted my blog poem to my own psuedo-blog
here.
I got really interested in the possibilities of hyperlinking the poem, and put in various hyperlinks that clarify/expand/complicate the poem. I'd be interested in hereing about your experience of reading the poem. Did you click the links? If so, why? If not, why? If you did click on the links, how did that affect the reading of the poem?
Thanks!
Tamiko
sorry; the link was wrong, and I can't figure out how to edit my comment. Try this:
click here
or cut & paste this url:
http://wonderinghome.blogspot.com/
Hi there! This is Jen. I've revised my in-class poem, and the assignment # 1 poem.....
(I think the comment box messes up the line spacing....)
**********
4.3
toaster oven baby window
lean dinosaur pink
vowel mini = trickster clam content
palm of moss
soaping spider licks & happy tycoon retrieved
**********
perhaps
one finger. looseleaf juliet.
dainty sanity. clover claws.
salt patrician. margarine ears.
formica laugh. xerox.
b minor. vermillion collections.
catastrophic rhubarb friends.
gypsy the lobster. mezzanine.
shampoo coin. weeps mediocrity.
as sand nuns. invade babeland.
chew mixed-meat car keys.
vanilla sheep. past-tense wrinkle.
regulation mister hen.
femur recites. cinnamon knows.
cotillion concubine swallows feather.
plasticine ran. toenail smile.
tap chalky. continents irate.
babylon moose surveillance.
shredded arterioles. mustard vanish.
lizard sauna. schoolgirl ribs erode.
albino zodiac. green arrows.
talks to me only if it will help him with others
glorified message-taker
for two months once not a word
if only forgetting him was striking a pipe on a table’s edge
still the things he tells me
Here's my diary/blog poem.
Thursday –
These days, it’s pushing my insides
with 4 a.m. whiskey and no last call in sight.
Your hand clasps the bottle,
pouring.
It’s a conscious choice
to walk out
even if you’re by my side
I’m still alone in the cab.
Always stopped at the same red light
the same bank,
same colors
remembering details
blackness under your right pinky fingernail.
extra count on the pour
I’m humming soft rock.
I’m glad there’s no way anyone but this guy can see me.
I’m tired. I’m too young to be tired.
My words don’t make enough sense.
Friday –
There’s a small discoloration in my thigh-
Probably from trying to shut the car door with my leg.
The faintness of the liquor still hangs
Left side of my mouth is all torn up
Biting.
My fingernails ache.
Remembering that I ripped those coasters last night
while discussing my take.
Worth more than it did hours before.
The local drunk celebrity –
the demise of our society – Clinton’s impeachment.
Still there exists a list
Things to do. You’re still on it because it’s hard
to white out blue paper.
All I can remember is
1. Get up and get clean.
2. Go where you should be.
3. Do what you need to do.
I remind myself to create dreams
The future.
Because you told me so and it’s easier to do it that way.
Saturday –
This guy won’t stop.
That girl won’t shut up.
I’m trapped in a world of this guy and that girl and this mirror, and I’m tasting something metallic – something all night, and all day.
It won’t go away, and I can’t sleep because in a few hours,
It will be there again.
They will be there again, this guy and that girl and this mirror.
The mirror. I wonder about breaking it. Seven years, but that can’t be true.
All there was the last night or the night before is a blur of blankness. Probably my fault, but I refuse to admit that to you right now.
It’s not in the battle that we fight.
It’s not in the jealous rages.
Not the drunk. Not the empty words. Not the signs of breaking.
Not the times one can’t see and the other can.
No. No. It’s just not the kind of things that it could have been.
It’s in the quiet.
The times when I always shut up or you always speak too much.
It when you say one thing, and I think the other.
The mirror keeps bringing me back to –
Fronts of envelopes with scribbled words
Supposed to mean something – with words.
Fragility. Passion. Craft.
So, I shut up. Meaning - Let’s not do this. Let’s stay. Let’s go. I don’t give a flying shit.
Still, we are. Still, I think.
Other things too.
I might not always stay this quiet, but who knows?
Your hand’s still going to get on that bottle eventually, and
Like I said, who knows?
Sunday –
Determined for an end.
My head captures the exact words that will… must… will…
but these words keep swallowing extra letters and fragile becomes fragrant and passion becomes panic and craft stays but
I relish in the lost willpower.
The mirror that wouldn’t budge, has become omnipresent-
And I relish willpower’s demise.
Because the last drop will eventually pour out, and the new bottle might take some time.
,
,
,, , ,
, , ,
,
Three-thirty, that is, march 30th, what year is it i buy berries(sweetly) at the market &
when i eat(how the vinegar stains the apples) , plus spicy bitter/
ness of arugula
elevator moment(s) this week: none
other observations this week:
1. Pine nuts look like hard tears.
2. Smoked salmon, tomatoes and golden raspberries have roughly the same color.
3. The 6 train is stupid + we all
PACKLIKESARDINES
chugga chugga
weekly summary: rushrushrushrushrushrusrurhuerhsuehsjfalkjw
(good luck reading THAT line aloud)
(If this is a poem.)
after , noon--
we met for americanos, muffin crumbles infinite
we talk overwhelmedness and emu eggs (specifically, how the Whole Foods in Columbus, Ohio sells huge-ass $20 emu eggs that we'd really like to try)
LET'S HAVE BRUNCH NEXT WEEK.
Next, i enter into a crowded room in which i add to the crowd
what after ,
Check (again)text messages
12:34 I am leaving work now if you'd like to get coffee
5:32 I am still here. And looking at you
7:41 Hey ya i went to the armory actually. Really tiring! Damn art.
2:44 Ya
2:39 Excellent plan
6:19 where?
6:52 where?
have you been
waited x hours in line at Trader Joe's
YOU have... NINE. saved. messages. FIRST saved message:
Hey helena i just got your message about how you would have wanted to have gone to the galway reading last week im sorry i didnt get back to you earlier but my phone is [unintelligible] i have to check if people called and then i have to check if i have any messages i'm so sorry but i couldnt have gone anyway because i was went home but i was actually wanted to go. anyway i was wondering-- maybe YOU had gone. how did it go? if you like, i'd like to
==================
(street)
Ran into Friend.
how are YOU?
how are YOU?
how are YOU?
how ARE you?
HOW are YOU? /SHUT
UP
where
has gone my brain gone
perhaps inside a computer
this week--
brainfucked a few times
fucked 0 times
THE INTERNET SCATTERS ME
very muchly i
want and
wantiwantiwantiwant
Bataille, je t'aime. Je t'aime, I want you to have your throat slashed while you violate me, the girl to whom you say: I AM THE SUN YOU ARE THE NIGHT
shower teeth computer sleep
shower teeth computer sleep
shower teeth computer sleep
computer sleep
computer sleep
,
?, .dfaawtdfljaksfas.
[insert static]
March 20 is your birthday.
On your birthday
you were telling us
going to Cuba isn’t
illegal spending money
there and participating
in the formal economy is.
I kissed you
when you said
participating.
The right to travel
insures this.
This is a human right.
An American couple
lived on a boat
in their retirement.
They were earnest.
They visited using only
their own supplies
accepting a few invitations
to share meals in homes.
A storm wrecked their boat
soon after they left.
They were rescued.
Their boat was their home.
They could not fix it
without participating
in the formal economy.
You introduced me
to your old friend.
You told him I have the same birthday as
Fidel Castro, Alfred Hitchcock,
and Annie Oakley.
Among us only
Fidel and I
are alive. When
we go to Havana
for my birthday
it will be a national holiday.
We hope Fidel will be alive.
If you are like me
you think of Hitchcock
in profile and
of his voice
but can't imagine him
having a mother
or being born.
I talked with your old friend
about how Annie Oakley hunted
to support her widowed mother
and siblings as a small girl.
She could shoot
the head off a running quail
at twelve.
She later shot
the ashes off Kaiser Wilhelm’s cigarette
and might have prevented World War II
if she had shot
him instead.
You hold my hand.
She did not want
to appear as
an aging sharpshooter
for business reasons
and lied about her age.
No birth records exist
and no one knows
if she was a child
when she married
or in what year
she was born.
I've read these rather quickly and I think that the poems that worked well did something to extract something out of the form (that I didn't know was there before), which in this case is the blog entry, however it is conceived. The nice thing about the assignment is that it makes one conceive of it.
So given that, maybe I could open up discussion of the poems at hand, with something like: how do the poems explore the form of the blog, and which ones do it well? and how do we go about making the determination. There is a large variety of material and its relation to poetry, i.e. the blog form to poetry sets up (again) an equal weight equal volume set of issues.
A start. I have some thoughts. So let's run the workshop now. Please comment on other's poems with another blog poem. But comments on these poems are useful. I'll set up a second thread for the new blog responses. But post comments to these poems in this entry? If that makes sense.
blog poem
and there after
she suffered at the hands
of her family
masterful of growing red peppers
the sanity
to buy Mustangs and Pontiacs for her boys
her dignity
her red pepper money
e equals mc squared is nothing is lost nothing gained
but knowledge accumulates
and no confidence
on the air plane they bow
people are so polite
you go into shopping mall they greet you
here people are so rude they spit
in hong kong subways are so clean
they play nice music like classical, birds chirping
here you can hardly hear what they say
in hong kong subways stop exactly on the line where people wait for them
but here
be little yourself with a little
am little self little am I
we spot blemishes
it divides me within
man with cold hands
thoughts fall some distance ahead
and I stare at it
Sunday. tired physically mentally
I don’t understand
is it my age. is it depression
is it food, exercise, or just tired
when was I not tired? how could someone not be
tired? how happy are you?
She said 90. I said 10.
Saturday.
to talk one way or another or not to talk at all
is difficult
I can’t help it
that I’m breaking boundaries that are broken all along
these lines whether helpful or not
my mother a girl
nothing fits
our relationship
between the yells
I scream like how I never did when I was young
like releasing like letting go
shooting
throwing brick through a window
long shattered
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