Week 13, Freewrite 1

I wonder if it’s time for a woman
like I wonder at the fullness of cabbage and
calenders, and if one can ever be learned
in the ways of birds. Snakes never were
evil, merely coveted for new skins, like I
for long legs and etymology. I found ants made in
my likeness, thoraxes bending to my will,
to my crumbs. My friend, once young, tried
to train a tick to eat cookies. The tick kicked
leg from chocolate chip, like some dog urinating.
Days later, we found it suffocated or starved,
that leg plucked from body, towering from a
pile of sugar like some Dido, some deity, some
sacrifice. Between my thumb, it flailed like
some snake in the wind, until I dropped
my last crumb to ground.

Week 13 Junkyard Quotes

All you've had lately is a bad idea. -Kayla
Old elephants limp off to the hills to die. -Fear and Loathing
They're smell-fucking me. -Mom
There's no man on his face. -Matt
Baby, you ain't old enough to pull my hair. -Aunt B (to her one-year-old grandson)

Improv 1, Week 6

"5 AM" -John Poch

People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
--

People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
The fourth is for that man on the side of the
street to stop yelling Shakespeare at car windows,
fudging through distilled pentameter, swaying to
monologues of Ophelia and Portia, comedies
soon becoming some sick tragedy. His
fingers are wrapped in shreds, his hat greased.
We could call his memory good, his performance
just shy, but he skips the third Act as a rule.
He found a great volume of Billy’s sonnets
and plays in the dumpster on 3rd.
With a sense of literary morality, he
memorizes lines before burning pages over toes.
But one page, he tucked into the fold of this thirty
pocket coat—one page crinkles it’s warmth to
his chest. Though shredded, he slips it out to read
I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Freewrite 1, Week 6

In my father’s kitchen, perched on the checkered, cigarette burned tablecloth, perches a glass rooster, won at a local fair. The rooster stands two feet by one, two glass talons glazed to one another, softened by air and artist. Base to breast, the rooster is filled with spiced peppers—bell or habanera—each color bleeding like feathers to the next. When planting peppers in Georgia, plan two to three months to mature. Like me, most peppers require a fair amount of space. They need room to blossom and set fruit. Groom to ward disease and wireworms. They won’t tolerate frost and bell produces less fruit than hot, but look like kindergarten finger-paints. When raising a rooster, provide a few hens—no more than eight. Allow plenty of feed, water, and space. Stuff with bell peppers to soothe indigestion. Pride on kitchen counter as morning lights the kitchen. Eat around centerpiece during Salisbury and corn--roosters are social creatures.

Week 8, Response

I enjoyed the couplet form of Trethewey’s poem, “Theories of Time and Space.” The physical space between each couplet allowed a bit of breathing room for the reader, or a slight subconscious pause or slowed pacing that allows the somber reflection necessary to commemorate history and homelands. There are two hard stops at the end of the couplets—one at the end of the first stanza, and one to conclude the poem. These moments present the only hard reflections or slammed effects of stopping—when the poet first identifies her argument (“there’s no going home”), and then later supports or depicts her argument with the other stanzas. These two hard stops frame the poem as metaphorically as the photograph “waiting” for a reader’s “return” to the poem and the nostalgia. The two hardstops are further reinforced when juxtaposed by the other eighteen lines that intentionally spill content to the next line or stanza with mid-phrase enjambments or softer punctuation. These softer lines allow for a motion of the poem that rapidly reflects the motion of the piece (i.e. “mile markers ticking”).

Improv 2, Week 10

“Womb to Tomb Pantoum” by Kathy Fagan

She was born, like so many of us,
with slightly webbed feet, three
freckles to right wrist , and her
mother’s preference for wheat bread.
She whistles Let It Be
when squeezing cantaloupes to
check for their ripe, springy countenance.
Her nose, once broken in a grade school
frisbee tragedy, had that swift decline
of empires. But her fingers were her
glory, shaped for pianos and carpentry,
campaigning for the propriety of
spools, myths, and exposures.

Improv 1, Week 10

“Darling,” by Kathy Fagan

You were just that
gone, the taper of your
coat whistling louder than
fish from my youth—wriggling
past worms and bubblegum,
cause Wrigleys always works
better than Doublemint. Your
loaf to wood thrashed to me like
my father, his ear pierced in
rust. His tetnis almost stung more
than you, his net wider and
better arched. When I dove
into the wake of another
putterboat, eyes and toes
spread, my father’s voice as
muddled as concertos, I
saw the infinity of my craft.

Response, Week 10

I’m interested in Fagan’s indenting form for the untitled “No cakes for us…” piece. The form follows sets of unrhymed tercets, where every other line is heavily indented. Due to the tercet format, this creates a structure where the middle lines of odd stanzas are indented, and the first and third lines of even stanzas are indented, presenting an alternating or continually inversing form. This structure of the poem forces readers to physically mimic the movement described on stage (passing the “lampblack,” filing “the claws down,” “les rats” dancing and “huddl[ing]). The falls to indented lines (with capital letters) offer a harder impact, like the thudding of steps on the stage floor, whereas the following backtrack to a longer line emphasizes the violent move of the history or the forced reflection on the historical art. The slamming is also emphasized with short lines and heavy punctuation (“Still. / I prayed only / Once.”). The motion of the form also aids in juggling the material of the opera house—rats, performance, luck, Hades, science—and also mimics the indecisiveness of the speaker as she contemplates the peridition of her fellow performers (“Doll. Whore. Clown. Corpse.”). Finally, the alternating forms as the indentions move from 121 to 212 forms demonstrate the alternating persona held by the forms of the poems, and by the characters within.

Freewrite 2, Week 10

When younger, I thought bubbles
were like crystal balls. Each held
another dimension, a different future.
With each pop on tongue or asphalt,
another you disintegrates to soap.
Blame this fancy on Cinderella,
with her carmines and azures glossing
over stepmothers and mop water.
With one light skip into a sphere,
you could become a watercolorist,
a techno master, opera singer, or
gourd carver. With each cat swipe,
you returned as a divorce lawyer,
a mechanic, an administrative assistant.
My younger cousin couldn’t blow bubbles,
his lips to closely perched to wand,
juice dribbling cheeks. Our parents never tried.

Freewrite 1, Week 10

When younger,
I imagined aliens
watching our world

like TV. They would think
cars the higher life forms,
with so many colors and sizes,

weaving across old sentiments.
We’re proud to serve a world
in motion, I once read on an

interstate advertisement. How
strange to think of our
motion in a car’s motion on a

globe’s piteous rotation.
The image too boring to
liken to ants. How those aliens

would shriek when awkward
shaped lumps would lumber
from metal specimen.

Symbiotic or parasitic?
they would ask, and I,
though young and insightful,

would not know the answer.

Junkyard Quotes, Week 10

Alcoholics are sad and not interesting –Kim
Do you ever look at a kid, and know they won’t be able to read? –Kim
Nuns lie a lot. –Hipchen
Babe, give me your knife and strippers! –Chris (in reference to emergency construction)
Why have intercourse when you can have outercourse? –Kayla (aka K-Bizzle)

Response, Week 9

Estes's first line indentation in “Nevers” serves several purposes. First, like many other pieces in the Tryst collection, the form creates a more violent typewriter effect for readers when they reach to read the next line. This violent effect often mimics or reflects the harsh content that has otherwise been subdued (the Hiroshima bombing in “Nevers” or the fratricide in “Via Sacra”). In this particular piece, the indentation is not as severe as many other pieces, and appears the standard half-inch indentation used in prose writing. This creates a visual effect of a fictional elaboration or a critique of the matter discussed, well suited for the historical rendition of the operas and the Hiroshima bombing. The physical effects of reading also reflect the wistfulness of regrettable history detailed in the poem—lost loves and wartime efforts—as readers are forced to physically move their heads further back (or left) than they originally began. This motion creates an almost reluctant revisiting to the “past” of the page.

Freewrite 2, Week 9

Yesterday I saw a street sign for a speed limit—8 ½ mph.
Today, my brother glues a knife to a spork,
calls it a sponoof. He whispers over dried
glue strings, Smart people have more
zinc and copper in their hair. I Google it—
it might be true. Our parents played
Egyptian Rat Screw, slamming King David and
Charlemagne. Whoever wins will know
the binder of travels is called an aglet. Just like
our frenula restrict us. Just like you will wait
two weeks of your life at a traffic light. Truckers—
truckers need more cards and utensils and zinc.
Enough with fossil fuels and those damn aglets.

Freewrite 1, Week 9, Euthanasia Part II

Oh shuga, you just don’t understand. She’s my
baby. She was there for two miscarriages, car
crashes, when I lost my job, went in the nut house,
came back for tea. She’s never had fur above her nose,
bless her heart, but she always let me kiss that spot.
She always smelled a bit like that, yes. Sure, she
dropped that weight months ago. Oh honey, I don’t
think so. She can’t be… well, ya know. Movin’ on,
so to speak. I’ve had her since she was just a little
runt. She always snuggled between my feet, and she
still squeezes there durin’ a lightnin’ storm. No,
you’re wrong. Just plain wrong. You mixed up the
chart. My baby’s just not ready to die. Besides, you
think I should kill her? That’s not my decision. If the
Lord wants to take her, He can. Bless her poor little heart.

Improv 2, Week 9

“You Can Tell” by Angie Estes

if fish are fresh by the way
their bodies arch, tails flipped up
--
You can tell it is Monday, or Tuesday,
Thursday. A quick bike to the corner
Backerei, curving streen signs and chain links.
Order an Oma, bitte. An Oma. A pastry of
powder, or better, a chocolate Opa.
They mean grandparents, his and hers. My
favorite words, how their names
plump a mouth to the surprise of fingers and
assonance. Plump like granny’s biscuits
when she still handmade them, before
frozen Pillsburys and Atkins. Plump like
Germans over ice cream and frites plump.
Plump. Sounds like the pigeons on my
windowsill, too admiring how it folds to
me, top leaning over to plump a
kiss to forehead. The wind, shrieking of bikers
below, curl to edge my Opa to pieces, the
crumbs thudding on the floor, loud
enough for neighbors to hear.

Improv 1, Week 9

“Ole” by Angie Estes (form from Tretheway)

My grandmother wouldn’t
sit near the eel that spit its grease
from the frying pain, said she’d
seen them come back
to life.

My grandmother never learned to
swim, fretting on cruise ships and in

river tubes. She cried when my mother
threw me in a pool without

floaties. At fifteen, we circled a birthday
table. My mother took the ring he

gave her, but closed the box. It’s in her
third shelf, carats still glinting stockings.

He murmured in her ear When the youngest is
eighteen, I’m gone. A joke. Get it?

You have to say Get it? or people don’t, my
sister told me—nineteen, in our

father’s basement. She makes less sense than my
phone, that tells me whore is misspelled.

Should be shore, snore, where, whorl, or whole.
At the bottom, it lists whores.

Junkyard Quotes, Week 9

They think all you do is drink and whore around. –Hipchen
Life is a bitch depending how you dress her. –Kanye West, “You Can’t Tell Me Nothin’”
It seemed almost a double darkness. –Roots
Lent is like a mirror. –Random church sign
Ties are like man-jewelry. --Katy

Improv 2, Week 8

“Southern History” by Natasha Tretheway

Before the war, they were happy, he said,
quoting our textbook. (This was senior-year

history class.) The slaves were clothed, fed,
and better off under a master’s care.
--
Before the war they were happy. They
were fed, housed. At night their beds
warm and bellies full on more than
meatloaf. Their hair pressed in morning
they dole biscuits and bacon, newspapers and
lunch bags wrinkling louder than
thought. The thoughts of today ring,
clamber, clatter. My dress hugs empty
hips, their plump lips, pinched cheeks.
Gardens oiled as well as a
factory, self-sufficient as a consumer’s
profit. War. No war worse than his
backhand, runways sparking the
scruff of his beard. He refused to shave,
knew if chafed, knew why I burned his
eggs each morning. Why my children don’t
ask my help with their homework.

Improv 1, Week 8

“Myth” by Natasha Tretheway
Form of, and the line: “I was asleep while you were dying.”


I was asleep while you grew, your toes
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking, scars
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
women, their bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
no wider, but bigger in the morning said, No, not again.

No wider, but bigger. In the morning, you said, No. Not again.
Women. Bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own,
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking. Scars.
I was asleep while you grew.

Freewrite 2, Week 8

In the South, blacks are killers. Wasps,
scourging for bodies. Chemicals clinky as
aphids banter them. That whore has hundreds.
Hundreds of eggs injected like missiles
into pre-carcasses. They don’t scream, but
eat and eat themselves, gorging on a last meal
of chlorophyll. An egg, seductive as pheromones,
bulges beneath the belly of another. Bastard, you
may call, but this surrogate won’t live. No, like so many,
this sphere explodes your limitations, implodes your
intestines like dinner-time. Abandoned by the mother
in nature, it crunches lungs as easily as thoraxes.
Ready for the bright, it hollows fight or flight and
pringles its way towards another assassination.

Freewrite1, Week 8, Euthanasia Part III

Wake up, lick my mother, warg a little tail for her,
run outside, sniff pine and bird feather dust, graze a muzzle
to bark. Lift a leg to the hot salute of the morning. Run inside,
beg for kibble, get heartworm treats instead. Lick my leg, floop
a wonk midair, kamikazi style, chew a shoe, crawl in bed, nibble her
ears again, window light chops her face blue and brown, breakfast time,
they call hers cereal, too cold to plink, and slucks like cardboard.
Lucky day, maxi pads and coffee grinds, the munch of my kennel.
Lick my leg, craw a bone (tastes like chicken), run outside, scruff the yard,
crawl behind sofa with a sock, chew a shoe, thud car keys. Color flashes—
gray. Lick her toes, lick my thigh, run outside. Chase Milla down the
street, her tail bobbing in shadow. Wake up, creak to stand, pee outside,
hobble in, that thigh still hurts, water moots and her buttons splint between
teeth. Mattress grains, lick her hand, nuzzle her tummy to sleep. Clink to
the vet, the whirs stink of sweat and shaved hair. Pricks, pricks, gruffs,
that whore they call a muzzle. That thigh still hurts. Fingers poke and peel,
slicing fur from skin. I’m skened to a table. They amble, amble, whisper cancer.

Junkyard Quotes, Week 8

I never had an inkling before, I didn’t know what to do with it. –George Lopez
It was always and everywhere the same. –eCore history lesson
The snowman’s thorax. –Davidson
It’s the lost art of loafing/you don’t know how to loaf. –Charles
Did you see that cow that just jogged by? -Kayla