Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Why Won't You Just Go Away?
foot slips back
as I step forward
her frigid breath burns
my open eyes
blink.blink.blink
a flowing response freezes.
absent is the warm deluge
that caresses, nurtures, and colors
the world.
in it's place
her solid tears cling transparent
to bend, bruise and break
branches.
it's cruel, callous, uncouth
the way she never leaves
continuing on
in her constant torrent
of frozen vapor.
as I step forward
her frigid breath burns
my open eyes
blink.blink.blink
a flowing response freezes.
absent is the warm deluge
that caresses, nurtures, and colors
the world.
in it's place
her solid tears cling transparent
to bend, bruise and break
branches.
it's cruel, callous, uncouth
the way she never leaves
continuing on
in her constant torrent
of frozen vapor.
Monday, January 25, 2010
RR- Simile and Metaphor, Writing and Knowing, The Music of the Line
RR- Simile and Metaphor
“If such a world were possible, It would be a severely impoverished one.” Pg. 94
“But in surprising ones that reveal new connections or cast a different angle of light on an idea or experience.” Pg. 94
“Good metaphors and similes make connections that deepen, expand and energize; they stimulate the imagination.” Pg. 94
“but now it’s a simile that, if it turns up in your poem, should be sent to the Toxic Language Dump- a place we’ve invented for all those expressions that are deadly for the art.” Pg. 95
“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
The same person who comes back.” Pg. 96
RR- Writing and Knowing
“We’ve been told again and again to write about what we know, but we don’t trust that advice.” Pg. 19
“This is were we begin, by looking over our own shoulders, down our own arms, into our own hands at what we are holding, what we know.” Pg.21
“Good writing works from the simple premise: your experience is not yours alone, but in some sense a metaphor for everyone’s.” Pg. 21
“But our daily experience s, our dreams and loves and passionate convictions about the world, won’t be important to others- to potential readers of our poems- unless we’re able to transform the raw material of our experiences into language that reaches beyond the self-involvement of that person standing at the window…” Pg. 21
“If it worked for Whitman and Dickinson, for Williams and Forche and Dove, it can work for you.” Pg. 24
RR- The Music of the Line
“There are no real rules for line breaks.” Pg. 105
“At first you’ll feel very much at sea, but gradually, by experimenting and listening, and by noticing how lines works for other writers, you’ll begin to gain a sense of control.” Pg. 105
“Nothing storms out of these perfectly balanced lines.” Pg. 109
“These and other line breaks cut across the normal flow of sentences and are disorienting at times, mimicking and recreating the powerful emotions the writer wishes to convey.” Pg. 111
“The poem is an outpouring that allows the reader no opportunity to stop and consider.” Pg 111
“If such a world were possible, It would be a severely impoverished one.” Pg. 94
“But in surprising ones that reveal new connections or cast a different angle of light on an idea or experience.” Pg. 94
“Good metaphors and similes make connections that deepen, expand and energize; they stimulate the imagination.” Pg. 94
“but now it’s a simile that, if it turns up in your poem, should be sent to the Toxic Language Dump- a place we’ve invented for all those expressions that are deadly for the art.” Pg. 95
“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
The same person who comes back.” Pg. 96
RR- Writing and Knowing
“We’ve been told again and again to write about what we know, but we don’t trust that advice.” Pg. 19
“This is were we begin, by looking over our own shoulders, down our own arms, into our own hands at what we are holding, what we know.” Pg.21
“Good writing works from the simple premise: your experience is not yours alone, but in some sense a metaphor for everyone’s.” Pg. 21
“But our daily experience s, our dreams and loves and passionate convictions about the world, won’t be important to others- to potential readers of our poems- unless we’re able to transform the raw material of our experiences into language that reaches beyond the self-involvement of that person standing at the window…” Pg. 21
“If it worked for Whitman and Dickinson, for Williams and Forche and Dove, it can work for you.” Pg. 24
RR- The Music of the Line
“There are no real rules for line breaks.” Pg. 105
“At first you’ll feel very much at sea, but gradually, by experimenting and listening, and by noticing how lines works for other writers, you’ll begin to gain a sense of control.” Pg. 105
“Nothing storms out of these perfectly balanced lines.” Pg. 109
“These and other line breaks cut across the normal flow of sentences and are disorienting at times, mimicking and recreating the powerful emotions the writer wishes to convey.” Pg. 111
“The poem is an outpouring that allows the reader no opportunity to stop and consider.” Pg 111
Eminence
Standing on the edge of this cliff. Timid.
Tremulous waters below, lapping at the stone.
My quaking feet knock pebbles in the foaming
fingers that reach up, trying to grasp at my ankles.
He is down there. He’s asking me to jump,
To collapse into his unyielding, rock steady grip.
I shuffle back from the precipice, the boundary, the brink.
Unsure of his dependability, his stability.
If I jump, I may stumble I may crash. I may die.
Or I might just miss his arms completely.
But if I don’t, I’ll never find him, never join him.
And so with gravel crunching underneath me,
I soar.
Tremulous waters below, lapping at the stone.
My quaking feet knock pebbles in the foaming
fingers that reach up, trying to grasp at my ankles.
He is down there. He’s asking me to jump,
To collapse into his unyielding, rock steady grip.
I shuffle back from the precipice, the boundary, the brink.
Unsure of his dependability, his stability.
If I jump, I may stumble I may crash. I may die.
Or I might just miss his arms completely.
But if I don’t, I’ll never find him, never join him.
And so with gravel crunching underneath me,
I soar.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
RR-Images
“We are all haunted by images, both light and dark.”
‘Magic. That’s what an image should do, produce a bit of magic, a reality so real it is ‘like being alive twice’’’
“ Poets need to keep all five senses- and possibly a few more- on continual alert, ready to translate the world through their bodies, to reinvent it in language.”
“Miles away and years later, someone-a reader- closes her eyes and experiences it.”
“images are the rendering of your bodily experience in the world; without them, your poems are going to risk being vague and imprecise, and they will fail to convey much to a reader.”
‘Magic. That’s what an image should do, produce a bit of magic, a reality so real it is ‘like being alive twice’’’
“ Poets need to keep all five senses- and possibly a few more- on continual alert, ready to translate the world through their bodies, to reinvent it in language.”
“Miles away and years later, someone-a reader- closes her eyes and experiences it.”
“images are the rendering of your bodily experience in the world; without them, your poems are going to risk being vague and imprecise, and they will fail to convey much to a reader.”
Monday, January 18, 2010
Phasmids
My pen has sprouted legs and is now prancing across the page
Like it’s an insect, the ones that look like twigs.
It’s writing those things from my head, the ones I’ve been unable to construct words for.
I can’t make it stop.
You are watching it, spilling my brains across the page in inky spatters .
I see you look at it, and then at me
And as you run towards the door
Away from me
I close my eyes and imagine you running towards me.
Was it the pen? or
Was it something I said?
Like it’s an insect, the ones that look like twigs.
It’s writing those things from my head, the ones I’ve been unable to construct words for.
I can’t make it stop.
You are watching it, spilling my brains across the page in inky spatters .
I see you look at it, and then at me
And as you run towards the door
Away from me
I close my eyes and imagine you running towards me.
Was it the pen? or
Was it something I said?
Misstep
Misstep
Racing to get ready for class
distracted by
Three onyx footprints
Dancing across the ivory
White of my foot
I pull on my socks
Covering the inky addition
Tying my black chucks
I race into the blinding January sun
Slipping on ice,
I curse their lack of traction.
Racing to get ready for class
distracted by
Three onyx footprints
Dancing across the ivory
White of my foot
I pull on my socks
Covering the inky addition
Tying my black chucks
I race into the blinding January sun
Slipping on ice,
I curse their lack of traction.
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