Reading Responses 2/27/11

Chapter 11: Subject

Making the exceptional mundane is one of the techniques discussed in this chapter. Davidson and Fraser give an example in the poem “Bigfoot Stole My Wife”. In this way, the poet talks about how his wife left him, but in a creative and almost humorous way. I really think this is interesting and fun to read and write. The next technique was The Magical Realist approach. This is something that I would be more likely to try while I’m writing. One of my favorite poets, Emily Dickenson, has a poem featured in this chapter. In her poem, she compares death to someone picking her up in a carriage. Carriage rides are typically thought of as romantic; so this comparison is really unique, unexpected, and ingenious in my opinion. I would like to try this with a topic such as love—writing about it different way as to break away from the typical or expected. I think this is something that I really should focus on in the future because I tend to use language that is too flowery and definitely expected from the nature of the topic that I would happen to be writing on.

Evening

I like the line breaks in this poem. They are kind of sharp and unexpected but the way the lines are double layered is appealing. This poem is about a father and son sitting down for dinner after gardening. I have read it a couple of times now and really cannot find a deeper meaning in the poem. I think it is simply about a father and son who work together and the day is ending. I found it odd, though, that the salad that the pair eats is only made of green vegetables and the father uses ketchup as dressing, which is rather gross. Then the boy is writing a post card to his mother. From the tone of the poem, I first assumed that the mother had left the boy and his father. The second time I read it though, I realized that postcards are what people send when they themselves leave. It’s very possible that I’m reading into the language a little too much there, but still it’s an idea. In all honesty though, I have had a very hard time deciphering what this poem really all boils down to.

Junk Yard Quotes 2/27/11

It's Jane Austen Junkyard Day.

"How quick come the reasons for approving what we like."

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."

"I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."
-best quote ever....

"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love."

Classmate Response 2/27/11

Mom

You mean the world to me
You healed my hurts when I was little
And loved me unconditionally
You sacrificed so much for me

With you open arms and loving heart
You've given me love, guidance, and strength
You support me in everything I do
And allow me to persevere
With your strength I can conquer all

You have shown me how to love unselfishly
You are the example by which I live my life
I hope someday I can be half as amazing
As the mother you are to me

Katie,

I’m sure your mother loved this poem; I know my mom would if this was something I had written for her. The danger here is sounding too much like a hallmark card. This is not really a bad thing in my opinion, though. Someone has to write those little greetings, right?? J

However, if you want this to be less flowery, I suggest you change a few aspects of it. I would rework the first stanza completely to break away from the expected. However, if you worked it creatively, maybe keep “You healed my hurts when I was little.” This is kind of a cliché “mom” type attribution, but I really believe a solid image or memory would really progress the poem. I think you should go back to a specific time that you remember your mom making you feel better and write at least your whole first stanza about it to help your readers connect with the poem.

The second stanza has abstractions galore. Try adding some more concrete images like we talking about in class.

In the third stanza, I would take the second line “You are the example by which I live my life” and expand it with a legitimate illustration of how this is the case. If you make this poem more personal, I believe you will be able to find greater depth within it.

Free Write 2/27/11

My Antoine poem. I'd love some advice here! Are these pieces too disconnected?


Evidence,
A trash can lies warped of the gray cement.
The contents of its belly liter the projects.
Discarded now,
the ladder had fulifilled its purpose.
But he didn't bother to clean after himself,
No need, he'd get what he wanted,
then split faster than a window's crack.

Evidence,
She has his white t-shirt,
shredded by her unkempt nails.
His finger prints left purple
kisses on her body.
She watches the scene behind closed lids,
the real damage is there.
Check the window, keep him out.
Don't let his breath caress her face again

Free Write 2/27/11

Part two: my busy life doesn't allow me to write as much as I want...but I do have the ending semi-planned now. Also, I've added a new intro that changes things up a bit--so sorry if you get lost while reading this.

“I’d really miss you, Walt. I know teachers shouldn’t have favorite students, but over the past year or so you really have become mine.”

I had to look away so she wouldn’t see the smile that ate my face. After gaining myself again I replied, “I could still see you, if you’d let me.”

She didn’t look real surprised that I asked. I guess a women starts to notice when a man can’t hardly form whole sentences and has to keep wiping his brow when she comes around.  Louisa didn’t really give a good answer, only bobbed her head a little bit in a “yes” sort of fashion. I think she was scared of me, but I was ten times as scared of her so I got to wonderin’ how I expected to ever marry her if the thought of holding her hand gave me a slight panic attack. Bout that time, we reached her place. Her high heels clicked up the wooden steps and I watched her walk to the door. She put her hand on the brassy knob.

“I don’t know if I’m good for you, Jett.” Her eyes got real sad and I saw ‘em start to glitter.

As quick as my boots would let me, I hopped up on that porch. “I know ya are, I’ve known it forever.”

When I remember that moment, I regret sayin’ that.

“How do you know?” She said real quickly.

Then a tear fell. What’s a man supposed to do when a woman cries? Especially when there sure ain’t a good reason to bawlin’. So real quick, my man self told me to kiss her, but I was too nervous. Instead I barely pecked my lips to hers, which hardly qualified as a kiss compared to my later ventures. It kinda brightened her up though so I was pretty proud of myself.  I didn’t say nothing else after that, just hopped off the porch and moseyed on home.

It was cold that night and the crickets were chirppin’ up a mighty storm. My papa always said they did that a night to attract themselves a mate. I didn’t believe him or nothin’ but it was nice to hear it that night as I walked down the beaten path. Willow Street is the most traveled road in the county. I have made my own permanent set of foot prints in the dry sand as I walk it daily. I never take the back roads, always the wide ones.

The days flew back like a sandstorm. I dropped out of classes and spent every moment that I wasn’t workin’ with sweet Louisa. It was a secret; but like I said, people talk. And pretty soon the whole town was startin’ to plan our wedding for us. It was kinda fun, I’ll admit. Daddy’s workers would come up to me every once in a while, pattin’ me on the back, congratulating me on such a prize, asking how good she was to me. Only the problem was, Louisa would hardly come close to me. Said I couldn’t control myself. I got myself all angry and worked up about it, but I tried to remain a gentleman.  Then, oh but then. She told me she loved me one night when we were walking through the forest. The leaves on all the trees had turned into a bright Autumn’s red. They loomed above us, swaying a whispering advice.  I felt rage build up inside of me. Why would “love” do this to a man? And why couldn’t I say it back? Cause I knew I loved her, I already told you that I did.

Reading Responses 2/20/11

Chapter 8: Form and Structure

One thing I found interesting in the chapter was the breaking down of the poem “Aubade” and his repetition of the word “no”. The first time I read the poem, I really did not pay that much attention to his repetitive use of the word (guess I should have read it a tad more thoroughly). The book lists five possible meaning of the overuse of the word “no”. I found this all interesting because I like searching for the underlying meaning(s) in texts. I appreciate when it takes a few times to read it and also when it can be interpreted to have several different meanings. The book says that instead of just ignoring the “no’s” (like I did the first time) we should “actively engage the sign, wrestle with its multifaceted contours with respect to culture, and manufacture multiple meanings with the poem.” Poetry is way more interesting when it is more than just fluff.

The most interesting poem in the chapter is Trista’s. I loved looking back to see how her poem developed. I have somewhat used this method before with Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”, which is basically my favorite piece of poetry ever. Instead of really looking at the style of writing though, I stole his imagery and morphed it into my own words and it became something really different, but it got me started so it was really beneficial to me.


 Chapter 9: Voice

I enjoyed the poem “Landscape with Saxophonist” in this chapter. It was in the category “leaping away from logic,” which is a technique I want to try and practice more. I like the line that compares blowing the saxophone the big bad wolf blowing down the little pig’s house. The poem has several different images that aren’t exactly plausible. For instance, “The discord and stridency set off avalanches.” The book says that the author “deliberately overstates the effects of the sax in orders to ironize long-established assumptions about cause and effect, rationality, and reason, positivism and the drive toward final explanation.” When I read that sentence, the reasoning behind the way the poem was written became a little clearer to me. I find it very clever and enjoyable to read.

Another line I liked in this chapter was “every rule of poetry writing is as good broken as upheld.” This really is why people enjoy reading and writing poetry some much—it’s something that allows complete freedom with little to no restrictions on what can be created.

Classmate Response 2/20/11

Ode to KellenIts strange not seeing you here
The flower vases filled with dead daisies
The movie case shut tight
It feels empty even with my life
Filling this space
Being here will never be the same
All of the fun memories we shared
School, parties, and cooking together
I put away your favorite wine
Hoping, praying that maybe you would come back
But I know in my heart
You can never return
I wonder if the Angels would be angry
If I thought of joining you?
I look for any reminder of you
But find none
You took everything with you to Ireland
Even though six days later
You would never see it again.
I miss you.
I will always cherish you.

In loving memory



I'm definitely glad that Hannah wrote a paragraph of where she was coming from with this poem before the actual piece—such a tragedy at such a young age. Hannah’s prelude allowed for me to become emotionally involved before I even read the poem. My absolute favorite part is, “I wonder if the Angels would be angry if I thought of joining you.” This line needs to go further in m y opinion. It’s so beautiful and if Hannah incorporated more of this type of language in the poem, I think it would take it to another level. I like that she made herself and Kellen older; it makes this more relatable for adults. However, if it wouldn’t be too painful, I’d really like to hear a little more of how she felt when she were younger. It would be a different poem altogether, of course. But I really think it would be interesting if we saw this through young eyes as well as through an adults. Something I would probably change would be the lines “I miss you. I will always cherish you.” Especially the “I miss you”. It is obvious from the previous lines that Hannah misses Kellen so I don’t know if it is necessary to actually say it. Maybe if the two lines weren’t so abstract they would fit the poem better. Just my opinion. Otherwise, beautiful poem Hannah!

Junk Yard Quotes 2/20/11

"I owe whatever I was in life to your hope that you would not give me up."
I stole this from the "Spoon River Anthology" by Edgar Lee Masters. I took one of the characters epitaths and used it as inspiration for my "in progress" short story.

"Sometimes I'd let the cow out and miss the school bus."
-My grandfather.

"People fall in love when they do fun things together. People fall out of love when they stop."
-My pastor.

"If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, its yours forever. If it doesn’t, then it was never meant to be."
-Yeah this is overused. But I still like it...

"Life is hard; it is harder if you're stupid."

2/20/11

Short Story: Part 1.

I have a little bit of an idea where I would like this to go, but I didn't have enough time this week to finish it in a way that I would like. So this is just the first part.

She was my teacher in school. Maybe that’s strange, maybe it isn’t. I was just sixteen, and she was eighteen. But our love was more real than mama and daddy’s.  Kids really ain’t supposed to fancy their teachers in the way I saw her. It was like I couldn’t stay in my seat when she was around, wanted to be near her. Wanted her to help me figure my times tables. And then whenever I just thought of the word “figure” I’d have to step outside cause she made me crazy and the Lord don’t approve of such thinking. That’s before I left the Lord, back then. That was before.

In that old school house by the creek in Minnesota, you had to watch where you stepped cause if ya weren’t careful the boards would fall through and you’d find yourself real embarrassed with one foot half way to hell. Also had to watch where you stepped about Louisa, cause she didn’t much care for me comin’ at her. She’d straighten my plaid collar just like mama and hand me a smile that was a hundred years old. But still, I stayed after school every day and walked her to her little apartment downtown. Our town was one of those typical run-of-the-mill places. Everybody talked about everybody, more especially everyone talked about me. That’s what happens when women get old and their husbands lose interest, they just start talking about everybody else so they don’t forget they are still worth more than some of the “scum” around these places.

 Louisa talked real polite, weather, social events around town, school. But one day , one glorious day, she started talking to me like we were friends. And that’s when I knew she was startin’ to fall, and I liked it. She had the most beautiful green eyes that God ever created and a small figure that’s pretty near fit every style of dress I’d ever seen her wear. I never could decide if she was either perfectly built, or if she had her dresses made for her. Either way it was a distraction from my studies, I’ll say. But at sixteen I was becoming far too old to be in school. Daddy needed me on the farm and book learnin’ really never did much for me. I decided I needed a way to see Louisa without goin’ to school and more. So a week or two after she became my friend, I took her home the long way so I could have some time to really talk.

“Louisa, I can’t go to school anymore,” I said, real serious like.

Her heart fell, I know it did. ‘Cause her rosy mouth kinda popped open to a little “O” shape. I imagined matching it to mine. She asked me why, and I told her.

“I’m too old, Louisa.” This time she rolled her eyes a little bit ‘cause I’m really not allowed to call her Louisa.

“No one’s ever too old to stop learning, Jett.”

And that impacted me. I wish I could say it changed me. But really it only made me want to change. I learned as I’ve grown up that to change, you have to do more than just want to.

But back to us—it wasn’t only that I was too old and really just tired of school that I wanted to quit. It was because I was tired of being Louisa’s student. I wanted to be her beau and maybe even her husband one day. How does someone go about sayin’ that to a woman anyway? I was too scared at the time so I just decided to save it for another day. Only I didn’t have too, cause Louisa started talkin’.

To be continued.............

Free Write 2/20/11

And in death is there birth, and in birth--is there death? A pall bearer is the midwife when the hearse gives birth. He takes the coffin and buries the prince in that from which he came. And so a child is born; and eternal slumber drunk from the words of a bat. And all the people want to die.


Has anyone ever told you of the Bard's song? Of the damsel who rests in a peace like a meadow in the wood? While spiders web blankets of silk across her face, and mice leave nibbles on her robes. And the people tarry on, tarry on and on and on.


A tower is only as tall as so many words. The monotony of building drones. Mortar is mad from lies, and bricks are made from jabs. The foundation is formed from crackling laughter and the window panes from a broken gasp. And the people eat deceit and lies for noon meals to curb their appetites for peace. The lady whispers breathing in rhythms. No one envies her.


Light becomes soaked with black paint. The cycle continues, life as it were. Sleeping beauty never promenades to the market, never waltzes in a turn, and never touches a man she loves just to feel that soft burn. Feathers caress her face as the people strive to live a life without strife. Yet the people ignore the princess and her eternal sleep of death.

Classmate Response 2/13/11

Does prayer work? I’d say yes; but I’m not you, I don’t know what you asked for or what you're going through. Getting the opposite sucks—that almost feels worse than not getting anything at all. I don’t know if you’re really familiar with the Bible, but it does say that when you ask for something, you should believe that you’ll receive it. It also says that “God works all things together for the good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose”. Maybe one day you’ll look back on that prayer and be like “whoah I’m so glad I didn’t get THAT now.” I don’t know if you’re familiar with the book of the Bible, Psalms. Most of them are written by King David (you know, David and Goliath) and in some of them, he pours out his anger to God; and it’s some crazy beautiful poetry in my opinion. Every time David becomes angry or feels abandoned by God and writes about it his heart changes; by the end David usually ends up writing some praises. Reading these psalms makes me think that by writing, David was able to blow off some steam and not blame God for his troubles. He eventually finds God through these poems when he feels abandoned. I don’t know what you believe about all of this, but I think it’s really cool that you wrote a little of your anger and I encourage you to keep it up because who knows what you'll find when you're finished your piece? Even if you aren’t writing beautiful work while you vent, I think it will help you feel better! And eventually some beauty and hope might spring from your anger. Good luck to you

Reading Responses 2/13/10

1.

Chasing poems—“Bishop was famous for not rushing her poems into print, and for cobbling together her texts, She would arrive at an image here, happen on a phrase there, and patiently search for ways to bring her gatherings of sound, image, and idea into subject-visible poetic form” (pg 71).

This was so inspiring to me, and at the same time disheartening. I feel like I don’t have the time to let my poems develop; I crank them out as fast as I get the idea and then abandon them because I usually don’t like what the turn into. If I took more time (or HAD) more time to let my thoughts fully develop and maybe play a little more with my words, I think I would be more satisfied with my poetry.  I gave this advice to a student I was tutoring and I think I need to actually take it myself—I told her to spend at least 15-30 minutes per day on some certain work she was struggling with. I know (or…at least I think) I can carve out at least 15 minutes a day to sit down and just free write.  Another point made in this section: “many writers believe that poems are created line by line in a sequence”. All I have to say is….guilty. And that I actually did this recently (shame on me). The book says that learning poetry means “unlearning” some ideas we learned in high school. Long process—but I think I can learn a lot by chasing poems.

2.
  

Negations and Reversals—and my brain goes why? I am too much of a logical thinker sometimes, especially when it comes to writing poetry. I don’t like making things weird because I am one of those people who want everything about anything to make sense—so this is out of my comfort zone for sure, but I believe it’s a key to good poetry. Even I don’t have any desire to read the boring every day “roses are red” spiel.  The book says “Negating, simply put, offers a technique for radically re-conceptualizing one’s subjects” (73). It also says that negating helps a poet find their subject—which is so awesome.  After writing several pieces on something that is really interesting at the time can become boring. I find that all of my poems sound the same to me. I am definitely going to try the negating method when I’m searching for a new subject. However, I think for myself I may have to work backwards—with a reversal.  Like the example “I have no word for this” was totally transformed by changing it to “I have a word for this”. If I have some words on the paper, I can more easily redefine their meaning and logic than coming up with something unobvious from midair.  

Junk Yard Quotes 2/13/11

"Some people just don't have the capacity to be kind"
Heard a guy say this in class...but I have to disagree. I think.

"I look like a skeleton, but I'm so aerodynamic"
WHAT?

"Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh and I rush to the start"
-The Scientist-Coldplay

"He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine"

"A women is like a teabag--you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water."
Eleanor Roosevelt

Free Writes 2/13/10

The Cinema

The seat is empty and forlorn,

Carpet like fabric with fraying ends encompasses yellow

Cotton that escapes from the rips and tears.

The arms rest separates me from it,

Wooden arms enclose me

Where arms of flesh previously enveloped my body.

Gun shots,

Girls shriek and find comfort buried in the front of a man’s shirt.

Flinch at the violence, refuse to wear weakness when the monster sings.

Interlock my own arms around the striped box,

Scared to place my hand inside,

It is too lonely to dip into the butter when it is alone.

The hero comes quickly,

He kills the monster, saves the princess!

A cliché predicted from the preview,

And love;

No blanket to warm my skin,

No soft breath to whisper in my ear,

No kiss to touch my lips.

I am just the monster who will never wear a crown.

My emo breakup/movie poetry. Sorry guys…

Blurry

Every day is lived in shadows,

Every movement is performed.

A reflection in a glass,

Constructed through a storm.

People see through crusted windows,

Half the story, and half its form,

Learn the start, find the last,

On a journey to be born.

-My attempt at rhyming…

Week 3

Free Writes:

Here’s a portion of what I wrote in class on Wednesday about ballet barre exercises. It’s still under construction and some of the french words may be spelled incorrectly-- (sorry!)

To dance one must tondu at the barre. Tondu tondu tondu means to stretch. Fondu would make a tondu more pleasurable. Tondu the fondu or fondu the tondu. Tondu on the fondu melt. Melt melt the meltedness of the melt. Melt the steps, melt your knees, melt your feet, if you please. Now plie means to bend. Bend your knees and demi. Demi little demi demi demi demi demi. Take a deep breath and then plunge for the grande, but don’t grip the gripping stick. Gentle grip on the gripping stick. No grip gripe. The grip should not gripe on the gripping torture grip. The ripes from the grip make you gripe grip gripe. En lier—in the air. No grip as you gripe. Let go of your senses on lier with a dance. Let go of your senses on the air in a dance.

Another repetitive sample.  This one is a little silly—not a lot of depth so I didn’t get very far with the idea . But I liked using both “pan” and “cake” and then together as “pancake” It made me really want to try some other compound words in the same way and perhaps write something that makes a little more sense:

The kids had a pancake.

A cake in a pan.

 Cake baked in a pancake.

Bake cake in a pan.

Cake cake cake bake a baked cake cake.

Eat the pancake.

The caked pan of pan of pancake cake.

Junkyard Quotes:

“It’s not just about where you’re going, but also about who you listen to on the way.”

-I heard this on the radio promoting listeners to tune in to their station. I felt like it could be read a little deeper, though.

“If I was forced to kiss him, I would throw up before my lips touched his mouth”

-um. I think this was a little funnier in the context rather than standing alone.

“You can swim with a swollen face.”

“Yeah, it will help me float.”

“I relive my days in the middle of the night.”

-Yes I stole this from a song. But I like what it meant…made me think a lot about dreams…

"You just don't look good."

Can be taken in many different ways...

Reading Response for “Writing Poetry”

The recursive method: Though I did enjoy experimenting with it in class, I believe I preferred the first example we looked at, rather than the one about Napolean. (Unfortunately I can’t remember the name of either). In chapter 4, however, I did like Steins poem about “Sweet Tea” What I really liked about it was how “Sweet tea” sounds like “sweetie” and “tray sure” like “treasure” I had to reread the poem to actually get that, and I liked it. There is a reason for the words. I like that it isn’t empty writing. I would love to try this strategy on my own.

Speaking of own my own—I have really been thinking about what style I prefer to write in. I believe I have always compiled both style and voice together in my head. It hasn’t occurred to me that I can try on someone else’s style and yet perhaps still keep my own voice.  Just as I can try on a cowboy hat and boots but yet still have my same body. Another misconception I had was that I was either a born poet or not—I never thought of it as a skill to learn. I liked this code—“to understand any given style, then, we must study it closely, honor its multiplicity, and investigate the various contexts that shape its character and give it significance and appeal” In other words, writing takes research. Like anything—it takes work and persistence to be good at it.

Reading Response for “Dib Dab”

Maybe it’s my inexperience at reading poetry—but this poem made no sense to me. Everything jumped all over the place and I unfortunately couldn’t really find a relation between each segment. Possibly I don’t know enough about the references made—or maybe it’s not even supposed to make sense? But since I have pretty much no clue what the Beatty is talking about…I really did not enjoy reading this poem. If anyone understands it…please enlighten me!

What I did like (and what we were really supposed to be observing this week) is the style. It’s consistent. While I do not think that I will ever find myself writing this way, I appreciate that Beatty’s structure is different than a typical “poem.”  Beatty’s bio says that his style and structure celebrates “lightness, motion, and skill.” I agree with this lightness and definitely agree about the motion and skill—it’s just not a skill that I prefer to read or analyze. Maybe in a few years I look back and appreciate Beatty’s “skill”, but for now I think I really don’t want to read it anymore! Sorry Professor Ellison… J

Classmate Response:

Hope is the strings
that keep me holding on
like a mere puppet

The hands are yours,
shaking as they do,
too afraid to put me down.
Spinning in circles
while the strings intertwine
between love
and hate

Dancing on the stage
in front of the crowd,
yet dying behind closed curtains,
as I am becoming broken
from being tossed around
for too many years.

Once I am near
to the end,
you find me shredded into
shattered pieces,
the strings almost ripped
all the way off again,
and so you pick me up,
analyzing every way to handle me,
still too afraid to drop me.

Slowly you paint my smile back on
and glue together the broken pieces.

Just as I start to come back to life
you feel relieved.

Then once again
you drop me.

I absolutely love the concept of this poem. It’s so intriguing and creepy—creepy in a good way that is. The bones of this poem are really good, but I think it should be spiced up a bit in a few places. For instance; the first line “Hope is the strings that keep me holding on” We’ve all heard “puppet strings” so why not try using something a little different? A little more original, a little more suspenseful even. I love the line “slowly you paint my smile back on and glue together the broken pieces” While I really like it, (especially the painting on the smile!!!) I would further expand it. Give your readers a little more of an image to work with since obviously you’re great at coming up with them!

My favorite part is “Dancing on the stage/in front of the crowd,/yet dying behind closed curtains,/as I am becoming broken /from being tossed around/for too many years.” Oh, this is so ingenious. I wouldn’t change a single speck of the stanza; it’s amazing in my opinion! Over all, I really enjoyed this poem, even though it was sad. I would love to read even more.