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.