Friday, February 19, 2010
Junkyard Quote 6, Week 7
"I'm going to steal your Bones." - my boss at Turner saying to the other intern that she's going to steal the DVD of the show Bones that she was working on and let her do another show.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Junkyard Quotes 1-5, Week 7
"If I get nervous, I hold on to Jesus." - Kate Gervais talking about the rosary on her rearview mirror.
"...for some antihistamine reason." - Dr. Lipoma recovering from illness.
"I loved [Mel Gibson] so very much before he went quite mad." - Dr. Lipoma (for no real reason).
"Once she finds out that we have no power, we're fucked." - Tony Soprano talking to his wife about their daughter.
"In the early days of Facebook" - a student in Satan Comedy class.
"...for some antihistamine reason." - Dr. Lipoma recovering from illness.
"I loved [Mel Gibson] so very much before he went quite mad." - Dr. Lipoma (for no real reason).
"Once she finds out that we have no power, we're fucked." - Tony Soprano talking to his wife about their daughter.
"In the early days of Facebook" - a student in Satan Comedy class.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Junkyard Quotes 1-5, Week 6
1. "architecture of the dead" - Dr. Erben discussing the work of H.D. Thoreau
2. "cup o' gum" - overheard in Grammar class
3. "They took the itchy stitches out of my butt" - medical show
4. "World's Dumbest Lovers" - topic of Valentine's Day episode of The Smoking Gun
5. "Men are mysogenistic man-pigs" - Savannah Smith discussing the topic of one of her Fall 2009 final papers
2. "cup o' gum" - overheard in Grammar class
3. "They took the itchy stitches out of my butt" - medical show
4. "World's Dumbest Lovers" - topic of Valentine's Day episode of The Smoking Gun
5. "Men are mysogenistic man-pigs" - Savannah Smith discussing the topic of one of her Fall 2009 final papers
Improv/Imitation 2, Week 6
"Dear Reader"
What could I write that you have not already heard
in some form or another, though perhaps not in my
own personal words that slip "trippingly off the tongue,"
as Hamlet might inquire of an actor?
Perhaps you are an actor with your curtain rising and
never falling on the words of greater speakers than
those I could possibly give you to read or admire
in the light of the sound stage behind the director's
ever-watching, wary, leaning eye.
Perhaps you are the director, leering at that light
and willing it to drop as you would have it, though
you know that you can never be like Shakespeare,
and most certainly not like Hamlet. He was too much
your superior and mine to warrant a real consideration.
Or so the canon will eventually say.
Perhaps you are Hamlet, playing upon your own life's stage
as though maddened like a horror film supervillain trapped
by the hero behind a stage of faulty wiring and sparked
electrical outlets. Maybe, despite all your efforts to make
a show of insanity, your mind really has gone the way of the
flattened hills that used to be your hometown, your castle,
your never-ending reading adventure.
What could I write that you have not already heard
in some form or another, though perhaps not in my
own personal words that slip "trippingly off the tongue,"
as Hamlet might inquire of an actor?
Perhaps you are an actor with your curtain rising and
never falling on the words of greater speakers than
those I could possibly give you to read or admire
in the light of the sound stage behind the director's
ever-watching, wary, leaning eye.
Perhaps you are the director, leering at that light
and willing it to drop as you would have it, though
you know that you can never be like Shakespeare,
and most certainly not like Hamlet. He was too much
your superior and mine to warrant a real consideration.
Or so the canon will eventually say.
Perhaps you are Hamlet, playing upon your own life's stage
as though maddened like a horror film supervillain trapped
by the hero behind a stage of faulty wiring and sparked
electrical outlets. Maybe, despite all your efforts to make
a show of insanity, your mind really has gone the way of the
flattened hills that used to be your hometown, your castle,
your never-ending reading adventure.
Improv/Imitation 1, Week 6
"People want four things."
But Larwrence E. Man wants sixteen,
while Mary W. Man wants only two.
Whose most lighted-from-inside skeleton
can swipe like a hammer through any one
person's streaming arms?
They reach like his son reached for
the only baseball he owned, playing
with the only father he owned, whose
glove obscured the only hand he owned.
She only reads stories by authors
whose names begin with D, though the
one and only Dostoyevsky still favors
her when she flips his pages like the
hairs of her only daughter, upon
the pillow of the only other bed
in the only other bedroom in the house.
But Larwrence E. Man wants sixteen,
while Mary W. Man wants only two.
Whose most lighted-from-inside skeleton
can swipe like a hammer through any one
person's streaming arms?
They reach like his son reached for
the only baseball he owned, playing
with the only father he owned, whose
glove obscured the only hand he owned.
She only reads stories by authors
whose names begin with D, though the
one and only Dostoyevsky still favors
her when she flips his pages like the
hairs of her only daughter, upon
the pillow of the only other bed
in the only other bedroom in the house.
Strategy Response, Week 6
In his poem "Simon Peter," John Poch interestingly incorporates both poetic and Biblical elements. Though classical in the sense that the Bible is written in verse, contemporary poetry often eschews religious meaning in any of its subjects, particularly such drastic topics as Poch takes on in this poem. Not only does the poem consider ramifications and rewards of Christianity, but it does so from the first-person voice of one of Christ's apostles, Simon Peter.
The poem is separated into two sections, the first depicting the night that Jesus was captured by the Romans and brought to trial. As Jesus predicted, Simon Peter denies him three times before the rooster crows. The second part shows Peter's reaction upon hearing from Mary Magdalene that Jesus has risen again, this time his emotion both starkly different and yet oddly similar. For example, in the first section, the "I" (presumed to be Simon Peter in the context of the poem) denies his association with Christ and even makes light of the fact that the men with whom he speaks mistake him for an apostle. He stays and jokes with them until dawn, when he hears the rooster crow, at which time the imagery gives the reader the distinct feeling of regret: "We gossiped till the cock crowed, / his head a small volcano raised to mock stone." Peter expresses initial levity in speaking with the men who accused him, but as soon as he hears the rooster, he imagines its destructiveness and the implications of his denial of Christ. Likewise, the second section expresses his joy upon realizing that Jesus has resurrected, and yet a similar tone of darkness hangs over the poem, as the very first line expresses doubt: "Who could believe a woman's word, perfumed / in death?" He does, however, come to believe Mary and runs to the grave, where he finds no body. Believing someone has stolen his master, he sneaks away to weep and upon seeing Jesus later that evening sneaks away again to the sea, where so many of his lessons were learned. Again, despite Peter's joy at Christ's return, the poem ends very somberly: "The fire before me, the netted fish / behind. I'm carried where I will not wish."
Therefore, John Poch incorporates poetic and Christian ideas very well into his poem "Simon Peter" and even expresses the sincerety with which his apostles worshipped him through the first-person voice of Simon Peter himself and two very significant Biblical moments in the fisherman's life. The poem also does not ultimately decide for or against religion, as it expresses in both sections joy and regret in terms of belief in Jesus. Interesting that a contemporary poet could so easily mesh two seemingly opposite themes.
The poem is separated into two sections, the first depicting the night that Jesus was captured by the Romans and brought to trial. As Jesus predicted, Simon Peter denies him three times before the rooster crows. The second part shows Peter's reaction upon hearing from Mary Magdalene that Jesus has risen again, this time his emotion both starkly different and yet oddly similar. For example, in the first section, the "I" (presumed to be Simon Peter in the context of the poem) denies his association with Christ and even makes light of the fact that the men with whom he speaks mistake him for an apostle. He stays and jokes with them until dawn, when he hears the rooster crow, at which time the imagery gives the reader the distinct feeling of regret: "We gossiped till the cock crowed, / his head a small volcano raised to mock stone." Peter expresses initial levity in speaking with the men who accused him, but as soon as he hears the rooster, he imagines its destructiveness and the implications of his denial of Christ. Likewise, the second section expresses his joy upon realizing that Jesus has resurrected, and yet a similar tone of darkness hangs over the poem, as the very first line expresses doubt: "Who could believe a woman's word, perfumed / in death?" He does, however, come to believe Mary and runs to the grave, where he finds no body. Believing someone has stolen his master, he sneaks away to weep and upon seeing Jesus later that evening sneaks away again to the sea, where so many of his lessons were learned. Again, despite Peter's joy at Christ's return, the poem ends very somberly: "The fire before me, the netted fish / behind. I'm carried where I will not wish."
Therefore, John Poch incorporates poetic and Christian ideas very well into his poem "Simon Peter" and even expresses the sincerety with which his apostles worshipped him through the first-person voice of Simon Peter himself and two very significant Biblical moments in the fisherman's life. The poem also does not ultimately decide for or against religion, as it expresses in both sections joy and regret in terms of belief in Jesus. Interesting that a contemporary poet could so easily mesh two seemingly opposite themes.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 6
Bristles fall into my eyes as I lie supine
on what used to be a bed but now resembles
a garden of rotting vegetables, while above
drums beat metronomically at my ceiling light,
wishing that they could breathe through like
the wind instruments do, so well.
A chair rocks while the bed squeals and howls
and begs for the deaf people to cease their
fighting against its face, gasping for breath
just as they do, once in a while.
I close my eyes against the purple speckles
that usually indicate sickness but now only
mean that I have missed out on something,
something above me that whistles to the tune
of some unknown Disney song, and diamond
mines don't, more often than not.
Three more squeaks penetrate my wall before one
last groan of the bedsheets and carpets to the
music that they thought they made, but only the
real saxophonists do, at all.
on what used to be a bed but now resembles
a garden of rotting vegetables, while above
drums beat metronomically at my ceiling light,
wishing that they could breathe through like
the wind instruments do, so well.
A chair rocks while the bed squeals and howls
and begs for the deaf people to cease their
fighting against its face, gasping for breath
just as they do, once in a while.
I close my eyes against the purple speckles
that usually indicate sickness but now only
mean that I have missed out on something,
something above me that whistles to the tune
of some unknown Disney song, and diamond
mines don't, more often than not.
Three more squeaks penetrate my wall before one
last groan of the bedsheets and carpets to the
music that they thought they made, but only the
real saxophonists do, at all.
Free Entry 1, Week 6
You look like a centaur, but not the good kind:
the kind that opens its hips like a tulip with nothing
left to eat. And no second legs follow you, only
the tulugaq that whistles as if it knows you crush
the steady sleepers beneath your once-hooves, now toes.
Horns do not spear your scalp like a real mythic
or a foreign dove that caws against the wooden mountain
in the far right corner of my eye.
You look like a centaur, but not the good kind:
the kind that wishes it were more than just a horse.
the kind that opens its hips like a tulip with nothing
left to eat. And no second legs follow you, only
the tulugaq that whistles as if it knows you crush
the steady sleepers beneath your once-hooves, now toes.
Horns do not spear your scalp like a real mythic
or a foreign dove that caws against the wooden mountain
in the far right corner of my eye.
You look like a centaur, but not the good kind:
the kind that wishes it were more than just a horse.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 5
Driving through Nebraska I let my eyes wander
but not like little boys let their eyes drift
to their developing classmates' chests.
No, my eyes watch the passing cars as if I were
playing my own private game of Frogger until
I catch one with particular interest.
The car in front of me, a Ford something, plays
a Vegas-style Elvis imitation on its back,
one black metallic side lifted just slightly above
the other, as if to say, "Thank you very much."
The next-door neighbors play guitar and sing
backup for the drifting car while their children
perform the Atlantan version of hip-hop: krunk,
or so I'm told.
but not like little boys let their eyes drift
to their developing classmates' chests.
No, my eyes watch the passing cars as if I were
playing my own private game of Frogger until
I catch one with particular interest.
The car in front of me, a Ford something, plays
a Vegas-style Elvis imitation on its back,
one black metallic side lifted just slightly above
the other, as if to say, "Thank you very much."
The next-door neighbors play guitar and sing
backup for the drifting car while their children
perform the Atlantan version of hip-hop: krunk,
or so I'm told.
Improv/Imitation 1 & 2, Week 5
"When I was born, everybody died."
Fuck them anyway, I motioned with a too obscure
finger pointed toward the stars and stripes mobile
above a fiery crib that played pinesome notes
upon my still soft and bald scalp.
Twist and turn around the whistling spark
that springs to speak its comfort while only
I really understand his language,
the language of heartiness, or perhaps no one
is allowed to have that since King Richard
the Lionhearted. Maybe he was the last one.
I'm reminded of an empty library tale, a story
that was meant to inspire a moral of split sides
and lack of Odyssean humors.
"Yesterday was the last day / we would bow to pray."
They don't believe in God anymore, and why should they
when the ground between left and right and north and west
splits like spun sugar in a cheap Hollywood thriller
starring Heath Ledger and Brittany Murphy.
They knew it the best, I suppose.
Someone sang "Bye, bye, Miss American Pie" while
I skirted the seat over by the football field.
But that's too precious.
Fuck them anyway, I motioned with a too obscure
finger pointed toward the stars and stripes mobile
above a fiery crib that played pinesome notes
upon my still soft and bald scalp.
Twist and turn around the whistling spark
that springs to speak its comfort while only
I really understand his language,
the language of heartiness, or perhaps no one
is allowed to have that since King Richard
the Lionhearted. Maybe he was the last one.
I'm reminded of an empty library tale, a story
that was meant to inspire a moral of split sides
and lack of Odyssean humors.
"Yesterday was the last day / we would bow to pray."
They don't believe in God anymore, and why should they
when the ground between left and right and north and west
splits like spun sugar in a cheap Hollywood thriller
starring Heath Ledger and Brittany Murphy.
They knew it the best, I suppose.
Someone sang "Bye, bye, Miss American Pie" while
I skirted the seat over by the football field.
But that's too precious.
Junkyard Quote 6, Week 5
This word was begging to be put in my journal! I read it in a Yahoo! News article this morning:
brachydactyly
It apparently is the scientific name for a condition in which a person has an overly large or clubbed thumb, and the word itself is just too much fun to say and read to not make into a Junkyard Quote!
brachydactyly
It apparently is the scientific name for a condition in which a person has an overly large or clubbed thumb, and the word itself is just too much fun to say and read to not make into a Junkyard Quote!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Strategy Response, Week 5
In Chapter 11 of Writing Poetry, the writers discuss Emily Dickinson's American Romantic poem, generally referred to by its first line: "Because I could not stop for Death." In this section, the text discusses the ways in which one might write a typically fantastical subject in a very common manner. Utilizing Dickinson's poem, we find that she indeed treats Death with an almost loving tone, calling this personified version of a tragic event "kind" (2) and "Civil" (8) while he rides in a carriage with her. Even as contemporary readers more than a hundred years later, we find such a drastically opposite-to-general representation of Death backwards and romantic (in terms of both "loving" and "of the Romantic Movement").
Dickinson goes on to describe the scenes that she and Death pass, all equally romantic images, before she slips into the present and remembers the quickness with which the previous scenes passed (9-24). Classically, images of "Recess" (10), "Fields of Gazing Grain" (11), and "the Setting Sun" (12) represent still more romantic settings for two lovers to convene over, while a classic trope of love includes time passing quickly (as evidenced in aubades). Therefore, Dickinson uses many common elements of a love poem and of the American Romanticist Movement to express Death in a distinctly different way from most before her, revealing him to be not merely a "person" but also loving rather than demonic.
Dickinson goes on to describe the scenes that she and Death pass, all equally romantic images, before she slips into the present and remembers the quickness with which the previous scenes passed (9-24). Classically, images of "Recess" (10), "Fields of Gazing Grain" (11), and "the Setting Sun" (12) represent still more romantic settings for two lovers to convene over, while a classic trope of love includes time passing quickly (as evidenced in aubades). Therefore, Dickinson uses many common elements of a love poem and of the American Romanticist Movement to express Death in a distinctly different way from most before her, revealing him to be not merely a "person" but also loving rather than demonic.
Free Entry 1, Week 5
Cate Blanchett did Bob Dylan
better than Bob Dylan did Bob Dylan,
her masucilinely flat hair springing
sharply to life beneath a faux guitar
while tapping fingers split its side.
Side like a sewing pattern, brown
and dotted and transparent beneath her
already under-sunlit, scarred skin.
He had nothing on that shit, they'll say
when pushing their screens up to deadened
bedstands with books piled as legs,
Tom lisping a suffering "S" underneath
the pick made out of Cate's comb.
better than Bob Dylan did Bob Dylan,
her masucilinely flat hair springing
sharply to life beneath a faux guitar
while tapping fingers split its side.
Side like a sewing pattern, brown
and dotted and transparent beneath her
already under-sunlit, scarred skin.
He had nothing on that shit, they'll say
when pushing their screens up to deadened
bedstands with books piled as legs,
Tom lisping a suffering "S" underneath
the pick made out of Cate's comb.
Junkyard Quotes 1-5, Week 5
"People are sheep and cops are the shepherds." - Mike in reference to his dad's job as a policeman.
"That car is doing a cheap Elvis imitation." - on the way to Atlanta
"McItaly" - Yahoo!News article
"Where are they now? A look back at some high-profile criminal cases" - title of article in Rome News-Tribune; sounded more comical than official.
"If The Sandlot got a gritty reboot, it'd be Reservoir Dogs." - Cracked.com
"That car is doing a cheap Elvis imitation." - on the way to Atlanta
"McItaly" - Yahoo!News article
"Where are they now? A look back at some high-profile criminal cases" - title of article in Rome News-Tribune; sounded more comical than official.
"If The Sandlot got a gritty reboot, it'd be Reservoir Dogs." - Cracked.com
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Improv/Imitation 1, Week 4
"Dear Manic Depression,"
thank you for visiting me last Tuesday.
I sat with sedated toes pushing against
the leg press your sister Guilt bought for me,
while I slept with Stress curled on my stomach,
and then you thrust my door open just in time
to slap my cheek and race my heart against
the hurrying clock for need to finish
my paperwork.
thank you for visiting me last Tuesday.
I sat with sedated toes pushing against
the leg press your sister Guilt bought for me,
while I slept with Stress curled on my stomach,
and then you thrust my door open just in time
to slap my cheek and race my heart against
the hurrying clock for need to finish
my paperwork.
Free Entry 1, Week 4
A sun-bleached bone dipped in black ink shifts
like dirty plates along a silver counter,
while orange water slips from forehead to chin
on the Venetian Lagoon.
Forgers founder against the constant heat:
fire where all the trees and shrubs burned out
a long time ago, without the screaming faces
that clawed for their shade.
A tower porters over the rotted wisteria,
no longer fed from fractured cloudy windows
and grinning eyelashes upon wrinkled knees;
bone less skin.
like dirty plates along a silver counter,
while orange water slips from forehead to chin
on the Venetian Lagoon.
Forgers founder against the constant heat:
fire where all the trees and shrubs burned out
a long time ago, without the screaming faces
that clawed for their shade.
A tower porters over the rotted wisteria,
no longer fed from fractured cloudy windows
and grinning eyelashes upon wrinkled knees;
bone less skin.
Junkyard Quotes 2-5, Week 4
"phantasmagoria" - in reference to an article in Women's Lit
"Whitman is Jesus and Emerson is God." - Tara Prouty when discussing Song of Myself
"Cate Blanchett did Bob Dylan better than Bob Dylan did Bob Dylan." - Kate Gervais
"synesthesia" - a word I already knew but discovered today is an actual mental disorder as well as a literary tool!
"Whitman is Jesus and Emerson is God." - Tara Prouty when discussing Song of Myself
"Cate Blanchett did Bob Dylan better than Bob Dylan did Bob Dylan." - Kate Gervais
"synesthesia" - a word I already knew but discovered today is an actual mental disorder as well as a literary tool!
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