"Like the memory of a loved one, diamonds
last forever," says the welcome screen,
inviting me to ponder whether or not I would--
or could--wear a diamond made from a person
I intentionally pushed under dirt and grass,
never to need to see without the lights
that used to reside behind his skin.
I glance at my fingers, the two emeralds
pushing against my cornea like needles, as I
wonder what it might be like if they were
people: "This," I say, pointing to my high
school ring, "is my first husband. This"--
my college ring--"is my second husband."
Would you wear a diamond made of your loved
one's ashes? Would you make a tiara from the
bones of dead relatives, lovers, friends?
Let LifeGem do it for you, because death,
like diamonds, lasts forever.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Free Entry 1, Week 13
This is the poem I came up with in our exercise on persona poems. I wanted to post it here as a sure way of not losing it and to remind myself to work on it more.
Smokey the Bear Goes to Gotham City
Thank god I'm finally free of those damn kids:
there are no woods to protect here and no forests
to keep from their flight, unneccessary fires.
Burn it all anyway and make the world just like
Gotham City, where some wannabe child molester
in black spandex keeps buildings from burning
to the concrete, with the aide of two old men, his pets.
Those kids never cared about forest fires,
and--as long as we're being honest--neither
did I. I suppose some marketing assistant
just out of college assumed a bear would make
an adequate forest ranger since--let's face it--
bears live in the forest; not me. I lived in
a two-bed, two-and-a-half bath in downton
Hollywood, just below Sunset where movie stars
wander streets in the day and whores strut at night.
It was--you can imagine--hel having to pretend
to car, all in the hopes of landing a bigger,
better gig, but no; I was forever typecast, just
like that girl who was always a princess
and never did anything else, besides that one film
where she "came out of her shell"--as she told
reporters--by taking off her shirt and speaking
in a pseudo-Southern accent.
That's why I moved to Gotham:
for a new start, with no trees or forests anywhere
nearby to pretend to worry about protecting.
And thank god, too, because I've already been cast
in a new thriller as a henchman. The director is a
squat, penguin-looking man, who really does resemble
those children I had to lecture to.
But for this part, I'm sure I can get past that.
Smokey the Bear Goes to Gotham City
Thank god I'm finally free of those damn kids:
there are no woods to protect here and no forests
to keep from their flight, unneccessary fires.
Burn it all anyway and make the world just like
Gotham City, where some wannabe child molester
in black spandex keeps buildings from burning
to the concrete, with the aide of two old men, his pets.
Those kids never cared about forest fires,
and--as long as we're being honest--neither
did I. I suppose some marketing assistant
just out of college assumed a bear would make
an adequate forest ranger since--let's face it--
bears live in the forest; not me. I lived in
a two-bed, two-and-a-half bath in downton
Hollywood, just below Sunset where movie stars
wander streets in the day and whores strut at night.
It was--you can imagine--hel having to pretend
to car, all in the hopes of landing a bigger,
better gig, but no; I was forever typecast, just
like that girl who was always a princess
and never did anything else, besides that one film
where she "came out of her shell"--as she told
reporters--by taking off her shirt and speaking
in a pseudo-Southern accent.
That's why I moved to Gotham:
for a new start, with no trees or forests anywhere
nearby to pretend to worry about protecting.
And thank god, too, because I've already been cast
in a new thriller as a henchman. The director is a
squat, penguin-looking man, who really does resemble
those children I had to lecture to.
But for this part, I'm sure I can get past that.
Junkyard Quotes 1-7, Week 13
"Hell hath no furry (sic) like a woman who believes she has been scorned." - an internet article.
"The Wings Close In" - title of article in Sports Illustrated
"a fantasia of literary gossip" - Dan McCall
"The Rose Ecstasies" - I misheard a classmate saying "Thoreau's Ecstasies" and I liked this version better
"Which came first: the ecstasy or the reading?" - a question posed in the above-mentioned classmate's presentation.
"There is nothing more depressing than walking into a Michael's craft store." - Mike
"If Dr. Hipchen were God, Professor McFarland would be Michael." - a student I met yesterday at the conference.
"The Wings Close In" - title of article in Sports Illustrated
"a fantasia of literary gossip" - Dan McCall
"The Rose Ecstasies" - I misheard a classmate saying "Thoreau's Ecstasies" and I liked this version better
"Which came first: the ecstasy or the reading?" - a question posed in the above-mentioned classmate's presentation.
"There is nothing more depressing than walking into a Michael's craft store." - Mike
"If Dr. Hipchen were God, Professor McFarland would be Michael." - a student I met yesterday at the conference.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Strategy Response, Week 12
Fred Chappell's poem "Janus" is perhaps a poem that epitomizes the idea of the eternal connectivity between form and function. Indeed, this poem not only comprises a very unique form but likewise does the form contribute to the overall reading and (perhaps) the reader's personal meaning of the poem. This poem is titled after the mythological Greek god Janus, who has two faces: one facing east and the other facing west. Some versions of Janus's history say that he acts as a guard for the temple at which his statue is placed, watching both ways for possible intruders. However, other versions link his double-faces with the fact that he is also the god of "open doors" and "new opportunities," meaning that his faces symbolize the extreme directions his followers make take.
Mirroring the two faces of Janus, Chappell seems to almost write his poem from the middle outward, as there is a very distinct line through the center of the poem (which is, itself, written sideways on the page perhaps because of those long lines). Upon closer inspection of that line, the reader notices that the italicized words in each line literally mirror the ones before it. For example, the emphasized words in the first line read "From east, from west" and in the second line directly underneat that read "from west, from east". The lines continue in that fashion up to the last two lines, which read "it was, it is" and "It is, it was". This distinct style of literally mirroring words reflects the duality of the god Janus and his place as central character or fixture in Chappell's poem.
Though this poem may not, perhaps, follow the distinct style of Chappell's collection Shadow Box, in which he masters the style of writing poems within poems, distinguishing them based upon their different type, the italicized words in this poem mark not an entirely new poem in and of itself but rather serve to emphasize the opposites and purposeful centering of the "double face[d]" god as the figurehead for the travelers.
Mirroring the two faces of Janus, Chappell seems to almost write his poem from the middle outward, as there is a very distinct line through the center of the poem (which is, itself, written sideways on the page perhaps because of those long lines). Upon closer inspection of that line, the reader notices that the italicized words in each line literally mirror the ones before it. For example, the emphasized words in the first line read "From east, from west" and in the second line directly underneat that read "from west, from east". The lines continue in that fashion up to the last two lines, which read "it was, it is" and "It is, it was". This distinct style of literally mirroring words reflects the duality of the god Janus and his place as central character or fixture in Chappell's poem.
Though this poem may not, perhaps, follow the distinct style of Chappell's collection Shadow Box, in which he masters the style of writing poems within poems, distinguishing them based upon their different type, the italicized words in this poem mark not an entirely new poem in and of itself but rather serve to emphasize the opposites and purposeful centering of the "double face[d]" god as the figurehead for the travelers.
Improv/Imitation 2, Week 12
From Fred Chappell's "Doppelgängers":
"A man comes toward me out of the night,"
but I pretend that I don't see him.
He walks quickly, thumping his feet like
I imagine a rabbit would--though I cannot
know because I have never seen a rabbit.
He walks hard, swinging his arms like an ape
and clutching his fists as though preparing
to bend over and walk on them just before
approaching my own tired toes pointing.
His eyes are blue--light blue--and I wonder
if he is Lestat de Lioncourt, finally
coming to take my blood without hesitation
after years of pretending that he is real.
But no, his hair is too short, cropped
like a military man, like a hairless cat
who crows in its misery of being so
hideously adorable, though I do not think
I could describe this man as adorable.
Perhaps only hideous. No, he is not
Lestat, nor Louis de Pointe du Lac,
coming for me despite my wish to live.
He finally reaches my face, and I do not
move, afraid of frightening him away.
His mouth opens like a puppy's yawn,
preparing to speak and finally says:
"What kind of foundation do you use?"
"A man comes toward me out of the night,"
but I pretend that I don't see him.
He walks quickly, thumping his feet like
I imagine a rabbit would--though I cannot
know because I have never seen a rabbit.
He walks hard, swinging his arms like an ape
and clutching his fists as though preparing
to bend over and walk on them just before
approaching my own tired toes pointing.
His eyes are blue--light blue--and I wonder
if he is Lestat de Lioncourt, finally
coming to take my blood without hesitation
after years of pretending that he is real.
But no, his hair is too short, cropped
like a military man, like a hairless cat
who crows in its misery of being so
hideously adorable, though I do not think
I could describe this man as adorable.
Perhaps only hideous. No, he is not
Lestat, nor Louis de Pointe du Lac,
coming for me despite my wish to live.
He finally reaches my face, and I do not
move, afraid of frightening him away.
His mouth opens like a puppy's yawn,
preparing to speak and finally says:
"What kind of foundation do you use?"
Improv/Imitation 1, Week 12
From Fred Chappell's "On an Antique Picture":
"We sat smoking when the orders came"
to use our flaming fingers to burn today's
one and only meal, a non-existent fire
except in our eyes, a literal burn
every time we dared to shut them.
Close your eyes; don't let it be me who
willingly takes your life because you
ventured into that place where K.W.
ordered us not to go--defy him
if you dare, but do not tip the scale
with the tips of your fingers
to give our acquaintance unfair advantage
over the approaching and too-young
(supposed) hoard--or is it horde?
That new program about Hoarders we aren't
allowed to see because of its graphic
nature, too much for children, like we
supposedly are, according to the singers
we dared to listen to while closing
our eyes in silent reverence of the fire
inside our pressing fingertips.
"We sat smoking when the orders came"
to use our flaming fingers to burn today's
one and only meal, a non-existent fire
except in our eyes, a literal burn
every time we dared to shut them.
Close your eyes; don't let it be me who
willingly takes your life because you
ventured into that place where K.W.
ordered us not to go--defy him
if you dare, but do not tip the scale
with the tips of your fingers
to give our acquaintance unfair advantage
over the approaching and too-young
(supposed) hoard--or is it horde?
That new program about Hoarders we aren't
allowed to see because of its graphic
nature, too much for children, like we
supposedly are, according to the singers
we dared to listen to while closing
our eyes in silent reverence of the fire
inside our pressing fingertips.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 12
If The Sandlot got a gritty reboot,
it'd be Reservoir Dogs, guns
instead of baseballs and men in suits
instead of boys in uniform.
Though Tarantino did say his Dogs wear
their own type of uniform, dressed
so classily with such ill intention
as to steal the workings of a thousand
years of rock and hot air.
Mr. White is the Wolf, but Mr. Pink--
for whom the artist named herself--
is Little Red Riding Hood, faded
perhaps in the wash with a stack
of white towels.
Has Pink ever worn a red cape? Would
it be ironic or gauche if she did?
Mr. Brown, the director, getaway driver,
and first casualty says yes: that's too
much color for any criminal.
Those little boys who play at the old
and overgrown field don't know what
Mr. Blonde has written for them, already
planning their getaway before they've
had time to run to home plate.
it'd be Reservoir Dogs, guns
instead of baseballs and men in suits
instead of boys in uniform.
Though Tarantino did say his Dogs wear
their own type of uniform, dressed
so classily with such ill intention
as to steal the workings of a thousand
years of rock and hot air.
Mr. White is the Wolf, but Mr. Pink--
for whom the artist named herself--
is Little Red Riding Hood, faded
perhaps in the wash with a stack
of white towels.
Has Pink ever worn a red cape? Would
it be ironic or gauche if she did?
Mr. Brown, the director, getaway driver,
and first casualty says yes: that's too
much color for any criminal.
Those little boys who play at the old
and overgrown field don't know what
Mr. Blonde has written for them, already
planning their getaway before they've
had time to run to home plate.
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