Junkyard Quote 3 Week 10

"The weight of lies will bring you down and follow you to every town." ~The Avett Brothers

Junkyard Quote 2 Week 10

"What we cannot reach flying, we'll reach limping... it is no sin to limp." ~Sigmund Freud

Junkyard Quote 1 Week 10

"If we lived in a world without tears, how would bruises find a face? How would scars find skin to etch themselves into? How would broken find the bone?" ~Lucinda Williams

Peer Response 1 Week 9

Response to Pauline's "Free Entry Week 9"
The first line of this draft is a nice display of what’s to come. I really enjoyed the new and innovative way that the draft describes “ice” as “fuzz” because I had never quite thought of it in that way but it certainly does have a “fuzz” quality to it. I’m not sure if there is a difference here, but would “callouses” need to be changed to “calluses” because of the “es,” or is it the same? I enjoyed the story line that the draft includes and the shocking, somewhat disturbing value of the final line. However,I wondered if “intermingling” could be taken out by re-arranging the line since it's shown. In addition, I wondered if “anonymous” was necessary, it certainly sounds good but it tripped me up slightly during the read. Great draft Pauline! I look forward to your next.

Improv 2 Week 9

China Observed Through Greek Rain in Turkish Coffee

The drizzle
falls into my coffee
until it gets cold
and runs over
until it runs over
and clears
so the picture at the bottom
comes into sight.

The picture of a man
with a long beard
in China
in front of a Chinese pavilion
in rain, heavy rain
that has congealed
in stripes
over the windblown facade
and over the face of the man.

Under the coffee, the sugar and the milk
which is curdling
under the worn glaze
the eyes seem burnt out
or turned inward
toward China, in the porcelain of the cup
slowly emptying of coffee
and running full of rain
clear rain. the spring rain
atomizes against the eaves of the tavern
the facades on the other side of the street
resemble a huge
worn wall of porcelain
whose glow penetrates the wine leaves
the win leaves which are also worn
as if inside a cup. the Chinaman
sees the sun appear through a green leaf
whcih has fallen into the cup

the cup whose contents
are now complete clear.
 

                      Henrik Nordbrandt
(translated by the author and Alexander Taylor)

Death Observed Through the Sound of a Green Tea Kettle

The café is

bustling, green

menus cover

the searching eyes

of possible

prospects, she

realizes that

she will remain

at this booth,  

in the corner

she sits, her hair

tasseled like a

child’s, clouds fall

in her eyes, gloom

has found its path,

like the posture 

of un-watered

flowers, she sits,

with vibrating

limbs she waits for

the person in

white, swirling the

long forgotten

memories in

her now, cold cup

of tea.  As she

waits for the chime

  

  Brandy Adams

I don't think this is a proper improv, if there is such a thing but the poem itself produced the thoughts and therefore the writing. I also decided to turn it into a syllabic since it seemed so small.  

Improv 1 Week 9

Returning Madame Bovary

At the bookstore, I wait
on a cashier who won't take my return
without managerial approval, to be granted by Bill,
who is on managerial break,
and I wonder what if, what if I lean

across this counter, scattering the blue

and black ink pens, the red foiled chocolates,
and grab his narrow necktie,
choke him slightly, pull
his pocked face to mine and kiss him,
pushing my tongue into his mouth,
while sliding my hand down the front
of his flat-front khakis,
then would I get what I want?

After all, isn't that what we all want:
to be pursued with single-minded urgency?
To have customers, lovers, readers
like the man sitting in prison
for ten years with only his mother and blonde cousin for visitors?
To have him reach through the bars
to what's past them—
to the female prison guard who lingers,
studies her nails, counts floor tiles,
like she's waiting for something
more than the end of the shift?

                      Katie Chaple

Returning Pennsylvania Avenue (first 14 lines)

At the train station window, I wait

on an attendant who does not speak

my language, he calls for Callan

whose dialect is no better

and I wonder what if, what if I slid

my body across this counter, scattering the dotted-

lined documents, the unofficial pencils,

and thrust her pressed shirt upward,

roughly pulling at her belted loops

facing her buckle away from mine and

dragged my tongue up the track of her back

while slipping my hand past her

curved breast rail,

then would she comprehend?

                       Brandy Adams

Sign Inventory 1 Week 9

Antipsalm

Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Cover me with bumps. Reward me with boils.
In the fount of tears open a spring of pus mixed with blood.
Twist my mouth upside down. Give me a hump. Make me crooked.
Let moles burrow through my flesh. Let blood
circle my body. Let it be thus.
May all that breathes steal breath from me,
all that drinks quench its thirst in my cup.
Turn all vermin upon me.
Let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.

Disfigure me, Lord. Take pity on me.
Tie every guilt around my ankles.
Make me deaf with noise and delirium. Uphold me
above every tragedy.
Overpower me with dread and insomnia. Tear me up.
Open the seven seals, let out the seven beasts.
Let each one graze my monstrous brain.
Set upon me every evil, every suffering,
every misery. Every time you threaten,
point your finger at me. Thus, thus, my Lord.
let my enemies gather around me
and rejoice, honoring You.

                                   Novica Tadic

-Biblical language.

-No rhyme scheme.

-Repetition of “all” in the first stanza.

-and repetition of “let” found throughout.

-Repetition of “seven” and use of alliteration in the 6^th line of the 2^nd stanza.

-Repetition of first and last line in both stanzas.

-Repetition of “every” in lines 8 and 9 in 2^nd stanza

Junkyard Quote 4 Week 9

Most have heard this:
 
"Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted." ~Percy Shelley

I believe this to be true. However, I also think that poetry is a mirror that distorts beauty just the same.  

Junkyard Quote 3 Week 9

"I want to grown up to see the sides of people."

Junkyard Quote 2 Week 9

"If war produces one thing, it's cemeteries, and there are no enemies in cemeteries." ~A friend

Junkyard Quote 1 Week 9

"Different skin, same suffering." ~A friend

Free Entry 2 Week 9

Opened-Brain Option

Don’t take this for granted:

it is the unique that keeps us interested.

That Donna Karan dress

was worn as an emerald

sheath, its sheer illusion

floating as pelicans do,

bloated and unsure.

In his gait, lazy

heels          scrubbed

unnerved passers-by.

Those whispers on the west

side of South Street

elude their disposition

and sit quietly atop the

neglected           washing basin,

the mailman as unclean

as this disposal that

grinds the maggot-rot to

shoehorn more untruths.

Understand:

when the slender silhouettes

of the cypresses slant

in protest of the

breeze, drawing

the mouth-line of

uncertainty against

the raven night,

stars dot the eyes

like glitter in the silver

shadowed crevice

below the drawn brow,

his red lips lift into

a “U.”

Disgrace belongs only

to the others.

(Later, the owners

will collect those once

whispers, lie them on

their pillows, with idle

motors— unspeakably

intrigued.

Like Picasso’s,

“Skull and Pitcher.”)

                   Brandy Adams