Today, think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession: wool scarf, cough drop, puddle, half-empty bottle of red wine… Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love.
a half-smoked
cigarette,
discarded in favor of
health or hurry,
dropped on the floor,
still burning,
inches still of white
unenjoyed,
inciting thoughts of
“whatta waste”
wish i’d smoked that one
all the way
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.
Today's poem is an epic fail -- supposed to be a tanka. Yeah, I'm gonna have to work on that form a bit, perhaps about a different topic. I couldn't get "the turn" today. And I couldn't get the syllabic proportions today. And that's ok for today.
Today, Alan Summers wants us to write poems about “humor in love,” and he has a specific form in mind! Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka.
kibble’s gone
burgers in wrap, jaws drop, pause
raised-brow disbelief – for us?
still laugh at their shock, stop, gulp
dogs are so easy to love
Today, Alan Summers wants us to write poems about “humor in love,” and he has a specific form in mind! Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka.
kibble’s gone
burgers in wrap, jaws drop, pause
raised-brow disbelief – for us?
still laugh at their shock, stop, gulp
dogs are so easy to love
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.
For the Day 6 prompt on ReadWritePoem, by we are supposed to converse with an image.
these couplets will not be heroic
(nor even couplets)
but her clay fingers,
gripping the clay she has formed and fired
to contain the coffee she has ground and brewed
to be a chaser after the eggs and toast she has cooked and served
to nourish us, are.
these couplets will not be heroic
(nor even couplets)
but her clay fingers,
gripping the clay she has formed and fired
to contain the coffee she has ground and brewed
to be a chaser after the eggs and toast she has cooked and served
to nourish us, are.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Advice from a Cat Herder
OK, so I'm up late because I don't have to get up tomorrow morning -- thank God for spring break -- and so I'm trying to get caught up on some writing and reading I wanted to do. I'm having fun so far with ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo prompts. I'm seeing them as writing exercises, which is healthy for me, and it's keeping me writing every day -- also good. I still don't know how things will play out once school resumes, but I'm enjoying doing this for now. I don't intend to work any more on the current poem, so I may as well post it.
Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5: Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me. So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.
Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below). OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.
Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks
“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.
“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.
“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”
Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5: Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me. So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.
Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below). OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.
Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks
“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.
“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.
“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”
Friday, April 2, 2010
Odd, but fun, so I played
At ReadWritePoem, day #2's prompt is as follows:
If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”
Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
RWP
My father’s initials
on regular white paper
which must be excavated
from piles in his office
by a dedicated research working party;
office and house
rife with photos –
restful work, photography;
retired with pension now, he pursues
a reduced workload program,
except the taxes,
which he still insists upon doing himself
which he still insists upon postponing perpetually
until my mother threatens to put him on a
resource watch program
(a.k.a. restrictions will punish);
he adheres to a right wing policy,
much to my chagrin, which,
in turn, chagrins him;
he is a really wacky person,
but I’d still like to send him
reeling with pride.
If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”
Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
RWP
My father’s initials
on regular white paper
which must be excavated
from piles in his office
by a dedicated research working party;
office and house
rife with photos –
restful work, photography;
retired with pension now, he pursues
a reduced workload program,
except the taxes,
which he still insists upon doing himself
which he still insists upon postponing perpetually
until my mother threatens to put him on a
resource watch program
(a.k.a. restrictions will punish);
he adheres to a right wing policy,
much to my chagrin, which,
in turn, chagrins him;
he is a really wacky person,
but I’d still like to send him
reeling with pride.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Maundy Thursday Thoughts
Much to say about Maundy Thursday. I’ll start with my reflection from tonight’s service, in which the ritual of foot washing was observed:
Why does it undo me tonight to watch my priest de-vest, wrap an apron around his waist, kneel on stone, and wash the feet of the other priests, deacons, and acolyte before us? Why does it move me to see grown men and boys remove their solemn black shoes and socks to bare their white feet before us to be washed? The washed ones appear humbled, nervous, uncomfortable in varying degrees; they sit hunched or ramrod straight, they purposefully make no eye contact with anyone.
The irony is that, though they sit above, they are not in control of the situation. The ‘master,’ the priest on his knees, is mysteriously still the one in charge, despite the natural expectation that the server is the lowlier and more obedient of the two. When the ‘master’ humbles himself to do a difficult or demeaning job, it does not demean him but rather strengthens his position, due to his willingness to be low and do work. I have a deeper, truer understanding of the notion of servant leadership.
I would be interested to know what goes through the minds of the washed as they sit there being wetted or dried, looking down on the moptop of our tall priest’s head.
------------------------------
A passage from the hymn we sang as the blessed sacrament was taken away from the altar to the altar of repose:
“[W]hen man partaketh,
Tho’ his senses fail to see,
Faith alone when sight forsaketh
Shows true hearts the mystery.
Therefore we, before him bending,
This great Sacrament revere;
Types and shadows have their ending,
For the newer rite is here;
Faith, our outward sense befriending,
Makes our inward vision clear.”
-St. Thomas Aquinas
Hoping to have a true heart. Hoping to be shown the mystery. Hoping to be befriended by faith. Hoping to have some inward clear vision.
------------------------------
Working on a found poem from the various texts of tonight's service. Will post it, if I can find it well enough.
Why does it undo me tonight to watch my priest de-vest, wrap an apron around his waist, kneel on stone, and wash the feet of the other priests, deacons, and acolyte before us? Why does it move me to see grown men and boys remove their solemn black shoes and socks to bare their white feet before us to be washed? The washed ones appear humbled, nervous, uncomfortable in varying degrees; they sit hunched or ramrod straight, they purposefully make no eye contact with anyone.
The irony is that, though they sit above, they are not in control of the situation. The ‘master,’ the priest on his knees, is mysteriously still the one in charge, despite the natural expectation that the server is the lowlier and more obedient of the two. When the ‘master’ humbles himself to do a difficult or demeaning job, it does not demean him but rather strengthens his position, due to his willingness to be low and do work. I have a deeper, truer understanding of the notion of servant leadership.
I would be interested to know what goes through the minds of the washed as they sit there being wetted or dried, looking down on the moptop of our tall priest’s head.
------------------------------
A passage from the hymn we sang as the blessed sacrament was taken away from the altar to the altar of repose:
“[W]hen man partaketh,
Tho’ his senses fail to see,
Faith alone when sight forsaketh
Shows true hearts the mystery.
Therefore we, before him bending,
This great Sacrament revere;
Types and shadows have their ending,
For the newer rite is here;
Faith, our outward sense befriending,
Makes our inward vision clear.”
-St. Thomas Aquinas
Hoping to have a true heart. Hoping to be shown the mystery. Hoping to be befriended by faith. Hoping to have some inward clear vision.
------------------------------
Working on a found poem from the various texts of tonight's service. Will post it, if I can find it well enough.
Today's Lark
Taking my cue from ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo Day #1 prompt, which is for a shuffle-a-poem (drawn from setting one's iPOD or iTunes to shuffle, and then using the titles of first five songs), I came up with this:
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
She hears the lark
in the clear air
outside her frosted window;
she hears, too, the
carpenters
whacking hammers
on wood;
the sun streams
bright, in
sky blue
flecked with movie-perfect clouds,
light glaring off the rime;
but she is
raining on the inside,
aching for an
old-fashioned Christmas;
she puts
"Ave Maria"
on the iPOD
--Pavarotti,
if you're curious --
but she cannot
make herself
forget that it's really
Easter.
She hunkers like
the hobbit
in the hole
beneath the hill,
and waits for
her cartoon-perfect cloud
to lift.
[Ed.- My five shuffled song/audio titles included "An Old-Fashioned Christmas," by the Carpenters; "Ave Maria;" "The Hobbit;" "The Lark in the Air," by Loreena McKennit; and "Raining on the Inside," by Amy Grant. LOL!]
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
She hears the lark
in the clear air
outside her frosted window;
she hears, too, the
carpenters
whacking hammers
on wood;
the sun streams
bright, in
sky blue
flecked with movie-perfect clouds,
light glaring off the rime;
but she is
raining on the inside,
aching for an
old-fashioned Christmas;
she puts
"Ave Maria"
on the iPOD
--Pavarotti,
if you're curious --
but she cannot
make herself
forget that it's really
Easter.
She hunkers like
the hobbit
in the hole
beneath the hill,
and waits for
her cartoon-perfect cloud
to lift.
[Ed.- My five shuffled song/audio titles included "An Old-Fashioned Christmas," by the Carpenters; "Ave Maria;" "The Hobbit;" "The Lark in the Air," by Loreena McKennit; and "Raining on the Inside," by Amy Grant. LOL!]
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Back, sadly
I did write over spring break. Perhaps not a poem a day, but I'm not flagellating myself about it. I'll post them as I get them typed, unedited and unpolished, as usual; mere sneezes on the page.
Spring Break
Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."
The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.
Spring Break
Flight yesterday
quick and fairly painless
to a state
where purple mountains
really do exist,
in majesty, even,
silhouetted as they are
by iced peaks,
fondant-drenched
and brilliant, blinding white;
framed below
by stripes
of variant browns,
and above
by blues and grays
and clouds of every type.
Split rail fences,
native grass,
cottonwoods and cottontails;
we drink the panorama
with our pinot
as we rest in the
"smallest, cheapest" palace
on the "block."
The baby spins and slips
on polished, knotted floors.
Blond Rosie bounds, races,
across the prairie grass
after bunnies,
feathers flying and tail curved high;
her smile upon returning
matches the upturned lips
of my heart,
which is remembering again
how to rest.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Yesterday's poem,
which I wrote (well, sneezed) yesterday, but which I could not post as I am without a computer right now. (Hard drive full; how can such a thing be possible?) I'm stealing some time on POM's laptop.
Maundy Thursday
Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.
Maundy Thursday
Stark.
Bare.
Lightless.
The Presence has left the sanctuary.
The light is snuffed.
Bereft we are,
and he is veiled.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Hey, it's raining (yes, in SoCal)!
Today's prompt (actually it's tomorrow's, but being on the left coast has its advantages): List all of your old flames. Try to go back as far as your first kiss in the 2nd grade coat closet. Sit with your list. Depending on your mood today, choose the flame with the most sparks, or pin the list on the wall and throw a dart. Whatever your method or mood, write a poem about an old flame. If all else fails, write a list poem giving your old flames new names.
an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.
i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.
he ran away.
i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.
an incandescent punk,
redhead Clint
kindergartener
in church foyer
with thick redcarpet
that retained static like the dickens
enabled kids to play
shuffle-shock for hours.
i the older woman
first grade i
brazen hussy i
gave Clint a shock
under the church steps
one fine Sunday.
yep, kissed him.
he ran away.
i’ve had a thing
for redheads since.
Late Poem
That's right, folks! We have everything here: highbrow, lowbrow, and whatever comes below that. I wrote this last night but was too sleepy to post it.
Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.
Grading sucks.
I'm so f**ked.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Of the moment
Not a NaPoWriMo prompt poem, but a poem nonetheless, completely rough and raw and essentially unedited, as are most of the poems I publish here.
Palm Dualities
He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.
What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.
My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.
On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.
[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]
Palm Dualities
He answered not a word, such that the governor marveled greatly.
Had it been me,
I would have argued and defended and persuaded,
then possibly cursed, as is my wont, when things go wrong.
He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and he opened not his mouth.
I would have bitched and moaned and carried on
to the point of embarrassment, most likely.
Or if I had his power, I would have zapped them all,
just to show them I could.
Jesus does what we do not expect him to do.
I want answers to my prayers.
Instead of answers, he provides silence.
I want action and revolution.
Instead, he gives us the cross.
What is this crap? This isn’t what I wanted.
God gives us not what we want, but what we need.
Even Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him.
And God answered him with silence.
My will leads to disappointment.
Thy will leads to Easter.
I have trouble remembering that. I fear pain.
I do not want any change that leads to pain.
We seek to change our circumstances.
He seeks to change us.
But God, the problem is what I see out the window!
No, child, the problem is what you see in the mirror.
On Palm Sunday, we wave palms and process, socialize and sing.
Then ten minutes later we crucify him;
aloud we tell Judas to shove his silver, it’s his problem now;
aloud we call for Barabbas instead;
aloud we assure Pilate we’ll take full responsibility for this travesty,
His blood is on our hands, now get on with it.
My god, my god, no wonder you’ve forsaken us.
But God does not do what we expect him to do.
[inspired by Palm Sunday service; with many lines borrowed from sermon by Fr. SS]
Can I lie and say...
...it's a prose poem?
The Assignment:
Saturdays in my town people go to the hardware store to stock up on supplies for sprucing up their homes. Spring is a great time to apply a fresh coat of paint on old furniture, walls or maybe even a poem or two! Here’s the idea –- go to the hardware store (or an online paint store), and look up some colors you like. They tend to have evocative names, like white truffle or blackberry harvest. Maybe the whole idea of a hardware store makes you yawn, or worse, cringe. If so, head over to the make up counter, or browse the Clinique Eyeshadow store online. The idea is to find a color or two, write the phrase on a card, and then write down the associations you have with the phrase. Do a five minute free-write, and then turn your musings into a poem.
My Perhaps-Poetic Non-Poem
Why do so many makeup products come in various colors of nude? If one is going to approximate nudity, why doesn’t one just go nude and save the extra step? I also notice many variations on chocolates and berries and wines. But wouldn’t chocolate taste better than lipstick? And wouldn’t a berry stain last longer on the lips than lip-supposed-stick? And the process of coloring one’s lips with actual wine seems to be much more enjoyable than painting on a faint imitation of the real thing. And now I must make comment upon some actual colors (I believe these are from Clinique):
plum(b) nude – As we are all born, and my state for showering.
twilight nude – No, I take my showers in the morning usually.
nude beach – Hmmm, salacious! (Cover the kids’ eyes.)
creamy nude – Some are blessed, I suppose.
blushing nude – I would think so! I certainly would be, with an audience.
nude rose – Let’s hope! Why would a rose wear clothes?
metallic sand – Might hurt the toes
mochaberry – The dangers of genetic modification?
Lancome gets a little more creative, though their titles run to the prescriptive. Pink to the Club, one supposes, should be worn to a club…as opposed to the Pink in the Limo, which one presumes should be worn in the Hummer limousine. (But what if I’m not in a pink-y sort of mood?) One wonders at their Prune Drama Girl; pictures of a geriatric hysteric come to mind. Rock Icon Pink seems to explain itself. Brick House, not so much. I think my preferences run more toward the Urban Decay approach. Their lipsticks come in such rich, realistic titles as Indecent (pale peach), Gash (blood red), Hotpants (pink), Jailbait (nude, of course), Sellout (neutral), and Trainwreck, Pistol, and Buzzkill. At least they’re honest. And in the interest of honesty, I should add that I have not worn any form of makeup in about a decade.
The Assignment:
Saturdays in my town people go to the hardware store to stock up on supplies for sprucing up their homes. Spring is a great time to apply a fresh coat of paint on old furniture, walls or maybe even a poem or two! Here’s the idea –- go to the hardware store (or an online paint store), and look up some colors you like. They tend to have evocative names, like white truffle or blackberry harvest. Maybe the whole idea of a hardware store makes you yawn, or worse, cringe. If so, head over to the make up counter, or browse the Clinique Eyeshadow store online. The idea is to find a color or two, write the phrase on a card, and then write down the associations you have with the phrase. Do a five minute free-write, and then turn your musings into a poem.
My Perhaps-Poetic Non-Poem
Why do so many makeup products come in various colors of nude? If one is going to approximate nudity, why doesn’t one just go nude and save the extra step? I also notice many variations on chocolates and berries and wines. But wouldn’t chocolate taste better than lipstick? And wouldn’t a berry stain last longer on the lips than lip-supposed-stick? And the process of coloring one’s lips with actual wine seems to be much more enjoyable than painting on a faint imitation of the real thing. And now I must make comment upon some actual colors (I believe these are from Clinique):
plum(b) nude – As we are all born, and my state for showering.
twilight nude – No, I take my showers in the morning usually.
nude beach – Hmmm, salacious! (Cover the kids’ eyes.)
creamy nude – Some are blessed, I suppose.
blushing nude – I would think so! I certainly would be, with an audience.
nude rose – Let’s hope! Why would a rose wear clothes?
metallic sand – Might hurt the toes
mochaberry – The dangers of genetic modification?
Lancome gets a little more creative, though their titles run to the prescriptive. Pink to the Club, one supposes, should be worn to a club…as opposed to the Pink in the Limo, which one presumes should be worn in the Hummer limousine. (But what if I’m not in a pink-y sort of mood?) One wonders at their Prune Drama Girl; pictures of a geriatric hysteric come to mind. Rock Icon Pink seems to explain itself. Brick House, not so much. I think my preferences run more toward the Urban Decay approach. Their lipsticks come in such rich, realistic titles as Indecent (pale peach), Gash (blood red), Hotpants (pink), Jailbait (nude, of course), Sellout (neutral), and Trainwreck, Pistol, and Buzzkill. At least they’re honest. And in the interest of honesty, I should add that I have not worn any form of makeup in about a decade.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Too sleepy to mean much
This is what comes of attempting poetry borne of sleep deprivation and after two of the most exhausting weeks ever (I blame teaching writing). This one should stay on the scratch pad as one of Annie Lamott's famed 'shitty first drafts.' But I'm on a three-day roll and it's too soon to quit, so I will click 'publish' anyway. Read at your own peril.
The prompt for today is “three in a row.” Write about how “three in a row” means you’ve won something, like a game of tic tac toe or a jackpot from a slot machine. Or write about the superstition about how bad things come in threes: deaths, injuries, failing household appliances. Wonder how a string of three represents both good and bad luck. Think about any sets of three you have in your life: cats, kids, husbands, anything! (For the record, I have six cats, three kids and one husband. How about you?) Explore what people mean when they say, “Third time’s a charm!” Consider a third place win, a trio, the trinity.
Tres
It’s the third day
of the fourth month (error!),
and I’m compelled to think
of threes.
The fallible ‘they’ say
celebrity deaths come in threes.
The egg is three but one,
like God.
Our cat household
just increased by three,
and my students still think
all essays must have just
three body paragraphs (error!).
The waltz beats three
(though the heart beats two);
a count of three begins the race
(ready, set, go)
(eins, zwei, drei).
When the evening and the morning
were the third day,
God made land and grass and trees;
and on the third day, He rose again.
The stoplight in red, yellow, green
says stop slow go.
A talisman, our prayers in threes:
lordhavemercyuponus,
christhavemercyuponus,
lordhavemercyuponus or
helpmehelpmehelpme or
damndamndamn or
nonono or
ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.
And my sleepstarved brain asks
so what, so what, so what?
And the universe delivers
Julian’s answer:
All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Amen.
The prompt for today is “three in a row.” Write about how “three in a row” means you’ve won something, like a game of tic tac toe or a jackpot from a slot machine. Or write about the superstition about how bad things come in threes: deaths, injuries, failing household appliances. Wonder how a string of three represents both good and bad luck. Think about any sets of three you have in your life: cats, kids, husbands, anything! (For the record, I have six cats, three kids and one husband. How about you?) Explore what people mean when they say, “Third time’s a charm!” Consider a third place win, a trio, the trinity.
Tres
It’s the third day
of the fourth month (error!),
and I’m compelled to think
of threes.
The fallible ‘they’ say
celebrity deaths come in threes.
The egg is three but one,
like God.
Our cat household
just increased by three,
and my students still think
all essays must have just
three body paragraphs (error!).
The waltz beats three
(though the heart beats two);
a count of three begins the race
(ready, set, go)
(eins, zwei, drei).
When the evening and the morning
were the third day,
God made land and grass and trees;
and on the third day, He rose again.
The stoplight in red, yellow, green
says stop slow go.
A talisman, our prayers in threes:
lordhavemercyuponus,
christhavemercyuponus,
lordhavemercyuponus or
helpmehelpmehelpme or
damndamndamn or
nonono or
ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.
And my sleepstarved brain asks
so what, so what, so what?
And the universe delivers
Julian’s answer:
All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Amen.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
First Yoga Class Ever...
...and I feel good! (Except I should not have eaten afterward. Just water would have done. Oh, well, next time.)
The Assignment:
“Stretchy Metaphors” -- It’s day two of NaPoWriMo, and we’re feeling fresh, invigorated, ready for anything, right? Here’s today’s challenge: find five verbs and five nouns from one subject area, and use them to write about another subject. My son had this assignment in his college poetry class, and he culled his words from biology and then wrote about technology. The idea is to create an extended metaphor in a short poem, of maybe ten to twelve lines.
Happy poeming!
The Product: comparing yoga practice to teaching high school English (hmmmm)
[Disclaimer -- It's not short. Oh, well. And it needs work. Oh, well.]
English Class: Namaste
Every class feels like
my first –
a veteran but always a beginner.
I am teacher and also student.
I bend and stretch myself
across the text as I ask them
to follow me
but still honor their own
bodies and minds
at whatever level they are today.
I demonstrate poses,
the literary sort,
teach them to breathe language in,
breathe language out,
put my hand on their shoulder
when they need help reaching
or keeping their backs straight
while twisting,
provide a block
when they need support or
can’t quite touch the ground
and still breathe.
Notice. Feel. Focus.
I ask them to focus
on their brain’s breath,
on the transitions
between inhale and exhale,
between stanzas and tones,
on change and
what it does to us.
I ask them to swan dive
to the bottom of an argument,
to fold themselves into a
character.
I teach them,
or try,
to feel the energy
in their voice.
I ask them to open
the front and back doors
of their heart.
The Assignment:
“Stretchy Metaphors” -- It’s day two of NaPoWriMo, and we’re feeling fresh, invigorated, ready for anything, right? Here’s today’s challenge: find five verbs and five nouns from one subject area, and use them to write about another subject. My son had this assignment in his college poetry class, and he culled his words from biology and then wrote about technology. The idea is to create an extended metaphor in a short poem, of maybe ten to twelve lines.
Happy poeming!
The Product: comparing yoga practice to teaching high school English (hmmmm)
[Disclaimer -- It's not short. Oh, well. And it needs work. Oh, well.]
English Class: Namaste
Every class feels like
my first –
a veteran but always a beginner.
I am teacher and also student.
I bend and stretch myself
across the text as I ask them
to follow me
but still honor their own
bodies and minds
at whatever level they are today.
I demonstrate poses,
the literary sort,
teach them to breathe language in,
breathe language out,
put my hand on their shoulder
when they need help reaching
or keeping their backs straight
while twisting,
provide a block
when they need support or
can’t quite touch the ground
and still breathe.
Notice. Feel. Focus.
I ask them to focus
on their brain’s breath,
on the transitions
between inhale and exhale,
between stanzas and tones,
on change and
what it does to us.
I ask them to swan dive
to the bottom of an argument,
to fold themselves into a
character.
I teach them,
or try,
to feel the energy
in their voice.
I ask them to open
the front and back doors
of their heart.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Yeah, we'll see.
NaPoWriMo? I'm not gonna promise. No way. I'm doing well just to keep my Lenten vows, and those are made to God, for pete's sake! And we all know how well my photo365 went! But we'll see. I'll just do one today. And it's completely silly. Heh.
The assignment:
Welcome to National Poetry Month! We’re going to start off easy. Metaphor. The definition that I like best is “two disparate things yoked together to create new meaning.” Not sure where I heard that — might have been a professor, might have been a drunken poet… . Either way, it’s an apt description!
Right now, at this very minute, list five things in front of you. In front of you being a relative term: on your desk, on your arm, out your window … . Choose the two most disparate things and yoke them together into a fabulous metaphor. Now, use it in a poem.
* * *
These are my five things, except I can never follow rules, so there are six.
lamp
Wite-out
picture
bracelet
monitor
cat food
And here's my silly poem:
Cat food lamp
The cat food bin sits
three-quarters full,
a sign of hope
against the fear of not enough.
The lamp gives less than
ideal light –
harsh, glaring –
and still a sign of hope
against the fear of dark and void.
This month of spring,
this month, April,
a month of spring
break, and lighter
evenings, and
garden flower abundance –
my sign of hope
against the fear of not enough
against the fear of dark and void
a cat food lamp unto my feet.
The assignment:
Welcome to National Poetry Month! We’re going to start off easy. Metaphor. The definition that I like best is “two disparate things yoked together to create new meaning.” Not sure where I heard that — might have been a professor, might have been a drunken poet… . Either way, it’s an apt description!
Right now, at this very minute, list five things in front of you. In front of you being a relative term: on your desk, on your arm, out your window … . Choose the two most disparate things and yoke them together into a fabulous metaphor. Now, use it in a poem.
* * *
lamp
Wite-out
picture
bracelet
monitor
cat food
And here's my silly poem:
Cat food lamp
The cat food bin sits
three-quarters full,
a sign of hope
against the fear of not enough.
The lamp gives less than
ideal light –
harsh, glaring –
and still a sign of hope
against the fear of dark and void.
This month of spring,
this month, April,
a month of spring
break, and lighter
evenings, and
garden flower abundance –
my sign of hope
against the fear of not enough
against the fear of dark and void
a cat food lamp unto my feet.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Amen.
Watching a Documentary about Polar Bears
Trying to Survive on the Melting Ice Floes
That God had a plan, I do not doubt.
But what if His plan was, that we would do better?
--Mary Oliver from Red Bird
Trying to Survive on the Melting Ice Floes
That God had a plan, I do not doubt.
But what if His plan was, that we would do better?
--Mary Oliver from Red Bird
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