I'm too tired to do the prompt justice tonight. I'll cop out with a haiku which isn't much of a haiku:
nap on couch in afternoon sun
conscious thought lost in rest and dream
awaking to life
Showing posts with label poem (the bad kind). Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem (the bad kind). Show all posts
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.
It's much too late, and I'm much too tired, and I fear that will be most evident here.
We are more than one-third through NaPoWriMo. If you feel like you’ve started to make things up (two parts desperation, one part coffee grinds), then Carolee Sherwood’s prompt for Day 12 will play into your hand. Make up a secret code. Begin by writing a few nonsense sentences, like “The raindrops tap out a cry for help” or “The dandelions are saying all at once, ‘You are overwhelmed.’” The formula is easy: come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Remember, of course, that inanimate objects can speak and that signs and symbols may be nonverbal. Once you have a few sentences, select the one that is most intriguing to you and use it to start a poem.
Well, I went with the code idea. Can't get much more code than text-speak.
Top Secret: And Some of It’s True
The child in the restaurant
drawing on the kids’ menu
drew, not a house or a horse, or mommy or dog,
but an iPod,
yes,
complete with apps.
And she held it up
for her mommy to see;
proud mommy of a child
of the twenty-first century.
And the drawing of iPod said,
“OMG, lady, WTH must you stare?”
“IDK,” I spat back, “WTF do you care?
I straddle the centuries;
I’m a teacher, you know;
I can play your code game
and you know it fo sho.”
“LMAO,” iPoddy-mouth said,
“FWIW, though, to me you’re
over the hill, like, half dead.”
“OFFS,” I retorted,
with a roll of my I,
“GTG, bcuz IMHO,
ur the NME now,
so don’t even try.”
“^URS, lady. CU in BFE.”
“I’ll BRT. (What a huge SOB.)”
We are more than one-third through NaPoWriMo. If you feel like you’ve started to make things up (two parts desperation, one part coffee grinds), then Carolee Sherwood’s prompt for Day 12 will play into your hand. Make up a secret code. Begin by writing a few nonsense sentences, like “The raindrops tap out a cry for help” or “The dandelions are saying all at once, ‘You are overwhelmed.’” The formula is easy: come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Remember, of course, that inanimate objects can speak and that signs and symbols may be nonverbal. Once you have a few sentences, select the one that is most intriguing to you and use it to start a poem.
Well, I went with the code idea. Can't get much more code than text-speak.
Top Secret: And Some of It’s True
The child in the restaurant
drawing on the kids’ menu
drew, not a house or a horse, or mommy or dog,
but an iPod,
yes,
complete with apps.
And she held it up
for her mommy to see;
proud mommy of a child
of the twenty-first century.
And the drawing of iPod said,
“OMG, lady, WTH must you stare?”
“IDK,” I spat back, “WTF do you care?
I straddle the centuries;
I’m a teacher, you know;
I can play your code game
and you know it fo sho.”
“LMAO,” iPoddy-mouth said,
“FWIW, though, to me you’re
over the hill, like, half dead.”
“OFFS,” I retorted,
with a roll of my I,
“GTG, bcuz IMHO,
ur the NME now,
so don’t even try.”
“^URS, lady. CU in BFE.”
“I’ll BRT. (What a huge SOB.)”
Sunday, April 11, 2010
I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.
So many ways to go on this prompt. I tried two different directions (forks in the road). I'm not happy with where I ended up with either, but it'll be food for ongoing thought. I guess good prompts are like that.
Today's prompt: the choice we didn't make (or the thing we didn't choose). Every day we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo? Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose. Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you. *As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.
Fork #1
I didn’t choose
to fall for your theology
then have you go crazy
--god complex and all,
a fifteen-foot deep-end dive.
I didn’t choose for you to
open your arms
then slam the door shut
on my trusting fingers.
I didn’t choose
to get on my knees
and open my palms for
life-saving bread
then have you kick
all of the kneelers in the teeth
and walk across their prostrate backs.
I didn’t choose
to join a vibrant communion
of artistic, godly souls
only to have you
depress the plunger
and send them to the winds.
I didn’t choose it
but it’s what I got.
At least I learned
how not to lead.
Fork #2
Dear Wild Fulfilling Life,
It’s long since we spoke
and yes,
I’m still with security,
ever since we split,
you and I
--and that was kind of the point.
I still firmly believe in
commitment,
but lately I’ve been reflecting
and I’ve begun wondering
if we could ever still have a chance.
I still think about you,
often,
dream about the days we spent,
reminisce the nights we made
when we stayed up forever.
Security has been good to me
but I miss the spice
of risk,
the danger
of yes,
the possibility
of what the hell.
What do you say?
You up for another go?
Perhaps just a tryst,
to see how it flows?
Am I stupid for asking?
Love (?), me
Today's prompt: the choice we didn't make (or the thing we didn't choose). Every day we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo? Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose. Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you. *As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.
Fork #1
I didn’t choose
to fall for your theology
then have you go crazy
--god complex and all,
a fifteen-foot deep-end dive.
I didn’t choose for you to
open your arms
then slam the door shut
on my trusting fingers.
I didn’t choose
to get on my knees
and open my palms for
life-saving bread
then have you kick
all of the kneelers in the teeth
and walk across their prostrate backs.
I didn’t choose
to join a vibrant communion
of artistic, godly souls
only to have you
depress the plunger
and send them to the winds.
I didn’t choose it
but it’s what I got.
At least I learned
how not to lead.
Fork #2
Dear Wild Fulfilling Life,
It’s long since we spoke
and yes,
I’m still with security,
ever since we split,
you and I
--and that was kind of the point.
I still firmly believe in
commitment,
but lately I’ve been reflecting
and I’ve begun wondering
if we could ever still have a chance.
I still think about you,
often,
dream about the days we spent,
reminisce the nights we made
when we stayed up forever.
Security has been good to me
but I miss the spice
of risk,
the danger
of yes,
the possibility
of what the hell.
What do you say?
You up for another go?
Perhaps just a tryst,
to see how it flows?
Am I stupid for asking?
Love (?), me
Monday, April 5, 2010
More of a rant than a poem
For the Day #4 prompt, Nelle Lytle encourages you to keep going with your NaPoWriMo poems by writing inside-out or outside-in. She says:
I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).
In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-old’s (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.
I decided to tackle the inside-out thinking of the American public school system, of which I am currently a part. [sighs deeply] I probably should have chosen a different topic, as this isn't much of a poem after all.
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
School Logic
(or, Your Seam and Tag Are Showing)
My fellow educators,
we must leave no child behind;
we must close the achievement gap;
we must work smarter, not harder;
we must turn out young citizens who possess the skills
that citizenship requires of them;
we must work leaner and meaner in light of budget cuts;
we must deliver a quality education despite worsening conditions.
We must do these things,
because everyone knows
it’s about the kids.
Let us, therefore, train our children to take tests better,
for it is in testing that our success is measured,
as it is in weighing the cow repeatedly that fattens the cow.
Let us, therefore, decry flexibility and creativity,
for it is in uniformity and pacing guides that our
children’s salvation may be found.
Let us, therefore, insist upon purchasing a new textbook package
for every child. Protests
of “but we do not use the textbook so we do not need a new one”
or “we prefer to design our own curriculum because it better meets our students’ needs”
or “it will be a waste of money – let us spend it on something truly useful”
will neither be encouraged nor tolerated,
for it is the data experts, only, who understand what true learning is,
and it is only through programs and off-the-shelf products
that we can protect our students from their bad teachers;
for it is in one-size-fits-all that differentiated instruction is best delivered.
Let us, therefore, write up good teachers
for the number of students who fail their classes,
and place said write-up in their personnel file
with the admonition that “it is not your instruction but your assessment,”
for it is in these open and frank conversations that morale is built
and good teachers become further inspired to try again
the incentives they have tried in the past and abandoned
and are discouraged from lowering standards and cooking the gradebook
in the name of accountability and student success.
Let us, therefore, require that teachers meet incessantly,
either on their own time or during instructional minutes
(we will provide the subs),
in order to analyze and discuss what teachers can do
to improve student failure rates,
for it is in focusing on teachers that we can best attack the problem,
as focusing on the individual needs of each individual child
would surely stretch our resources too thin
and certainly miss the point of education altogether.
Let us ensure that bad teachers are fired
(except for the one who slept with a student,
or the one who grades nothing,
or the one who gives enough extra credit to turn F’s into A’s),
that superintendents say no to every request made for crazy timewasters like campus gardens,
that school board members vote their own pay raises
(because everyone knows “riffing” sixty teachers and twenty custodians
is damned hard work),
and let us increase our class size average to a number that would
shock the rest of the nation if they knew about it,
and the name we shall give it is tightening-the-belt and research-based strategy.
Let us publicly lament the loss of a majority of new teachers in their first five years
and stanch the flow by requiring new teachers to attend hours of meetings
and complete hours’ worth of additional reflective paperwork,
for everyone knows teachers need to learn from trained administrators
who left the classroom after two years of teaching kickball and typing,
rather than from collaboration with colleagues in the trenches
or regular conversation with teachers with whom they share students,
which would only lead to gripe sessions and forming of bad habits.
Let us give students packet work and call it credit recovery,
for asking students actually to learn to write an effective persuasive essay
is just unrealistic for some of these kids and in light of times we’re in,
especially since we had to close the majority of our alternative education sites,
and since our vocational programs are still only whimpering back to life
after decades of dormancy,
and since we only allot four years for high school,
and since we group students based on age rather than ability or achievement,
and since we pass students on to the next grade level
even though they passed none of their classes the previous year;
we’re just going to have to make some tough choices.
Let us unite and make those tough choices together,
because we are in this for the kids.
I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).
In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-old’s (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.
I decided to tackle the inside-out thinking of the American public school system, of which I am currently a part. [sighs deeply] I probably should have chosen a different topic, as this isn't much of a poem after all.
(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)
School Logic
(or, Your Seam and Tag Are Showing)
My fellow educators,
we must leave no child behind;
we must close the achievement gap;
we must work smarter, not harder;
we must turn out young citizens who possess the skills
that citizenship requires of them;
we must work leaner and meaner in light of budget cuts;
we must deliver a quality education despite worsening conditions.
We must do these things,
because everyone knows
it’s about the kids.
Let us, therefore, train our children to take tests better,
for it is in testing that our success is measured,
as it is in weighing the cow repeatedly that fattens the cow.
Let us, therefore, decry flexibility and creativity,
for it is in uniformity and pacing guides that our
children’s salvation may be found.
Let us, therefore, insist upon purchasing a new textbook package
for every child. Protests
of “but we do not use the textbook so we do not need a new one”
or “we prefer to design our own curriculum because it better meets our students’ needs”
or “it will be a waste of money – let us spend it on something truly useful”
will neither be encouraged nor tolerated,
for it is the data experts, only, who understand what true learning is,
and it is only through programs and off-the-shelf products
that we can protect our students from their bad teachers;
for it is in one-size-fits-all that differentiated instruction is best delivered.
Let us, therefore, write up good teachers
for the number of students who fail their classes,
and place said write-up in their personnel file
with the admonition that “it is not your instruction but your assessment,”
for it is in these open and frank conversations that morale is built
and good teachers become further inspired to try again
the incentives they have tried in the past and abandoned
and are discouraged from lowering standards and cooking the gradebook
in the name of accountability and student success.
Let us, therefore, require that teachers meet incessantly,
either on their own time or during instructional minutes
(we will provide the subs),
in order to analyze and discuss what teachers can do
to improve student failure rates,
for it is in focusing on teachers that we can best attack the problem,
as focusing on the individual needs of each individual child
would surely stretch our resources too thin
and certainly miss the point of education altogether.
Let us ensure that bad teachers are fired
(except for the one who slept with a student,
or the one who grades nothing,
or the one who gives enough extra credit to turn F’s into A’s),
that superintendents say no to every request made for crazy timewasters like campus gardens,
that school board members vote their own pay raises
(because everyone knows “riffing” sixty teachers and twenty custodians
is damned hard work),
and let us increase our class size average to a number that would
shock the rest of the nation if they knew about it,
and the name we shall give it is tightening-the-belt and research-based strategy.
Let us publicly lament the loss of a majority of new teachers in their first five years
and stanch the flow by requiring new teachers to attend hours of meetings
and complete hours’ worth of additional reflective paperwork,
for everyone knows teachers need to learn from trained administrators
who left the classroom after two years of teaching kickball and typing,
rather than from collaboration with colleagues in the trenches
or regular conversation with teachers with whom they share students,
which would only lead to gripe sessions and forming of bad habits.
Let us give students packet work and call it credit recovery,
for asking students actually to learn to write an effective persuasive essay
is just unrealistic for some of these kids and in light of times we’re in,
especially since we had to close the majority of our alternative education sites,
and since our vocational programs are still only whimpering back to life
after decades of dormancy,
and since we only allot four years for high school,
and since we group students based on age rather than ability or achievement,
and since we pass students on to the next grade level
even though they passed none of their classes the previous year;
we’re just going to have to make some tough choices.
Let us unite and make those tough choices together,
because we are in this for the kids.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Posting As Is
This one is asinine, but I'm done with it, so post it I shall.
It’s daunting to take on a commitment as large as NaPoWriMo, but here you are. Today is Day 3, and you are facing your fears. RWP member Joseph Harker thinks there’s a poem in that; here’s his prompt for you:
Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible! Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)
[Caveat: I haven't committed. Not really. I'm just playing along for now.]
[Caveat: And yeah, well, I did go too far. Oh, well.]
TITLE
Fear List: Beginning with
“All of my poems become
rhyming bits of doggerel and rhythmic schizophrenia,
like this one”
(SUBTITLE: The poetic equivalent of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, with head-snapping sudden changes of direction and heart-stopping plunges)
Pain and mediocrity,
and what if my dogs could talk?
(Oh, thanks, Billy Collins, for your effing revenant.)
Inertia,
blindness,
loss of teeth,
and what if I couldn’t walk?
(Or losing money and job, and becoming mendicant.)
Earthquakes over five-point-nine,
being thought of as harsh or unkind,
swiss-cheese memories
and a plaque-y brain;
passengering on a burning plane;
being left out,
or left out of the loop,
loved ones flying earth’s physical coop;
the thought of never weighing less,
being told I must wear a dress;
facing a blank page and finding
I have nothing to say;
writing for hours and still finding
I have nothing to say;
an ear bent badly
so I hear things wrongly
and thus represent them poorly
so the muse flees me quickly;
losing it
because I’m not using it
(and many “its” apply);
loss of control,
lack of self-determination
at the expense of logic
and what’s best for the kids;
some of my students’ bleak futures,
inability to change our school culture;
a generation gone awry;
forgetting how to cry,
or crying too much;
being stupid and such;
inability to see the big picture,
helpless suffering in God’s animal creatures;
acedia,
conservative media;
what God might do to me
or ask me to do;
not being as intelligent as I like to think;
…and apparently everything but the kitchen sink!
(Yeah, that I’m not afraid of at all…
well, except when the plumber has to be called.)
It’s daunting to take on a commitment as large as NaPoWriMo, but here you are. Today is Day 3, and you are facing your fears. RWP member Joseph Harker thinks there’s a poem in that; here’s his prompt for you:
Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible! Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)
[Caveat: I haven't committed. Not really. I'm just playing along for now.]
[Caveat: And yeah, well, I did go too far. Oh, well.]
TITLE
Fear List: Beginning with
“All of my poems become
rhyming bits of doggerel and rhythmic schizophrenia,
like this one”
(SUBTITLE: The poetic equivalent of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, with head-snapping sudden changes of direction and heart-stopping plunges)
Pain and mediocrity,
and what if my dogs could talk?
(Oh, thanks, Billy Collins, for your effing revenant.)
Inertia,
blindness,
loss of teeth,
and what if I couldn’t walk?
(Or losing money and job, and becoming mendicant.)
Earthquakes over five-point-nine,
being thought of as harsh or unkind,
swiss-cheese memories
and a plaque-y brain;
passengering on a burning plane;
being left out,
or left out of the loop,
loved ones flying earth’s physical coop;
the thought of never weighing less,
being told I must wear a dress;
facing a blank page and finding
I have nothing to say;
writing for hours and still finding
I have nothing to say;
an ear bent badly
so I hear things wrongly
and thus represent them poorly
so the muse flees me quickly;
losing it
because I’m not using it
(and many “its” apply);
loss of control,
lack of self-determination
at the expense of logic
and what’s best for the kids;
some of my students’ bleak futures,
inability to change our school culture;
a generation gone awry;
forgetting how to cry,
or crying too much;
being stupid and such;
inability to see the big picture,
helpless suffering in God’s animal creatures;
acedia,
conservative media;
what God might do to me
or ask me to do;
not being as intelligent as I like to think;
…and apparently everything but the kitchen sink!
(Yeah, that I’m not afraid of at all…
well, except when the plumber has to be called.)
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