Poem: (a beginnging)
Strategy: Overlapping layers to construct identity
The strategy that stands out to me the most in this piece is a sense of overlapping layers of identity and time. The strongest instance of layered identity is the imagery of the daughter’s and the father’s face, “That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is / a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue one” (5-6). The fact that the father’s face deviating from the norm and is not the daughter’s face foreshadows the end of the piece when the father is not a breath and he passes on. His face also passes away from the daughter. In addition, there is a sense that the speaker’s identity layers over the daughter, “I slip and slip under the sheets and / the daughter sleeps” (4-5). Sheets are thin covers that are meant to lie over something; so the boundary between the identity of the speaker and the daughter appears to be nothing more than a thin sheet. It appears as the speaker is the daughter and the past event of the father dying is overshadowing the present moment in which the speaker is reliving the memory (past over-layers the present). She is obviously a part of the poem and is not serving as a distant observer of the piece, “You smiled and smiled with / me” (11-2) The repetition of words like, “smile,” “slip,” and “breath,” along with the connected relationships of the father and daughter, work together to emphasizes this idea of overlapping layers of identity and time.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Improv 2, Week 15
My second improv for this week comes from the piece, "Notes on Yellow Paper."
Notes on Yellow Paper
There are new colors in the leaves and the sky is white. A woman does
not necessarily recognized another one when she sleeps in a car. Where
are the children at two fifty five. Her body needs a change and she is not
hungry. That a flag quivers in the morning does not make her eyes. She moves as mercury to break its perfect skin. She was ignorant once and she threw a key to her face. Is utopia when dogs bite the flying dirt we kick with our boots when there is a meadow and trees when we never knew their names. Sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery. A horse collapses behind the daughter. They walked by the church at nightfall and bells were a sign. There is not always another way. They washed her soiled garments under the mink coat. She reads about Ancient Egypt and shaves her eyebrows.
The above piece seems to draw from the relationship of a mother to her children. In my piece, I added a father to the family towards the end and my language seemed to embody a sort of break down of construction. I attribute this to the use of words like "jackhammer," "cleaver," and "stabbing at a dew drop." Such imagery tends to suggest using tools to break apart something. In Byrd's piece, it appears as if the mother is trying to reach some element of peace and solace, a sort of utopia, "her body needs a change and she is not hungry," (3-4). There is an air of attempting to calm the speaker down in the midst of her chaos. This stems from the usage of words such as, "meadow," "chruch," "bells," and "swimming beyond the scenery." My piece, however, adds a bit more leverage to the chaos itself without giving its characters a chance to breathe.
Red Grass Inscription
There are dead leaves in the sky and the ground is white. A child never
really sees himself when he stabs at a plummeting dew-drop. Have the trees boiled at two and a half ticks. His jack-hammer must be appeased, and she is not thirsty. That a moth bled her eyes does not murder her ears. He crawls like ice to burn the inflictions of time. She was young once and she thrusted a cleaver to her breast. Is sanctuary when otters flick the petalled dress we bathe with our skin when the clouds dissipate into dirt when we never knew their age. Every year we fly below our fingernails. The cattle mewls above the father. They run past the preacher at daybreak and flying rocks were their key. There is never another option. We ripped his powdered hairs under the red rug. He studies Einsteen and clips her nose hairs.
Notes on Yellow Paper
There are new colors in the leaves and the sky is white. A woman does
not necessarily recognized another one when she sleeps in a car. Where
are the children at two fifty five. Her body needs a change and she is not
hungry. That a flag quivers in the morning does not make her eyes. She moves as mercury to break its perfect skin. She was ignorant once and she threw a key to her face. Is utopia when dogs bite the flying dirt we kick with our boots when there is a meadow and trees when we never knew their names. Sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery. A horse collapses behind the daughter. They walked by the church at nightfall and bells were a sign. There is not always another way. They washed her soiled garments under the mink coat. She reads about Ancient Egypt and shaves her eyebrows.
The above piece seems to draw from the relationship of a mother to her children. In my piece, I added a father to the family towards the end and my language seemed to embody a sort of break down of construction. I attribute this to the use of words like "jackhammer," "cleaver," and "stabbing at a dew drop." Such imagery tends to suggest using tools to break apart something. In Byrd's piece, it appears as if the mother is trying to reach some element of peace and solace, a sort of utopia, "her body needs a change and she is not hungry," (3-4). There is an air of attempting to calm the speaker down in the midst of her chaos. This stems from the usage of words such as, "meadow," "chruch," "bells," and "swimming beyond the scenery." My piece, however, adds a bit more leverage to the chaos itself without giving its characters a chance to breathe.
Red Grass Inscription
There are dead leaves in the sky and the ground is white. A child never
really sees himself when he stabs at a plummeting dew-drop. Have the trees boiled at two and a half ticks. His jack-hammer must be appeased, and she is not thirsty. That a moth bled her eyes does not murder her ears. He crawls like ice to burn the inflictions of time. She was young once and she thrusted a cleaver to her breast. Is sanctuary when otters flick the petalled dress we bathe with our skin when the clouds dissipate into dirt when we never knew their age. Every year we fly below our fingernails. The cattle mewls above the father. They run past the preacher at daybreak and flying rocks were their key. There is never another option. We ripped his powdered hairs under the red rug. He studies Einsteen and clips her nose hairs.
Improv 1, Week 15
The first improv for this week come's from Briditte Byrd's collection, Fence Above the Sea. It is entitled, "(a beginning)."
And then there is another day
Everything is about waiting. A phone rings and it is not always a mistake.
A chest fills with requiem and it is not his not it is not. When there
is something to say the ants find the sun on a mosaic floor. A strange
fragrance. They never see any light. I slip and slip under the sheets and
the daughter sleeps. That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is
a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue
one. At least we tried. In the bed there is a sea and it is cold. But we lost it.
Why no sound. Sisters ride in a car with the daughter’s blue flower and it
is a face wrapped in gauze. His always there. It is hard to turn away from
moving water. A house is not an escape. You smiled and you smiled with
me. The father looked at her and he is not a breath there is not a breath
There is only daughter.
In Byrd's piece there appears to be several familial characters, most of which are feminine. There are sisters, a daughter, and the speaker who appears to either be a reflection of the daughter, one of the sisters, or perhaps even the wife of the 'father.' While the speaker's role is ambiguous, her language dictates a type of feminimity, "I slip and slip under the sheets and the daughter sleeps" (4-5). Here, for example, one could read the line as if the speaker has become the daughter, just for a moment.
I wanted to see where my language would take me if I incorporated several different relations of a family into my piece as well. My characters, however, are a bit more on the masculine side. I have a brother to a sister, a son to an uncle, and the speaker (who could be seen as a reflection of the sister). So, my piece consists of ideally at least one female (in two different roles) and three males. By the time I finished the poem ece, all of the relationships seemed to embody some element of abusive love. This greatly contrasts with the peaceful nature of family in Byrd's piece.
(absent end)
And then, there was no tomorrow.
Nothing is about withstanding. A bed creaks and it always smiles.
A wrist overflows with abstinence and it is not hers if it is his. When
Something tries to bleed the starfish cry nebulas on crystalline ceiling. An enticing taste. They always hear twenty tongues. He turns or turns over the wheel and the sister mourns. That her hair stemmed from her brother is an epiphany. It is never uncertain that a sister’s tendrils is a brother’s goatee and never red. Until they slept. At the shore lies a whale and it is dead. But they found it. Where are the notes. Sons jump on the deck with Uncle’s gangrene razor and it is a knee making love. She never leaves. It is hard to always forget the call of a mosquito. A tree is steadfast. I cried and I cried with the brother. She worshipped him and he was not there, there is never there. There is only me.
And then there is another day
Everything is about waiting. A phone rings and it is not always a mistake.
A chest fills with requiem and it is not his not it is not. When there
is something to say the ants find the sun on a mosaic floor. A strange
fragrance. They never see any light. I slip and slip under the sheets and
the daughter sleeps. That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is
a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue
one. At least we tried. In the bed there is a sea and it is cold. But we lost it.
Why no sound. Sisters ride in a car with the daughter’s blue flower and it
is a face wrapped in gauze. His always there. It is hard to turn away from
moving water. A house is not an escape. You smiled and you smiled with
me. The father looked at her and he is not a breath there is not a breath
There is only daughter.
In Byrd's piece there appears to be several familial characters, most of which are feminine. There are sisters, a daughter, and the speaker who appears to either be a reflection of the daughter, one of the sisters, or perhaps even the wife of the 'father.' While the speaker's role is ambiguous, her language dictates a type of feminimity, "I slip and slip under the sheets and the daughter sleeps" (4-5). Here, for example, one could read the line as if the speaker has become the daughter, just for a moment.
I wanted to see where my language would take me if I incorporated several different relations of a family into my piece as well. My characters, however, are a bit more on the masculine side. I have a brother to a sister, a son to an uncle, and the speaker (who could be seen as a reflection of the sister). So, my piece consists of ideally at least one female (in two different roles) and three males. By the time I finished the poem ece, all of the relationships seemed to embody some element of abusive love. This greatly contrasts with the peaceful nature of family in Byrd's piece.
(absent end)
And then, there was no tomorrow.
Nothing is about withstanding. A bed creaks and it always smiles.
A wrist overflows with abstinence and it is not hers if it is his. When
Something tries to bleed the starfish cry nebulas on crystalline ceiling. An enticing taste. They always hear twenty tongues. He turns or turns over the wheel and the sister mourns. That her hair stemmed from her brother is an epiphany. It is never uncertain that a sister’s tendrils is a brother’s goatee and never red. Until they slept. At the shore lies a whale and it is dead. But they found it. Where are the notes. Sons jump on the deck with Uncle’s gangrene razor and it is a knee making love. She never leaves. It is hard to always forget the call of a mosquito. A tree is steadfast. I cried and I cried with the brother. She worshipped him and he was not there, there is never there. There is only me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 15
Original draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
The gray concrete encircles my mind
like a Rottweiler’s chain choking
the life out of an anaconda.
Squeezing that citrusy lemonade
out of skin. It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood, absent
from the body’s self.
Whimpering virgin fingers tremble
in the wake of Nature’s tragedy. Dusk breathes
Mercury’s star-crusted poison
into the iron-clenched jaws of ignorance,
road-kill on the cement. Earth’s cracked veins
spell the essence of my innocence- CHILD,
chided for her beliefs in a system of non-conformity.
Everyone’s trying to be different: the panic
room of social construct crumbles like Cheetos’
chips at our toes. Ants edge out to digest
our remains, nestled between the edges
of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Revised draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
Dirt-Hill
Gray concrete surrounds my mind,
a Rottweiler’s clinking church bells
ring to entice an anaconda. The asylum
squeezes citrus lemonade out of dry
crusted sin; Earth's blood has been missing in centuries.
The virgin whimper trembles, fingers tap in the midst
of dusk’s isolated breath: star-crusted poison
bathes iron jaws of ignorance in waving black
sounds. She didn’t die, but she’s not alive.
Her cracked veins spell innocence- CHILD,
chided for non-conformity. How can we
differentiate the chaotic construct
crumbling like sand between our toes.
Ants are reborn to re-solidify our remains,
nestled between the edges of the Atlantic
and the specific.
The gray concrete encircles my mind
like a Rottweiler’s chain choking
the life out of an anaconda.
Squeezing that citrusy lemonade
out of skin. It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood, absent
from the body’s self.
Whimpering virgin fingers tremble
in the wake of Nature’s tragedy. Dusk breathes
Mercury’s star-crusted poison
into the iron-clenched jaws of ignorance,
road-kill on the cement. Earth’s cracked veins
spell the essence of my innocence- CHILD,
chided for her beliefs in a system of non-conformity.
Everyone’s trying to be different: the panic
room of social construct crumbles like Cheetos’
chips at our toes. Ants edge out to digest
our remains, nestled between the edges
of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Revised draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
Dirt-Hill
Gray concrete surrounds my mind,
a Rottweiler’s clinking church bells
ring to entice an anaconda. The asylum
squeezes citrus lemonade out of dry
crusted sin; Earth's blood has been missing in centuries.
The virgin whimper trembles, fingers tap in the midst
of dusk’s isolated breath: star-crusted poison
bathes iron jaws of ignorance in waving black
sounds. She didn’t die, but she’s not alive.
Her cracked veins spell innocence- CHILD,
chided for non-conformity. How can we
differentiate the chaotic construct
crumbling like sand between our toes.
Ants are reborn to re-solidify our remains,
nestled between the edges of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Free Entry 1, Week 15
Original Draft for this week's Free Entry:
I pricked myself
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
Revised Draft for this week's Free Entry:
Mend
I prick myself when sewing for hours,
birthing a pool of blood. I wail
the blues as the doctors whack
the bottomless souls of babies.
They are boys that must become shadows.
Black cloaks vested in a shroud of fire.
Don’t demand a premature demise in war;
necessary skeletons become circumstantial.
Their rugged femurs dusted in combat,
vanquishing chariots of fire where man
alone cannot. The pregnant swell of His
stomach is rubbed, rough and ragged,
to scrub knobby tribulations into molten
ash before they return to the black cloaks…
to His coat-rack: The Messiah’s pot-bellied
Buddah. He shivers without His blanket
too; it is for him that I sew.
I pricked myself
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
Revised Draft for this week's Free Entry:
Mend
I prick myself when sewing for hours,
birthing a pool of blood. I wail
the blues as the doctors whack
the bottomless souls of babies.
They are boys that must become shadows.
Black cloaks vested in a shroud of fire.
Don’t demand a premature demise in war;
necessary skeletons become circumstantial.
Their rugged femurs dusted in combat,
vanquishing chariots of fire where man
alone cannot. The pregnant swell of His
stomach is rubbed, rough and ragged,
to scrub knobby tribulations into molten
ash before they return to the black cloaks…
to His coat-rack: The Messiah’s pot-bellied
Buddah. He shivers without His blanket
too; it is for him that I sew.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 15
"You're thinking in Japanese! If you must think, do it in German!"
-Asuka Langley Soryu, Evangelion
-Asuka Langley Soryu, Evangelion
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 15
"Walking-Horseback-that is the speed at which the soul can stay in the body during travel."
-Gordon, "Dead Man's Cell Phone"
-Gordon, "Dead Man's Cell Phone"
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)