The strings of her
violin sang out
melodious chaotic vibrations
beneath the tendrils of the air.
His cherry golden oars
soaked up the cream of her sword,
soothing its slices into
mahogany mackerels.
The wood wrapped around the strings,
to squeeze the metal embers from the
veins of their minds. And the air
bludgeoned the wood that refused to
weep its joy across the stretches of
Atlantis. The world is the all, and she
is the one, her trembling locks piercing
the stoned scale.
Paddling across flaming shadows,
they extend to wrap around
and strangle innocent
players in the ear bleeding game
of notes and rhythm that threaten
to dissolve our iron-clad arms.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 4
"In the ocean in the turquoise-colored heart the signals of the ship of light can be heard. I need to go faster; for this impatient feeling no words are needed. A lie is always hiding in the words sweetly."
-Aikawa Nanase
-Aikawa Nanase
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 4
"We were foolish then but our trust served to make us strong. The burdens are not yours alone, we've sought the answers for so long; but they're not free...they've cost you more than they've cost me, my brother."
-Vic Mignogna, "Nothing I Won't Give"
-Vic Mignogna, "Nothing I Won't Give"
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 4
"Coffee...that's all our relationship is...coffee."
-Dr. Temperance (Bones) Brennan, "Bones"
-Dr. Temperance (Bones) Brennan, "Bones"
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 4
"You can either carry the cross or be the one banging in the nails."
-Eli, The Book of Eli
-Eli, The Book of Eli
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 3
Strategy: The Poetices of Power
Work of the Week: "America's First and Foremost Black Superstar" by Adrian Matejka
In Matejak’s piece, “America’s First and Foremost Black Superstar,” the speaker communicates with the audience from what appears to be a boxed up collection of old comics. One of the strongest instances indicating that the speaker is the character from a comic book is seen here: This ain’t no shakedown, / but it smells like Seagate all over again: one cell / leads to another and the story don’t never finish. / Who’s hiring me in this box” (lines 4-7). The never ending “cells” refer to the drawing cells or panels printed on each page of a comic strip. In this poem I was able to detect the strategy concerning, “poetics of power.”
Even though Luke Cage is the superhero speaking in this poem, he does not have the power to do some of the actions that he wishes he could perform: Sure, them foxes / are here with me, but I never get at’em unless / I’m bailing those broads out of one scrape or another. / And I still don’t get no residuals (lines 7-10). He also wishes to change his outfit and to try some Texas barbeque. He knows that his world is different from that of the reader, and he indicates that he wants to partake in the reader’s world: Dig it, I just want to step out for a minute (line 23). He may have super-powers, but they are not truly his own. Instead, his power comes from a reality that his audience and the folks at Marvel have created for him. Cage is aware that others control him, just as humans are aware that essentially, there are others who control certain elements of their lives.
However, Matejka does allow Cage to have some power by giving him a voice throughout this work. According to our text, power is evident in all relationships, from intimate to generalized. Matejka pinpoints several of Cage’s relationships in this work (e.g. Jerome Mackey, Jim Kelly, Iron Fist, etc.). In turn, when Cage relates these characters to the audience, he develops even more relationships (this time with his readers). He then uses his power to enhance those relationship by speaking in everyday jargon the audience understands and can relate to: “What’s the beef;” “I’ll give you five to one it ain’t fun;” “Let Cage get at some of that Texas barbeque,” etc. (lines 4, 17-18).
So Cage’s power not only lies within his own comic book realm, but also in the relationships he has formed with the audience reading the piece.
Work of the Week: "America's First and Foremost Black Superstar" by Adrian Matejka
In Matejak’s piece, “America’s First and Foremost Black Superstar,” the speaker communicates with the audience from what appears to be a boxed up collection of old comics. One of the strongest instances indicating that the speaker is the character from a comic book is seen here: This ain’t no shakedown, / but it smells like Seagate all over again: one cell / leads to another and the story don’t never finish. / Who’s hiring me in this box” (lines 4-7). The never ending “cells” refer to the drawing cells or panels printed on each page of a comic strip. In this poem I was able to detect the strategy concerning, “poetics of power.”
Even though Luke Cage is the superhero speaking in this poem, he does not have the power to do some of the actions that he wishes he could perform: Sure, them foxes / are here with me, but I never get at’em unless / I’m bailing those broads out of one scrape or another. / And I still don’t get no residuals (lines 7-10). He also wishes to change his outfit and to try some Texas barbeque. He knows that his world is different from that of the reader, and he indicates that he wants to partake in the reader’s world: Dig it, I just want to step out for a minute (line 23). He may have super-powers, but they are not truly his own. Instead, his power comes from a reality that his audience and the folks at Marvel have created for him. Cage is aware that others control him, just as humans are aware that essentially, there are others who control certain elements of their lives.
However, Matejka does allow Cage to have some power by giving him a voice throughout this work. According to our text, power is evident in all relationships, from intimate to generalized. Matejka pinpoints several of Cage’s relationships in this work (e.g. Jerome Mackey, Jim Kelly, Iron Fist, etc.). In turn, when Cage relates these characters to the audience, he develops even more relationships (this time with his readers). He then uses his power to enhance those relationship by speaking in everyday jargon the audience understands and can relate to: “What’s the beef;” “I’ll give you five to one it ain’t fun;” “Let Cage get at some of that Texas barbeque,” etc. (lines 4, 17-18).
So Cage’s power not only lies within his own comic book realm, but also in the relationships he has formed with the audience reading the piece.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Improv 2, Week 3
This is a riff of the Adrian Matejka’s piece, “Haters.”
Haters
What have you done, Cornelius?
Nevermind. We know what you've done:
marrying white, creating a child
of stuttered pigmentation from disco
and chalk. In this state, anyone north
of the Red River is a Yankee- ignorant
of anything pecan and already sweetened.
Cornelius, those same Yanks think
your son is Mexican. One good thing
about Texans: they know their Mexicans.
Your son will still be madhousing bigotry's
matinee, Cornelius. Living in that special
place for the multiple checker of race
boxes, an enabler of exoticism down here.
He will be the man riding the bus
in tux and tie. Some other riders will want
him gone in that gone for good
way even though they are not sure why.
This piece overall reflects how one of a mixed-race was once treated by others in America. In reading this piece, I was reminded of a new character that has been introduced by Disney: Prince Naveen of Maldonia. Maldonia is a fictional country and the prince himself is racially ambiguous. My piece is a riff of “Haters” with Naveen’s ambiguous background as the core of the work. I wanted to try to capture the same essence of bias in the first poem through the prince’s non-existent culture.
Royalty Unknown
What have you done, Maldonia?
No answer, it is already clear
Infesting us with a nothing man
Chestnut-layered from ukuleles
and drumsticks. In this country,
royalty is trampled on—belittled
amongst our melting pot.
Maldonia, your son-prince spreads confusion
He is everything or nothing. Both none and the same. One
thing about Americans: they distinguish selves.
Your child is a cacophony of befuddlement,
Maldonia. Living here, but no where
particular. Malta, Spain, Italy, Islam
Macedonia, Africa the cross-crissing bleeds
bigotry into our nation. He is
charming, and others will envy his nothingness,
it will eventually destroy US.
Take him back Maldonia…for we are not yet ready
Haters
What have you done, Cornelius?
Nevermind. We know what you've done:
marrying white, creating a child
of stuttered pigmentation from disco
and chalk. In this state, anyone north
of the Red River is a Yankee- ignorant
of anything pecan and already sweetened.
Cornelius, those same Yanks think
your son is Mexican. One good thing
about Texans: they know their Mexicans.
Your son will still be madhousing bigotry's
matinee, Cornelius. Living in that special
place for the multiple checker of race
boxes, an enabler of exoticism down here.
He will be the man riding the bus
in tux and tie. Some other riders will want
him gone in that gone for good
way even though they are not sure why.
This piece overall reflects how one of a mixed-race was once treated by others in America. In reading this piece, I was reminded of a new character that has been introduced by Disney: Prince Naveen of Maldonia. Maldonia is a fictional country and the prince himself is racially ambiguous. My piece is a riff of “Haters” with Naveen’s ambiguous background as the core of the work. I wanted to try to capture the same essence of bias in the first poem through the prince’s non-existent culture.
Royalty Unknown
What have you done, Maldonia?
No answer, it is already clear
Infesting us with a nothing man
Chestnut-layered from ukuleles
and drumsticks. In this country,
royalty is trampled on—belittled
amongst our melting pot.
Maldonia, your son-prince spreads confusion
He is everything or nothing. Both none and the same. One
thing about Americans: they distinguish selves.
Your child is a cacophony of befuddlement,
Maldonia. Living here, but no where
particular. Malta, Spain, Italy, Islam
Macedonia, Africa the cross-crissing bleeds
bigotry into our nation. He is
charming, and others will envy his nothingness,
it will eventually destroy US.
Take him back Maldonia…for we are not yet ready
Improv 1, Week 3
This is a riff of Adrian Matejka's poem, "What The Dead Are Missing Out On."
What The Dead Are Missing Out On:
Sections of a woman’s body,
misappropriated angelically—
this hand, this wrist. The motion
of hand to hip, hip back to mouth.
Fresh understanding in water’s
cusp. The slice of skin between
shirt and skirt appearing
and re-appearing easily in the habit
of skin. A plate of barbeque
as spicy as a girl with a reputation.
Stevie Wonder chorusing with himself
because no one else can.
Permanence, like the stains on a motel
pillow.
Her voice, whoever she was.
This poem is filled with the element of motion, movement and action (lines 3-4, 6-8, 11-12). Then, by the end of the piece, there is a stark contrast by incorporating the element of still-ness. Permanence is a non-movement that seems to reflect memory in the poem by being coupled with the final line: Her voice, whoever she was (lines 13-15). Yet “she” is the person embodied throughout the entire piece. My work shall attempt to replicate the presentation of one element, and contrasting that element at the end with an object that embodies the piece as a whole.
What the Deaf Do Not Hear:
Vibrations of a snare drum
Pressed tightly—
against the waist, the sternum. Tremors
quake of hip to side, side to mind
New meaning in a violin’s wired
whine. The back and forth motion between
Air and time marinating,
basking angelically in a drunken stupor
of insanity. The ting-a ling of the bell
as soprano as a virgin’s first cry.
Pop king’s shaky tenor
no one else can match.
Stillness, like an abandoned
forest.
She retreats, her identity lost.
What The Dead Are Missing Out On:
Sections of a woman’s body,
misappropriated angelically—
this hand, this wrist. The motion
of hand to hip, hip back to mouth.
Fresh understanding in water’s
cusp. The slice of skin between
shirt and skirt appearing
and re-appearing easily in the habit
of skin. A plate of barbeque
as spicy as a girl with a reputation.
Stevie Wonder chorusing with himself
because no one else can.
Permanence, like the stains on a motel
pillow.
Her voice, whoever she was.
This poem is filled with the element of motion, movement and action (lines 3-4, 6-8, 11-12). Then, by the end of the piece, there is a stark contrast by incorporating the element of still-ness. Permanence is a non-movement that seems to reflect memory in the poem by being coupled with the final line: Her voice, whoever she was (lines 13-15). Yet “she” is the person embodied throughout the entire piece. My work shall attempt to replicate the presentation of one element, and contrasting that element at the end with an object that embodies the piece as a whole.
What the Deaf Do Not Hear:
Vibrations of a snare drum
Pressed tightly—
against the waist, the sternum. Tremors
quake of hip to side, side to mind
New meaning in a violin’s wired
whine. The back and forth motion between
Air and time marinating,
basking angelically in a drunken stupor
of insanity. The ting-a ling of the bell
as soprano as a virgin’s first cry.
Pop king’s shaky tenor
no one else can match.
Stillness, like an abandoned
forest.
She retreats, her identity lost.
Free Entry 2, Week 3
Snow White shrieks as
Cinderella punctures arteries
of pixie dust across the
Serengeti
Mickey’s toxic Brie
envelopes Facilier’s Emporium,
the Joker bleeds
Scar’s seduction into
Ariel’s festering lungs
And her voice clangs
against Esmerelda’s knobby knees,
as her skeleton breathes glass shards
into a syncopation of sickness
The Caspian Sea cries for
the ivory blade of derogation
that will slay a thousand genies
in one sweep.
And Aladdin mourns for the
Beast, the rotting
Ceramic blue martyr of
Atlantis.
Friends on the other side
slip into a numb-minding exhaustion
from reaping fairies’
immortal souls
Dark blades collect
iron cold harvests for five centuries;
the second star to the right crashes,
slicing the tar pits of hell
And Peter Pan grows weary with insanity,
Losing his marbles one lost girl at a time.
Cinderella punctures arteries
of pixie dust across the
Serengeti
Mickey’s toxic Brie
envelopes Facilier’s Emporium,
the Joker bleeds
Scar’s seduction into
Ariel’s festering lungs
And her voice clangs
against Esmerelda’s knobby knees,
as her skeleton breathes glass shards
into a syncopation of sickness
The Caspian Sea cries for
the ivory blade of derogation
that will slay a thousand genies
in one sweep.
And Aladdin mourns for the
Beast, the rotting
Ceramic blue martyr of
Atlantis.
Friends on the other side
slip into a numb-minding exhaustion
from reaping fairies’
immortal souls
Dark blades collect
iron cold harvests for five centuries;
the second star to the right crashes,
slicing the tar pits of hell
And Peter Pan grows weary with insanity,
Losing his marbles one lost girl at a time.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Free Entry 1, Week 3
A blazing inferno of
centrifuge spills acidic
tears onto the porcelain
pavement. Ripping away skin from
the metallic bicuspids of Earth.
Sand-paper’s edge scrapes across
wire-taught veins, slicing glass that
bleeds its mark onto rancid breath.
The soul withers into a toxin, inhaled
through ceramic pupils and festering
through the skin’s heart. And crystalline
spheres slash through concrete, igniting
sparks that melt sulfuric nitrate along
taught taste buds. The blood of the innocent
is the key to the gate, where creatures unborn
thrive and feed off of glassy breaths. The tongue
burns passionately at their putrid taste,
yearning for a morsel to satisfy a
guts’ metallic acid.
centrifuge spills acidic
tears onto the porcelain
pavement. Ripping away skin from
the metallic bicuspids of Earth.
Sand-paper’s edge scrapes across
wire-taught veins, slicing glass that
bleeds its mark onto rancid breath.
The soul withers into a toxin, inhaled
through ceramic pupils and festering
through the skin’s heart. And crystalline
spheres slash through concrete, igniting
sparks that melt sulfuric nitrate along
taught taste buds. The blood of the innocent
is the key to the gate, where creatures unborn
thrive and feed off of glassy breaths. The tongue
burns passionately at their putrid taste,
yearning for a morsel to satisfy a
guts’ metallic acid.
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 3
"It would be nice if we could put away and throw out
everything except what really mattered, but
reality is just cruel."
-Hamasaki Ayumi, "Dearest"
everything except what really mattered, but
reality is just cruel."
-Hamasaki Ayumi, "Dearest"
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 3
"Human-kind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one and only truth."
-Alphonse Elric, "Full Metal Alchemist"
-Alphonse Elric, "Full Metal Alchemist"
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 3
"Humph. Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness."
-The Architect, "The Matrix Reloaded"
-The Architect, "The Matrix Reloaded"
Junkaryd Quote 2, Week 3
"He will do what he thinks must be done - not for what he wants, but for what she needs."
-Isbani, "The Sad Fairytale"
-Isbani, "The Sad Fairytale"
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 3
"There was no logic, no reason to lead him to this point, to this place, to this moment. It was a series of accidents, of random choices. Things that seemed to have no importance at the time have had such a huge impact on his life."
-BlackMamba07, "A Question of Probability"
-BlackMamba07, "A Question of Probability"
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 2
The readings for this week drew my attention to the poem, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ by T.S. Eliot. The piece serves as an example of how the ‘self’ as a sign can be deconstructed into both fictitious and realistic elements. In order for the fictitious elements to be truly impactful, it helps for the artist to detach himself from the conventions of reality a bit. As the reading indicates, signs often have more than one meaning and they overlap with other signs. There is no set rule or set of restrictions that narrow a sign’s “messages” to one notion. The poet must detach himself from reality in order to be exposed to the other “messages” that may culminate into his fictitious self. Then, he can rely on the fact and truth imbedded within to construct the true self. The additional messages may also adhere to other disciplines that can help enhance the meaning of the poem.
In analyzing this piece, the reader can correlate several meanings to the signs presented. In this case, the sub-meanings of 'self' correlate to the discipline of drama or the theatre. I was able to connect the ‘self’ sign to meanings represented reflected in both Greek and Shakespearean theatre. The element of Greek theatre that stood out to me was the role of the ‘prophet.’
In this piece, the speaker mentions that he is not a prophet or a prince. To justify this, he must know the responsibilities of these two roles because the responsibilities serve as sub-meanings for what is not his true self. Prophets are often revered for what they can see, and for having knowledge that has that escapes others. A prophet’s sight is strong, but in the poem, the speaker’s sight is merely that of a mortal and so is not as stable: I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker/ And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker/ And in short, I was afraid (lines 4-6). Because he is not “greatness,” he has seen the eternal Footman mock him. The aspect of the word ‘eternal’ indicates a higher power of destiny, as it is not the speaker’s destiny to have great sight.
He is also not Prince Hamlet. In Shakespeare, the character of Hamlet seeks truth in order to make sure he is justified in obtaining revenge for his father’s death. Coincidentally, T.S. Elliot also wrote a critical essay of Hamlet in which he stated, “We find Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' not in the action, not in any quotations that we might select, so much as in an unmistakable tone..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Hamlet). The ‘tone’ of Hamlet is the factor that is resonant in the poem when the speaker mentions him in the Prufrock piece.
Instead of being a royal man who is confused to carry out his mission (e.g. Hamlet), the speaker is an attendant to that of a higher authority. He serves to advise and support the lord, and is a being that embodies the: Politic, cautious, and meticulous. (line 12).
The entire work appears to echo both Greek and Shakespearean plays. In Greek productions, prophecies were held in high standard and were not meant to be mocked as the speaker is in the poem. In terms of Shakespearean plays, the character of ‘the Fool’ could often get away with advising the lord through riddles and jokes in a way that would spell doom for the other characters. Because he was ‘the Fool’ who was meant to entertain the lord, his words did not have to be taken seriously. If other characters spoke the same language, they risked being banished or being put the death. But to the audience, the Fool could speak an element of wisdom that embodied the play (even if the lord did not pick up on this).
The speaker in the Prufrock poem realizes that while he may not be enamored or revered by others, his role is still important: Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse/ At times, indeed, almost ridiculous/ Almost, at times, the Fool (lines 13-15)
Detachment, deconstructing the sign of ‘self,’ and referencing the discipline of the ‘theatre’ are all strategies that help to make up the foundation of this piece. By using these strategies, the speaker is able to discover what he is 'not,' and then able to reveal the 'true self' that lies within. Using the tool of semiotics helps him to reveal his poetic self.
In analyzing this piece, the reader can correlate several meanings to the signs presented. In this case, the sub-meanings of 'self' correlate to the discipline of drama or the theatre. I was able to connect the ‘self’ sign to meanings represented reflected in both Greek and Shakespearean theatre. The element of Greek theatre that stood out to me was the role of the ‘prophet.’
In this piece, the speaker mentions that he is not a prophet or a prince. To justify this, he must know the responsibilities of these two roles because the responsibilities serve as sub-meanings for what is not his true self. Prophets are often revered for what they can see, and for having knowledge that has that escapes others. A prophet’s sight is strong, but in the poem, the speaker’s sight is merely that of a mortal and so is not as stable: I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker/ And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker/ And in short, I was afraid (lines 4-6). Because he is not “greatness,” he has seen the eternal Footman mock him. The aspect of the word ‘eternal’ indicates a higher power of destiny, as it is not the speaker’s destiny to have great sight.
He is also not Prince Hamlet. In Shakespeare, the character of Hamlet seeks truth in order to make sure he is justified in obtaining revenge for his father’s death. Coincidentally, T.S. Elliot also wrote a critical essay of Hamlet in which he stated, “We find Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' not in the action, not in any quotations that we might select, so much as in an unmistakable tone..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Hamlet). The ‘tone’ of Hamlet is the factor that is resonant in the poem when the speaker mentions him in the Prufrock piece.
Instead of being a royal man who is confused to carry out his mission (e.g. Hamlet), the speaker is an attendant to that of a higher authority. He serves to advise and support the lord, and is a being that embodies the: Politic, cautious, and meticulous. (line 12).
The entire work appears to echo both Greek and Shakespearean plays. In Greek productions, prophecies were held in high standard and were not meant to be mocked as the speaker is in the poem. In terms of Shakespearean plays, the character of ‘the Fool’ could often get away with advising the lord through riddles and jokes in a way that would spell doom for the other characters. Because he was ‘the Fool’ who was meant to entertain the lord, his words did not have to be taken seriously. If other characters spoke the same language, they risked being banished or being put the death. But to the audience, the Fool could speak an element of wisdom that embodied the play (even if the lord did not pick up on this).
The speaker in the Prufrock poem realizes that while he may not be enamored or revered by others, his role is still important: Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse/ At times, indeed, almost ridiculous/ Almost, at times, the Fool (lines 13-15)
Detachment, deconstructing the sign of ‘self,’ and referencing the discipline of the ‘theatre’ are all strategies that help to make up the foundation of this piece. By using these strategies, the speaker is able to discover what he is 'not,' and then able to reveal the 'true self' that lies within. Using the tool of semiotics helps him to reveal his poetic self.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Improv 2, Week 2
This is a riff of the piece, ‘When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer’ by Walt Whitman.
When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and
Measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
Applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
This poem reflects how cross-disciplinary studies can be encompassed in literary works. In the above poem the discipline is that of astronomy. My piece covers the discipline of thanatology: the study of the dead.
When I Gazed at Hear Pale Face
When I gazed at her pale face,
When her bulleted eyes, glacier white skin, were reflected in the moonlight,
When I saw her freeze over his fire rat skin, his peach painted ears, and
Burn him away,
When I in passing saw the clay pot that rivaled her frame with
Concrete tremors,
My pupils reeled, stomach churning itself,
Till briskly gaiting off through the fields,
In the heat of the blizzard, and from time to time,
I’d look down in honorable shame at the tombstones.
When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and
Measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
Applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
This poem reflects how cross-disciplinary studies can be encompassed in literary works. In the above poem the discipline is that of astronomy. My piece covers the discipline of thanatology: the study of the dead.
When I Gazed at Hear Pale Face
When I gazed at her pale face,
When her bulleted eyes, glacier white skin, were reflected in the moonlight,
When I saw her freeze over his fire rat skin, his peach painted ears, and
Burn him away,
When I in passing saw the clay pot that rivaled her frame with
Concrete tremors,
My pupils reeled, stomach churning itself,
Till briskly gaiting off through the fields,
In the heat of the blizzard, and from time to time,
I’d look down in honorable shame at the tombstones.
Improv 1, Week 2
This piece is a riff of the poem “The Long Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ by T.S. Eliot.
The Long Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
…
I am no poet – and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
…
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.
This piece is a reflection of how poets often correlate aspects of fiction, as well as aspects of the “real self” in poems. Generally, the envisioned ‘self’ is merely an umbrella that encompasses a compilation of many different signs. The poem above deals with Prufrock contemplating his identity of what he is and what he is not. My piece will reflect the image of a self that is known and a self that is desired in the same format as the piece above.
Cry for Me
In a year there are seasons
That make us long for other seasons until we miss the first
…
I am no mother – that it is not my calling
The breeze of babies’ breath has fallen
And the sound of motor-boat tummies is drawling
In my ears, and I have died
…
Fool! I have not bore the trees, they weep sap me
Nursing consumes me, in a way
That I am exposed to babes each day.
To calm the parents, barreling into the fray
When they cry like desolate banshees,
And utilizing tender, cautious, and suave hands;
Master of high maintenance, I must be;
At times, I laugh at myself
They envy me.
The Long Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
…
I am no poet – and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
…
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.
This piece is a reflection of how poets often correlate aspects of fiction, as well as aspects of the “real self” in poems. Generally, the envisioned ‘self’ is merely an umbrella that encompasses a compilation of many different signs. The poem above deals with Prufrock contemplating his identity of what he is and what he is not. My piece will reflect the image of a self that is known and a self that is desired in the same format as the piece above.
Cry for Me
In a year there are seasons
That make us long for other seasons until we miss the first
…
I am no mother – that it is not my calling
The breeze of babies’ breath has fallen
And the sound of motor-boat tummies is drawling
In my ears, and I have died
…
Fool! I have not bore the trees, they weep sap me
Nursing consumes me, in a way
That I am exposed to babes each day.
To calm the parents, barreling into the fray
When they cry like desolate banshees,
And utilizing tender, cautious, and suave hands;
Master of high maintenance, I must be;
At times, I laugh at myself
They envy me.
Free Entry 2, Week 2
Sleep crusted eyes
creak open heavily
staring into the
oil filled room.
There is a poster
of a girl
her mahogany eyes of
still water.
And she's holding a puppy,
his fur a dead dandelion
waiting to scrape along
the breeze
and land in a sea
of forgotten busted bones,
dirt smudges, and bruises
from colliding with that
concrete of bark in the
backyard.
Her skin reflects
graveyard soil
and dust mists
across her tongue
sinking into
remnants of crumbled
piles of abused leaves.
Her clothes are rivers
of white laundry and
Poppies
screaming for the
touch of a hoe
to slice them into
grains of rice.
creak open heavily
staring into the
oil filled room.
There is a poster
of a girl
her mahogany eyes of
still water.
And she's holding a puppy,
his fur a dead dandelion
waiting to scrape along
the breeze
and land in a sea
of forgotten busted bones,
dirt smudges, and bruises
from colliding with that
concrete of bark in the
backyard.
Her skin reflects
graveyard soil
and dust mists
across her tongue
sinking into
remnants of crumbled
piles of abused leaves.
Her clothes are rivers
of white laundry and
Poppies
screaming for the
touch of a hoe
to slice them into
grains of rice.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Free Entry 1, Week 2
Fear
You’re on a cliff, looking down.
You’re stomach is uneasy,
fluttering like butterflies or petals in the wind.
You look down and your hips tingle, legs turn to jelly,
you’re lower body is weak. You’re frozen; the slightest
move could end your life.
A tide quickly floats up
from your feet into your chest,
lingers in a swirl, then shoots back down.
The action repeats steadily, making you quiver
with anxiety. You’re up so high
that at the slightest movement
survival is impossible.
Your brain stops thinking,
your thoughts are empty.
It is as though you are dead.
The phobia of heights…Hypsiphobia…
is my Food Allergies.
You’re on a cliff, looking down.
You’re stomach is uneasy,
fluttering like butterflies or petals in the wind.
You look down and your hips tingle, legs turn to jelly,
you’re lower body is weak. You’re frozen; the slightest
move could end your life.
A tide quickly floats up
from your feet into your chest,
lingers in a swirl, then shoots back down.
The action repeats steadily, making you quiver
with anxiety. You’re up so high
that at the slightest movement
survival is impossible.
Your brain stops thinking,
your thoughts are empty.
It is as though you are dead.
The phobia of heights…Hypsiphobia…
is my Food Allergies.
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 2
"Exhausted, without the strength to search, people vanish into the infinite darkness.
Could we still have seen if we were there? Could we've seen it if it were little?"
conversation with a friend
Could we still have seen if we were there? Could we've seen it if it were little?"
conversation with a friend
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 2
"The moral arc of the universe bends at the elbow of justice."
Martin Luther King
Martin Luther King
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 2
"Everything is backwards now, like out there is the true world, and in here is the dream."
Jake Sully, Avatar
Jake Sully, Avatar
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 2
"What if my aunt had a mustache, she'd be my uncle!"
conversation with a friend
conversation with a friend
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 1
Little Merry Sunshine
Bright as a moonlit night
A Lunar Rainbow
She shimmers in the darkness
Immersing those around her in
Her sparkling, blanketed rays of love
And glowing yellow bunnies
Adorned with stars
With pink noses and blue eyes
Are signs of comfort
Hope
Care
Joy
And they look upon
This celestial princess
As they are her first gifts everlasting
And these gifts
Keep her secrets
With their own soft smiles and
Inaudible whispers
Only heard on the gentle breeze
To the ears of this Sun
This same Sun who shyly peeks
Over cloudy storms
Of lightening and thunder,
When she’s tired and weary,
With rain heavily pouring, blurring,
Wind tossing the heavy bricks of tears
Like boulders of an avalanche
Around the princess’s abode
Her rays nearly torn and worn from
The storms scorching scorn that brings
Her lovers a forlorn feeling
Of fear and despair
And do not forget the house
That house Haunted house
With green goblins and ghouls
And ghosts that gather and tease
And taunt her with nauseous breezes
That causes everything they caresses
To fester and fizz and flourish like foul
Fungus in a flaming fire
That sizzles, singes, and burns her heart
In a way foreign and fatal to her
Warmed center
These apparitions
Do not allow her to seep sleep
To breathe
To live...
She is confined
A prison to doom her for all times
Her prison
Gas, steam, smoke, perfume
A polluted noose of aromas
Her own personal guillotine
But she fights back
This God-forbidden Cancer
With her armored shell of faith
And soft insides of belief
And piercing claws of strength
She shall overcome
She must, it is her duty
For others look to her with trust
And this star, unlike any other
So many times battered and beaten
Will never be brought down
By her Mother Nature’s jealous sons
And sisters and cousins
Little Merry Sunshine
Is the one Mother Nature
Is proud of, always and forever
For the other elements come ago
But the sun has remained and is the same
Little Merry Sunshine
Bright as a moonlit night
A Lunar Rainbow
She shimmers in the darkness
Immersing those around her in
Her sparkling, blanketed rays of love
And glowing yellow bunnies
Adorned with stars
With pink noses and blue eyes
Are signs of comfort
Hope
Care
Joy
And they look upon
This celestial princess
As they are her first gifts everlasting
And these gifts
Keep her secrets
With their own soft smiles and
Inaudible whispers
Only heard on the gentle breeze
To the ears of this Sun
This same Sun who shyly peeks
Over cloudy storms
Of lightening and thunder,
When she’s tired and weary,
With rain heavily pouring, blurring,
Wind tossing the heavy bricks of tears
Like boulders of an avalanche
Around the princess’s abode
Her rays nearly torn and worn from
The storms scorching scorn that brings
Her lovers a forlorn feeling
Of fear and despair
And do not forget the house
That house Haunted house
With green goblins and ghouls
And ghosts that gather and tease
And taunt her with nauseous breezes
That causes everything they caresses
To fester and fizz and flourish like foul
Fungus in a flaming fire
That sizzles, singes, and burns her heart
In a way foreign and fatal to her
Warmed center
These apparitions
Do not allow her to seep sleep
To breathe
To live...
She is confined
A prison to doom her for all times
Her prison
Gas, steam, smoke, perfume
A polluted noose of aromas
Her own personal guillotine
But she fights back
This God-forbidden Cancer
With her armored shell of faith
And soft insides of belief
And piercing claws of strength
She shall overcome
She must, it is her duty
For others look to her with trust
And this star, unlike any other
So many times battered and beaten
Will never be brought down
By her Mother Nature’s jealous sons
And sisters and cousins
Little Merry Sunshine
Is the one Mother Nature
Is proud of, always and forever
For the other elements come ago
But the sun has remained and is the same
Little Merry Sunshine
Free Entry 1, Week 1
He is small.
His skin shines like
the light dancing
on a water's surface,
dark forest green adorned
with lime green splotches,
blemishes of puss
adorning every sensual curve.
His being is brail
slick with snotty viscous liquid
that stretches, sticks,
and tastes tangy
at the back of your throat.
You want to retch,
but know that would only add to his beauty.
His corneas are dark
eyes heavy,
indifferent,
romantic,
as if he doesn't care...
But you do.
And you wonder if you can
break from his entrancing gaze
long enough to save yourself
before he bloats upon you,
taking you with him,
An Amphibious Affair
His skin shines like
the light dancing
on a water's surface,
dark forest green adorned
with lime green splotches,
blemishes of puss
adorning every sensual curve.
His being is brail
slick with snotty viscous liquid
that stretches, sticks,
and tastes tangy
at the back of your throat.
You want to retch,
but know that would only add to his beauty.
His corneas are dark
eyes heavy,
indifferent,
romantic,
as if he doesn't care...
But you do.
And you wonder if you can
break from his entrancing gaze
long enough to save yourself
before he bloats upon you,
taking you with him,
An Amphibious Affair
Strategy Response 1, Week 1
I read the piece “A Martian Sends a Postcard Home,” and thought that Craig Raine’s alien imagery implemented a nice spin on how the world is normally seen. This poem ws found on page 15 of our "Writing Poetry" text. Some of the words used are native to the English language, but the definitions are merely changed to fit the perspective of the alien.
In this work, the author uses languageto redefine language, rather than constructing new speech that does not exist. For example, lines 7-8 state, “Mist is when the sky is tired of flight/ and rests its soft machine on ground.” Instead of creating an alien word for the concept of “Mist,” Raine utilizes the imagery of how steam emits from a ship after it touches down for landing (for the steam itself is rather misty). This has often been seen in science fiction movies, so Raine draws upon the knowledge of his audience to help him enhance the imagery of his language. Another example of this is found in lines 20-24 where he uses a ghostly apparition to symbolize a human baby.
The lines 20-24 state: “In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps/ that snores when you pick it up./ If the ghost cries, they carry it/ to their lips and soothe it to sleep/ with sounds. And yet they wake it up/ deliberately by tickling with their finger.” Often, humans desire to not awaken other-worldly spirits or to let them rest. But from the alien’s perspective, the opposite is happening; fraternizing with ghosts appears common in his eyes.
Raine is able to detach himself from the world enough so that definitions of our society are recognized through other imagery with which we are familiar. By defamiliarizing himself from the restraint of common concepts, Raine is able to find substitute variables that help strengthen his imagery. The idea of soothing a ghost to sleep by pressing a kiss to its head is rather soft and gentle, especially since the original notion on Earth is that ghosts are intangible. For humans to be able to touch something spiritual as a “ghost” (or baby) is unique enough for the alien to include it in his postcard.
The technique of using defamiliarization in order to redefine language through imagery of substitution is a nice way to view a new perspective of the world around us, especially through the eyes of a being that is not human. This same technique could work for inanimate objects, animals, or even spiritual beings. Raine’s method is a technique that I would definitely like to tackle in one of my future works.
In this work, the author uses languageto redefine language, rather than constructing new speech that does not exist. For example, lines 7-8 state, “Mist is when the sky is tired of flight/ and rests its soft machine on ground.” Instead of creating an alien word for the concept of “Mist,” Raine utilizes the imagery of how steam emits from a ship after it touches down for landing (for the steam itself is rather misty). This has often been seen in science fiction movies, so Raine draws upon the knowledge of his audience to help him enhance the imagery of his language. Another example of this is found in lines 20-24 where he uses a ghostly apparition to symbolize a human baby.
The lines 20-24 state: “In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps/ that snores when you pick it up./ If the ghost cries, they carry it/ to their lips and soothe it to sleep/ with sounds. And yet they wake it up/ deliberately by tickling with their finger.” Often, humans desire to not awaken other-worldly spirits or to let them rest. But from the alien’s perspective, the opposite is happening; fraternizing with ghosts appears common in his eyes.
Raine is able to detach himself from the world enough so that definitions of our society are recognized through other imagery with which we are familiar. By defamiliarizing himself from the restraint of common concepts, Raine is able to find substitute variables that help strengthen his imagery. The idea of soothing a ghost to sleep by pressing a kiss to its head is rather soft and gentle, especially since the original notion on Earth is that ghosts are intangible. For humans to be able to touch something spiritual as a “ghost” (or baby) is unique enough for the alien to include it in his postcard.
The technique of using defamiliarization in order to redefine language through imagery of substitution is a nice way to view a new perspective of the world around us, especially through the eyes of a being that is not human. This same technique could work for inanimate objects, animals, or even spiritual beings. Raine’s method is a technique that I would definitely like to tackle in one of my future works.
Improv 2, Week 1
This entry is a riff of Kati Chaple's "Returning Madame Brovary"
At the bookstore counter, I am waiting
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-frong khakis to his crotch,
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
who are like the man who's been sitting in prioson
for ten years with only his mother and blonde cousin for visitors?
To have him reah through the bars
to what's past them -
to the female prison guard who lingers,
studies her nails, count floor tiles,
like she's waiting for something
more than the end of the shift?
In this piece, the speaker utilizes the adulterous plot of Madame Bovary to reverse the general expected experience of returning a book to a bookstore. In my riff, I shall try to mimick this reversal by using the plot of one of my favorite movies in an unexpected situation.
101 Red Curls
As I sit it arts and crafts
watching the puppies
trek across the screen,
to avoid their possible doom
of being executed and sheared,
I look around and take in my own
litter of pre-schoolers,
my eyes catch the sight of
a little girl in front of me,
who's curly red pig tails bounce,
as she tilts her head from side to side
shrieking in laughter
in awe of the characters of the screen,
and I wonder,
what if I stretch forward, just so,
use my sharp scissors in my drawer
and begin clip that pretty little hair of hers?
Snip, snip, snip,
And the curls crumple and bounce daintily to the floor,
a movement so fluid that I cut another
and another and another until she has none.
And I sprinkle my desk with her curls to create
a masterpiece of my own, using strand after strand
to construct a dense, firey red jungle upon my easel
then would that make her stop screaming?
She's spoken of love for her hair constantly,
and to lose something dear is to lose one's tongue,
And isn't this something we've desired?
To take from someone else, to quiet them so that we
may speaker louder, especially if their say is trivial?
To cut away at their hearts held dear, if only to
get their attention and silence them?
Expression in many shapes,
can shock common sense
into our victims.
They would then know not to cross us again
as we smile in content.
After all,
shreading fur off of poor innocent puppies,
isn't all that funny.
For this piece, I was thinking of how when adults are surrounded by children in a kids movie, the kids often do things to agitate them (even if their just having fun). The main imagery was that of cutting the little girl's hair to reflect Cruella DeVille's cutting of the puppies' fur in the movie. One wouldn't expect for an adult of authority to inact such strange behavior upon a small child in public, especially during a Disney film. But the speaker tries to justify herself by stating that the hair cut would be a method of both discipline and creativity. However, it is really just hypocritical on her part.
At the bookstore counter, I am waiting
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-frong khakis to his crotch,
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
who are like the man who's been sitting in prioson
for ten years with only his mother and blonde cousin for visitors?
To have him reah through the bars
to what's past them -
to the female prison guard who lingers,
studies her nails, count floor tiles,
like she's waiting for something
more than the end of the shift?
In this piece, the speaker utilizes the adulterous plot of Madame Bovary to reverse the general expected experience of returning a book to a bookstore. In my riff, I shall try to mimick this reversal by using the plot of one of my favorite movies in an unexpected situation.
101 Red Curls
As I sit it arts and crafts
watching the puppies
trek across the screen,
to avoid their possible doom
of being executed and sheared,
I look around and take in my own
litter of pre-schoolers,
my eyes catch the sight of
a little girl in front of me,
who's curly red pig tails bounce,
as she tilts her head from side to side
shrieking in laughter
in awe of the characters of the screen,
and I wonder,
what if I stretch forward, just so,
use my sharp scissors in my drawer
and begin clip that pretty little hair of hers?
Snip, snip, snip,
And the curls crumple and bounce daintily to the floor,
a movement so fluid that I cut another
and another and another until she has none.
And I sprinkle my desk with her curls to create
a masterpiece of my own, using strand after strand
to construct a dense, firey red jungle upon my easel
then would that make her stop screaming?
She's spoken of love for her hair constantly,
and to lose something dear is to lose one's tongue,
And isn't this something we've desired?
To take from someone else, to quiet them so that we
may speaker louder, especially if their say is trivial?
To cut away at their hearts held dear, if only to
get their attention and silence them?
Expression in many shapes,
can shock common sense
into our victims.
They would then know not to cross us again
as we smile in content.
After all,
shreading fur off of poor innocent puppies,
isn't all that funny.
For this piece, I was thinking of how when adults are surrounded by children in a kids movie, the kids often do things to agitate them (even if their just having fun). The main imagery was that of cutting the little girl's hair to reflect Cruella DeVille's cutting of the puppies' fur in the movie. One wouldn't expect for an adult of authority to inact such strange behavior upon a small child in public, especially during a Disney film. But the speaker tries to justify herself by stating that the hair cut would be a method of both discipline and creativity. However, it is really just hypocritical on her part.
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 10
Academia’s ABC’s
Afternoon: an Albatross ascends above as school adjourns at a quarter past one.
Better not to belittle a bus than to walk and
Carry graded C’s, and see other C’s cluttering the ground as
Dave, the one stray Dalmatian dog drifts by and delves in
Eating, eating, eating those C’s at ease; elation engraved upon his
Features as he, for a moment, forgets the four frilly
Girls that giggle gaily and glide
Happily while
Involved in interesting instances of conversation. Once inside my home I see outside
Kind kids flying K-shaped Kites and eating Kit-Kats while some
Jump, Jive, and Jam to a toy jukebox while playing jacks and eating Jam and Jelly. I spot
Little Lacey who lives next door and likes to do homework late, and play
“Marmalade in the Middle,” mainly on Mondays, with the monkey
Named Ned who never needs an
Operation because
Pretty little Princess Lacey’s primary principle is to protect her playmate from the
Quite often
Received rips and runs and ruins that are not rare with other dolls. But me, I
Study: Spanish, Spanglish, Science, Statistics, Staccato notes on a Saxophone so
That I may toil and tussle my way to the tip top of this “ten percent” I’ve heard of.
Understanding academics, and not unnerved; my undying dream is to enter a university.
Verily, verily I shall vie for this vision and not be veiled by vexation.
When I walk out I feel the wind whispering in whips upon my widely smiling face,
“X-box’s are a ‘NO’, but excellence is a go.” And my grades go up, for it is excellence I
Yearn for, and with much
Zest and zeal, I shall prevail.
Afternoon: an Albatross ascends above as school adjourns at a quarter past one.
Better not to belittle a bus than to walk and
Carry graded C’s, and see other C’s cluttering the ground as
Dave, the one stray Dalmatian dog drifts by and delves in
Eating, eating, eating those C’s at ease; elation engraved upon his
Features as he, for a moment, forgets the four frilly
Girls that giggle gaily and glide
Happily while
Involved in interesting instances of conversation. Once inside my home I see outside
Kind kids flying K-shaped Kites and eating Kit-Kats while some
Jump, Jive, and Jam to a toy jukebox while playing jacks and eating Jam and Jelly. I spot
Little Lacey who lives next door and likes to do homework late, and play
“Marmalade in the Middle,” mainly on Mondays, with the monkey
Named Ned who never needs an
Operation because
Pretty little Princess Lacey’s primary principle is to protect her playmate from the
Quite often
Received rips and runs and ruins that are not rare with other dolls. But me, I
Study: Spanish, Spanglish, Science, Statistics, Staccato notes on a Saxophone so
That I may toil and tussle my way to the tip top of this “ten percent” I’ve heard of.
Understanding academics, and not unnerved; my undying dream is to enter a university.
Verily, verily I shall vie for this vision and not be veiled by vexation.
When I walk out I feel the wind whispering in whips upon my widely smiling face,
“X-box’s are a ‘NO’, but excellence is a go.” And my grades go up, for it is excellence I
Yearn for, and with much
Zest and zeal, I shall prevail.
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 9
Town Star
The crossing roads intersect
Like generations meeting across time
Packed with people
For their daily greet, like flocks of birds
Set to migrate in packs of safety
From high above the church roof
If one looks down and out,
They can see the water towers
Flowing down into the town
Where the crossroads lay
Like the beams of a star
Brightly standing out
Yet united as one
And Wilson doesn’t say much about it
As he cleans his glasses from behind his bar
He looks through them, half full
Never half empty, filled with visions
Of memories being made
And the youngsters play their games
Making new memories that will soon turn old
As old as the machine that creaks when it gives
A thirst quencher to the children,
But it’s nothing compared to Wilson’s
He makes the best root beers in town
Town,
So full of life and beauty
Landscapes abound
Towers as tall as Pluto
Overshadowing, yet not menacing
Not intimidating, but inspiring
To the heights at which we can go
If we too reach for the stars
That one star…in the center
At that crossroads
That is the town’s future
Our future,
Together
The crossing roads intersect
Like generations meeting across time
Packed with people
For their daily greet, like flocks of birds
Set to migrate in packs of safety
From high above the church roof
If one looks down and out,
They can see the water towers
Flowing down into the town
Where the crossroads lay
Like the beams of a star
Brightly standing out
Yet united as one
And Wilson doesn’t say much about it
As he cleans his glasses from behind his bar
He looks through them, half full
Never half empty, filled with visions
Of memories being made
And the youngsters play their games
Making new memories that will soon turn old
As old as the machine that creaks when it gives
A thirst quencher to the children,
But it’s nothing compared to Wilson’s
He makes the best root beers in town
Town,
So full of life and beauty
Landscapes abound
Towers as tall as Pluto
Overshadowing, yet not menacing
Not intimidating, but inspiring
To the heights at which we can go
If we too reach for the stars
That one star…in the center
At that crossroads
That is the town’s future
Our future,
Together
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 8
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Scented addiction
Bottled for sale
Death contained within
Luscious Lilac Aroma
A Maiden sprits her neck
Doused with feminine fragrance
Soft suffocation
Luscious Lilac Aroma
A nearby girl’s chest constricts
A coarse cobra coiled snugly ‘round
Her innocent weakened lung
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Burning, wheezing, squeezing
The beauty of the sky’s light blue hue
Soaks the pale face of one so young
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Now she lies in the grass
The wind caresses her face
Faded pupils stare at the sky
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Scented addiction
Bottled for sale
Death contained within
Luscious Lilac Aroma
A Maiden sprits her neck
Doused with feminine fragrance
Soft suffocation
Luscious Lilac Aroma
A nearby girl’s chest constricts
A coarse cobra coiled snugly ‘round
Her innocent weakened lung
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Burning, wheezing, squeezing
The beauty of the sky’s light blue hue
Soaks the pale face of one so young
Luscious Lilac Aroma
Now she lies in the grass
The wind caresses her face
Faded pupils stare at the sky
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 7
Love’s Goodbye
“Love’s Goodbye”
A daily walk interrupted
By a barreling bronco of metal on wheels
Igniting the pavement
A screech pierces the air
Ears bleed in agony
Then
silence
she remembered
Age five, she met him first
And he didn’t mind her darkened skin, nappy hair, or French accent
To him, she was exquisite
And she didn’t mind his pale skin, thin hair, or English accent
To her, he was unique
Cherry had been their favorite flavor
Her candy to his drink
And she let him wear her cherry red hat
While he let her play with his cherry red bear
Now she clutched her red doll tightly
In truth it was their doll,
Her consolation,
And she allowed her tears to flow freely,
For it was agonizingly soothing
And he wondered if it was all a dream
For he could never return, and that ate at his heart,
But truly they would never be apart
He would be there in mind, spirit heart and soul,
Residing in the Cherry Blossoms placed within her hair
Until they met again
“Love’s Goodbye”
A daily walk interrupted
By a barreling bronco of metal on wheels
Igniting the pavement
A screech pierces the air
Ears bleed in agony
Then
silence
she remembered
Age five, she met him first
And he didn’t mind her darkened skin, nappy hair, or French accent
To him, she was exquisite
And she didn’t mind his pale skin, thin hair, or English accent
To her, he was unique
Cherry had been their favorite flavor
Her candy to his drink
And she let him wear her cherry red hat
While he let her play with his cherry red bear
Now she clutched her red doll tightly
In truth it was their doll,
Her consolation,
And she allowed her tears to flow freely,
For it was agonizingly soothing
And he wondered if it was all a dream
For he could never return, and that ate at his heart,
But truly they would never be apart
He would be there in mind, spirit heart and soul,
Residing in the Cherry Blossoms placed within her hair
Until they met again
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 6
'Brittanys' Turmoil
Brittany
A Namesake
That’s gone through much turmoil
It’s tossed and turned
Twisted and lurched
Turned inside out
Cut, sliced, diced, and whipped
First born softly
A “Bri” on a breeze
With twin “T’s,” tightly attached
Almost intertwined
“any” of which were special
Until
Some twin “T’s” were torn apart with
Scraped “ney’s,” Engraved scars of their pain
And some “Brits” were cut in half
Losing themselves forever
Still others were dragged by the
Horses “neigh,” a rare abuse not unheard of
Just one of the everlasting wounds
Brittany
Britney
Britt
Britneigh
It never ends
The Spear that cuts their hearts
Rips away their soul, their center, their identity
All because of that Spear,
Piercing with such vigor and disdain
Slicing hairs, breaking hearts
Poison to the lung, Drunken heat scorching the belly
Irrational, illogical, a danger to prosperity
Giving us Brits a bad name, and only adding to our pain
Have we not suffered enough?
Brittany
A Namesake
That’s gone through much turmoil
It’s tossed and turned
Twisted and lurched
Turned inside out
Cut, sliced, diced, and whipped
First born softly
A “Bri” on a breeze
With twin “T’s,” tightly attached
Almost intertwined
“any” of which were special
Until
Some twin “T’s” were torn apart with
Scraped “ney’s,” Engraved scars of their pain
And some “Brits” were cut in half
Losing themselves forever
Still others were dragged by the
Horses “neigh,” a rare abuse not unheard of
Just one of the everlasting wounds
Brittany
Britney
Britt
Britneigh
It never ends
The Spear that cuts their hearts
Rips away their soul, their center, their identity
All because of that Spear,
Piercing with such vigor and disdain
Slicing hairs, breaking hearts
Poison to the lung, Drunken heat scorching the belly
Irrational, illogical, a danger to prosperity
Giving us Brits a bad name, and only adding to our pain
Have we not suffered enough?
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 5
Usage Error
I never thought that
I was meant to be used…
This way This abuse …hands
Touching where I never believed
Never Dreamed
When they think
They turn me on
They really
Turn me off
Poking, prodding
Touching, tapping
Pressing in places
To which I respond
Really against my will
Messing with my sacred parts
Feigning an innocent toddler’s curiosity in a
World of new doodads and gadgets
Only, its not so
Innocent. And after they use me I am passed on
To another, a stranger
With germy hands Invading
Passing on sickness and disease
Through me, a vessel for everyone’s use
And I work endlessly, all day and night
Restless
I grow warm, burn hot, weary, sick,
But they pay me no mind
I whirr and cry out in protest
I get louder and louder
They open windows
So many windows…
Chilling my screen
Until I
Freeze,
I never thought that
I was meant to be used…
This way This abuse …hands
Touching where I never believed
Never Dreamed
When they think
They turn me on
They really
Turn me off
Poking, prodding
Touching, tapping
Pressing in places
To which I respond
Really against my will
Messing with my sacred parts
Feigning an innocent toddler’s curiosity in a
World of new doodads and gadgets
Only, its not so
Innocent. And after they use me I am passed on
To another, a stranger
With germy hands Invading
Passing on sickness and disease
Through me, a vessel for everyone’s use
And I work endlessly, all day and night
Restless
I grow warm, burn hot, weary, sick,
But they pay me no mind
I whirr and cry out in protest
I get louder and louder
They open windows
So many windows…
Chilling my screen
Until I
Freeze,
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 4
Deadly Night Fever
He creeps away at night,
on feet lighter than air,
padding softly across crisp blades that
prickle skin as they crunch under his feet
He runs until a sound wafts into his ears,
chaining his psyche in a prison impenetrable
A sound forbidden yet sweet
it makes his locks bounce in rhythm
fingers snap
hips sway seductively
a deadly dance
his passion
and only the first stop of the night
He never seems to drop to the floor
and has a viper on every arm,
red
blond
brunette
auburn
autumn
winter
one limb for each leech
that latches on for life
draining him of his heart,
yet his blood fights on...
And that blood pays, as sacrifice
here and far
there and near
and just yonder
in corners and shadows
his riches kill him slowly
He sweats
but is numb to the venom
until it is too late
And the leeches collapse from the lack of blood
wasted and spent in a puddle around him
and he lies there, heart slowing, eyes heavy and shaded
Death is welcome to his soul
As it is every night
He creeps away at night,
on feet lighter than air,
padding softly across crisp blades that
prickle skin as they crunch under his feet
He runs until a sound wafts into his ears,
chaining his psyche in a prison impenetrable
A sound forbidden yet sweet
it makes his locks bounce in rhythm
fingers snap
hips sway seductively
a deadly dance
his passion
and only the first stop of the night
He never seems to drop to the floor
and has a viper on every arm,
red
blond
brunette
auburn
autumn
winter
one limb for each leech
that latches on for life
draining him of his heart,
yet his blood fights on...
And that blood pays, as sacrifice
here and far
there and near
and just yonder
in corners and shadows
his riches kill him slowly
He sweats
but is numb to the venom
until it is too late
And the leeches collapse from the lack of blood
wasted and spent in a puddle around him
and he lies there, heart slowing, eyes heavy and shaded
Death is welcome to his soul
As it is every night
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 3
Money Talks
Money doesn't bring happiness
Greed destroys you
Riches ruin you
Isolation
Cruel words of destruction
For
Money travels
Money provides
Money bargains
Money saves
Money shelters
Money shows love
is loved
conveys love
For this love
money is degraded
overrated
berrated
often hated
Yet they keep coming back for more
Strangers and loved ones
long for my feel, my touch when i'm hot, until i burn
a passion
Then, they burn me
Despite my cries, pleas, and yells,
"For all I've done, you forsake me!"
But who listens?
Do you?
Money doesn't bring happiness
Greed destroys you
Riches ruin you
Isolation
Cruel words of destruction
For
Money travels
Money provides
Money bargains
Money saves
Money shelters
Money shows love
is loved
conveys love
For this love
money is degraded
overrated
berrated
often hated
Yet they keep coming back for more
Strangers and loved ones
long for my feel, my touch when i'm hot, until i burn
a passion
Then, they burn me
Despite my cries, pleas, and yells,
"For all I've done, you forsake me!"
But who listens?
Do you?
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 2
Mei-Lan's Conquest
Her masked eyes gaze in wonder
at the piece of art before her.
Leaves crissed-cross here and there,
over
and under-lapping,
twisting upward into a being
magnficent;
She must join them.
Reaching out a padded hand,
she grips tightly, breath caught in her throat.
Carefully she moves upward,
knowing she will soon reach a height most desired.
But she never hears Her coming; sharp but gentle
teeth tug at her ear.
A tumble,
backwards into warm arms.
A nuzzle
to her cheek,
gripped in a vice unbreakable.
Intrusion,
but then there's always tomorrow.
Her masked eyes gaze in wonder
at the piece of art before her.
Leaves crissed-cross here and there,
over
and under-lapping,
twisting upward into a being
magnficent;
She must join them.
Reaching out a padded hand,
she grips tightly, breath caught in her throat.
Carefully she moves upward,
knowing she will soon reach a height most desired.
But she never hears Her coming; sharp but gentle
teeth tug at her ear.
A tumble,
backwards into warm arms.
A nuzzle
to her cheek,
gripped in a vice unbreakable.
Intrusion,
but then there's always tomorrow.
Introductory Portfolio, Poem 1
Sun-Chill
Blue skies and sunshine, merely
slim sheets
Barely shielding the
crisp
cold
killing
chill that
precisely incises thin skin.
Burning numb like
pinpricks of needles with
simmering ends that sizzle
on point.
Point by point, the body
freezes hot,
seeking solace in the shining sun o'er head.
But it only begets betrayal,
the pretty package
pains
you.
Blue skies and sunshine, merely
slim sheets
Barely shielding the
crisp
cold
killing
chill that
precisely incises thin skin.
Burning numb like
pinpricks of needles with
simmering ends that sizzle
on point.
Point by point, the body
freezes hot,
seeking solace in the shining sun o'er head.
But it only begets betrayal,
the pretty package
pains
you.
Improv 1, Week 1
This entry is a riff off of the poem "Poems" by Gary Gildner.
I sent my mother copies of my poems in print
to show her I was not a complete failure
and could do something besides
write dirty stories, and she was so happy
she replied with a poem of her own
about her heart waiting for spring and the beautiful
blue sky and some other lovelies
I don't remember, without calling it a poem
but you could tell that's what it was
because she lined it all out. The prettiest part
of her letter, however, was the end
where she said in her own true voice
'but mainly I can't wait for spring
because then my old man can get
to his garden and won't be bellyaching -
Oh he'll track in dirt and his hands
will never be clean and his breath
you can bet will be one big onion
once they get ripe, but it makes you
feel so good in your bones and it's all free!'
Section 3 of Part 1 in our "Writing Poetry" book mentions of how the natural voice of the speaker emerges when he or she is not trying to sound "poetic," but instead just naturally recounts a tale of their everyday life. Past expereinces and environments shape the way people recall their history, and the distinctive differences in the way a story can be told contribute to the creativity of the poet. In my story, I tried to use two voices much like in the piece "Poems." For the second voice, I put myself in the shoes of the speaker and just let the natural-ness of her voice flow as she recounts a present day situation to the person who is listening. To do this, I had to take into acount her age and how that would affect her tone of voice in terms of what it would inherently add to her natural creativity.
Poetic Dogs
I called my grandmother to share with her
my written exercises for the day.
She loved when I checked in with her
and was absolutely thrilled.
'I was supposed to be a poet too ya know,'
her loud voice booms over the speaker.
My eardrum thrums in response,
And she begins reciting lyrics to show
the destiny she had lost.
It rhymed, but just that
no more, no less
And it was not until she told me of her day
that her words sounded truly poetic.
'Those dogs are gettin' on my nerves
they don't do right
they bark all night and run around
like rabbits on fire.
I sheared Fluffy, she's not so anymore
Fluffed up I mean
and Coacoa scruffed down a strip from the floor.
A Bacon strip you know, that's all he eats
Not that dog food that I buy, him which is what he needs.
They get on my nerves but I love'em
they my babies
Wouldn't trade'm for
Nothin' in the whole world!'
I sent my mother copies of my poems in print
to show her I was not a complete failure
and could do something besides
write dirty stories, and she was so happy
she replied with a poem of her own
about her heart waiting for spring and the beautiful
blue sky and some other lovelies
I don't remember, without calling it a poem
but you could tell that's what it was
because she lined it all out. The prettiest part
of her letter, however, was the end
where she said in her own true voice
'but mainly I can't wait for spring
because then my old man can get
to his garden and won't be bellyaching -
Oh he'll track in dirt and his hands
will never be clean and his breath
you can bet will be one big onion
once they get ripe, but it makes you
feel so good in your bones and it's all free!'
Section 3 of Part 1 in our "Writing Poetry" book mentions of how the natural voice of the speaker emerges when he or she is not trying to sound "poetic," but instead just naturally recounts a tale of their everyday life. Past expereinces and environments shape the way people recall their history, and the distinctive differences in the way a story can be told contribute to the creativity of the poet. In my story, I tried to use two voices much like in the piece "Poems." For the second voice, I put myself in the shoes of the speaker and just let the natural-ness of her voice flow as she recounts a present day situation to the person who is listening. To do this, I had to take into acount her age and how that would affect her tone of voice in terms of what it would inherently add to her natural creativity.
Poetic Dogs
I called my grandmother to share with her
my written exercises for the day.
She loved when I checked in with her
and was absolutely thrilled.
'I was supposed to be a poet too ya know,'
her loud voice booms over the speaker.
My eardrum thrums in response,
And she begins reciting lyrics to show
the destiny she had lost.
It rhymed, but just that
no more, no less
And it was not until she told me of her day
that her words sounded truly poetic.
'Those dogs are gettin' on my nerves
they don't do right
they bark all night and run around
like rabbits on fire.
I sheared Fluffy, she's not so anymore
Fluffed up I mean
and Coacoa scruffed down a strip from the floor.
A Bacon strip you know, that's all he eats
Not that dog food that I buy, him which is what he needs.
They get on my nerves but I love'em
they my babies
Wouldn't trade'm for
Nothin' in the whole world!'
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 1
"Human history begins with man's act of disobedience which is at the very same time the beginning of his freedom and development of his reason."
Erich Fromm
I chose this quote because it seems to say that once people break free from the conventions that bound them, they can begin to explore and develop themselves. The statement reminds me of the film 1984, as well as all of human history. To obey is to be safe and sheltered. To disobey is to be wild and reckless, but also adventurous. There is a saying that "curiosity killed the cat," but I believe that cat's adventure served as an archived lesson and paved the way for other cats to be even more adventurous while achieving self growth. Change comes when someone tries to break from the norm in an attempt to seek innovation or find something new. Yes, this can be dangerous and deadly, but it could also be invigorating.
I would like to use this quote in the future for a work that illuminates the essence of exactly what kind of effect being wild and breaking free has on the environment surrounding the one who is disobedient.
Erich Fromm
I chose this quote because it seems to say that once people break free from the conventions that bound them, they can begin to explore and develop themselves. The statement reminds me of the film 1984, as well as all of human history. To obey is to be safe and sheltered. To disobey is to be wild and reckless, but also adventurous. There is a saying that "curiosity killed the cat," but I believe that cat's adventure served as an archived lesson and paved the way for other cats to be even more adventurous while achieving self growth. Change comes when someone tries to break from the norm in an attempt to seek innovation or find something new. Yes, this can be dangerous and deadly, but it could also be invigorating.
I would like to use this quote in the future for a work that illuminates the essence of exactly what kind of effect being wild and breaking free has on the environment surrounding the one who is disobedient.
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 1
"Does God play house with us-or even stranger, do we make God a doll, complete with manger?"
John Poch, Dolls
This quote really stood out to me because it is a notion that would cross my mind frequently when I played with toys as a child. When I played with dolls, I realized I was making decisions for them and controlling what they did, and I wondered if God did the same thing with us. There is a controversial difference in the ideas of predestination vs. free will, both of which are so powerful that capturing their essence in a piece of literature is often very alluring to readers.
There is also a song that I love to listen to in which the singer speaks of how he treats God like a "Pot Bullied Buddha" doll that he only takes down from the shelf when he's in trouble. Then, he puts Him back on the shelf when everything is alright until something else goes wrong in his life.
The idea of using miniature figures to immortalize God, in comparison to little Barbie dolls or Muppets that humans play with, speaks volumes in terms of how we may value God in our lives. Then, comparing that notion to how God may value us in the same manner leads to more speculation concerning symbolic representation as a whole.
I think this topic could serve as a very strong tool in helping me compose a compelling, future literary work.
John Poch, Dolls
This quote really stood out to me because it is a notion that would cross my mind frequently when I played with toys as a child. When I played with dolls, I realized I was making decisions for them and controlling what they did, and I wondered if God did the same thing with us. There is a controversial difference in the ideas of predestination vs. free will, both of which are so powerful that capturing their essence in a piece of literature is often very alluring to readers.
There is also a song that I love to listen to in which the singer speaks of how he treats God like a "Pot Bullied Buddha" doll that he only takes down from the shelf when he's in trouble. Then, he puts Him back on the shelf when everything is alright until something else goes wrong in his life.
The idea of using miniature figures to immortalize God, in comparison to little Barbie dolls or Muppets that humans play with, speaks volumes in terms of how we may value God in our lives. Then, comparing that notion to how God may value us in the same manner leads to more speculation concerning symbolic representation as a whole.
I think this topic could serve as a very strong tool in helping me compose a compelling, future literary work.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 1
"Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift! That is why we call it The Present."
Master Oogway, Kung Fu Panda
I heard this particular quote during a movie a watched recently that was entitled, “Kung Fu Panda.” The quote is more of a philosophical nature than a creative or literary one, but it still holds a strong truth to it. The most noticeable aspect of this statement is the play on the homonym "present." Indeed, when a gift is given to someone, the gift is a "present" that is "presented" to another person at that "present" time. Each and every day is given to humans as soon as they open their eyes from sleep. Therefore, every day reflects both the “gift” and the “current” aspects of the word “present.” This, in turn, also brings more validity to the quote as a whole. The weight of the meaning carried by the homonym in this statement was the reason that I selected it for my entry.
Master Oogway, Kung Fu Panda
I heard this particular quote during a movie a watched recently that was entitled, “Kung Fu Panda.” The quote is more of a philosophical nature than a creative or literary one, but it still holds a strong truth to it. The most noticeable aspect of this statement is the play on the homonym "present." Indeed, when a gift is given to someone, the gift is a "present" that is "presented" to another person at that "present" time. Each and every day is given to humans as soon as they open their eyes from sleep. Therefore, every day reflects both the “gift” and the “current” aspects of the word “present.” This, in turn, also brings more validity to the quote as a whole. The weight of the meaning carried by the homonym in this statement was the reason that I selected it for my entry.
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 1
"The door! the door can see into your mind! It controls time and space, love and death! The door can SEE INTO YOUR SOUL!"
Nipsu7, her comic strip
Nipsu7 is a friend of mine on a site known as Deviantart.com. This is a quote that she has in the signature of her profile.
On the surface, this is simply a funny, random quote that stands alone on Nipsu7's profile page. I chose it because the statement actual opens one's mind to consider all of the possible uses and perspectives of a door. Often, doors are used as passageways that carry humans through time, space, love, and even death. But this is the first instance in which I've even considered the "sight" of a door, especially when the object of the door's sight is a person’s very own mind and soul! I think that the aspect of a door’s perspective on insightful topics such as the inner workings of a human is interesting and powerful notion, even if it just originated from a random statement.
Nipsu7, her comic strip
Nipsu7 is a friend of mine on a site known as Deviantart.com. This is a quote that she has in the signature of her profile.
On the surface, this is simply a funny, random quote that stands alone on Nipsu7's profile page. I chose it because the statement actual opens one's mind to consider all of the possible uses and perspectives of a door. Often, doors are used as passageways that carry humans through time, space, love, and even death. But this is the first instance in which I've even considered the "sight" of a door, especially when the object of the door's sight is a person’s very own mind and soul! I think that the aspect of a door’s perspective on insightful topics such as the inner workings of a human is interesting and powerful notion, even if it just originated from a random statement.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 1
"Technological change is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal."
Albert Einstein
I selected this quote because I believe there is a great impact behind the symbolism of associating "technological change" with a deadly weapon like an "axe." But what really adds to the power of this quote is the person who is welding of the axe. This is not a hunter or a woodsman or even a schoolboy, this is a "pathological criminal."
According to the Encarta Dictionary, anything "pathological" is uncontrollable or unreasonable, and relates to or arises from a disease. It is a constant sickness similar to an infection slowly eating away at its host or victim.
Today, technology slowly chips away at the aspect of nature and simplicity that was once revered and appreciated by people and artists alike. Daily wonders such a blue skies or trees in bloom are ignored in exchange for iPods, texting, and blue-tooth headsets. Technological innovation is hacking up nature around us and like a "pathological" action, it doesn't show any sign of stopping soon.
For this quote, the choice of utilizing a weapon as deadly as an "axe" in the hands of a "diseased criminal" practically reflects technology as a modern day plague.
Albert Einstein
I selected this quote because I believe there is a great impact behind the symbolism of associating "technological change" with a deadly weapon like an "axe." But what really adds to the power of this quote is the person who is welding of the axe. This is not a hunter or a woodsman or even a schoolboy, this is a "pathological criminal."
According to the Encarta Dictionary, anything "pathological" is uncontrollable or unreasonable, and relates to or arises from a disease. It is a constant sickness similar to an infection slowly eating away at its host or victim.
Today, technology slowly chips away at the aspect of nature and simplicity that was once revered and appreciated by people and artists alike. Daily wonders such a blue skies or trees in bloom are ignored in exchange for iPods, texting, and blue-tooth headsets. Technological innovation is hacking up nature around us and like a "pathological" action, it doesn't show any sign of stopping soon.
For this quote, the choice of utilizing a weapon as deadly as an "axe" in the hands of a "diseased criminal" practically reflects technology as a modern day plague.
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