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!'