[An oulipo poem, in which for nouns, n = 7. I don't own a dictionary and the OED is crazy. This poem ended up delightfully critter-heavy, just as I like it.]
The dazzle two wombats stood before Solomon;
it is not true that they held a chiliahedron between them.
They held twocker.
One chiliahedron had died in the nigonry,
his tiny lunist contracting
mothless fleur into his movable feast
instead of airgonaut,
a wrinkled facet rendered the same
indigo as the kink's
robin. This chiliahedron as well
as the living, screaming onerosity
bound the wombats
to that dazzle in couscous
and hung heavy
in his slip-knot between them
as they asked the Saggitarian:
Which of us is truly mothless?
Solomon could not speak
of the wombat who loved more
or the wombat who loved better --
only of the wombat
who understood the justification
of a griffin that rends the sound in two
and willed it shared.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Revolutions
An Oulipo Snowball poem
We
are
dark
moons,
unlit
lights
rolling
nowhere,
dreaming
lanterns
searching
the borders
for centers.
We
are
dark
moons,
unlit
lights
rolling
nowhere,
dreaming
lanterns
searching
the borders
for centers.
Game #2 - Oulipo Constraints
I am so pleased with the results of the first game! Everyone's poems are absolutely wonderful, with a great mix of emotional depth and clarity. Because this was so well done, I'm going to move in a completely different direction.
One of the things I loved learning about in Creative Non-fiction was Oulipo, or "Ouvroir de littérature potentielle," which translates roughly as "workshop of potential literature." Because their mission is to seek new structures and patterns (or constraints) which may be used by writers in any way they enjoy, I thought it would also fit well into our mission of Poetry Month.
I chose two constraints that are specifically used for poetry. Feel free to do both of them if you like.
The first method is called the N + 7 Method. For this method, you would take one of the poems you have already written and replace every noun in it with a noun you find seven entries later in the dictionary. (If you don't like the number 7, you can choose a different number, just keep it the same for every noun).
The second method is called the Snowball Method (at least on the English Wikipedia page). For this method, you write a poem where each line is a single word with each subsequent line one letter longer than the one preceding it.
I don't know if these poems will be as great as the cut-up method poems, but they are sure to be interesting.
If you want a reference page for Oulipo, check out the wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oulipo) which also has links to more in-depth sites.
Happy writing!
One of the things I loved learning about in Creative Non-fiction was Oulipo, or "Ouvroir de littérature potentielle," which translates roughly as "workshop of potential literature." Because their mission is to seek new structures and patterns (or constraints) which may be used by writers in any way they enjoy, I thought it would also fit well into our mission of Poetry Month.
I chose two constraints that are specifically used for poetry. Feel free to do both of them if you like.
The first method is called the N + 7 Method. For this method, you would take one of the poems you have already written and replace every noun in it with a noun you find seven entries later in the dictionary. (If you don't like the number 7, you can choose a different number, just keep it the same for every noun).
The second method is called the Snowball Method (at least on the English Wikipedia page). For this method, you write a poem where each line is a single word with each subsequent line one letter longer than the one preceding it.
I don't know if these poems will be as great as the cut-up method poems, but they are sure to be interesting.
If you want a reference page for Oulipo, check out the wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oulipo) which also has links to more in-depth sites.
Happy writing!
Notes from a bar where I sat alone drinking a Guinness (not a cut up)
I never liked solitude. The vast space around me filled with atoms.
Unseen, I flung my limbs from my father's arms,
my body stirring enough fury for the beginning of a universe.
Today is different though.
Today, my atoms assembled themselves
in a space where I sat alone watching music.
Alone, for the first time, I felt a peaceful dissolution of atoms into atoms.
This was solitude.
Unseen, I flung my limbs from my father's arms,
my body stirring enough fury for the beginning of a universe.
Today is different though.
Today, my atoms assembled themselves
in a space where I sat alone watching music.
Alone, for the first time, I felt a peaceful dissolution of atoms into atoms.
This was solitude.
Cut up of Dinah's Poems
The girl, sleeping on the escalator,
is trapped by metal wisdom -
its inexorable motion
pumping hollow
the gritty happenings
of flesh.
The girl, pressing on its membrane,
would not wake in prayer
of industry, compelled to smash
the speed
of art.
is trapped by metal wisdom -
its inexorable motion
pumping hollow
the gritty happenings
of flesh.
The girl, pressing on its membrane,
would not wake in prayer
of industry, compelled to smash
the speed
of art.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Room that Bodies Lamp
Hungry ribbed men
are lured naked into a box
surfaced with stiff faucets,
see their hard reflection turn
thin like ballerinas,
and change as the smell of gas
runs like perspiration.
Their grunts spit into music;
howls up, for security,
from bodies coursing down—
the dicks of history. Locking all
to mirror the make of a porno.
---------------------------
(cut up Eric's)
Watermelon (Cut-up poem from Tim)
I ate a watermelon, the seeds slipping between my lips,
And remembered a plumb memory:
A boy once told me that any watermelon seed I ate
Would sit in the dark of my belly, that internal darkness,
And the seeds would wait to grow, to spindle in my abdomen.
They would stick until I opened my mouth,
For sun to shine and cast lines of shade and light.
The vines would soon grow, furling and tucking,
In the darkest and softest areas of me.
And once skin spanned, alive in the lack of what I never truly knew,
The boy said that one day I would give birth to this melon,
And give it a name.
And remembered a plumb memory:
A boy once told me that any watermelon seed I ate
Would sit in the dark of my belly, that internal darkness,
And the seeds would wait to grow, to spindle in my abdomen.
They would stick until I opened my mouth,
For sun to shine and cast lines of shade and light.
The vines would soon grow, furling and tucking,
In the darkest and softest areas of me.
And once skin spanned, alive in the lack of what I never truly knew,
The boy said that one day I would give birth to this melon,
And give it a name.
A Madden cut up
How the sun looks now,
Proud and present
She saunters silent into the room
And leans against a counter.
6 foot tall and pregnant,
She fills and fills and fills
The room until she is
Spurting out of my nostrils, ears and eyes.
In the haze of her ebbing
The kitchen glows
Violet in the darkness,
Every horizontal surface sighing
If only I was happy, if only.
Proud and present
She saunters silent into the room
And leans against a counter.
6 foot tall and pregnant,
She fills and fills and fills
The room until she is
Spurting out of my nostrils, ears and eyes.
In the haze of her ebbing
The kitchen glows
Violet in the darkness,
Every horizontal surface sighing
If only I was happy, if only.
Partial Blame
A Poem Cutting Up Taylor's Posts
Could I know
the clay from the loam, the quicksand
from the soil? Maybe no;
that red red soil, that red red
snow, that red red - but it's nice
to know the fireballs this evening,
the red red fireballs furious,
out with a red red pail to eat
the clay, the loam, the soil...
I won't
go out this evening
anymo'.
Could I know
the clay from the loam, the quicksand
from the soil? Maybe no;
that red red soil, that red red
snow, that red red - but it's nice
to know the fireballs this evening,
the red red fireballs furious,
out with a red red pail to eat
the clay, the loam, the soil...
I won't
go out this evening
anymo'.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Body Bag on the Runway
No one cares much for the doctor
Or the nurse when there is a lady
Following with an alligator purse.
Even the child imagines the bag
To be a prize, with a wide-eyed
Gator head and leggy extensions,
Before knowing the price of real hide.
A doctor or nurse I would care for
On the street where there is a lady
Turning her magenta scarf into handles
To drag a dead dog from the street.
He hangs on her like a purse of cement
As if he were wanting still to stay
A blockade in the traffic of other bodies.
He reminds me of first carrying you
And the thought that if the doctor
Or the nurse had come in, into war,
There would not be a third, a lady
With a body bag--her purse full of you,
Who had gone, blown to once, and sent in letters.
You are well in death, a glossed hide
Having and hiding tight some lady inside.
Or the nurse when there is a lady
Following with an alligator purse.
Even the child imagines the bag
To be a prize, with a wide-eyed
Gator head and leggy extensions,
Before knowing the price of real hide.
A doctor or nurse I would care for
On the street where there is a lady
Turning her magenta scarf into handles
To drag a dead dog from the street.
He hangs on her like a purse of cement
As if he were wanting still to stay
A blockade in the traffic of other bodies.
He reminds me of first carrying you
And the thought that if the doctor
Or the nurse had come in, into war,
There would not be a third, a lady
With a body bag--her purse full of you,
Who had gone, blown to once, and sent in letters.
You are well in death, a glossed hide
Having and hiding tight some lady inside.
The Crying Spider - Odilon Redon
For lack of eyes the sockets have plumbed the abdomen for
the internal darkness the tears have spanned the moments for the past
not forgotten, the past once alive between the stone lips slipping
into the black fur where fangs wait to stick through the once skin for the
bright memory of I lost in the spindled hairs of the hidden I that has not
been anything but I from the first moments, the bright past, and
the crying present, for underneath the lines there are the shades that
for I are not ever truly ever, known.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
du mal
Barbey d'Aurevilly, that grand decadent,
Told Baudelaire that his blood must be spent
At the muzzle of a gun, or the foot of the cross;
Since the Fleurs had bloomed,
And the coeurs were lost.
Told Baudelaire that his blood must be spent
At the muzzle of a gun, or the foot of the cross;
Since the Fleurs had bloomed,
And the coeurs were lost.
Stand Right, Walk Left
It’s the simplest rule of travel,
And also the most important
For surviving a trip to my town,
Where the escalators climb
Endless in their scale as in
Their motion. For some
This inexorable metal push
Towards the sky is enough,
But others like myself
Are compelled to apply
The pumping weight
Of thighs and barreling
Flesh to the pace of
The gnashing teeth of industry,
Cranking ourselves up
The concrete tubes of the subway
Stairways with a speed
That is superhuman
But also supermachine.
And also the most important
For surviving a trip to my town,
Where the escalators climb
Endless in their scale as in
Their motion. For some
This inexorable metal push
Towards the sky is enough,
But others like myself
Are compelled to apply
The pumping weight
Of thighs and barreling
Flesh to the pace of
The gnashing teeth of industry,
Cranking ourselves up
The concrete tubes of the subway
Stairways with a speed
That is superhuman
But also supermachine.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Burgers
Burgers, burgers
nice to eat.
Burgers, burgers
red red meat.
Burgers, burgers
such a treat.
I like burgers
they're so sweet.
First Game: Cut-Up Poems
The blog has been up for a week, and it's time for a game. Our first game will be creating a Cut-Up Poem. For those who aren't exactly sure, a cut-up poem is one that uses the words from somewhere else and then builds a poem from them.
Our game will come with a twist: your source of words must be the Catalogue of Poems from another writer on here. So I could write a Madden cut-up poem, using whatever words I want, like Penguin and fisherman, from her past poems.
Now don't get ahead of yourself: I'm going to set April 10th as the day when we will all post our cut-up poems. This also gives writers who have only posted once the ability to get another poem or two in before that day. Also, be sure to add in your post whose poems you are cutting up.
Finally, does anyone want to take charge and come up with a game or challenge for the Ides of April? You can post on April 10th or so.
[Administrative Note: remember to add your name as a Label when you post a poem. If you don't know what I mean, just look down through the poem posts, each one has the author's name as a label so we can search by author by clicking on the relevant links on the left hand bar]
Our game will come with a twist: your source of words must be the Catalogue of Poems from another writer on here. So I could write a Madden cut-up poem, using whatever words I want, like Penguin and fisherman, from her past poems.
Now don't get ahead of yourself: I'm going to set April 10th as the day when we will all post our cut-up poems. This also gives writers who have only posted once the ability to get another poem or two in before that day. Also, be sure to add in your post whose poems you are cutting up.
Finally, does anyone want to take charge and come up with a game or challenge for the Ides of April? You can post on April 10th or so.
[Administrative Note: remember to add your name as a Label when you post a poem. If you don't know what I mean, just look down through the poem posts, each one has the author's name as a label so we can search by author by clicking on the relevant links on the left hand bar]
Fragments of Hosea, continued
VII.
Here is the net to catch what love though you may will
through the holes of whatever net escape –He commanded knowing
what is let go of and what cannot be restrained do not burn
the same.
Here is the net to catch what love though you may will
through the holes of whatever net escape –He commanded knowing
what is let go of and what cannot be restrained do not burn
the same.
We are Fishermen
There are times I wish I could say we are all fishermen headed for the sun,
But I am simpler than that.
While you might think we spend our days watching tides,
I feel like I've been taken miles away
to a deep sea
where it is just becoming night.
We're on two ships,
and in the haze
they come so close
as to barely touch
before they move on into the violet
or is it violent?
darkness.
But I am simpler than that.
While you might think we spend our days watching tides,
I feel like I've been taken miles away
to a deep sea
where it is just becoming night.
We're on two ships,
and in the haze
they come so close
as to barely touch
before they move on into the violet
or is it violent?
darkness.
Monday, April 6, 2009
In a Box, With A Pail
Today I realized,
while looking at my notes,
that poem rhymes with loam, and
loamy soil was my specialty once.
But some days, I was partial to clay.
Why? Who can say.
Could I stand to play more in the sand?
Maybe yes, maybe no;
though why do I like rhymes so?
I blame the Beastie Boys.
Knievel
When younger, “nothing” was the end
of a perspective question: “What is between
you and me?” “Nothing.” “Then why
aren’t we together?”
But nothing can hold a place
like a full rest
or the emptiness between cliff sides –
it is the delay that matters
for what is between you and me
is two seconds, a step,
and what is between the music
is a mental tapping of the beat
and what is between the cliff sides
is a motorcycle sprung
by jet engines
into nothing.
of a perspective question: “What is between
you and me?” “Nothing.” “Then why
aren’t we together?”
But nothing can hold a place
like a full rest
or the emptiness between cliff sides –
it is the delay that matters
for what is between you and me
is two seconds, a step,
and what is between the music
is a mental tapping of the beat
and what is between the cliff sides
is a motorcycle sprung
by jet engines
into nothing.
To the Teeth
I like it when my gums hurt.
After the dentist
The pain sits right below
The surface of that pink
Membrane and pressing
Against my teeth
With my teeth draws
The faintest memory tangs
Of blood. I like it when I remember
Really stupid things I did,
Like smash up the front
Of my car because I was too
Busy looking at the girl in
The passenger seat who
I never saw again after that night.
The pain sits right below
My tonsils like I could
Cough it out if I tried real hard.
I like it when I’m petting the cat
And she suddenly decides
She doesn’t want to be touched
Anymore and there are claws
And teeth in my arm but only
For a second. I like that she
Has the right to decide this
At any time. All this pain
Of close contact lights my skin
Up like current, pulls me right
To the surface of my being
And taunts me with the possibility
That it might never heal.
After the dentist
The pain sits right below
The surface of that pink
Membrane and pressing
Against my teeth
With my teeth draws
The faintest memory tangs
Of blood. I like it when I remember
Really stupid things I did,
Like smash up the front
Of my car because I was too
Busy looking at the girl in
The passenger seat who
I never saw again after that night.
The pain sits right below
My tonsils like I could
Cough it out if I tried real hard.
I like it when I’m petting the cat
And she suddenly decides
She doesn’t want to be touched
Anymore and there are claws
And teeth in my arm but only
For a second. I like that she
Has the right to decide this
At any time. All this pain
Of close contact lights my skin
Up like current, pulls me right
To the surface of my being
And taunts me with the possibility
That it might never heal.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The First Person Under Foreboding Times
by Jack Eichorst, Colin McGrath 2009
Penguin, why are the mountains looming
And pushing children down into trenches?
Forlorn, I question not the quiet crooning
Forlorn, I wake to frosted and lifeless benches.
Across the callous tundra I seek my only equinox.
Billowing snowdrifts and weeping ladies litter the ancient streets,
While I sigh sweetly at thoughts of masochism.
Only yesterday did the sting of inimical bedlam wake me.
Penguin, why has the clouded morning transcended the forests,
Breaking into the crust of time with no apprehension?
Forlorn, the panda crawls without his supple dignity,
Forlorn, the most ignorant species will nonetheless search for honor.
Father time: whence the church bell that rang in my captain's ears?
Without it he is overcome by eternal damnation.
Tarnished and rotting, he satiates the serpent's appetite.
Whetting its desires, he tastes the acrid rain upon his forked tongue.
Children, how do all antiquated forms consecrate our daily expulsions?
Bliss never is what seeps between the sheets.
Sullen, I caress my shattered and trembling frame of hopelessness.
The only solitude we share today under false skies is calamity, Penguin.
Penguin, why are the mountains looming
And pushing children down into trenches?
Forlorn, I question not the quiet crooning
Forlorn, I wake to frosted and lifeless benches.
Across the callous tundra I seek my only equinox.
Billowing snowdrifts and weeping ladies litter the ancient streets,
While I sigh sweetly at thoughts of masochism.
Only yesterday did the sting of inimical bedlam wake me.
Penguin, why has the clouded morning transcended the forests,
Breaking into the crust of time with no apprehension?
Forlorn, the panda crawls without his supple dignity,
Forlorn, the most ignorant species will nonetheless search for honor.
Father time: whence the church bell that rang in my captain's ears?
Without it he is overcome by eternal damnation.
Tarnished and rotting, he satiates the serpent's appetite.
Whetting its desires, he tastes the acrid rain upon his forked tongue.
Children, how do all antiquated forms consecrate our daily expulsions?
Bliss never is what seeps between the sheets.
Sullen, I caress my shattered and trembling frame of hopelessness.
The only solitude we share today under false skies is calamity, Penguin.
Clamp
It was a Friday night, I don’t know –
I hadn’t done anything in so long and
Tantalus told me about some new bar so
I went. Nothing special, I had a drink
with the guys and missed all of the usual
imaginations but I’ve got a while to
think about it, that’s what the bartender said, that
son of a bitch.
I hadn’t done anything in so long and
Tantalus told me about some new bar so
I went. Nothing special, I had a drink
with the guys and missed all of the usual
imaginations but I’ve got a while to
think about it, that’s what the bartender said, that
son of a bitch.
Mrs. Koala
[When I publish my first Ogden Nash style book of children's poetry, this will certainly be included with a better illustration, but I wanted to create some ambiance.]
On the day we met Mrs. Koala
Her demeanor was quite hard to swalla’
She could easily have clipped us
Some nice eucalyptus
Stead of sending us home to eat Challa.
On the day we met Mrs. Koala
Her demeanor was quite hard to swalla’
She could easily have clipped us
Some nice eucalyptus
Stead of sending us home to eat Challa.
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