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65

lightning blown paint

There's been quite a bit of drawing and painting going in at my house with ice storms and school closings and temperatures in the single digits. 8 degrees. In Eastern North Carolina. 8. I've been experimenting with using a straw to blow paint across the page as an abstract starting point. I thought this was going to turn into an exploration of sheet lightning. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen is lightning shooting across the desert sky in the American Southwest. 

lightning with couple

But then these two showed up. I still thought it was lightning. You know, love hit like a "bolt from the blue," which turns out to be a thing. The bolt travels horizontally first, far away from the storm cloud itself, before it shoots to the ground. Is love like that? One minute, you're standing in the middle of a field or a street or a hotel lobby, and the next you're lit up and blown right out of your shoes.

couple with color

From Franz Wright's poem "Our Conversation":

Pure gaze, you are the lightning beyond the last trees
and you are the last trees'
past, branching (lines 1-3)

lightning to tree

And then it wasn't just lightning, but it was also a tree. A weeping cherry in winter, ghosts of pale petals.

Ceaseless blue lightning
this love passing through me:
I know somehow it will go on
reaching you, reaching you
instantly (Wright lines 50-54)

Now...off to do some more reading on lightning and then a poem draft. What will you write today?

 

Wright, Franz. "Our Conversation." Poetry Foundation. 2015. Web. 22 Feb. 2015.

 

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87

You know those moments that you never quite forget? Moments that parts of your mind cover like a scrim, shielding the outline, the shadow of that moment? And then, something triggers, a light comes on, and you realize the moment was there all along. 

blow paint ray

One beautiful Southern California night about twenty years ago, I was walking on Manhattan Beach pier with a friend. It was just cool enough for a sweatshirt, and it was clear enough for stars. There were a few people out walking and some fishermen with their poles and buckets. 

blow paint full with salt

As crowds sometimes do, this one started with a shout almost no one noticed. A fisherman, a young, barefoot man in frayed jeans and a t-shirt hooked something big.

ray with purple

So big, he had to drag it down the pier. The crowd gathered in his wake, and, as each individual looker over the railing, the crowd grew a voice.

with ray

At the end of the line was a great, thrashing, gray creature. Its wings beat at the surface of the water, throwing froth and spray.

ray finished

This moment, the magnificent ray fighting the line; the moon, stars, and pier lights reflected in the tips of waves and furious churning of the ray's wings; this moment is always there. I've been dreaming about it lately and trying to get it down on paper, but I don't think I will ever be satisfied with the results.

From my poem draft "Failure to Obliterate":

If I could swim beneath it in the cold dark, 
I know its great gills would open 
like the iron grate of a furnace, 
continuous exchange of oxygen in blood. 

What is your ever-present moment?

 

 

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64

Some days, chilly days, days when the sun in shining but you can feel the crunch of the frost on the grass beneath your feet from inside the house; those are days when you need to just clean out the fridge and the cupboard, throw it in your crock pot, and turn it on low. I won't even tell you how long this butternut squash has been in my kitchen. Let's just say I got it with all kinds of eating healthy intentions at the farmer's market...before it closed for the winter. These things last forever!

butternut squash

And what a great word: butternut. It's all assonancy and consonancy at the same time. Let's throw some alliteration in the pot while we're at it:

Baleful butternut,
brawny hide belying time,
surrounded by browning bananas.

It was almost a haiku, but taking out "surrounded by" didn't make sense. Anyways...so I found a recipe for "Pinto Bean Chili with Corn and Winter Squash" in my Southern Living Slow-Cooker Cookbook that called for butternut squash (yay!), two cans of pinto beans, frozen corn, a can of crushed tomatoes, a can of green chilis, onion, garlic, red bell pepper, some spices, ad queso fresco. I had everything but the pinto beans and queso fresco, but I did have black-eyed peas and goat cheese, so I set to work.

all chili ing in pot

 

Ah...the slow cooker. A metaphor for the poet's brain -- when it's not a blast chiller freezing, a microwave zapping, a vacuum sealer marinating, a mortar and pestle grinding away...ok, ok. It's true. I watch Chopped way too much. But seriously, sometimes ideas need to hang out together in a slow heat until they come together in a steaming helping of warm-you-from-the-inside verse. 

chili done

 

From Mary Ruefle's poem "Blood Soup": 

[..] I had lost track of my life
before, but nothing prepared me for the onslaught of
wayfarer's bliss when she continued to list, one
by one, the impossible ingredients I needed to live. (lines 24-27)

What words will warm you today?

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87

2 pretty flatbreads

 

I've been thinking about poetry and food, like you do. I'm guilty of posting pictures of food at restaurants and at home: just take a look at this perfectly cooked tuna! Check out this heaping platter of panko crusted, fried goodness! And I like seeing friends' pictures of food they're about to experience or food which they've made for their families and friends. It's almost like, when I see the care with which you've created your grilled shrimp and coarse cheese grits, I feel the warmth of your home. And maybe that's a little sad. Virtual and everything. But most of my friends and family live far away, and so I'll take these small glimpses into their kitchens and their lives. 

Yesterday, my kids and I made the flatbread recipe by Food Network's Alex Guarnaschelli. Making bread always amazes me in its simplicity: flour, water, yeast, and in this case, honey. Watching my kids measure ingredients, mix, and knead dough brings me back to my childhood kitchen and baking with my mom. 

risen flatbread dough

There is so much in baking to use in poetry. The yeast metabolizes simple sugars and excretes carbon dioxide and alcohol, causing the dough to rise. To double in size in a warm place. The idea of doubling. The yeast itself -- a single cell fungus. A living thing transformed into bread. Bread that is life. 

There are many poems about bread, but Bill Holm's "Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe" is one of my favorites. Consider these lines: "[...] alive as any animal, / and the yeast and cream and rye / will sing inside you after eating / for a long time" (Holm). 

flatbread dough balls

Kneading and rolling dough is meditation; the movements don't seem to need to be learned. My daughter presses the heels of her small hands into the ball just like I do, just like my mother does, and I can assume just like all of my grandmothers did. Of course, baking our own bread is not a necessity for my family. I imagine cold mornings in my ancestors' farmhouse kitchens. 

flatbread in skillet turned

 

Will my poem be about the old Minnesota farmhouse? My mother, up before dawn to milk the cows? Sneaking bread and apples? Will it be about making bread with my children? Their faces set, intent on leveling the flour; the muscles in their small arms bunching as they work the wooden spoon around the glass bowl? Will it be about the kind of bread we made?

Flatbread will always remind me of being on a Navajo reservation in the early 70's, eating frybread made on a camp stove. Will my poem be about that experience? My family traveling the American Southwest, camping, learning about the different Native American tribes in each region? Will it be about my own Native American ancestry, the Chippewa/Ojibway/Anishinaabe -- Spontaneous Beings? My own knowledge of my heritage learned only through books? Will it be about the story of the "Long Walk," about frybread as a symbol of Native American survival?

sausage cheese flatbread

The oil smokes in the copper-bottom skillet,
in the deep seasoned black of the cast-iron skillet.
Women press the heels of their hands into elastic
dough, hands cracked in cold, knuckles like knots,
hands with veins of knotted blue rising. 

My mom just called, and I asked her what kind of bread her mother used to make for her thirteen children on their farm in Minnesota. I'll leave you with her memories:

"Oh, she made it in, you know those huge porcelain tubs? She made it in there. About fifteen loaves and the buns. That's what we had for a snack after school. Those buns, hot, and dripping in butter. And, oh! In the summertime, Gabrielle she grew these huge beefsteak tomatoes in the garden. And that's what we had after school. Thick slices of tomato and those buns."

Holm, Bill. "Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe." Poetry Foundation. 2004. Web. 1 Feb. 2015.

 

 

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125

shep panting

My painting of the dog I grew up with, Shep.

 

I touch cracked vinyl, and I smell my old dog Shep, gasoline, and motor oil. I hear the whup, whup of helicopter blades, and I feel the downy tips of pussy willows from the neighbor's backyard and the silky pink petals of wild roses we cut for my mom on Mother's Day for her breakfast in bed tray. 

 

Here's today's prompt:

"Craft-focused 6": "Describe a house from your childhood using synesthesia. Sounds trigger colors or touch triggers taste. Mingle and use all the senses. -EJ Koh" (Szilagyi).

 

Happy writing, and happy Christmas Eve to you all! 

Szilagyi, Anca. "All Time Favorite Writing Prompts." Ploughshares at Emerson College. 18 Dec. 2014. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

 

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134

penal-colony-dvice1

illustration by Bud Perry

 

 

In this joyous season, on this rainy Monday morning, I'd like to offer you this prompt:

"Emotionally Challenging" #1: "A fitting punishment -- Sarah Frye" (Szilagyi). 

And so I'd like to thank my favorite college teacher Dr. Bart Thurber for introducing me to Kafka. There is no sarcasm in that statement. "In the Penal Colony" is one of those stories that will never leave me. It made my eighteen-year-old self think. About law. About punishment. About justice. A fitting story and subject for today.

 

Perry, Bud. "punishment device from Kafka's 'In the Penal Colony'." Circular Absurdity. 5 Nov. 2010. Web. 22 Dec. 2014.

Szilagyi, Anca. "All Time Favorite Writing Prompts." Ploughshares at Emerson College. 18 Dec. 2014. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

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140

poison talk dirty

Yep. You guessed it. Today's prompt is Accessible #2: "The basement. - Leslie Pietrzyk" (Szilagyi). 

I've lived on opposite ends of the country for most of my life  -- Southern California and Eastern North Carolina. I have never known a single person in either state with a basement. But I do associate them with laundry and Siamese cats. And seepage. So, of course, Poison.

And just in case you need an 80's fix: 

You're welcome!

 

Poison. "Talk Dirty To Me." What the Cat Dragged In. YouTube.YouTube. 26 Feb. 2009. Web. 21 Dec. 2014.

Szilagyi, Anca. "All Time Favorite Writing Prompts." Ploughshares at Emerson College. 18 Dec. 2014. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

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128

My grades are in, the house is decorated, and the laundry is done (at least for the next five minutes). You know what that means. It's time for a one-a-day writing challenge!

That's right. NaNoWriMo/Poem-a-Day is over, and it's a long way to NaPoWriMo in April. Let's use the "All Time Favorite Writing Prompts" list posted by Anca Szilagyi on the Ploughshares website and see how far we get. I will choose one of the prompts per day and post it here. 

Prompt #1: (Accessible #4) "Write down a few descriptive objects on a slip of paper, pick one (good for a class). Start the piece with 'Why I stole it.' - Swati Khurana" (Szilagyi). Here's the Lady Random twist: since we're not in a class ( for at least two weeks!), go to Wikipedia. Click the "random article" button on the left. Get your descriptive object there. (It may take a few clicks to get something you can use.) 

I got "Painted Smile," a song by The Moody Blues (who, btw, used spoken-word poetry on their albums - random Wikipedia fact). This immediately made me think of the Mona Lisa, which of course led me to sloths.

 

sloth mona lisa 

But I digress. My descriptive object is going to be a painting of a smiling person. That's all I know right now, other than I have to steal it. I wonder how big the painting will be? Will I have to cut it out of a frame? Roll it up? Will I steal it from a museum? A gallery? Someone's home? What will I do with it later?

What's your object?

 

Connolly, Nicole. "Warning! The cuteness might blow your mind...Sloth Photo Essay." Suitcase Stories Luxury Travel Blog. 2013. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

"Painted Smile." Wikipedia. 30 April 2013. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

Szilagyi, Anca. "All Time Favorite Writing Prompts." Ploughshares at Emerson College. 18 Dec. 2014. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.

 

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144

In the Carolina Ballroom at the Sheraton Charlotte, there are enormous chandeliers dripping with iridescent crystals that reflect the light from electric candles. Their opulence, while beautiful, seem in distinct contrast with what I learned about writing this past weekend at the NCWN, North Carolina Writers' Network, 2014 fall conference. And what I learned is this: writing is dirty work.

I suppose I latched on to the phrases "gear shifts" from Rebecca McClanahan's presentation and "jumpstart" from Zelda Lockhart's because I grew up around cars. I know what it means to push a vehicle until it's rolling, jump in, and pop the clutch. My father's nails had a perpetual line of black beneath them from working on our cars. From the '61 Impala to the '69 VW bus to the '86 Grand Am, my father slid beneath each one of them, cursing more often than not, as my brother and I waited for his short barks for tools.

McClanahan, author of the memoir The Tribal Knot and many other worksinstructed her audience to use their "literary muscles" to "shift gears" in their writing. While her workshop, titled "Making Their Stories Your Own," revolved around how to use family history and artifacts in your writing, the ideas can apply to all writing. She suggests shifting gears at least two or three times in any given piece, no matter the length. You started by questioning? Shift gears to quoting. Shift again to describing. McClanahan encouraged us to use the literary muscles we have, and she used "My Grandmother's Love Letters" by Hart Crane to illustrate her point. Crane shifts gears eight times in this 26 line poem. He begins in the present, and then he informs, describes, meditates, questions, quotes, speculates, and circles back to the present. 

Zelda Lockhart, author of many books including Fifth Born, presented her audience with a copied line drawing of a steering wheel, rearview mirror, vanity mirror, and side view mirror from the driver's perspective at the beginning of her workshop titled "The Mirror Exercise." She guided us through a series of prompts that involved jotting down bulleted lists on specific parts of the drawing and then freewriting on each section. During the freewrite sessions, Lockhart handed us the tool of opening a book of poetry, setting our fingers down at random, and using the three words closest to our fingertips to "jumpstart" our writing. This was almost eerily good. My jumpstarts even seemed to be thematic. "His solid ruddy," "of the flesh," and "the ones with teeth" were just three of my jumpstarts, and they really helped me to let go of preconceived ideas and just jump in that car and pop the clutch.

These were just two of the workshops I attended. There were also readings and speakers including Wilton Barnhardt who entertained the audience with stories of places he "should never have been" including a tour of a particularly deep cave and the offices of Sports Illustrated. By the way, another one of my jumpstarts was "where I've never gone before." 

Part of the reason I attend writers' conferences is to reenergize myself, to rekindle the flame. After last weekend, I'm ready to roll up my sleeves and get to work with the tools I have at my disposal; I'm ready to get grease underneath my fingernails. I'm ready to kick that muscle car in my mind into fifth gear, hit the road, and ride.

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191

lock and fresh days 11  12

I just love a challenge, so whenever I find a fill-in-the-blank-with-your-favorite-artistic-genre-a-day, I try to jump on it. Both feet. This month, I've been working on INKtober 31's challenge to create a drawing a day (although I have failed miserably at the "a day" part -- I've done about seven). This one is tough because you're supposed to start and finish each drawing in nothing but ink. It has pushed me to be deliberate with my lines because I can't erase. I've learned about and used new-to-me tools like Derwent ink blocks and Copic markers. There is a Facebook page where artists can post their drawings, and give and receive feedback. I've become part of an online community of artists, and those artists are producing some amazing work. 

On the writing side, Rattle introduced its Poets Respond challenge. The idea is to choose a news story from the week and write a poem in response to it by each Friday. There is a Facebook page for this one, too, where poets can post their drafts and read and comment on other poets' work. This is another terrific online community.

Next month is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). While I won't be writing a novel this time around, I will participate in Robert Brewer's 2014 November PAD (Poem A Day) Chapbook Challenge. It's just what it sounds like: write a poem a day in response to the prompts Brewer posts on his Writer's Digest blog, Poetic Asides, and turn it into a chapbook by January 7. Daily poems can be posted to the blog where the chalenge community can read, and give and receive feedback. I'm looking forward to it. Join me!

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219

I'm feeling very lucky to be a poet today. I just got back from facilitating a poetry workshop at Ellsworth Commons, a senior community here in Eastern NC, and I can't stop smiling about the writing and sharing that happened. When I first agreed to give the workshop, I thought very little about what I would actually do, but as the date got closer, I realized that my audience was different from any group I had worked with before. Then, I panicked a little. Then I Googled it. This is one of the terrific ideas I found: Susan Y. Dyer's blog The Moveable Alphabet, "Creative Writing with Seniors." 

I was attracted not only by the subject matter of the post, but also by the Montessori ideals behind it. The basic idea is to cut out words from magazines and have the workshop participants choose the words that stand out to them. Then, they arrange the words on a largish piece of paper. When  satisfied with the placement on the page for meaning, they glue the words down. This does two wonderful things: 1. It helps anyone who has difficulty writing, for any reason, to express themselves in the written word. 2. It allows participants a starting place. Watching the residents move their chosen words around, trying them out in several different ways to get their messages across was really cool, and the stories they told me while figuring out word placement were even better.

When I first told the group that we would be writing poetry, there were some groans and talk of being "back in school." When I told them how we would be writing it and held up the large font, green ink cut-out word "Pickles," they laughed. But the gentleman who took the word pickles wrote a poem about his grandmother, how he used to make pickles with her, how they used to cook everything from scratch and make homemade ice cream. When he finished his composition, he read it out loud to me, pointed to the page, and said, "That's me. Right there."  

Some of the other residents wrote about camping under the stars, fishing, and learning patience. One woman, after finding the right order for her words, looked through the piles of cut-outs for about five minutes, determined to find something to do with birds so she could complete her thoughts.

I am looking forward to going back in December, and the participants have said that they are looking forward to writing some more poetry. What a wonderful gift on this stormy Wednesday. And many thanks to Susan Y. Dyer for her terrific ideas!

 

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220

erasure game of thrones

So I finally broke down and started reading A Game of Thrones. Naturally, today's erasure prompt is taken from pages 44 and 45. Here we go!

First, I circled the words and phrases that stood out:

fingers, rough stone, wrought all in rubies, "In my dreams, I kill him every night," pillar, tomb, bitter twist, doubts, wounds, bleed again, "she left in the dead of night," sworn to protect, rattling among the tombs, flash of white teeth in the thicket

Do I want the fingers to be rough as stone? Do I want the fingers touching something that is rough as stone? And what is wrought in rubies? The object being felt or the fingers themselves? To whom do the fingers belong?

The mother's fingers, grown stone rough, 
years of working shears, threaded needles
pricked and pushed, creating faces,
dresses trimmed in ribbon, trimmed in lace.

Grown thick as pillars, silver-circled,
wrought all in rubies. Ringed fingers
sworn to protect...

I'm not sure I like this direction, so...

Flash of white in tomb-strewn thicket,
rough stone pillars sworn to protect.

Fingers rattle, wrought all in rubies.
In my dreams, bitter twist of teeth.

I like the imagery here better. 

I'm getting a definite fairy/folk tale, ancient stone circles feel here, and I'm afraid that I am not successfully separating the feel of the novel from the feel of the words that will be a poem. Not that they have to be different, but, when I do erasures, I like to try to deviate as far as possible from the subject and tone of the original text.

How about...

In a bitter twist,
I kill him every night.

Hmmm...this might be interesting! What would you do with this erasure?

Martin, George R.R. A Game of Thrones. New York: Bantam Books, 1996.

 

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204

dragon pinata

Yep, it's been a while since I've posted. What, you ask, have I been doing? Well, I'll tell you. I planned and executed a Harry Potter Tri-Wizard Tournament birthday party for my daughter. We even made a dragon piñata from scratch. It's truly amazing what you can do with a balloon, some newspaper, and liquid starch. I began a new semester of teaching -- this makes year seventeen of new students, new methods of teaching composition, and new ideas. Oh, and I wrote a book.

I took the 3-Day Novel challenge for the third time, but this time I wrote a book of poetry. It's about abandoned places: what happens when we build a place and then leave it? What type of creature might inhabit those spaces? By creature I don't mean mice and cockroaches. I mean what sort of essence is left? What might grow out of our human residue? It was interesting writing so many poems in a row, in a sort-of order, on the same topic and with a storyline. Very different from my usual randomness. I had a great time that weekend, digging around in my brain and pumping out some halfway decent poetry. 

For today's post, I want to give thanks to some of the people who helped me find the joy in writing and reading poetry again. Before I was accepted into the low-residency MFA program in poetry at Converse College, I hadn't written much of anything for years. I had been debating between a PhD and an MFA for forever, and I finally just got my act together, revised what I saw as my best poems, and sent them out with the application packet. Then I waited. And waited. And I almost missed the whole thing because my acceptance email went to my spam folder which I never, ever check. 

Long story short, I have had the privilege of working with some amazing poets (and fiction writers, and creative non-fiction writers). Denise Duhamel was my mentor for two semesters, my first and my last. Most recently, she was shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award for her latest collection Blowout, and she was awarded a 2014 Guggenheim fellowship. Suzanne Cleary was my mentor during my second semester. Her latest book Beauty Mark won the John Ciardi Prize for Poetry. Both of these poets have long lists of awards, publications, and achievements. I'll admit, before I started the program in 2011, I was a little intimidated by those long lists next to each and every faculty member's name. What would they say about my poetry? What was I getting myself into?

As it turns out, both Denise and Suzanne are excellent teachers on top of being respected poets. They both encouraged me to experiment, helped me to learn different ways of tackling that most difficult of processes -- revision, and directed me to read some poets I might have never encountered who are now a permanent part of my poetic life: Richard Hugo, Kim Addonizio, Agha Shahid Ali, Dorianne Laux, and Charles Wright, just to name a few. (I know, I know, how could I have missed Charles Wright? But you can't find the poets you love if you aren't reading poetry. No you can't.)

If you're considering an MFA, I encourage you to consider Converse. I owe my renewed passion for poetry to the program and its faculty. You've got three days to the fall application deadline. Three whole days! That's enough time to write a book  AND make a dragon! Get your materials together and send them in. 

 

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255

This past weekend, I reread Stephen King's The Gunslinger. It is my favorite of the Dark Tower series, and it is one of my favorite books by King, but it had been twenty-six years since I last read it. 26! How does that happen? Anyway, The reason I hadn't read it for so many years is simply that I didn't have a copy. The first time I read it, I borrowed it from a friend at a party, started reading it in a corner (I know, I know. I'm that girl), and finished it in my car by the next morning. 

Naturally, I decided to write an erasure from page 45. Like I do. I copied the page, started circling words that stood out, and noticed that I had a phrase/term I loved: sound watchers. I started thinking about synesthesia -- how can you see a sound? How would you actively watch for sound? I started picking out words on the page that are sounds: grunt, howl, tearing rasp, rattle, screech, pound, vibrate, struck, shiver. The last three are more actions than sounds, but they do produce sound. I also picked out the phrases: "some monstrous clockwork," "So here's your wonder," and "And he began to laugh again" (King 45). 

So while I was looking at these sound words and trying to figure out how they fit together, this bird

bird save

hit the window directly behind me. I heard a thunk on the glass, turned to look out and see if the bird was ok (the sound of a bird strike on a window is distinctive), and saw my outdoor cat slinking away with a wing sticking out of her mouth. I ran outside to retrieve the bird. It was stunned, but after about five minutes, it flew away. 

Hearing sounds while thinking about sounds. That's what life is giving me today. 

Let's see:

The prothonotary warbler (my best guess based on a quick search) struck the window as I wrote. The sound was dark. The sound was the dark of death, the creamsicle orange flash of a cat with a beak in its jaw, the stun inside a bell.

Play with sound and synesthesia today!

King, Stephen. The Gunslinger. Signet: New York, 2003.

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286

One of my favorite movies (and stories turned into movies) is The Shawshank Redemption. Among the many great quotes in this movie (like "Get busy living, or get busy dying") is this: "Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes, really, pressure and time" (Shawshank). Which brings me to what life gave me yesterday. Maintenance.

I spent all day yesterday pulling weeds (many, many toads were displaced), cutting grass, vacuuming rugs (my dog really should not have any hair at all on her body at this point), and sealing my deck. I pressure washed the deck Wednesday; I hadn't realized how weathered the wood had become, but it has been ten years since we built it. Ten! Ten years! Anyway, pressurized water cleaned my deck, and I wanted to get it sealed before another ten years went by. Like they do.

While working, I found a rotten board which will have to be replaced. Ten years of rain and snow and sun and feet turned this particular board into near mush. If I didn't weed and cut grass, we'd be overrun in very short order. The moss, vines, insects, moles, and weather; the pressure and time would eat away at the brick and wood, eventually taking the house into itself. So maintenance is what life gave me yesterday. And maintenance ain't going away anytime soon. How can I re-invent this and find a poem?

Maybe I'll write about feeling very, very small in the face of nature. Take a large-scope view of humans trying to maintain what they build. I live in the South, and it's easy to see what nature can do. There is a farmhouse or tobacco barn or trailer being pulled down by vegetation everywhere you look. Or maybe I'll write small. A poem about the rotted board. Now that I know it's there, I keep poking at it. When I press on it with my toes, water beads up through the cracks in the wood. It's rather like a kid playing with a loose tooth. Come to think of it, brushing teeth is like pressure washing the deck. More maintenance! 

What will you try to maintain today? Write about it!

The Shawshank Redemption. Dir. Frank Darabont. Columbia Pictures, 1994. Film.

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269

mutant target mushroom

I want to thank my seventh grade science teacher for the phrase fungus amongus which goes through my brain every. single. time. I see a mushroom, or a shelf fungus, or a nice crop of slime mold. I even wrote a poem about slime mold once, the kind also known as "dog vomit." Yes, yes I did. 

I saw this unnatural looking beauty in the Target parking lot, and I thought...fungus amongus. Then I said it out loud, and my children repeated it for about three hours. Naturally, I took a picture for day three of writing the everyday. This thing is such a bright yellow/ochre color, I thought mutant mushroom? But apparently there are plenty of different types of bright yellow mushrooms.

I'd like to learn how to properly forage for mushrooms. They are often so compelling to look at. I won't say beautiful, although that might be one word for them. More like strangely fascinating and repellant at the same time. We have had several orange fungi crop up in our mulch which look very like Cthulhu's tentacles. After a quick search, I found out they are columned stinkhorns. Now that's a name to include in a poem, for sure. Thanks to Bill from Wondering about Fungi for that information. He's even got a Facebook page "Florida Fungi." Love it. 

So...off to read more about fungi, look at some images, and think about poetry, and spores, and fairy rings, and columned stinkhorns. 

What poetry will you grow today?

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229

bath tub toys

Everyone should have Jedi Masters in their bathrooms. 

So...bathtub toys. I remember bathing our cats when I was little - bathing them while I was in the tub with them. Not sure how that worked out without being stripped to ribbons (they were not declawed). Not that they were bathtub toys. My brother played with his Star Wars action figures until they had no defining features. 

It's really not the same when you get too tall to fit your whole body under the water, know what I mean? Something is always sticking out of the water and cold. 

Where, oh where will a poem go from here?

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pits

I've been feeling a bit untethered lately, and I was trying to come up with a way to kick myself in the behind when I came across Naomi Shihab Nye's poem "Valentine for Ernest Mann" yesterday. It's a beautiful poem where two skunks become a Valentine's Day present - you should read it. But the lines that really resonated with me go like this: "poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, / they are sleeping [...] What we have to do / is live in a way that lets us find them. [...] Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us / we find poems" (Nye). 

This is my challenge to myself, and my challenge to you: every day, I will write about the things life gives me. It's not all that different from what I've been trying to do here at Lady Random, but it is a renewed permission to simply write. About anything. I challenge myself to "live in a way that lets [me] find" the poems hiding in my everyday life.

Today's inspiration is the pits. I don't have a kitchen windowsill, but I do have a shelf above the sink, and that is where little things tend to accumulate. My kids save seeds and plant them regularly; sometimes they even grow. We have an avocado tree that's doing fairly well - I'll have to remember to bring it in for the winter. There is something that remains fascinating about pits. Their shapes and textures; oval and smooth, arrowhead and convoluted, rough. The peach pit cracks open to reveal a pale seed. 

I remember our family labrador, Tippy, steadying avocados between her front paws, intently peeling them, and eating around the pit with her tiny front teeth. 

Maybe I'll write a draft about pits, or maybe I'll write about Tippy, a sweet dog who also stole shoes. 

What do pits make you think of? What will you write today?

Nye, Naomi Shihab. "Valentine for Ernest Mann." Red Suitcase. 1994. Rpt. in Academy of American Poets. Web. 4 August 2014.

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1764

imajica erasure

I think I'm going to have to get more specific when I choose words and phrases, because this is a tough one. I have been simply choosing words and phrases that strike me. Maybe next week I'll choose words in alphabetical order and write an abecedarian, or maybe I'll make up some other rules. We'll see. For now, let's play!

I'm going to try this two ways: The first will be "reading" top to bottom for each of two pages. The second will be reading left to right across both pages. I'm not going to break any lines at first.

One

damnable magic shivered with unease rituals for the raising simpering, mindless plucked by their summoners It wasn't congenital stupidity it was anguish the summons the binding he was trapped changing his face on occasion search vicious sway he failed to see this wretched interview it took a kind of genius nothing to regret for it "We're ready for you now" won't even know you existed sounded ludicrous extraordinary step condescension without argument revenge the drapes were drawn clutter of bottles brooding weary faces invited to occupy not one face among them wealth and influence forbade

Two 

he failed to see damnable magic this wretched interview it took a kind of genius shivered with unease nothing to regret for it "We're ready for you now" rituals for the raising simpering, mindless plucked by their summoners won't even know you existed sounded ludicrous it wasn't congenital stupidity it was anguish extraordinary step the summons, the binding condescension without argument revenge he was trapped the drapes were drawn changing his face on occasion clutter of bottles brooding weary faces search invited to occupy vicious sway not one face among them wealth and influence forbade

Now, let's try some line breaks.

One: damnable magic

shivered with unease Rituals
for the raising simpering, mindless, 
plucked by their summoners. 
It wasn't congenital, 
stupidity. It was anguish. 
The summons, the binding. 
He was trapped changing his face. 
On occasion, search vicious. 
sway He failed to see, this wretched.
interview It took a kind of genius
nothing. To regret. for it "We're ready
for you now." won't even know
You existed sounded ludicrous. 
An extraordinary step, condescension
without argument. Revenge.
The drapes were drawn. Clutter
of bottles; brooding, weary faces
invited to occupy. Not one face
among them wealth. and Influence. forbade


I like the way the words take on new meaning when line breaks and punctuation take them out of their original configuration. I feel that this one might be going in the direction of "To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet" (Eliot). And I really like the title. Lots of places to go with that.

Two: On occasion, a clutter of bottles

He failed to see, damnable magic, 
this wretched interview it took a kind
of genius. He shivered with unease. Nothing
to regret. for it "We're ready for you now."
Rituals for the raising simpering,
mindless, plucked. by Their summoners
won't even know you existed sounded
ludicrous. It wasn't congenital. 
Stupidity it was anguish, extraordinary. 
step The summons, the binding condescension. 
Without argument, revenge. He was trapped. 
The drapes were drawn, changing his face. 
On occasion, a clutter of bottles. Brooding, 
weary faces search. invited to Occupy
vicious sway. not one face among them
wealth and influence forbade

I'm not as sure of the direction of this one, except that there is a sense of futility present. But my brain is now awake and working! What will get you started writing today?

Barker, Clive. Imajica. New York: Harper Paperbacks, 1991.

Eliot, T.S. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Poetry Foundation. 2014 Web. 20 July 2014.

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274

 

anansi erasure

 

This weekend's reread was Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys. A terrific read, as always, and the natural choice for today's erasure effort. So, here you go.

look what you did!

five bottles of whiskey, plantains, pineapples, mangos, banyan tree. sit and eat don't you lie to me If you lie to me, I'll tear out your throat. what is it? he kills her, loves her places her body he was serious he wasn't going anywhere, It wasn't the first time he's never been born. all stories Even this one. singing the sky and the ocean. he wanted all the stories man gets himself all tangled up he looked like a man. he never changed his shape. That's all.

Now, let's adjust the lines:

Look what you did!

Five bottles of whiskey, plantains, pineapples,
mangos, banyan tree. Sit and eat. Don't you
lie to me. If you lie to me, I'll tear out
your throat. What is it? He kills her, loves her,
places her body. He was serious.
He wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't
the first time he's never. Been born. All stories.
Even this one. Singing the sky and
the ocean. He wanted all the stories.
Man gets himself all tangled up. He
looked like a man. He never changed his shape.
That's all.

Ok. Let's play a bit: 

He wanted all the stories

Five bottles of whiskey. Don't
you lie to me. Plantains, pine-
apples. I'm serious. Mangos,
banyan tree. Sit and eat.
I'm not going anywhere.
I've got myself all tangled
up. You look like a man.
You're killing me. Love me.
If you lie to me. Singing
the sky and the ocean.
I'll tear out your throat. Don't
ever change your shape. 
It's not the first time. Sit.
You want all the stories,
even this one. Replace
my body. Look what you did.

Hmm...it was a challenge to keep Anansi the spider and the story with Tiger out of this, but I think I've got something to work with here. Critique! And I highly recommend this novel. It's even better the third time around!

Gaiman, Neil. Anansi Boys. New York: Harper Torch, 2005. Print.

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