Practicing Metaphors

The concept of writing metaphors just to write a metaphor is difficult for me. I use metaphors in my writing, but it's not usually intentional. After each attempted metaphor, I tried to define the metaphor. According to Wikipedia, a metaphor compares seemingly unrelated objects. I think I'm stretching on most of these.

Veins of humidity burst, raining over the crowd. (A sweaty crowd's weather pattern)

Shards of light pierce the drone of stifled shadows. (complacency interrupted)

She attempts to chase time that has already butterflied. (time is running out, or maturing)

Spinning green, yellow, and red; spiraling kaleidoscopes of color; Falling revolutions (the revolution of seasons)

Baby Talk

With complicated ease speaking begins
Holophrastic images flow wordless
Into a vibrant pattern of single meaning
Touch, feel, hear, listen, and absorb the world
Observe the dance of gaiety
Resulting from simple verbs connected
To accidental adjectives and relationships unhung
In minds that only comprehend praise
Attached to faces that are the world
Familiar utterances guide passing thoughts
Voice inflections rule fluttering sounds.

Who hath heard the shy voice of new thinking?
Felt the burgeoning pleasure of meaning
At last conveyed successfully beyond sight
To attain the gift of being understood
Babbling transitions blended tones of clarity
Words ripe to be picked from lips unstuttered
Explanations and reasoning unlimited
Minds unlocked
Confusion unwrapped
And curiosity peaked, reaching up
Answers exposed, reactions unmonitored.

Subtly shifting speech, grammar felt not learned
Perceive the sounds, vibrations not limited
To vocal chords but reaching out into a path
Lexical collections grazing thoughts not tutored
Phonemes and allophones patterned unistiquely
Shared satisfaction in maturing understatement
Of letters and sounds meaning truth, yet
Capable of lies once sufficient production
Grapples with phrases tied to thoughts
Once caught beneath veiled language
Knowledge restricted by unknown rules of vagrant conceptions.

Response to Ted Koozer

I enjoyed listening to Ted Koozer. His poetry was easy to follow and visualize. I liked his humor and the way he was able to insert this into his work. I could tell he had been writing and reading his work for a long time. The most memorable poem I took away was the one about his mother's "Last First Cousin." I like the way he worked in the watching people of the past and that they were taking inventory of her life and belongings.

I wish I had the dedication he has to writing.

Forevers in "A" Minor

This is my attempt at creating a pattern that is somewhat random in a poem. I used a list of 20 words that my daugther gave to me. The list came from lists she had put together for her creative writing class: Spiky, Loud, Ditzy, Stressed, Long, Small, Twinkles, Bouncy, Quiet, Mole, Brown, Smooth, Fast, Big, Conservative, Freckles, Cute, Dresses, English, Thin.

The result is a very strange sounding poem with very odd connections.

Forevers in "A"Minor

A long crisp breath of apple blossom pie conservatively stretches across a room filled with pink dishes of apple blossom pie fashioned in fastidious temptational grooves while pink dishes of hot peppers roasting slowly with passionate flavor steep fastidiously in temptational grooves flowing past English letters of placidity.

Big marching tuba players step over the edge of forevers and freckled faces puff energetically in and out, out and in as hot peppers roast slowly on silver platters beside aromatic eucalyptus trees past English letters of placidity and pink dishes of hot blossom pie.

Forevers in “A” minor and shards of vibrating Plexiglas puffin in and out, out and in

Cute bundles of mistletoe tied in bunches like green velvet layers of smooth petals in apricot butter that line the bottom of eternities lucid awakenings beside aromatic eucalyptus trees in Eden’s garden with passionate flavor surrounding thick syrupy mounds of placidity in the fastidiously temptating freckled faces of tuba players.

Brown liquid eyes drip emotional regrets as thin white legs attached to skin stretched tightly over fragments of vibrating Plexiglas tune into stations over-run by mellow drama of eternities in Eden’s garden with pink dishes of apple pie steeped in bunches like green velvet layers around thick syrupy mounds of honey coated moans.

Loud tempered cities ran by small minded monkeys in human attire and fast greased pigs walking on two legs squeeze past barbed wire boundaries where minstrels play only for promises of key lime pie and drip emotional regret around thick syrupy mounds in human attire in and out of Eden’s garden.

Vibrating Plexiglas puffin out and in of forevers in shards of “A” minor.

Spiky rubber spoons lean lazily on the dotted yellow line of ditzy plunged super heroes who dance like freaks on the building next to God’s house and their eyes drip emotional regrets which marching tuba players can’t remember how to play over fragments of vibrating Plexiglas and pumpkin seeds with too much sea salt squeezed past skin tightly stretched by mellow dramatic monkeys in human attire.

Stressed news casters cry as Treasure Island is captured, surrender imminent and small tender carcasses lay helpless on the sideboard stretched tightly over fragments of tuba players vibrating like green velvet layers of honey coated moans in fastidious temptation and regret with passionate flavor surrounding thick syrupy mounds and silver platters of key lime pie.

Twinkles shadow friend passes over the threshold and dresses carefully for a dance that opens the season of misgivings, appearing heavenly in the shifting lights of moon-glow and star-splatter on news casters utterly unnoticed because invisibility nomafies visability and small minded monkeys in human attire regret surrender in Eden’s garden on thin white legs stretched tight and helpless on the sideboard, forgetting how to play imminent emotion.

Shards of forevers vibrate Plexiglas in “A” minor of

Bouncy plush veins that taste of coconut and quiet appear heavenly as tuba players capture Treasure Island and a room full of pink dishes of hot apple blossoms and peppers resting unnoticed by brown liquid eyes that lean lazily on dotted yellow lines of super heroes and monkeys in human attire in the building next to God’s house.

Mole holes dot the horizon and fill with rich chocolate bon-bon dreams and no one can remember how to play the tuba players’ regret unnoticed because invisibility nomifies visibility in Eden’s garden surrounded by vibrating Plexiglas dancing through shards of forevers in “A” minor.

Poetry reading response

I really enjoyed the readings. Jesse Seldess was still confusing for me, but it was interesting to hear how he read his work. My favorite part was listening to Dolores, maybe because her poetry already sounded good in my head.

After listening to them talk about technique, I am thinking about trying to write a poem using only the words in my favorites list. I may have to add a few more words though.

reading response

I've been reading Jesse Seldess. I keep going back over the reading trying to attach order to it. Occasionally an image starts to form of someone trying to do something. When the word "refuse" is used, is he referring to the act of refusing, or garbage refuse. It's interesting how the image changes when a new connotation is applied.

So far, I like Dolores Dorantes the best. Her poetry flows so nicely. I really like reading the Spanish versions. Even though I don't understand all of the words, I get into the rhythm and the beauty of the words. She uses hands in many of her poems, maybe signifying the potential of what the hands can do: hold, stop, hurt, expand, trust, pray, healing, reach, etc. Water is also a theme. I like the poem on page 67.

These are not really well planned discussion points. Maybe after hearing the artists tomorrow, I will have a better feel for their poetry.

The Village Dance

Make less of crime and spin and grin dispense
For pleasure smells of pain and hurt is naught
All alone to grow no less
But autumn it does slow approach the gaunt
To measure grandiose a canned event
Less elves appear to corner all who beat
To steal the baffled gold and silvered feat

Attack, attack, attack a charm too frail
Stone soup can squish an elf and freeze dry land
More or less to stray the trail
Parquet is wasted under gothic stands
And fortune laughs in all its antique grail
Don’t lessen pins or assuage the dirty lance
A tournament of pretence in village dances

Eat, smear and dichotomize the end
The Viagra-less lord, a poet
Come less the needs of evil on it stand
Pass quickly the sewer gypsies and stroke it
For knees are bent in quantum extoling blends
In passages of lovers keening less
Make stress of crimes and spin and sin defence

Iambic Practice

Writing in iambic pentameter is crazy. Making every line have the same beat was impossible. It doesn't help that I have no rhythm anyway.

Remodeling

Drywall dust coats piles of building materials and floors throughout the house. End pieces of molding scattered across the driveway, soak up the rain. Orange, yellow, red, green, and blue wires hang from the ceiling and out of evenly spaced holes cut in the freshly painted drywall. Tiny specks of almond paint spot the large picture window that looks out over the hills of Roxy Anne. Knobless doors pushed by the wind, open and close, pulling other doors shut with a slam.

Writing Differently

So far I've discovered that there are minor differences between writing poetry and writing prose. When I sit down to write a story, I have to know what kind of story I want to write, the feeling I want to convey, and the character or scene development I need to focus on. Writing a poem requires the same type of concentration; however, it demands a different approach. A poem's focus is to imply elements of the story without actually telling the whole story. For instance, in the "ten element" poems we just constructed, we learned that it is better for the writer to use experiential factors that develop the element rather than come right out and name the element. This helps the reader to personally identify with the elements and construct an individual point of view. Writing like this is more difficult for me because I feel like I have to use more words, more description, and more concrete identification to build the story.

Sex in the Country

Barnyard fumes of hallucination float doggy style across fence lines.
Skunk weed scratches heavily hung rocky mountain oysters.
Lusty eyes, swish, swish, flies mount.
Rosa y blanco bovine breasts attract greener pastures.


Rows of feathered worshipers cluck praises to a confident cock.
Late October moon fools the morning lord to early song.
Insidious rape, cut, cut, hens sexed up.
Jueves del muerto served to rogue skunks.

Glutinous swine root to a masturbating beat of putrefied flesh.
Slow, leisure back rolls keep the food whores employed.
Throaty squeals, drip, drip, maggots rejoice.
Grasa de cerdo slips inside smooth intestinal sheets.

Young, auburn ponytails roll softly in sweet scented hay.
Father’s pitchfork hides bloody traces of furious discovery.
Innocence plucked, fuck, fuck, afterbirth eaten.
Hacer el amor is deadly in the country.

Taxation and citified minds, slow death to wide open spaces.
Pass the ballot box; 120 acres for sale, zoned for industrial use.
Blacktop land, weep, weep, deer in the headlights.
Desparacio, the quiet buzz of life.

wordy fun or funny word

I spend too much time thinking about what words look like together. Words that begin with 'P' seem to leap to the forefront when I try to think or write spontaneously.

Perfectly passionate peachy pantomime is pleasing to particular perfectionists. See what I mean.

'P' words are addicting.

I haven't taken the plunge into the next assignment yet. I'm thinking about titling it, "Sex in the Country."

We shall see.

On a serious note, my daughter is moving out in a couple of weeks. Occasional references to this big transition will probably slip into my writing. Hopefully it wont be too dreary. The reference to "sawdust" in the phrase poem was the beginning. Thank goodness she's only moving out to the apartment we are building in the garage. I don't think I could handle longer distances yet. PooPaw all you want, its a huge thing for me.

Ron Silliman

I really enjoyed listening to Ron Silliman tonight. At first it was a little hard to follow. His discussion on the growth of poetry, poets, and readership over the last two centuries really helped me to understand how his style came about. I had never thought of poetry as fitting into a diagram, so when he mentioned it I started to realize that the repetition I heard in his readings was part of his diagramming practices. I liked the way he referred to himself as non-academic even though he used the same language I've been hearing in many of my classes at SOU.

The lines in his readings that I liked the most were:

Cardboard box of sweaters on top of the book shelf to indicate home.
Fleshy babies incubating. We ate them.
what makes us think that form exists?
Each sentence is new born.
This sentence is that sentence.
The morning (mourning) of Q-Tips deserves attention.

Phrases working together, but not

Familiar.
Nothing goes together as well.
Picture the pitcher filled.
And to you I say, "How near are you?"
Stopped at the corner, must have.
Well known.
Directions are simple.
The sun drips from the bottom rung.
Winter arrives.
Wormy fish, the lake is full of.
What will you do today?
Wake up beautiful.
Life happens, plan or no.
The environment is rich.
Keep it.
In the attic, up there we wait.
White peaches cling to sweetness.
Can you hear the velvet swish?
Mice scamper.
Sawdust tracks imprint passages.
Pause.
Trust your strengths, remember to always.

This would make a nice tattoo.