Les Montres Molles, 1968. (His Last Painting.)
We met at the edge of time. His talents curled
off his lips melting drops of water, shadowing
reflections of his dead brother. Wild-eyed,
he explained his theories of pocket watches
and expanding landscapes, as if I understood
their luxuries.
He was 84 as I watched his last breath
twister up into the sky, drawing shattered
pieces of him and his father's relationship.
Unforgiving, he decayed, a fly ate away time
that his father never cared for. A lonely moth he sat
edging away from his art.
I really enjoy the imagery in your poem. “talents curling off lips” and ‘his last breath twister[ing] up into the sky”. You’re using circular imagery, which I think matches perfect with the idea of time and watches. GREAT. It seems to me like you’re conveying a little bit of elegance to a haphazard, seemingly hopeless, life history to this. I don’t think it’s a brain fart! I think it just needs to be expanded. For instance, even though you only mentioned this man’s brother once, you it seems to be what his suffering is encompassing. Maybe give a little bit of a backstory on his brother?
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Improv-ing -- Week 9
I'm going to improv Green pants by Sttephen Grahm Jones:
We met sometime in October a few years back at a mutual friends apartment over some under-aged drinks and great conversation and we met for coffee a week later.
I scared you, and you left quickly.
You bought some pot.
Numb so your feelings.
Those butterflies in your stomach floated away with the cloud of marijuana smoke.
You called me a few days later because the smell of curiosity doesn’t leave your close as fast as the smell of ganja.
We had coffee, shared laughs, and had great conversation for two weeks straight then we were official for a year then the butterflies came back like locusts because you meant everything you said and didn’t mean to.
You bought some pot.
Numbed your feelings.
The smoke and the butterflies left out the window.
This time the fabric was cleaned of the fumes and replaced with a new girl that wears cheap perfume and makes you numb without the pot.
We met sometime in October a few years back at a mutual friends apartment over some under-aged drinks and great conversation and we met for coffee a week later.
I scared you, and you left quickly.
You bought some pot.
Numb so your feelings.
Those butterflies in your stomach floated away with the cloud of marijuana smoke.
You called me a few days later because the smell of curiosity doesn’t leave your close as fast as the smell of ganja.
We had coffee, shared laughs, and had great conversation for two weeks straight then we were official for a year then the butterflies came back like locusts because you meant everything you said and didn’t mean to.
You bought some pot.
Numbed your feelings.
The smoke and the butterflies left out the window.
This time the fabric was cleaned of the fumes and replaced with a new girl that wears cheap perfume and makes you numb without the pot.
Sign inventory -- week 9
Green Pants by Stephen Grahm Jones
I noticed that in this poem Jones used block poetry in most of his poem. The first 'stanza' or 'paragraph' is just one big sentence describing a sequence of events squished together. It's a reflection of how quick that event happened. I think it's intersting how he depected the daze of events in one sentence/block, and the rest of them poem slows down and uses more puncuation once they get to the hospital.
I noticed that in this poem Jones used block poetry in most of his poem. The first 'stanza' or 'paragraph' is just one big sentence describing a sequence of events squished together. It's a reflection of how quick that event happened. I think it's intersting how he depected the daze of events in one sentence/block, and the rest of them poem slows down and uses more puncuation once they get to the hospital.
Calisthenics -- Week 9
i finally found a way to work in the suggestion that Davidson and Ericka made about finding a way to work crocheting terminology into a poem. :]
Choose your color and begin with a slipknot.
Chain three.
Yarn over.
Draw loop through three.
It starts at the crown of your head
For a child, that is the fontanel.
Still open and ready to absorb the myths of heroes
Preserved in the pith that lay between unsoiled ears.
Never lose your child-like innocence.
That’s why new borns are given crocheted hats.
Hats made with love by hand.
Series of knots placed snug
over a child’s head ready to capture innocence.
Later placed in the wooden chest
at the foot of their bed and locked away like treasure.
There are dreams embedded in each half double crochet and chain
Locking each crumbled dream away
like crumbs of Gerber crackers stuck in the cracks of the high chair.
But those are scrubbed away.
Choose your color and begin with a slipknot.
Chain three.
Yarn over.
Draw loop through three.
It starts at the crown of your head
For a child, that is the fontanel.
Still open and ready to absorb the myths of heroes
Preserved in the pith that lay between unsoiled ears.
Never lose your child-like innocence.
That’s why new borns are given crocheted hats.
Hats made with love by hand.
Series of knots placed snug
over a child’s head ready to capture innocence.
Later placed in the wooden chest
at the foot of their bed and locked away like treasure.
There are dreams embedded in each half double crochet and chain
Locking each crumbled dream away
like crumbs of Gerber crackers stuck in the cracks of the high chair.
But those are scrubbed away.
free entry 2 -- week 9
My dreads started as babies.
Softly coiled by palm rolling.
Row crops nested on my crown.
Wash them often.
Keep the roots in check with rubber bands.
Tied neatly with a bandana at night so they’re easy
to deal with in the morning.
The teenage stage comes five months later.
Rubber bands are cut. They’re wild fuzzy.
They do what they want.
Too small to tie into a pony tail, too wild
and haphazard to keep down.
They’re fuzzy, and the roots didn’t stay kept,
so they were latch hooked.
Chain three.
Double crochet.
Fourteen months pass and they’re now mature.
Follicles grow like weeds pushing threads
of protein that weave and felted.
The rope that shapes my face.
Four years of stories lie in the pith of all ninety-three.
Softly coiled by palm rolling.
Row crops nested on my crown.
Wash them often.
Keep the roots in check with rubber bands.
Tied neatly with a bandana at night so they’re easy
to deal with in the morning.
The teenage stage comes five months later.
Rubber bands are cut. They’re wild fuzzy.
They do what they want.
Too small to tie into a pony tail, too wild
and haphazard to keep down.
They’re fuzzy, and the roots didn’t stay kept,
so they were latch hooked.
Chain three.
Double crochet.
Fourteen months pass and they’re now mature.
Follicles grow like weeds pushing threads
of protein that weave and felted.
The rope that shapes my face.
Four years of stories lie in the pith of all ninety-three.
junkyard -- week 9
"... because he likes broads with thick brains"
-- A line form a song by Common that i modified.
"On monday mornings i pass by the church as the sound of their bells stretch and widen like elastic chasing my car and winding as the distance grows between my car and the holy hall."
-- random line i came up with. i pass through the square in the mornigs and the church bells usually go off on my way to class. It sounds so creepy when i'm in motion away from the church and i wanted to try to describe how it sounded
"stratus clouds patched together creating a quilt that lay snug over the land. the sun blinks through the seams as the wind shakes the rain onto the earth"
--i took a few ideas from spencer's poem and tried to make them my own. Thanks Spencer!
" Going to the square at night on the weekends is like watching live discovery channel. Everyone is doing their mating dances and mating calls."
-- me
-- A line form a song by Common that i modified.
"On monday mornings i pass by the church as the sound of their bells stretch and widen like elastic chasing my car and winding as the distance grows between my car and the holy hall."
-- random line i came up with. i pass through the square in the mornigs and the church bells usually go off on my way to class. It sounds so creepy when i'm in motion away from the church and i wanted to try to describe how it sounded
"stratus clouds patched together creating a quilt that lay snug over the land. the sun blinks through the seams as the wind shakes the rain onto the earth"
--i took a few ideas from spencer's poem and tried to make them my own. Thanks Spencer!
" Going to the square at night on the weekends is like watching live discovery channel. Everyone is doing their mating dances and mating calls."
-- me
free entery week 9
Enveloped perspective that assumes the position
of power that is colored plain and white,
secured by nine oval buttons that mimic pearls
that carefully hide you from women with thick
brains.
and the potential energy stored in bodily systems that happen
above the neck
to be something that hovers above.
Collar, detachable and black ties are cobra coiled around your neck
tightened by inflation turning your face green
while your head balloons in control
while words are whoopi-cusioned out of your mouth
splattered onto eggshell white walls.
A fertile place for secrets.
But when you were young all you wanted was to change the world and painted pictures of circles with green, blue and brown swirls.
of power that is colored plain and white,
secured by nine oval buttons that mimic pearls
that carefully hide you from women with thick
brains.
and the potential energy stored in bodily systems that happen
above the neck
to be something that hovers above.
Collar, detachable and black ties are cobra coiled around your neck
tightened by inflation turning your face green
while your head balloons in control
while words are whoopi-cusioned out of your mouth
splattered onto eggshell white walls.
A fertile place for secrets.
But when you were young all you wanted was to change the world and painted pictures of circles with green, blue and brown swirls.
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