Lit blog

[vampiredust]

I went to my first poetry workshop. The prof called parts of my poem sophomoric and prosaic and he used the term Kludge for my phrase "mucky gutter water"

hahah!

And you know what, I LOVED it. Every minute. And the two other women writers there were also rough, as we were with their poems.

I love the internet of course, very helpful and I feel a sense of friendship and professional relationships here, but it felt so good to have someone sitting right there with my poem tearing it apart line by line. Either this is going to make me a better poet or make me crazy.

All I know is that writing well, writing mindfully, is really fucking difficult.

He gave us homework the motherfucker.



Shadow.

same title challenge
fuck.

I love workshops

I've had a few at uni for poetry and prose. It does make a difference, esp if you've got a professor whose really passionate.

love that word kludge you posted

has a nice sound when you say it out loud

makes me laugh a little

 

[unapologetic]

Kludge

I love learning new words! Thanks for sharing this one (and the wiki link).

 

[vampiredust]

d
e
l
e
t
e
d

 

[normal jean]

I went to my first poetry workshop. The prof called parts of my poem sophomoric and prosaic and he used the term Kludge for my phrase "mucky gutter water"

hahah!

And you know what, I LOVED it. Every minute. And the two other women writers there were also rough, as we were with their poems.

I love the internet of course, very helpful and I feel a sense of friendship and professional relationships here, but it felt so good to have someone sitting right there with my poem tearing it apart line by line. Either this is going to make me a better poet or make me crazy.

All I know is that writing well, writing mindfully, is really fucking difficult.

He gave us homework the motherfucker.



Shadow.

same title challenge
fuck.

hey annabanana

I would vote that you become a better writer, youre already CRAZY!!! and I say that wih the utmost love and respect. Although, I realy dont see how you could get any better, youre already near perfection, in my book. Chiromancer and Sequined Jeans Reflection come to mind...


I am on the mailing list for the SC Poet's Roster and they are always sending invitations for writer's workshops and after the next job, I am gonna t ake them up on a few.
Its so cool to hear about your "new" life.

And its scary to think that YOU might be writing even BETTER than you always have!!

OMG, Lady, I see Pulitzer in your future. I might have missed a dozen posts or more, may I ask which poem they tore apart before your very eyes?

The last writing workshop I had was for college credit and there were 30 people in there and 25 of them thought it was a couse, a guaranteed A for merely showing up, lol. The prof even t old me that there were maybe 3 students , thereabout, that showed any poetic promise at all, and I wasnt one of them, that I should stick with my short sories, lol.

I think I will send him a few links, ya think? OOHH, brilliant idea, maybe I will send him YOUR links and pretend

nah, that's worse than plagiarism....



j


~~~~~

I checked my email and ther ewas a new invite for a workshop, an dthis one I could really use because I am SO bad athaiku and form in general--


LET'S RENGA!


What: USC's Arts Institute's Three-part Renga Workshop

When: Friday, March 16th 6:30pm-8:30pm
Learn the ancient poetic form of the haiku while enjoying a
traditional tea ceremony and Japanese music.

Saturday, March 17th 10:30am-2:00pm
Walk through the Museum's Asian Art collection for
inspiration and then learn how to Renga!

Sunday, March 18th 1:30pm-3:30pm
Share your renga before transferring it onto
elegant rice paper to be hung for display.

Where: Columbia Museum of Art
Garden Terrace
Corner of Hampton and Main Street
*Free and open to the public

Join facilitators, and experienced poets in the art of writing haiku, Charlene
Spearen, Raychelle Heath, and Carrie Young for a spiritual journey into the art
of renga as part of the Columbia Museum of Art’s and USC's Asian week
celebration. In this ancient Japanese form of poetry, two or more poets write
linked verse together, creating a dialogue full of twists and turns, often
incorporating the traditional themes of the Japanese haiku including the four
seasons, the moon, love, as well as other forces of nature. Don't miss this
very special opportunity. Let's Renga!


To RSVP and for more information, please contact:
Charlene Monahan Spearen
(803) 777-5492 CMSPEARE@gwm.sc.edu



hell, i just noticed the dates, I will be in a the bowels of a power plant when that one is going on....

 

[fire child]

Home--Finally.

It's strange to be home in civilian life (almost). Forgot home great it was to be ME. Training went well, was fun actually...except I fractured a hip in Basic training. No suprise there. I'm reserves, so it's back to sitting around the comp with my coffee and my cigs, and my vibrator. wrote a LOT while in training, and will be working on throwing some of it up soon for editing, or laughs, whichever it needs.

Just a quick hello...off to go do something productive, like drink, get laid, and maybe do some laundry. It will feel so nice to sleep in my bed for the first time in nine months...

although, if my wishes come true, I won't be doing much sleep in it! *^.^*

 

[Tzara]

My wife and I went on a short holiday. Down south, to a theater festival. We stayed in a lovely inn, located on a small and vigorous creek. We had a large well-lit suite and broad deck. We saw deer grazing in the back yards of people living on the other side of the water.

The plays were good, even excellent. The breakfasts were exquisite. It was, and this was wonderful, unseasonably warm—in the 80s when we arrived, low 70s the next two days. (Low to upper 20s for you people in the Rest of the World.) Yet it was still so early in the season that very few other tourists were around. All in all, very quiet, very pleasant, very wonderful.

When I came out to load up the rental car this morning for the trip back, there was a small orange square placed under the wiper on the driver's side: a flat object perhaps one and a half inches square. When I pulled it out, I saw that it was a condom, sealed in its package. Made in Thailand, if that matters. The car parked behind mine had one also, as did the car behind it, as did the car in front of me.

Odd. Some weird college town giveaway, I guess. Ah, kids these days—I thanked God I didn't have any. At least whoever left these samples had the savoir-faire to hand out the XL size. I stuffed the package in my pocket, not thinking much about it, got into the car, and started the engine. In a few minutes my wife came out and I put the car in Drive and drove to the airport.

Twenty minutes later, we checked the car back in at the rental service counter, then checked in for our flight. It was smooth sailing until I set off the metal detector going through security, something I never do.

"Any coins, belts, wristwatches?" asked the TSA official, bored.

I removed my watch and belt, neither of which ever set anything off and tried again. BEEP. B-B-BEEP.

The TSA guy perked up a bit. "Sure you're not carrying any change, sir? No cell phone, Palm Pilot, foil gumwrapper? Anything else at all in your pockets?"

I slapped my thighs in case I had forgotten some change and felt the condom packet. I hadn't said anything to the wife about it as she was inside talking to the hotel people when I took it off the windshield and put it in my pocket, and she was inside so long I had forgotten about it.

"Uh, yeah," I told Mr. TSA, "Some gum, I guess." I threw the packet in the trash and walked through the detector without incident.

"What was that about?" she asked as I was pulling my shoes back on.

"Candy wrapper," I said, "I forgot."

 

[fire child]

I'm in love with a memory

I keep repeating the same bullshit mistakes with the same guy.

I can't unlove him.

I'm drunk.

I...need to...

forget.

 

[annaswirls]

haha! all I can say of you, in your adorable answer to the TSA guy, your wife is "Ah, kids these days" adorable.

My wife and I went on a short holiday. Down south, to a theater festival. We stayed in a lovely inn, located on a small and vigorous creek. We had a large well-lit suite and broad deck. We saw deer grazing in the back yards of people living on the other side of the water.

The plays were good, even excellent. The breakfasts were exquisite. It was, and this was wonderful, unseasonably warm—in the 80s when we arrived, low 70s the next two days. (Low to upper 20s for you people in the Rest of the World.) Yet it was still so early in the season that very few other tourists were around. All in all, very quiet, very pleasant, very wonderful.

When I came out to load up the rental car this morning for the trip back, there was a small orange square placed under the wiper on the driver's side: a flat object perhaps one and a half inches square. When I pulled it out, I saw that it was a condom, sealed in its package. Made in Thailand, if that matters. The car parked behind mine had one also, as did the car behind it, as did the car in front of me.

Odd. Some weird college town giveaway, I guess. Ah, kids these days—I thanked God I didn't have any. At least whoever left these samples had the savoir-faire to hand out the XL size. I stuffed the package in my pocket, not thinking much about it, got into the car, and started the engine. In a few minutes my wife came out and I put the car in Drive and drove to the airport.

Twenty minutes later, we checked the car back in at the rental service counter, then checked in for our flight. It was smooth sailing until I set off the metal detector going through security, something I never do.

"Any coins, belts, wristwatches?" asked the TSA official, bored.

I removed my watch and belt, neither of which ever set anything off and tried again. BEEP. B-B-BEEP.

The TSA guy perked up a bit. "Sure you're not carrying any change, sir? No cell phone, Palm Pilot, foil gumwrapper? Anything else at all in your pockets?"

I slapped my thighs in case I had forgotten some change and felt the condom packet. I hadn't said anything to the wife about it as she was inside talking to the hotel people when I took it off the windshield and put it in my pocket, and she was inside so long I had forgotten about it.

"Uh, yeah," I told Mr. TSA, "Some gum, I guess." I threw the packet in the trash and walked through the detector without incident.

"What was that about?" she asked as I was pulling my shoes back on.

"Candy wrapper," I said, "I forgot."

 

[annaswirls]

Hey Norma,
Thanks girl, I am just seeing this post. Thanks for your constant support, you are the best....

they tore apart Metaphors are nothing like Venice and loved the boring blah blah blah Pantoum I wrote. Go figure. Maybe I was cut out for form poetry? Something to rein me in?

You should totally find a workshop to go to. Why not? Just don't take them too seriously and don't let them shop the originality right out of your work.

My favorite coffee shop just moved around the corner on the main square. It's walls are all painted perfectly. The last place had a burnt orange landscape poking into a dark yellow sky. You could see the pencil marks where the muralist had sketched out his or her plans of a more detailed skyline. There was a strip of the paint from the previous wall there. There was a story. Character. Personality.

Someone workshopping that place may have told them they need to repaint. But I mourn those walls every time I go get my still wonderful coffee with the same people, same tables but everything around, so perfect, clean. Just like all of the new coffee shops in town, in the shopping centersm carefully planned, on demand, according to the standard.

Don't lose your pencil marks and landscape, is all I am saying. And I know you wont, you have the confidence to keep your voice! Let the frogs croak out!

amen,

Anna

hey annabanana

I would vote that you become a better writer, youre already CRAZY!!! and I say that wih the utmost love and respect. Although, I realy dont see how you could get any better, youre already near perfection, in my book. Chiromancer and Sequined Jeans Reflection come to mind...


I am on the mailing list for the SC Poet's Roster and they are always sending invitations for writer's workshops and after the next job, I am gonna t ake them up on a few.
Its so cool to hear about your "new" life.

And its scary to think that YOU might be writing even BETTER than you always have!!

OMG, Lady, I see Pulitzer in your future. I might have missed a dozen posts or more, may I ask which poem they tore apart before your very eyes?

The last writing workshop I had was for college credit and there were 30 people in there and 25 of them thought it was a couse, a guaranteed A for merely showing up, lol. The prof even t old me that there were maybe 3 students , thereabout, that showed any poetic promise at all, and I wasnt one of them, that I should stick with my short sories, lol.

I think I will send him a few links, ya think? OOHH, brilliant idea, maybe I will send him YOUR links and pretend

nah, that's worse than plagiarism....



j


~~~~~

I checked my email and ther ewas a new invite for a workshop, an dthis one I could really use because I am SO bad athaiku and form in general--


LET'S RENGA!


What: USC's Arts Institute's Three-part Renga Workshop

When: Friday, March 16th 6:30pm-8:30pm
Learn the ancient poetic form of the haiku while enjoying a
traditional tea ceremony and Japanese music.

Saturday, March 17th 10:30am-2:00pm
Walk through the Museum's Asian Art collection for
inspiration and then learn how to Renga!

Sunday, March 18th 1:30pm-3:30pm
Share your renga before transferring it onto
elegant rice paper to be hung for display.

Where: Columbia Museum of Art
Garden Terrace
Corner of Hampton and Main Street
*Free and open to the public

Join facilitators, and experienced poets in the art of writing haiku, Charlene
Spearen, Raychelle Heath, and Carrie Young for a spiritual journey into the art
of renga as part of the Columbia Museum of Art’s and USC's Asian week
celebration. In this ancient Japanese form of poetry, two or more poets write
linked verse together, creating a dialogue full of twists and turns, often
incorporating the traditional themes of the Japanese haiku including the four
seasons, the moon, love, as well as other forces of nature. Don't miss this
very special opportunity. Let's Renga!


To RSVP and for more information, please contact:
Charlene Monahan Spearen
(803) 777-5492 CMSPEARE@gwm.sc.edu



hell, i just noticed the dates, I will be in a the bowels of a power plant when that one is going on....

 

[Tzara]

I'm in love

with Marcie Bolen of the Von Bondies. I know, I know. I publically fall in love a lot. Like daily, sometimes. But why Marcie? Fate. Red hair. Really great shoes. Oh, and she plays a Gibson SG, my all time favorite guitar.

Plus, there's that young enough to be my daughter stuff, but we'll gloss over that fer now, thank yew very much.

Um, that's all. Nevermind.

 

[Sara Crewe]

I just peaked at the Haiku U thread and was struck by the realization that I have not read a book for pleasure in four months. And even better, I have not written a single word in over two months. I can feel my brain dying to a lapping mantra of 'you suck, Sunshine".

 

[Tzara]

I just peaked at the Haiku U thread and was struck by the realization that I have not read a book for pleasure in four months. And even better, I have not written a single word in over two months. I can feel my brain dying to a lapping mantra of 'you suck, Sunshine".

If it helps at all, my dear, I was not reading Applied Cryptography for pleasure, though it has its odd luxurious moments:

The problem with LFSRs is that they are very inefficient in software. You want to avoid sparse feedback polynomials—they facilitate correlation attacks—and dense polynomials are inefficient. Any stream cipher outputs a hit at a time; you have to iterate the algorithm 64 times to encrypt what a single iteration of DES can encrypt. In fact, a simple LFSR algorithm like the shrinking generator described later is no faster in software than DES.​

I mean, really. Does not that prose make one want to rumba?

 

[champagne1982]

If it helps at all, my dear, I was not reading Applied Cryptography for pleasure, though it has its odd luxurious moments:

The problem with LFSRs is that they are very inefficient in software. You want to avoid sparse feedback polynomials—they facilitate correlation attacks—and dense polynomials are inefficient. Any stream cipher outputs a hit at a time; you have to iterate the algorithm 64 times to encrypt what a single iteration of DES can encrypt. In fact, a simple LFSR algorithm like the shrinking generator described later is no faster in software than DES.​

I mean, really. Does not that prose make one want to rumba?

Found

inefficient in software
the shrinking generator
outputs a hit
and dense polynomials
to encrypt
sparse feedback

 

[normal jean]

hey poets

I just gothome, checked my email and found a couple of notes from people who seemed concerned I wasnt on....

I have been in Asheville working. I appreciate the caring and kind wishes, but no one has hurt my sweet lil feelings, not on here and nowhere else I can think of.

I am not avoinding anyone, I am not angry. I am at the Skyland power plant in Asheville NC milling boiler tubes, night shift, 75 hours a week.

Im saving up for a place where I can have a real garden.

I miss you guys, behave,

I have a cat box to clean on my one day off



xoxox


maria

 

[annaswirls]

good to see you Maria! Thanks for checking in.

~ ~

 

[annaswirls]

I Was headed to the all of a sudden passion suddenly thread and I took a detour as I am not sure I am in a poetry state of mind. More of a rambling state of mind so I write this letter to no one in particular.

If I had 200,000 I would not fly to the moon.
I think I would be vain and fix up this old house all at once. Wires, windows, tile, maybe pay someone to come scrape the ceilings.

Sure I would put some away, give a bit to charity, shorten the NPR fund drive, but I would not fly to the moon. Don't have to. I get it delivered to me, every night.


I stink
I offer to bring coffee but N says, no, I will make coffee, can you bring milk? Of course I can bring milk.


I have to finish the anthology. It is a lot harder than I imagined. The print came in the mail os I can get that scanned and ready.

I dreamed we bought a house with asbestos dust in the basement walls and a piece of broken earth above an under ground river. It was ennsylvania water that flowed under, and another river above ground ran through the yard. The macoby, he said. I pretended that I already knew.

 

[clutching_calliope]

.....

 

[Maria2394]

99999

emomoment

 

[annaswirls]

he tells me, write a poem about Owen and the waterfall. let us see if it can happen. I refuse to hit returns
and call it a poem

this is a story
The first time I convinecd V to go along with us to Bull Creek dog park.

That is not important.

I need to learn new things to worry about. There are not flash floods in Pennsylvania, they kind of take their time about things like flooding. And thundestorms might knock down a tree but tornadoes have never been on my radar.

But that is not important either. Think. Think. Where does it start to be an interesting story.

Is it the storms that caused Bull Creek to spill over its usuall gully cut into limestone down the middle of the riverbed? How the usual waterfall that trickles down into the pool below today was pouring over with such energy that nothing could stop my son from wanting to go down that "sliding board! sliding board" and the jean short teenagers who crossed their arms in front of their chest, leaned back and let the waters lift them off the rock, down the deep gully over the edge and straight into the deep pool.

There was no way I could stop him. And the sheer joy. To be free falling in a river of water down to the depths of cool, silence, mother waiting.

What is so special about this story that it must be a poem? Nothing. I forget why to write. I read poem afte rpoem after poem and my cynicism scratches off the shine of it has all be told before give me something new.

There was no way I could stop him of course, nor did I want to. What measure danger beside pure joy? But I could snap on the life preserver and stand by, down at the bottom, waiting for him to pop back up from the bubbling waters.

Which is what I did.

He hesitates.

I encourage.

What way to describe this joy? This floating falling letting go? I have no idea what his joy feels like. What his pain feels like. To what extent the discomfort of his every day feels like but I do know, this water is joy.


Two children are playing in the shallow waters along the side of the deep gully river that is racing down towards the waterfall. They are tan, chubby, laughing. They are collecting flat rocks and setting them on the bank.

My husband has been convinced to stay by my offer to get his book out of the car. He sits at a picnic table. He misses everything. This is not what is important.

Owen is splashing around up there too, near the boys, but not with the boys. Never really with the other children. Barely parallel play. They watch him. He is not right, they think. Why doesn't he talk? They think. They do not trust him. They pretend he is not there. But he enjoys their noises, their laughter, their wetness, their splash. He laughs at their motions.

When one of the boys slips off from the shallow water into the deep gully he begins to yell

Help!
No puedo nadar
I can't swim
Help me
Help!

He is facing us. His face is open with terror. Floating quickly down the stream towards the waterfall. Backwards. He makes a weak effort to catch the side and pull himself up to safety, as I had seen the other kids doing earlier... it is as if he already knows his arms are not strong enough. He does not even try.


He calls for his brother. Who decides it is best to go in after him.

I look for parents, I say "Owen Wait" knowing not to tell him No. Not to make it an impossibility. Because that will put him right into it. I tell him. Wait. Wait. But of course it is too late. He cannot wait. The boys are splashing, floating, yelling. It is not percieved as danger, it is pure fun.

And the first boy's head disappears down the falls, there is nothing that could stop him from following and one at a time, over the edge of the falls and I am down, down walking along the ledge. I am finding the safest way to save them.

I cannot feel any fear. What is wrong with me?

The first boy has made it to the edge, is holding onto the steep cliff edge. I tell him Hold on, Hold on! make a motion with my hands.

And I am in the water where I can still stand.

The second boy is holding onto my son. My son. With his life preserver is still struggling to keep above water. Terror in the boy. Joy in my son. Someone holds him, someone is playing with him? Someone is needing him?

My first instinct is to yell Let Go! Thinking this child will drown my son, choosing his life above anything, but it is okay, it is okay, they are two together with the preserver.

I am holding out my hand. I am into deep water, I am showing the boy how to move his hands along the cliff to get to shallow water. He slips, goes under, comes back. I show him how to keep one hand on and move the other. Monkey crawl they called it in swimming lessons. I did not know it was not intuitive.

I am holding my sons hand, his back, I am pulling them to safety.

I am not sure if they thanked me. Their parents did not notice they were missing. These were big boys. They were in shallow water. We are not afraid.

My husband is still reading the book I got from the car in order to convince him to stay. Stay. This place is heaven, I told him. What else is there to do today? I do not know where my other son is. Somewhere with a stick in his hand. They did not notice either.

My clothes are wet.

We go to the Goodwill Store to buy me something dry.

I buy white shorts, a white tank top and a pink sweater. I look like June Cleaver. I never look like this. But I do today.

We are not afraid. We walk the boys to their parents. I show them that the water down there is deep. It is deep and wonderful and we cannot touch the bottom.

I do not know what is important about this story.

I do not know where to hit the return and turn it into a poem one line at a time. Distilled into something important. A single grain on the tongue.

My son spits water in the sink. He spits water on the mirror. His hands flap, he sings with the almost joy, the almost freedom, but his feet, on the ground, his life preserver, dry, nothing is moving except this faucet, and it is never quite enough.

The pink sweater has tight sleeves. I never wear tight sleeves. My mother never bought me make up. Is that important?

 

[Du Lac]

anna I loved this write.
du lac

 

[annaswirls]

wow du, thank you for the encouragement!

 

[Tzara]

This odd thing happened today—I was looking through our newspaper's weekend magazine and its listing of author appearances. Seattle—which is like Book Readership Central—gets a lot of author events. Some authors just sign books, some read and sign, some just show up to be obnoxious.

Anyway, what I observed was that whenever the notice was talking about a novelist, or short-story writer, or non-fiction writer, it always said something like "Author John Doe will read from his new book X..." or similar text. When the author was a poet, the notice read "Poet Jane Roe will read..." etc.

So. Should I be insulted by this? If I consider myself to be someone who primarily writes poems (which I do), is this somehow second class writing? That I'm somehow not an "author" but merely a "poet?" Are playwrights similarly abused? Or am I being overly sensitive and should just go back to worrying about whether the Mariners have anybody who can hit left-handed pitching?

Sorry. La.

 

[annaswirls]

hmmm

I suppose by definition all poets are authors but not all authors are poets, I would think that it would be a mark of distinction, not reduction

 

[annaswirls]

Being a poet is a choice. But it is not a voluntary choice. Wait. That does not make sense. Being a poet is not automatic. Sometimes the switch is flipped in the subconscious.

Turn it off turn it down turn it away too bright it blinds it stings
singe freeze I see the scars of frozen burns were the ice has bitten the exposed places in myself.

I still see the blistered marks on my fingers where I took out the embers with fingers instead of tongs.

whichi is what you have to do to be a poet.

you have to hold the fire with your bare fingers
walk the snow barefoot

at least to write poetry worth reading.
at least to me

and I feel all bundled and teflon coated so the egg neither fries nor sticks on my surface it just slides off. and what kind of poet is that?

and I am reminded of medical doctors, psychiatrists, therapists, social workers etc how they have to keep their boundries, how they have to keep a distance with patients or they will burn out Is it the same with poets? Some I read and there is the medical precision, the cool remove, the consistant clean cut and neat stitch. And they last. And they move forward.

Is this what is to be recommended?

we are marching marching marching
down the family tree
marching marching marching
through the bloom of spring
uniform pressed we fall in step step step
do the job do the job
be safe


and sane
and then when it comes time to step out of line
make a move
a statement
you will be strong enough to take it?
have enough power and will to keep on marching marching marching
instead of the anarchist poet who screams out until horse and mute
tingers tied in frustration
toes trampled by the steel toe boots of rejection?

and is it better then, for the back swimming poet to sit on the side watch the parade in recouperation, or join in the march hoping to regain strength, stay in shape, waiting for the time no one is watching to throw his marbles into the street, see them slip
and remember remember what it is to lose control?

 

[annaswirls]

continued...

It is not as dramatic as fire and ice. It is allowing oneself ot be mindful of what is right there in frnot of you. A small pebble in the middle of the sidewalk. Do you have room in your consciousneness to let it become something else, or are you too busy worrying about the every day complications fo life to allow it to grow?

I have been telling my poems "not now not now" shooing them away like a mother shooes away her peskery children as she speaks to the mortgage company on the phone.....

not now not now
don't think don' think about it now
kick the pebble road side let someone else find it and turn it into the poem it wants to be