:: Poetry ::

:: Tuesday, December 25, 2001 ::

First off. I like this poem. I like how you set the time clearly without telling us too much, and I like the characters in the poem. I thought there were too many however, and without a better way to tell you, I'll just show you with a re-write; I cut the father out. I know it's mean to take someone's work and dice it up, but I was trying to get at a clearer view of what was going on. I don't know if this helped, and it takes the poem back down to a foundation. Remember, my great asset to workshops is a density that calls for clarity in the most clear moments, so I'd like the others to either agree or tell me off. I like the beginning starting quick and getting the story going. I like the use of Blueticks as some sort of symbol of trouble coming and wanted to bring them to the fore. I still get confused with your fourth stanza. I'm not sure why he "signed on for one more year, though, to come back /" yet. Anyway, hope you can use any of these ramblings. And sorry it took so long.



Second Tour

She heard Blueticks pull up short
of a tree and bawl through the oak bottoms.

Next morning
she woke with bile rising in her. And the next.
So this is it.

Meantime he had a legful of shrapnel,
crutches, sick time, letters and letters from her,
then two weeks of Bangkok whores for rest and relaxation.

Signed on for one more year, though, to come back
and marry her when he found out. Left again (I’m a bit unclear here)
and missed the day she sweated out their son.

He never saw in life the belly she was bound to
those months though he carried the picture of her
in his sweaty pocket: hiked up on the wellcap

in her blue sundress, hands on her thighs, catty glasses
high on her nose, squinting at the high sun.
First stretch that she and the dress had ever known.

But then he finally saw her, skinny again like him.
She stood on the limestone porch, feet still so small.
Held something small and pink wrapped in pily cloth.

She used to be afraid of him because
he came to school with his neck fouled by the wounds
of other women—trashy, mean. Knew her name.

But she was used to dangerous men.

Her man had found her finally, or again.
He took the baby from her, lifted him
and turned him like a box he might see into.

“Just three months old yet and he looks like me.”
Turned away from the sun and cradled him.
He spoke their son’s name and turned back to her


:: Sean 12/25/2001 07:14:00 PM [+] ::
...

Sorry guys for being so delinquent this week, but I just got done with the exciting world of composition essays and finals -- so I'm pretty glad to be getting back to some poetry. Like Paul said, my absence certainly wasn't indifference to the poem -- I'm excited to be doing this.

To back up: Josh, I read your post about Matt Guenette, but I haven't met him yet. I've been here at UE for a little over a year now, and I've only had the opportunity to meet the USI faculty a few times. How did you know I was here at UE?

To the poem: "Sleeping with Julia Roberts"
Josh, there's lots to be admired here. Like Paul, I fairly had the air punched out of my lungs by the great rapid-fire imagery and the pacing of the poem. However, I too didn't quite get the "gigantic, screen sized, misfiring movie-mag inflatable mecha-fuck-doll kind of Julia Roberts" (I love THAT line too). As a reader, I was completely willing to be swept along with the poem's logic, but getting to "Alice" did make me feel as if you wanted me to understand more than that.

My biggest suggestion would be to make stanza 3 the first stanza of the poem; it would ease us into the logic of the poem more certainly (her size -- metaphorical or not -- for instance) and let us focus on one aspect of her that is an easily-identified caricature -- her big 'ol teeth. Something like

It was me who tilted back that giant head
and worked the plaque until she sceramed....

After that, I think I'd be more willing and secure to float with the more fantastical or bizarre descriptions. In other words, once I've got a pretty good idea that we're dealing with a REAL JR, big teeth and all, I'm more willing to be interested by the fact that she "smelled like plastic fruit...."

That said, there's not much else I would change. Knowing we're dealing with a real JR takes care of the "Alice" problem for me, and there are more good lines in this poem than I can shake a stick at. I do, however, agree with Sean about cutting the last two lines. It sounds stronger, and it really punches the "goddess" idea over the top.

Paul, you'll have to wait until tomorrow my hirsute friend.
:: Rob 12/14/2001 04:17:00 PM [+] ::
...

I saw this, and sometimes I ain't that smart when it comes to readin', as a poem from the point of view of the speaker (see what I mean?) and he's married to his wife (there I go again), and her name is Alice. He, like all good middle of the country husbands, wants his wife to be Julia. He's in denial that he's actually married to a normal person. So, for me, of course the Alice line turned it, if I read your meth-induced ramblings correctly, away from your intentions. And I like that. Sorry. And you'll get this now, "I hope you were the groom." The movie tries a bit too hard to be cute don't you think? Send an email.

Also, what do you other boys think??
:: Sean 12/08/2001 07:01:00 PM [+] ::
...

Josh, I'm away from my copy of your poem right now, so I'm not sure what I said. I love this poem. The tone is consistant all the way through--well there are a couple of edits I want. Mainly, I want the last two lines cut. At least take a look at it without the lines and tell me what you think. I mean the big surprise, and thank god for it, is that this isn't about JR at all (whom I just saw looking fairly lackluster in Ocean's 11--all the same, I liked the movie) and if you end with the lean on the "god awful name" I think that'll remind the reader of the pleasure they got figuring it out. I have some more stuff to give tomorrow or so, but I didn't want you to think I didn't give a shit about this. I've been busy busy. As far as Ocean's 11--Clooney has six expressions, but I love each one. There are some great lines, some ad-libbed, my people tell me. Anyway, I guess this isn't a film forum, so I'll talk to you about it later.
:: Sean 12/08/2001 11:05:00 AM [+] ::
...

good lord. more later.
:: Sean 12/04/2001 09:33:00 AM [+] ::
...

Here's a rough re-write of "Comedy"; thanks for all the tips. I like a lot of this, but it still isn't doing it for me as much as the Personal one, but I've spent a lot more time with this one, and it's not really my style too much. This one, by the way, was under the strong influence of Beth Ann's big poem in Kenyon. You should read that when you get a chance. Josh mentioned the "dog chair breathing" poem, so I'll put that one in just to look at. I'm pretty happy with it, and Louisiana Lit took it, so I guess I'm about through with it. Thanks again for all your help. I hope to be as useful to . . . Josh? Paul? You all decide, and if you want, we could make it start the cycle Monday, since I'm about worn out. Later.


The Poet on the Comedy Circuit

You ever notice how this poem opens
in your hands like a turtle?
(It loves you so much.)

You ever notice how the sun floats in your eyes
like bright light from the heavens?
(wait, I told that wrong).

Here’s one about a boy who drove
all night down dirt roads
looking for his father.

Here’s one about a boy who turned crying
to his sister and mother saying,
“I’ve become my father.”

Ever notice when the light shines from your eyes,
my head floats like the head of a boy
crying over his father?

But seriously, the boy cried, driving
his father’s car, by the grave
of his father’s dead father.

My mother and sister smiling--
embarrased tears
wetting my face.

Ever notice how poems worry themselves
to death, fearful they have become
their father?

You ever notice how the poet wants to talk to a girl,
screws the metaphor and ends up talking
about his father?

Dear reader, here’s one about you. You’re laughing
thinking about how thankful you are
that your father isn’t here.

You ever notice how your father is always
here? He’s in the wings feeding you lines
for this poem—make me young
and clever like you, he says.

Here's the dog chair thing:


Give Me This


I wake past three to a dog
that breathes near my bed
in the green clock light.

My heart swells with sour blood
as I try a yell more of a moaning
sigh, and fling my pillow

at a chair, covered with clothes
I wore to our lunch. I tread back
to the waters of dream, remember

your face staring away
from our bed. I followed your gaze
to the dog chair breathing

in the sick greenness of the room. You
haven’t slept beside me for five
years, haven’t stared me from sleep

in so long I almost begin to forget
your body, now motherly
under big shirts, now married. But

give me this: though wakened
by the bristling terror of that dog
(my boredom, your sorrow, my desire

for others), I’ll take it growling
through the house if it can pull
you back through dreams.



:: Sean 12/02/2001 04:13:00 PM [+] ::
...

Hey. Thank again for the help. Here's a revised "Personal"; I'm going to try to get as much out of you all in my one week, so try to vote on elements, but don't feel too pressed. You've all already done enough. I'll put questions in ().

The Poet Writes a Personal Ad

I enjoy long evenings of torment
and Baudelaire, walks by myself
down half-deserted streets
with my convenient dog
that I trot out as a mirror ("that" is better than "whom" right?)
for my primal, silent longing ("for" or "of" or "to" ?)
and playful outward appearance.

Seeking a woman with sorrow
in her bones and a tendency to flee
from me. She should be lovely
in her clothes and happy
in the company of others. Pedestal
a must. Should come with a wealth
of potential poems--capture, loss. (or should I say "of capture" using the "of" twice? or "dealing with")

If you are content, happy and looking
for a change, please write. Then
we will listen, listen to the passing train
rend the night with its mournful song.
The silver will shine on the table,
and the opalescent soup will chill (is opalescent too much?)
as the dog howls to be let out. ("set free" instead of "let out" would be too much, right?"

:: Sean 12/02/2001 12:04:00 PM [+] ::
...

You guys are really fucking smart. Thank you so much for all the stuff. I haven't got time right now to play with the poem, but you were all coming up with really good things to do, so thanks for that. I hope that I can help, who? Josh? with next week as well as you all have helped me. Great job, and we seem to work well with each other--all seem to be on the same wavelength. Thanks again.
:: Sean 12/01/2001 11:48:00 AM [+] ::
...

Okay Sean,
I don't have much in the way of constructive criticism for "The Poet Writes a Personal Ad ." It is really fucking good. I especially like:
"long evenings of torment / and Baudelaire"
"half-deserted streets"
"flee from me"
"lovely in her clothes"
Your intertwining and twisting of other poetry works very well to underscore your subject, and I like the way you circle back to the dog.
Small suggestions: line 6, substitute "for" for "of"; "tears the night with its mournful rending" might be too much, even as exaggeration in the context of the poem. Might want to settle for either rending or tearing but not both.
:: Rob 11/30/2001 05:15:00 PM [+] ::
...

Okay, I'm here -- finally. I saw some stuff about posting to a webpage, I guess I'll find that soon (or you will all simply laugh at me as I rightly deserve; self-deprecation in under two sentences! New record for me.)

As for next week being "My week," I'm afraid me buckos that I'll have to bow out, at least until the end of the week. Stacks of excruciatingly bad papers are taunting me from my desk, and I've got to get rid of them soon. End of the week, however, I'm your man.

"The Poet on the Comedy Circuit": I like the idea, and I like the voice / tone that comes across in the poem. I, like Paul, had some questions about line breaks in the original, but I've got to say that I'm even less certain about the line breaks in the beginning of the revision. The rhythm seems to naturally break into shorter patterns, and the long lines in stanzas one and two want, in my ear, to be broken up. Also, I think some of the lines were weakened in the revision; for instance, taming stanza 8 by changing "screws" to "fails" takes some of the oomph (a technical term, I assure you) out of the line. This final couple of lines, also, might work better with a little rewording. I wondered about this:

You ever notice how your father is always
here? He’s in the wings dreaming
the end of this poem—make me,
he says, young and clever like you.

Of course, now that I see these reworked lines on the screen instead of on a Post-It note, I'm not so happy with my rewording.

Maybe I should just shut the fuck up.


:: Rob 11/30/2001 05:06:00 PM [+] ::
...

I figure, what can you do but refuse to read this poem? I decided to send it on anyway and let you ignore it, or talk about this as opposed to the last one or what have you. Give me some suggestions on how to make this forum better fit your picky needs. I figure you all will cringe with the line "Pedestal a must" but wouldn't the public like that? And isn't that to whom we're writing? And yes, Rob, it looks like this is a series of poems now. I'm leaning towards one week per person, so how about next week is Rob's to use as he sees fit. This might make him write more, or simply give us some old stuff to fix. Also, did you all know that you can edit each other's posts, so you could go in and edit my poem and say, how do you like it now. You'd need to tell us to take another look, but then come to think of it, it would be hard to see the changes, so maybe we could just cut the poem out, make changes and repost the whole thing. That's better, I guess. Hey, does it seem like I have too much time on my hands to talk about this stuff?
Sean

The Poet Writes a Personal Ad

I enjoy long evenings of torment
and Baudelaire, walks by myself
down half-deserted streets
with my convenient dog
whom I trot out as a mirror
of my primal, silent longing
and playful outward appearance.

Seeking a woman with sorrow
in her bones and a tendency to flee
from me. She should be lovely
in her clothes and happy
in the company of others. Pedestal
a must. Should be a storehouse
of anguish and potentiality.

If you are content, happy and looking
for a change, please write. We will listen,
listen to the passing train as it tears
the night with its mournful rending.
The silver will shine on the table
and the soup will chill as we regard
the dog howling to be let out.

:: Sean 11/30/2001 12:40:00 PM [+] ::
...

Here's a bit of work on this. See if you like it better, and I may include my other poem as well. Perhaps we could just devote one week to each of us? Put as much out there as we could? I really don't know. What do you think. Oh, Josh and Paul, you both know Rodney. Paul was an undergrad creative writer up there, and Josh and I met as grad students in Cinderville.


The Poet on the Comedy Circuit

You ever notice how the sun floats in your eyes
like bright light from the heavens?
(wait, I told that wrong).

You ever notice how this poem opens in your hands
like a turtle?
(It loves you so much.)

Here’s one about a boy who drove all night
down roads of dust
looking for his father.

Here’s one about a boy who turned crying
to his sister and mother saying,
“I’ve become my father.”

My mother and sister smiling
at me. My embarrased tears
wetting my face.

But seriously folks, the boy cried,
driving his father’s car, by the grave
of his father’s dead father.

You ever notice how poems work themselves
to death, worried they have become
their father?

You ever notice how the poet wants to talk to a girl,
fails the metaphor and ends up talking
about his father?

Here’s one about you. You’re reading this
and thinking, "tell me something
about me, asshole."

Here’s one about you. You’re laughing
thinking about how thankful you are
that your father isn’t here.

You ever notice how your father is always
here? He’s in the wings dreaming
the end of this poem—make me
young and clever like you, he says.

:: Sean 11/30/2001 11:54:00 AM [+] ::
...

Paul, I think that you need to hit "post and publish" or your stuff will just be posted to the "blogger" page, not the "blogspot" page. (I just found your stuff on blogger and not on the main page, so I posted them) And or course, no one is in charge, so make your own suggestions on how to proceed. My idea was to talk about my stuff till Tuesday, daily or hourly, whenever the desire hits you to make me cry. AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN ABOUT LINE BREAKS!!!! Just kidding. I'll try it again. I wrote another one today called, "Poet Writes a Personal Ad" which I like better. Can I give you all it instead?? I don't know. I'll try to redo the lines on this one and see if it helps. I'm glad we're going to try this.
:: Sean 11/30/2001 11:42:00 AM [+] ::
...

Jesus, Josh, you're amazingly interested and gung ho. I'd say let me have it first. Then we can run the course on this poem and it'll be Rob's chance or yours. Hell, let's do this: Rob, your poem is due next Tuesday. We have from now till then to fix mine, and you have from now till then to write your own. How's this sound?

:: Sean 11/29/2001 09:51:00 AM [+] ::
...

Here's a first poem for the offering. Not too happy with this one yet. Let me have it.
--Sean



The Poet on the Comedy Circuit

You ever notice how the sun floats in your eyes
like bright light from the heavens?
(wait, I told that wrong).

You ever notice how this poem opens
in your hands like a turtle?
(It loves you so much.)

Here’s one about a boy who drove
all night down roads of smoke
looking for his father.

Here’s one about a boy who turned crying
to his sister and mother saying,
“I’ve become my father.”

But seriously, the boy cried, driving
his father’s car, by the grave
of his father’s dead father.

My mother and sister smiling
at me. My embarrased tears
wetting my face.

You ever notice how poems work themselves
to death, worried they have become
their father?

You ever notice how the poet wants to talk
to a girl, screws the metaphor and ends up
talking about his father?

Here’s one about you. You’re reading this
and thinking, “tell me something
about me, asshole.”

Here’s one about you. You’re laughing
thinking about how thankful you are
that your father isn’t here.

You ever notice how your father is always
here? He’s in the wings dreaming
the end of this poem—make me
young and clever like you, he says.

:: Sean 11/28/2001 10:24:00 AM [+] ::
...