Writing Exercise # 10

On the eve of NaPoWriMo , I give you this final exercise ("final" as in "I will be writing poems and wrangling children for the next thirty days straight, so don't come lookin' here for any prompts in that time!")

But before that, I should mention that I was in Detroit eleven days ago for the Women of the World Poetry Slam and it was amazing; full of female voices from all over the country, a rare and invigorating event that I cannot say enough good things about. I have some spectacular up-close pictures of the Heidelberg Project and we met a gentleman who promised to light a fire in honor of my making the final stage at WoWps. I wish I could go back and collect his match as a souvenier, because it ended up being quite magical! I will be posting pictures from the trip, hopefully by the end of next week.

Okay. Enough of that business. Here's the prompt:

List

1. A person (real or imagined) that you have not seen/heard from in a long time

2. the first object(s) that comes to mind when you think of that person (it could be the Zippo they always carried, a specific brand of shaving cream they always smelled like, a tube of red lipstick and an emptied shotglass...)


Write a poem or story about how this person(#1) has now been replaced, in your universe, by a sculpture of objects (#2)

It is up to you to decide the shape of the sculpture. It is up to you to decide if that sculpture walks, sleeps, eats, moans, goes grocery shopping...

If it can speak, would you finish a long-lost conversation with it?
What would you offer it? What would you add to it, if anything? What would you take from it? Where does it live? If it works, what does it do for a living? Does it know who it is the ghost of? Does it know its real name?

_____________________


Of blood and doormats

Her voice cracks from her mouth like a lobster. The organ hisses its good-bye song. A hive of blood and doormats, she tippy-toes down the aisle in a dress made of broken water and shotgun shells. Two mothers weep in the front row, noses pressed deep into their corsages. The limo driver polishes the rearview mirror as the groom's twisted arm squeals I do. I do.

- - -

(This exercise was inspired by Khara Koffel's exhibit and, specifically, "The Delicacy of Meetinghouse Road.")

Poetry Exercise # 9

Twice within the last seven days, a little exercise I give myself has come up, so I'm taking it as an invisible nudge from the universe. Speaking of "invisible," we're going to write a poem off of what I call a "ghost line." A ghost line is an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem. It's how I come up with a lot of my exercises. I see a striking group of words or an arresting image and design an exercise based off that.

You know how you underline a favorite line in a book? That's what I do, only I take it a step further and build an entire story or poem off that.

Today's ghost line is from Anne Sexton's "Menstruation at Forty." It is:

Love, that red disease

Now remember, this is the invisible "first line" of your poem. Do NOT include it in your poem (unless you give credit to the original author.) YOU come up with the rest. So the second line is actually your first VISIBLE line. Fun, right? Also, the poem doesn't have to have anything to do with the ghost line, but the point of the ghost line is to inspire.


__________________________

- untitled -

It coughed its final cough
as its head settled
into the pillow,
blistered arms
at its side,
the last breath,
a shattered hymn.

The women gathered
in the corner,
men stood in their suits,
blue and unmoving.
The fever snapped
at the frightened villagers,
lunged for
the other children
hiding behind the white lace
curtains, ineffectual skirts.

By sundown,
the room nearly empty--
a row of candles, unspent,
the boy's small shadow
of sweat:
a wet ghost
in the bassinett.

Everything looks so small from far away

Just got back from my trip to NYC. The drive was smoother than key lime and I didn't hit a crumb of bad weather on the way down or back up. Me and my girls packed up the truck and sang along with the Pixies and Dark Dark Dark. Good times.

I read Tuesday night at Urbana's semi-final slam at the Bowery Poetry Club. It was fantastic to see familiar faces in that large crowd. I love eating stolen popcorn.

Wednesday night I taught a workshop on how to "invent" imagery, nonsequitors, etc. and everyone in attendance came up with absolutely banana-fied poetry that totally re-ignited the spent sparks that had been lying around inside my noggin.

I have two new exercises brewing, one inspired by an artist I've recently started some correspondence with, the other, by my friend Kim Sheridan. They are extraordinarily talented women. More bananas. (And dipped in chocolate)