Improv 10, Week 10

Original

High Windows

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Philip Larkin

I'm just changing words because i'm not feeling creative... at all

Here I am stringing together the words
we once whispered as two teenagers
making out in a field fifteen minutes
from home on Villa Road

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
settled in a french influence estate
vintage with blood plumped harvester,
everyone young is going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;

a baby and a money hungry father
and an assistant in scantily clothes
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of an antique window:
chippity yellow with rusty handles,
And beyond it, the metaphor of his broken relationship
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Calisthenic 10, Week 10

November 2, 2011, a note, I lay posted

face down againsts the concrete—ink

smeared Dearest Christopher, I love you.

A cliché in the wind, I am a lost message

trafficing beneath the soles of the educated,

spiraled in the tornado leaves—winded

by the voice of a process forming new images,

a girl dressed forest green with shin high boots

discovered me grounded under a fallen brick

that had pitied the ending of a fire, that had birthed

from a stack of Pannington Seeds and ignited

as kerosene from her words that broke his heart.

Inked from her veins, she felt nothing as the last script

of his life ashed in the wind, she had minded

those who have not been experienced,

helped those who have been seen,

dfnakjfhjdks

I am a combination

of invoked fantasy and the slightest truth

Umm I've got a meeting to attend and I have no idea what it is I have just written? I'm kind of a lost and not done with this yet...

Response 20, Week 10

Angela, this is a really interesting piece. I wasn't expecting to start off reading about crochet and shift into a child's innocence. I like how crochet is a maternal feel in this piece. And the thought process behind creating a crochet piece is kind of neat. The more I read this piece it is almost like a life cycle. We start off young and innocent and believing everything is possible because we think it is but as the piece continues... at "later placed..." It is like the reality set in of what real life is and what hard work demands and how dreams can only happen if it is worked at. Then by the end its a reflection of life. Ha well I might have just looked into this too deep and played around in my own imagination but that's cool your piece was fun to play in. And I'm not sure if what I said made sense with the life cycle.. I'm sure it could have been explained better.

Response 19, Week 10

Kyley,I love this. I love your approach to the subject. I like how you kept yellow as your main subject and I like how you described this piece with art terminology. I also like how the narrorator seems to share a relationship with this piece. I love this line "How cobwebs clutter every joint of my body." Its got this eerie feel and its such an intresting image. One part I get a little lost at is towards the end afer "Even my wife cries every night..." when it gets to "I told my son" Whose voice is this? The wife or the narrator of the piece? But other than that I really enjoy this piece.

Free Write 10, Week 10

Daddy Love His Daughter

I have a secret kept between a 1,000 Egyptian threads,

hoisting the dirty dead with their hands ,waiting for my skin

to clean and tear away as the thought of you garters

ink around my thigh. The thigh you touched sprawled

on the floor, cold, bare, under a blanket for 14 years.

I was 4 the first time you touched me like that,

we were best friends because you bought me

Barbie dolls and peppermint sticks, you knew

my infant mind would play along—your sick games.

Twister below the waist and school when mommy

was away, anatomy I understood at 5, I understood

it more than the alphabets and numbers.

Did you know in Europe its tradition for a bride

to wear a garter at her wedding? It symbolizes

the deflowering of a woman. I am a woman now,

I was a woman then, I was always a woman,

never a child. You stripped me 2-3 inches wide

around the waist before mommy could teach

about the birds and the bee’s or riding bikes.

Today will be my wedding day and you will walk

me down the aisle because it is tradition. You will be worn

for the original purpose of holding this secret.

Daddy, you’ll walk me down the aisle and undress

me as you did years before and all will see this

secret of ours.

ummm idk what this is... random things I've written for a general idea but the pieces don't fit yet. Freakin tv and all theier scary stories.

Inventory 10, Week 10

Sharon Olds

The Promise

With the second drink, at the restaurant,

holding hands on the bare table,

we are at it again, renewing our promise

to kill each other. You are drinking gin,

night-blue juniper berry

dissolving in your body, I am drinking Fumé,

chewing its fragrant dirt and smoke, we are

taking on earth, we are part soil already,

and wherever we are, we are also in our

bed, fitted, naked, closely

along each other, half passed out,

after love, drifting back

and forth across the border of consciousness,

our bodies buoyant, clasped. Your hand

tightens on the table. You’re a little afraid

I’ll chicken out. What you do not want

is to lie in a hospital bed for a year

after a stroke, without being able

to think or die, you do not want

to be tied to a chair like your prim grandmother,

cursing. The room is dim around us,

ivory globes, pink curtains

bound at the waist—and outside,

a weightless, luminous, lifted-up

summer twilight. I tell you you do not

know me if you think I will not

kill you. Think how we have floated together

eye to eye, nipple to nipple,

sex to sex, the halves of a creature

drifting up to the lip of matter

and over it—you know me from the bright, blood-

flecked delivery room, if a lion

had you in its jaws I would attack it, if the ropes

binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them.

>8 sentences long, 33 lines, one stanza

>Towards the end of the poem the writer uses repetition of words

>At line 26 the sentences get longer and less pauses.

>After "you're afraid i'll chicken out" seems to be the shifting point. The writer goes off subject.

>There are a lot of words with "ing" endings in the beginning of the piece.

>There is a part that says you you.

Junk Yard 40, Week 9

"It beat out Easter and our birthday...Christmas first, Halloween second" um this was from listening to the radio... these were more like notes for idea quotes.

back up, tilt the view find slightly. Tip the shot