Good feedback during last nightâ€™s workshop. I think I may have two poems from the exercise. I am not posting the poems for the same reasons as last time.
Now on to the next writing exercise: Write a poem from the political consciousness.
I will be referring to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy’s definitions of â€œconsciousnessâ€ and â€œAristotle’s Political Theoryâ€ as the backbone of this writing assignment.
– I should up my rating on DÃ©rive over at Good Reads. The conversation over this volume has generated sound responses and helped me in a new poem.
– Myung Mi Kim. Just got introduced to her work last night, which is criminal considering that the Sexy Loft Library has four of her books. Quick thoughts: Kim’s poetry focuses on the individual word and how that word makes a distinct association to the previous and following word making it different from (what I define as) lyrical poetry which invokes more intuitive associations creating rhythmic patterns that often leave us spellbound by the feel of the poem but hard pressed to locate specific phrases that equally excite us. (Note: While I am a fan of lyric poetry, I am also very aware of the way ignorant, offensive messages can be hidden in a rhythmic poem. More on this later.) While I can’t say I get Kim’s work on one read, I can say I appreciate how she constructs these word bridges – which in my mind are more like a gnarled fallen log helping you traverse a stream in the woods as opposed to a smooth shiny metal toll plaza – and I am going to read more of her work.
– Writing Assignment #3. I’m not gonna get a chance to revise this badboy for a minute. Distance from your poems – not a bad thing.
– Writing Assignment #5. We are to write exhausitevly on a topic for the next few days; then stop; look back on the writing and distill it down to a 50 word poem. Good times.
– The new poem. I like where this is going, it needs more work but if I say anything else it will give you the open door I am not supposed to be writing so there’s that.
as you enter as you enter with perfume and spice fill the mouth a perfect sacrifice as you fill the ritual in song in praise to the hosanna hosanna in the highest fill your house a weight heavy in the air spoon shaped whisp perfume spice ritual inside filled with a song of sage of sweetgrass of signs of archways open spread open for business closed for business closed gate close the gates for good for now for ever forgive this weakness this willingness this acceptance this prayer this lift this dust this
This is the assignment where we have to create an alter ego and write a poem from that perspective. I won’t tell ya any much more about the alter ego but the more I look at this, the more details I want to add.
On a quick side note: Next week we have to write a poem about an iconic photograph/art work. Whether the poem sets out to reveal or dispel a “truth” about said image is up to the writer.
God Loves A Liar
I see my pops’ face everywhere I go. Every bum, every tecato, every cop, every priest, anybody who looks like they got a scheme in their eye; I think, “Thatâ€™s my bastard right there.” The only place I never see the old man is in the mirror, no matter how much folks say I look like him.
Then again, I donâ€™t look much like my mom either, but at least my moms is pure. God bless her, she never sees a hustle in progress. She walks through this life like a tourist watching a building drop, and as folks run every which way and that, she would be the one standing there still, tall as her faith, thinking how clear the sky and how strong the wind, while clutching her santa rosario and mumbling a prayer to the Saint of Falling Bricks sure of her path to Heaven.
I ainâ€™t never had that much God in me. If a building came tumbling down, Iâ€™d find the first sucker in sight and offer him a loose cigarette, have him stand in my place and promise him Iâ€™d be right back. Then, before it all goes to hell, walk away to a nice safe distance and enjoy the show. Thatâ€™s all the God I have, one who dropped a son into the world and didnâ€™t even bother to walk away, just set up shop right down the street and saw him go through all the shit of life with nothing but a strong moms and a half-loyal crew.
Thatâ€™s me, minus the crew, and only my momsâ€™ word that she remembers full well my popsâ€™ face and I donâ€™t look nothing like him.
Good class this week. A nice shift, which continues from Willie’s classes: How does the poem intuitively informs you?
Word. And that’s the question I’m grapplin with in my work as we speak.
And speakin of questions. That is our writing assignment this week.
Write a poem where you ask the world one question you want answered.