Sunday, November 15, 2009

Workshop tomorrow and a poem

Eric,

Tomorrow in the faculty commons from 7 to 8:30, we're hosting a spoken word workshop that is going to be given by staff member and spoken word/slam poet Michelle Jackson. The workshop will focus on delivering poetry to a live audience. Try to come with a poem you want to work on, one that is possibly memorized, although that doesn't matter.

the poster:



and here's a poem I'm working on for verse writing:

Ode to Myself

1.
I am supposed
to be a giving
mafia-body to the rapids.

Last night I was the thin
wings of a butterfly and tonight I will be the tenuous
skin in between the tongue and jaw.

I am meant
to be a bag of uncompleted
"when I grow up I want
to be"s.

Last night I was Mae West,
and tonight I will be Sophia Loren.
Next week's schedule is to be announced.

I am told
to be a gaudily painted,
reproduced
ragdoll.

2.
I am
Chaos'
orphan
child a bacterial
blistering growth
in fomenting fragmented
spaces without ebullient
lips and I am
their jaunty
megaphone
spouting
space
fillers.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

A POST!

Eric,

A prose poem for y'all during break. I was thinking about making the middle part have line breaks and be more in Billy's voice. I wrote this for verse writing, as a "creative response" to Native American writings on poetry. There was a quote in one of the essays we read that this came from. It was:

"Beneath the map imposed by science is a map in the blood that takes us back to a more original knowing—that we are not a separate creation."


Billy Fulson: Cartographer

Today in preschool Billy Fulson scribbled a map of his world. Prior to this, he had no experience in cartography. The teacher gave the assignment. Magic markers and pieces of paper were passed out, which is all you need for cartography. The kids began, tried to present experience with geographical boundaries. Billy wanted to show this:

where the color-swirler, image-creator is when he watches the bigger people form lines and pass the ball and hurt each other with his dad—moments of familial good-fortune and twining; where his mother sits in the good green armchair and stares at pieces of paper all pushed together when dad isn't home and she actually has a smile (a smile!) and he can walk to her and she will pick him up and kiss him so much it hurts his face but he doesn't care because it's his mother; where his mother takes him on weekends in the park with Anaximander, their dog, that part with the box of sand and the other kids who laugh with him and want to play on the swing with him even though his mom won't let him because it's dangerous but they still want to play with him; where his mother leaves him everyday and promises she will be back to to get him again, and he always worries even though he knows somehow he shouldn't; where he goes behind the house, inside a cleaner corner of the old red-chipped stable that his mother told him she was in when her and her father visited the house and that at that time a snake fell on her hair—in there he has put a small table and a chair (that his parent's have been looking for), and when he sees his parent's eyes getting smaller and mouths moving faster there he sits in the silence of self-constructed spaces that are filled by moments you don't want to be a part of, that you live within even when and though you aren't in them, that are so much more of a home than where you keep your head at night.

Making her rounds, the teacher saw Billy's scribbles and didn't know what they meant because scribbles are subjective. Even though Billy's teacher tried so hard to intertwine with the singular subjectivity of children she could not, just as she couldn't combine with that of her husband who was an architect and planned public restrooms on interstate highways. She told him he should do something grander, better. He told her he liked what he did; it was important. She looked at Billy's scratches of experience and told him "Good job. Keep at." But none of it she understood.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Trans-Atlantic Post

Hey, Guys. I can't wait to be back with you all in the Spring! I'm so glad the first open mic went well! Here's something I wrote over the summer.

With love,

Rakhel

We climed avalanching dunes

ground so solid from afar

ground solids beneath our feet.

And I collected

rocks to keep forever

to break open and know completely

tamed by hammer and reason.

And quarts is not a crystal.

Quartz is NOT a crystal

My 9 year old body tensed and pulsing

ignited by the friction of your

rock knowledge

against mine.

I knew crystals

from the Hall of Gems and Minerals

from the Museum of Natural History

from engagement rings

from common sense, motherfucker,

common sense.

So I ran to my mother

to verify my truth and

cheek pressed against the unconditional soft pouch between her

belly button and her pelvis

inhaling the sharp smell of woman I lacked and loved and loathed as a girl

she told me

quartz is a crystal.

Quartz IS a crystal.

All summer insurmountable dunes sank and shifted beneath me.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

A Bust of Eleanor Leo

Eric,

A Bust of Eleanor Leo
Eleanor Leo lives in Euclid, Ohio. In high school her favorite subject was geometry.
Now 68, she sees the wit of a chaotic universe in that detail.
Her cats, Pythagorus and Leibniz, watch her examine her old workbooks--rhombuses and rays, theorems and equations.
They sit on her couch, assembled, she figures, in some sort of geometric pattern she cannot remember.

Whether it was the numbers or aesthetics that had recently brought her to be obsessed with her old workbooks she didn't know.
A labyrinth of right angels and -gon endings, of degrees and therefores, of rays and parallels--this was her home,
not the carefully constructed abode she inhabited, built to include all triangles
because they are strongest of all forms. This she remembered,
that three lines were more powerful than six, eleven, twenty-three. That fact, along with the Fibonacci sequence,
that beautiful and natural
string of 1,1,2,3,5...

Life was managed by a schizophrenic and bipolar figure. The years had taught
her this. But she was trying to forget it, to re-teach
herself the spurious mathematics of order.

68 and with the afterimage that memory garners of her husband.
A student of the universe's wit, of 1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34
- seashells, pineapple, cauliflower, rabbits:
Eleanor Leo.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Wordsmiths' goals. Important.

Eric,

Wordsmiths goals:

To provide an outlet for creative, poetic energy by way of group meetings that double as workshops, open mics where group members and non-members can perform their work (poetry, songs, etc.), and pamphlets where group members works is featured. The last two of these, the open mics and pamphlets, serve two further goals: to increase Vassar awareness of Wordsmiths and, more importantly, to increase poetry's place on campus rather than just in the classroom. Let us make poetry virile and vibrant by saturating the school with a verse that is not magnetized to condescension and academia, that, in how it is delivered (voice, paper, etc.), embraces and, crucially, beckons an audience.

Beckons an audience. This is a key point. Last year, this was a problem, that we had so few members at our meetings and such sparse attendance at our open mic. We need to meet and talk seriously about how we'll approach this. For now, I have a few ideas:
-Use either the measly money we have or appeal to the speakers fund and bring a poet to Vassar.
-Bookmarks we make with poems on them that we put in the library. "Wordsmiths and our blog url will be on them.
-More events. At one point we were discussing doing something with VCPUNX. This should occur. We need monthly or so open mics. Continue and expand the poetry at the FLLAC.
-More small publications. Our material should litter the campus. People should it when they see it.
-Get English faculty somehow involved, have them at events or have them be leaders at workshops we organize. Something.
-Involve other literary groups and many music groups on campus with our events. People at Helicon and Write Club should be at our open mics.
-Someone talked about t-shirts at one point. That has some potential. They'd need to stick out and be well designed.
-t-shirt ideas:
-Someone said something about putting quotes on t-shirts. I like that. Let's make the quotes big and put them on t-shirts by cutting cardboard to create a guideline. Then spraypaint or just paint the letters in. Each shirt, this way, will be unique.
-Shirts with a logo on them. I've been working on a new one.
-Just WORDSMITHS in big, black, bold type. All uppercase. It should be askew. We could split up "word" and "smiths."
-Get coverage in the Misc. about Wordsmiths, our pamphlets. This we can definitely do.

I like having our pamphlets be themed; adds a unity to them. All together, we should make a list of ideas for pamphlet theme ideas. Here are a few I've thought of:
-Poems all in the form of romantic classified ads.
-In the same vein of this, poems in the form of obituaries, missed connections.
-All poems inspired by one painting.
-or movie, song, etc.
-All poems in one poetic form that are on the same subject. E.g. haikus on auto repair.
-All poems in the style of same poet or poetic movement.
-Poems that all retell greek myths
-Maybe all poems from one single greek myth.
-Poems on subjects: love, religion, etc.
-Poems all on one experiance. E.g. the last physical contact in a relationship.
-Poems on the first time having done something. E.g. riding a bike, first time to an aquarium, etc.
-Poems all written while on some kind of substance--could have sections titled the name of the substance the poems written under. Intro to it could remind readers of the grand tradition we are following in by writing substance-ridden, that of Coldrige and his opium, Yeats and his mescaline, Dylan Thomas and his alcohol.
-Poems that all use the same words, but in each poem they are ordered differently.
-We're Vassar. Let's do something with Elizabeth Bishop.

A note I wrote myself on the pamphlets:
Think of each pamphlet as an episode of This American Life: the poems unified by their topics, but each having a distinct, singular, and subjective take--so that the poems, read together, give a generalized and hopefully valid view of some facet of the human experience. Hopefully, people will at least read them. And that, getting people to read them , is our most basic and, I think, difficult goal.

Our open mics need to be differentiated from other ones. We need to apply Seth Godin's "Purple Cow" theory: everyone would remember a purple cow if they saw one because all other cows are white and black. We could have some weird prize for the audience's favorite person. There has to be something remarkable about our events. Ideas for how to make our open mics memorable:
-Provide odd prize.
-Reserve some public space. Tell no one. Have spontaneous poetry reading or open mic. Plant people?
-Have style nights, where all work read must be Romantic, Modernist, etc.
Crafting a remarkable and memorable open mic is vital to garnering Wordsmiths followers, people who regularly attend and take part in our open mic. Ideas for how to "brand" the open mic are coming slow to me. We'll talk about it.

We are a spoken word poetry group and we need to address that. We need to work on how we perform our material. I know I do. We need to help each other get better. This is the key goal of Wordsmiths: helping each other get better at writing and performing poetry.

What we should do is flood the school with pamphlets and posters starting a week or so before an open mic. Not just tabling. We should keep putting throughout the whole week so that the posters seem new. We could make a number of different posters and roll out one each day or so. We need to have one of those big banners in the DC and Retreat.

-Eric

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Oh. School. Yeah, that.

Eric:


I changed the logo up top. Hope you like it. I know I haven't been commenting as much as I should on posts and there does seem to be a lack of them on most posts. We'll deal with that when school begins. But this blog was a good idea. Let's keep with it!

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Wordpiece for a wordsmith

Hey all, just whipped these lines together as kind of an appreciation of lit's violent magic. Feedback's great; hope summers are being enjoyed.

Wordpiece for a wordsmith

Jordan Kaye


Words.
The Invisible Word Man
eats porridge so that his incisors remain an apt means of impingement.

Inside incisions produced by verse which rests in the flesh of my arm,
virulent verse forcing its way through channels that collapse capriciously.

Vitality inverted, my lifeblood is being vacuumed; The Oreck is engaged by the page and his plain print siblings.

How funny a thing to succumb to. Just verse. Verse plain. Verse Simply. Strictly Verse that happens to be the most utterly dominatory force that I’ve so far encountered.

Collins and an unclad Emily are ushering the way out for me- that me which is contained within the air sealed realm of the dust drop.
Yes, Big words fare well against waterless structures, the interstitial tissue dust giving under the lecherous legacy of grammarians and gilded ghosts.

Thanks, Harper Lee, because you took the fight right out of me.