Sign Catalogue, Post 10, Week 10

Picnic, Lightning
Billy Collins

"My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three."
                                                                                                                                         Lolita


It is possible to be struck by a meteor
or a single-engine plane
while reading in a chair at home.
Safes drop from rooftops
and flatten the odd pedestrian
mostly within the panels of the comics,
but still, we know it is possible,
as well as the flash of summer lightning,
the thermos toppling over,
spilling on the grass.

And we know the message
can be delivered from within.
The heart, no valentine,
decides to quit after lunch,
the power shut off like a switch,
or a tiny dark ship is unmoored
into the flow of the body's rivers,
the brain a monastery,
defenseless on the shore.

This is what I think about
when I shovel compost
into a wheelbarrow,
and when I fill the long flower boxes,
then press into rows
the limp roots of red impatiens--
the instant hand of Death
always ready to burst forth
from the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.

Then the soil is full of marvels,
bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco,
red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick
to burrow back under the loam.
Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue,
the clouds a brighter white,

and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge
against a round stone,
the small plants singing
with lifted faces, and the click
of the sundial
as one hour sweeps into the next.



-Uses a quote at the beginning to set the scene
-implies bloodshed with the toppling, spilling thermos
-likens the circulatory system to electricity
-shoveling compost is a lot like digging a grave, which fits the theme of death
-shows a shift in thought with "then"
-uses alliteration: "bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco"
-ends on a much lighter note than he began

Improv 2, Post 9, Week 10

Bonsai
Billy Collins

All it takes is one to throw a room
completely out of whack.

Over by the window
it looks hundreds of yards away,

a lone stark gesture of wood
on that distant cliff of a table.

Up close, it draws you in,
cuts everything down to its size.

Look at it from the doorway,
and the world dilates and bloats.

The button lying next to it
is now a earl wheel,

the book of matches is a raft,
and the coffee cup a cistern

to catch the same rain
that moistens its small plot of dark, mossy earth.

For it even carries its own weather,
leaning away from a fierce wind

that somehow blows
through the calm tropics of this room.

The way it bends inland at the elbow
makes me want to inch my way

to the very top of its spiky greenery,
hold onto for dear life

and watch the sea storm rage,
hoping for a tiny whale to appear.

I want to see her plunging forward
through the troughs,

tunneling under the foam and spindrift
on her annual, thousand-mile journey.


Fountain
Casey LaRue

All it takes is one to fill and swell
an entire room.

Over on the end table
its light bends through the flow

and dances on the lampshade
next to a long-burnt bulb.

Up close, its water sounds like an audience softly clapping,
blinking and choking

and smiling they nod,
each sending silent love to their children.

As the actors rush out
for the curtain call,

They join hands and bow,
Looking at their parents' faces in the tile.

Improv 1, Post 8, Week 10

Journal (First 13 lines)
Billy Collins

Ledger of the head's transactions,
log of the body's voyage,
it rides all day in a raincoat pocket,
ready to admit any droplet of thought,
nut of a maxim,
narrowest squint of an observation.

It goes with me
to a gallery where I open it to record
a note on red and the birthplace of Corot,
into the tube of an airplane
so I can take down the high dictation of clouds,
or on a hike in the woods where a young hawk
might suddenly fly between its covers.



Wallet
Casey LaRue

Swaddler of the hand's transactions,
divider of the magnet strips,
it rides all day in the back wool pocket,
ready to shear off twenty any moment,
display the family,
provide a name if the face is lost.

It goes with him
to a gas station where he unfolds it to buy
Newport Cadillacs and a brown Bic,
into the booth at the steakhouse
so he can keep his mistress hungry
or to the tailor where the fabric threatens
to lose it in the folds.

Peer Response 2, Post 7, Week 10

In Response to Kamau's "Improv 2 Week 10":


I really like what you did with the beginning of this poem. The clothesline image is really great. The rest of the piece seemed to rely too much on the original. I think after that section you could branch off and create your own piece.
I would also like to see more interesting places in your draft. Where can the light go that dark can't? Nowhere really. When you think about it, light is futile because everything returns to darkness eventually. Maybe you could bring the piece back around that way and refer to the original piece, maybe ending with a quote.

Peer Response 1, Post 6, Week 10

In response to Brandy's "Free Entry 1 Week 10"

I agree with Tim on "mouth-cave." To better match your surrounding language, you could use "oral cave" or "oral cavity" (or something different and much better haha).

I was also going to talk about giving us the rest of her body. You might try staying away from the breasts, vagina, etc.--anything that is usually associated with sex. It could be a challenge to describe her and the feelings that she invokes using unusual areas.

I also kind of want to hear her voice, to get an idea of the things that the speaker wants to hear so badly so that we feel that too. I'm not sure about any other drafts to include this in, but I think you have a good start with this!

Free Entry, Post 5, Week 10

Bristling

With our feet
cemented in plastic,
we are stuck too close to each other.
If we only had arms
we would push and scratch
until (if we had lungs) we could
      breathe.

Dangling like wingless bats
from a yellow ceiling,
we flex and stretch together,
our hurl spines working with gravity.

When we are drawn
across the ground,
we play capsized soccer,
and head with the ball
toward the enormous goal.

*I feel like I've got a long way to go with this. This is literally the first draft. My boyfriend is still sweeping right now, but I can't think of anything else to put. Suggestions on where to go with this would be appreciated!

Junkyard Quote 4, Post 4, Week 10

"Get those absurdist minds rockin'."

This one I found while looking back through some old notebooks. If I'm not mistaken, I think Brooke Parks said this one.

Junkyard Quote 3, Post 3, Week 10

"Tim O'Brien is my spirit animal."

I wrote an O'Brien-inspired CNF piece for another class, and we held a workshop on it. They told me to channel him more, and then somehow out of the ensuing conversation, we decided he should be my spirit animal.

Junkyard Quote 2, Post 2, Week 10

"The choir lofts are falling off the walls."

I was watching "Life After People," a series about what will happen to our major cities when there are no more humans, and they went into a church that has been abandoned for years to compare the decay, and the guy talking said this, which I thought was such a sad image that I had to remember it.

Junkyard Quote 1, Post 1, Week 10

16. Neil Gaiman: On feedback...
When people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.I was on stumbleupon.com and I found a list of 25 quotes for writers. I thought this one was interesting based on our class.