In response to Sheila's "Free Entry Week Four":
I would suggest working on the title for this piece, even if you don't touch it until several drafts later. With a time period of five years, I don't think so much about the seconds ticking away as I do about what has (or could have) happened in that time. It seems like your poem is focused in that was as well, so go with what the poem says and maybe wait to title it until the end. I do that all the time.
I understand that this piece is about your college career, but I think that I only understand that because I know you. To an unknown reader, this looks like just a train of thought. The age of the speaker is ambiguous as well, especially at the beginning. The part about education and grandma being sick, and especially the "What is hospice?" line leads the reader to think of a fairly young speaker, but "Behind on my bills" gives way to an older voice. The end of this piece sounds a little like a personal journal entry or a Facebook status: "Two classes left! / Praying for my new job!" Exclamation marks are rarely used in poetry, and when they are, I've noticed it's usually to emphasize a painful emotion or a surprising discovery. But here it seems once again like a young girl, like at the beginning of the piece.
Overall, I think you have a good idea going. Now it's time to refine and revise it. Good luck!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Peer Review 2, Post 6, Week 2 (Makeup Post)
In response to Jenna's "Week Four - Improv Two, "Female Writer":
Right off the bat, I'm seeing a conflict in tone. The "all mile" and "country man" parts lean toward a serious, minimalist tone (although I might suggest replacing country. It's a bit too general.), but "clowns of the town" makes a strange little rhyme. It also creates a more sing-songy tone than the first half of the line.
The "cursing of sin" is another section I have trouble with. Generally, "sin" would be considered an abstraction, but in the original piece, it works because we get the very specific, unexpected image of the bonbon. In your piece, we're seeing two abstract words back to back with cursing and sin. You talk about walking next to cotton fields. Maybe take something from the field and use it to embody sin, like the little thorns (I don't remember what they're actually called. Nits?) that surround the cotton? That could be interesting to work with.
Toward the end, it gets pretty clunky. Lots of harsh consonants right next to each other make it difficult to read and understand. Also, in the original there is a very specific rhyme scheme that is absent in your piece. It's fine if that's a choice, but I didn't notice it in hers until after the first read, so I figured I would mention it just in case you wanted to work with that as well. Good draft so far!
Right off the bat, I'm seeing a conflict in tone. The "all mile" and "country man" parts lean toward a serious, minimalist tone (although I might suggest replacing country. It's a bit too general.), but "clowns of the town" makes a strange little rhyme. It also creates a more sing-songy tone than the first half of the line.
The "cursing of sin" is another section I have trouble with. Generally, "sin" would be considered an abstraction, but in the original piece, it works because we get the very specific, unexpected image of the bonbon. In your piece, we're seeing two abstract words back to back with cursing and sin. You talk about walking next to cotton fields. Maybe take something from the field and use it to embody sin, like the little thorns (I don't remember what they're actually called. Nits?) that surround the cotton? That could be interesting to work with.
Toward the end, it gets pretty clunky. Lots of harsh consonants right next to each other make it difficult to read and understand. Also, in the original there is a very specific rhyme scheme that is absent in your piece. It's fine if that's a choice, but I didn't notice it in hers until after the first read, so I figured I would mention it just in case you wanted to work with that as well. Good draft so far!
Peer Review 1, Post 5, Week 2 (Makeup Post)
In response to Sydney's "Free-Write, Week 4":
From the very beginning, I'm noticing a lot of punctuation. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but the punctuation you chose is unusual (semicolons, dashes, etc.), and that brings some (probably) unwanted attention to it. I actually found myself tripped up by it, wondering how long each pause should be. Should a dash or semicolon pause be longer? And then the ellipsis longer than both...you get the point.
The phrase "coma packed with as much action as the wait" is confusing to me. Whose wait? The grandmother's wait to die? The son's wait for mourning? The narrator's wait to leave?
In the middle, you write "good thing his mother couldn't see this tantrum--it would kill her." But isn't that what the narrator wants? Maybe you could change it to "too bad his mother couldn't see..." which would fit with the overall tone of the piece.
I agree with Murph about choosing to write about this subject. It's difficult, but I think you've done a good job so far!
From the very beginning, I'm noticing a lot of punctuation. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but the punctuation you chose is unusual (semicolons, dashes, etc.), and that brings some (probably) unwanted attention to it. I actually found myself tripped up by it, wondering how long each pause should be. Should a dash or semicolon pause be longer? And then the ellipsis longer than both...you get the point.
The phrase "coma packed with as much action as the wait" is confusing to me. Whose wait? The grandmother's wait to die? The son's wait for mourning? The narrator's wait to leave?
In the middle, you write "good thing his mother couldn't see this tantrum--it would kill her." But isn't that what the narrator wants? Maybe you could change it to "too bad his mother couldn't see..." which would fit with the overall tone of the piece.
I agree with Murph about choosing to write about this subject. It's difficult, but I think you've done a good job so far!
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Sign Inventory, Post 10, Week 12
Start
Marin Sorescu
Often the start went wrong,
the bang wasn't loud enough
or it wasn't heard,
and the competitors, sent back again and again to their places,
covered themselves in ashes, broke
their legs and threw sand into
the spectators' eyes.
The track, the whole stadium,
was often red with blood,
the start went wrong so many times.
Once
a man with the starting-gun
out of fear of the imminent disaster
fired not into the air
but through his head.
As though by a miracle this time
all the runners won.
The death of the shot man
was hardly noticed.
Ever since, tradition demands,
whoever signals the start
puts the weapon to his forehead.
The instrument that brought in so many gold medals
has landed up with me.
Already the runners rest
their left knees on the chalk line,
their eyes have run on far ahead,
their nostrils quiver.
All they're waiting for is the bang.
It's all up to me.
-the "bang" is a recurring idea throughout the piece. It is the starting point for the race, and if no one hears it, there is a huge riot. I think this can be applied not only to the race in the poem, but to any starting point in life. The need for life to be "fair" is very prominent in today's society, and has been for a long time. People reject even scientific facts that suggest that we are not born a blank slate, thereby putting some ahead of others genetically. It's no wonder that such an obvious source of unfairness incites such behavior.
-the gun-to-forehead tradition is an interesting tradition. I don't know much about it now, but it might be worth taking a look into. I had previously thought that it was just a version of a salute, but I guess not. I did a quick Google search but it didn't turn up anything. I'll have to keep looking.
Marin Sorescu
Often the start went wrong,
the bang wasn't loud enough
or it wasn't heard,
and the competitors, sent back again and again to their places,
covered themselves in ashes, broke
their legs and threw sand into
the spectators' eyes.
The track, the whole stadium,
was often red with blood,
the start went wrong so many times.
Once
a man with the starting-gun
out of fear of the imminent disaster
fired not into the air
but through his head.
As though by a miracle this time
all the runners won.
The death of the shot man
was hardly noticed.
Ever since, tradition demands,
whoever signals the start
puts the weapon to his forehead.
The instrument that brought in so many gold medals
has landed up with me.
Already the runners rest
their left knees on the chalk line,
their eyes have run on far ahead,
their nostrils quiver.
All they're waiting for is the bang.
It's all up to me.
-the "bang" is a recurring idea throughout the piece. It is the starting point for the race, and if no one hears it, there is a huge riot. I think this can be applied not only to the race in the poem, but to any starting point in life. The need for life to be "fair" is very prominent in today's society, and has been for a long time. People reject even scientific facts that suggest that we are not born a blank slate, thereby putting some ahead of others genetically. It's no wonder that such an obvious source of unfairness incites such behavior.
-the gun-to-forehead tradition is an interesting tradition. I don't know much about it now, but it might be worth taking a look into. I had previously thought that it was just a version of a salute, but I guess not. I did a quick Google search but it didn't turn up anything. I'll have to keep looking.
Improv 2, Post 9, Week 12
Poems of the Pope
Nicanor Parsra
I
They just elected me Pope:
I'm the most famous man in the world!
II
Now I'm at the top of the ecclesiastical profession
and I can die in peace
III
The Cardinals are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too solemn?
but I'm the Pope goddamn it...
IV
First thing tomorrow
I'll move into the Vatican.
V
The title of my address:
How to Succeed in the Ecclesiastical Profession
VI
Congratulations are pouring in
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page
and one thing's for sure:
I look much younger than I really am
VII
Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be Pope
why's everybody so surprised
I worked like a dog
to get what I wanted
VIII
Holy Mother of God
I forgot to bless the multitude!
Poems of Michael Jackson
Casey LaRue
I
My family is thinking of starting a band:
I'll be the most famous kid in the world!
II
Now I'm at the top of the charts
and can live without worry
III
My friends are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too rich?
But hell, I'm Michael Jackson...
IV
First thing tomorrow
I'll move into Neverland Ranch.
V
The title of my next song:
Thriller
VI
Sales are through the roof
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page
and one thing's for sure:
I look much smoother than I really am
VII
Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be a singer
why's everybody so impressed
I did what I loved
to get where I wanted
VIII
Holy Mother of God
I guess this is it!
Nicanor Parsra
I
They just elected me Pope:
I'm the most famous man in the world!
II
Now I'm at the top of the ecclesiastical profession
and I can die in peace
III
The Cardinals are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too solemn?
but I'm the Pope goddamn it...
IV
First thing tomorrow
I'll move into the Vatican.
V
The title of my address:
How to Succeed in the Ecclesiastical Profession
VI
Congratulations are pouring in
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page
and one thing's for sure:
I look much younger than I really am
VII
Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be Pope
why's everybody so surprised
I worked like a dog
to get what I wanted
VIII
Holy Mother of God
I forgot to bless the multitude!
Poems of Michael Jackson
Casey LaRue
I
My family is thinking of starting a band:
I'll be the most famous kid in the world!
II
Now I'm at the top of the charts
and can live without worry
III
My friends are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too rich?
But hell, I'm Michael Jackson...
IV
First thing tomorrow
I'll move into Neverland Ranch.
V
The title of my next song:
Thriller
VI
Sales are through the roof
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page
and one thing's for sure:
I look much smoother than I really am
VII
Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be a singer
why's everybody so impressed
I did what I loved
to get where I wanted
VIII
Holy Mother of God
I guess this is it!
Improv 1, Post 8, Week 12
At Thirty-three
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
At Twenty-three
Casey LaRue
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Only one wheezing Ford for the two of them.
At one time she was almost engaged.
First she tried teaching, then writing.
Now she just tries for a paper.
Not enough men attempt to satisfy her.
One man convinced her to tithe, but she did not sing.
Her family makes sure she doesn't starve.
When she thinks of the Middle East she draws a blank.
Her last lover, the drunk, always wanted her to cry.
Blue jeans and T-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up.
She can only grow a cactus.
Really she wanted to sing, or surf.
Her major, Mass Communications with
a minor in English, her native tongue.
Grades, drafts, and a box of rejections.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her apples.
Fake ballet in the living room, a cat and a dog,
crying for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart.
When she giggles she sounds like a child.
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
At Twenty-three
Casey LaRue
It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Only one wheezing Ford for the two of them.
At one time she was almost engaged.
First she tried teaching, then writing.
Now she just tries for a paper.
Not enough men attempt to satisfy her.
One man convinced her to tithe, but she did not sing.
Her family makes sure she doesn't starve.
When she thinks of the Middle East she draws a blank.
Her last lover, the drunk, always wanted her to cry.
Blue jeans and T-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up.
She can only grow a cactus.
Really she wanted to sing, or surf.
Her major, Mass Communications with
a minor in English, her native tongue.
Grades, drafts, and a box of rejections.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her apples.
Fake ballet in the living room, a cat and a dog,
crying for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart.
When she giggles she sounds like a child.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Peer Response 2, Post 7, Week 12
In response to Emmanuel's "Free Entry, Week 12":
First of all, I'm really glad you wrote this. I agree with Tim that "The Meat Skin Lady" is engaging, but I feel like this is a more working title and could use a little refining. "Meat skin" is so specific, but "the...lady" is very vague. Maybe you could work her name into the title somehow, or get rid of her there altogether. I don't really know any example to give you, but I'm sure if you just work with it you'll come up with something.
The part about the saints rejoicing is a good idea, but it needs to be played with a bit more. When I think of saints in a church, I usually think about stained glass windows, which could be included in something like:
"Even the window saints long for their stained-glass wallets, translucent mouths watering for plain, barbecue, or salt and vinegar."
That's VERY rough, but hey--it's a start.
You write in line 16 "On the sofa, we hold hands." Since you're in a church, I would imagine a pew rather than a couch. If it's really a couch, we might need to know why it's not a pew. Another consistency comment: in the beginning, the meat skins cost a dollar, but at the end they're free. Just some things to be conscious of. Good draft!
First of all, I'm really glad you wrote this. I agree with Tim that "The Meat Skin Lady" is engaging, but I feel like this is a more working title and could use a little refining. "Meat skin" is so specific, but "the...lady" is very vague. Maybe you could work her name into the title somehow, or get rid of her there altogether. I don't really know any example to give you, but I'm sure if you just work with it you'll come up with something.
The part about the saints rejoicing is a good idea, but it needs to be played with a bit more. When I think of saints in a church, I usually think about stained glass windows, which could be included in something like:
"Even the window saints long for their stained-glass wallets, translucent mouths watering for plain, barbecue, or salt and vinegar."
That's VERY rough, but hey--it's a start.
You write in line 16 "On the sofa, we hold hands." Since you're in a church, I would imagine a pew rather than a couch. If it's really a couch, we might need to know why it's not a pew. Another consistency comment: in the beginning, the meat skins cost a dollar, but at the end they're free. Just some things to be conscious of. Good draft!
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