Peer Response 1, Post 5, Week 4 (Makeup Post)

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!

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.

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!

Peer Response 1, Post 6, Week 12

In Response to Tim's "Free Entry, Week 12":

I think the subject of this piece is interesting, especially when it's studied in such a different way than we're used to seeing. However, I will say that some of the questions make it difficult for readers to not answer. I will admit that I answered the question in the first line immediately with "The objects in the way of the sound waves, duh." I then didn't want to hear you wonder about things I already knew. This is not a stab at your intelligence at all. I'm sure you know how sound waves and echoes technically work. I'm just suggesting that you take a look at the questions and make sure they can't be answered immediately and then discarded by a pretentious reader.

The next thing I would like to address begins in line three. There you mention a stubbed toe that causes you to curse near the children's section of the library. It's hard for me to imagine someone stubbing their toe in a restroom (although this might be my dense reader moment), especially a public one. I could much more easily see someone hitting their elbow or something (which plays into funny bone, humor section, etc.).

The section about Tommy and his mother is confusing to me. You talk about the yard, then Tommy's face, then an engine and upholstery. You compare Tommy (or yourself?) to a dead king, and then shift to the mother with grass behind her eyes, and end with "the want for solitude," which is not mentioned anywhere else.

I think this is a good draft, but it just needs a little refining and elaboration. Good luck!

Free Entry, Post 5, Week 12

Leaves

I love to drive over them,

aiming at a large orange or yellow frond,

my head hanging out the window

like a dog, hair-tongue

playing catch-up to my ears,

which are pricked and pointed to catch the crunch.

I stomp on them;

I like to imagine

they’re spiders, tiptoeing on

curled limbs, brown bodies

floating just off the pavement.

They skitter along the sidewalk,

tripping and tumbling with the grass

and the wind.

If the sky calls them,

they take to the air

clumsily, like balloons

only half-filled with Helium.

Gaining speed, they jump

higher and higher until they clear

the building, and there is nothing

left but a dim shadowy circle

against the sun in my squinted eyes.

Junkyard Quote 4, Post 4, Week 12

"The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it."

This was an error message I got today while trying to log in to Twitter. When I hit the back button to try again, it took me to my home page, already signed in. It was really weird, but I thought it was interesting that the server sounds like it has free will and can just do whatever it feels like.

Junkyard Quote 3, Post 3, Week 12

"It's better than a fortune cookie."

I'm sure most of you remember this from last week, but I really like it. Because, in the end, what's better than a fortune cookie? Nothing. It's a little dessert with a mystery person telling you something nice. You don't have to thank them. You don't have to say anything back. You just eat a cookie and bask in fortune's glow.

Junkyard Quote 2, Post 2, Week 12

"Hairy-assed Jesus"

This quote came up in my CNF course today. A classmate had written about changing a tire. In the piece, he mentions how his pants fell down and he showed the world his hairy ass. Later in the story, he calls the lug wrench a "disproportionate crucifix," which made him a hairy-assed Jesus.

Junkyard Quote 1, Post 1, Week 12

"I'm a tree hugger, but I'm a leaf crusher."

I was talking about how most of my poems lately had been about nature, and a friend of mine called me a tree hugger. So I said this in reference to one of my pieces (which will probably be my free entry this week).

Sign Inventory, Post 10, Week 11

Self-Portrait as a Moment in 1963
Jake York

Supper's late, and my mother sprawls
before the console, half-watching Gunsmoke,

Alabama History spread before her,
though school's almost out for summer

and the chicken's almost fried
to that perfect crisp. Then it's over,

credits stamped over final stills,
and the show gives way to news,

a minute of film from Birmingham,
not an hour south, where police

are turning dogs on kids as young
as she, spraying them with hoses

until they fall, the water she isn't watching
curling like smoke in the air.

My grandmother flicks the switch
and they're gone. They eat

in quiet, each cutting a breast
or thigh into steam, forking

beans or macaroni until
the plates' blank faces shine again.

This is years before
she'd meet my father, before

I'd come to that table,
that food, that room.

There's a silence here
I want to scratch away

so I can see what's underneath,
what they don't recall.

I want to turn someone's head,
my grandfather's, maybe, or my mother's,

back toward the TV, where
the tube's still fading,

the ghost of that scene
on the edge of that room.

I want someone there to see
and remember, so I can leave

and go back into the future,
not history. Not yet.



-This poem uses the scene of the police spraying the kids with fire hoses to symbolize something bigger that the family isn't talking about (hence shutting off the TV). Once the television is off, though, there still remains the ghost of the image on the screen, just like whatever it is they're not saying stays in their heads.

-York uses the word "that" quite a bit in this piece. He uses it to bring specificity to the scene as well as to relate to the reader with general concepts. Specificity example: "the ghost of that scene / on the edge of that room." Generalization example: "and the chicken's almost fried / to that perfect crisp."

- It is interesting that he chose to call this a self-portrait, although he is not actually in the scene. He wants to be a part of it so that he can manipulate the details to get more out of it, but he can't. I would have to do much more research to offer an explanation for this, but I still thought it was worth bringing up.

Improv 2, Post 9, Week 11

To a Poor Old Woman
William Carlos Williams

munching a plum on 
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good 
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

To a Sweet Old Dog

Casey LaRue

chewing his leg on

the floor his fluffy tail

wrapped around his body

It feels good to him

It feels good

to him. It feels

good to him

You can see it by

the way he licks his nose

and smiles at me

when he takes a break to breathe

Relieved

a peace of flealess fur

seeming to speak through his eyes

It feels good to him

Improv 1, Post 8, Week 11

Narcissus incomparabilis
Jake York

Lean down, lean down
while the light's abducted,
its last skirts caught
then torn through the trees.
Keep your own eye still
so no one catches you.
When it's gone, it's everywhere--
air a memory of light,
incident turned ambient,
and it never takes long
for this nacre to grow
over each absence or intruder
and become the world.
Lean down now,
creel of starlight and mood,
and reflect again
your inherited light.
World may ripple--
pearl scale, pebble, bone--
behind all memory,
may ghost you, stranger,
where you don't belong.
But lean down now,
as memory hardens
its incomparable light.
Don't let the sun
set on you again.


Caladium bicolor
Casey LaRue

Lie to me, lie to me
while your shape's endearing
like someone's hand reaching
for their own sagging heart.
Keep your leaves to yourself,
your own hand reaching for your heart.
When you're here, you spread like paint,
your deceptive name
brushing my skin,
and it never takes long
for someone to know they've touched you,
all your toxic parts
sitting undisturbed
while my cells are on fire.
Lie to me now,
fox and rabbit leaf,
and let your endearing shapes
lure someone else.
Georgia will turn redder
as the cooling clay soothes the skin,
but lie to me now,
as beauty ignites curiosity,
stretching my fingers to you again.

Peer Response 2, Post 7, Week 11

In response to Brandy's "Improv 2 Week 11":


The first stanza in this piece is definitely striking, especially with all the repetition. I would suggest slightly reworking it to even out the sound of it for the reader. Something like, "I am on the wrong side,
of the road,
of town,
I am in the wrong,
in the unfamiliar."
This gets everything repeated two times and it reads a little more easily (in my opinion).
You talk a lot about color in this piece, more than you talk about yin and yang. I would either change the title or work to incorporate it a little more throughout the piece. I know that you mention two men who are opposite, but I would still like to see more of the yin/yang aspect. I was originally drawn to this draft because of the title, so if that's what you choose to change, then I think you should explore that concept in another draft. It doesn't have to be about murder or people or anything in particular. Just objects that seem totally different but in the end are the same.

Peer Response 1, Post 6, Week 11

In response to Emmanuel's "Improvisation 1, Week 11":

This is a pretty dark piece, I must say, but it's very interesting. I think this is about a girl who died from domestic abuse. If that's wrong, disregard most of what I say in this comment.
In the first stanza, you wrote "...a ring / that was slipped on her finger / at one time till death did her / and the husband apart."
I know you're trying to get across to us that this is her wedding ring, but if you're going to use the idea of "until death do you part," there needs to be something shocking or unexpected with it. Did she know it would happen? If the husband killed her (which is what I think based on the draft), then he "did them part." That could be an interesting angle to look at.
One part that struck me as awkward was the end of the fist stanza: "The dirt now lay around / and under her nails, in her nostrils, / wiped upon her face marks the date." You have two verbs in this sentence (lay and marks) and they are in two different tenses. Either get rid of one or add another subject to smooth this portion out.
Be careful of brand names. Band-Aid is an actual brand. If you don't want to talk about a specific brand, you should use "bandages" instead. Also, the word "gauge" seems like it should be "gauze," and "unhealable" is awkward and sounds a little more juvenile than the rest of the piece.
If I were you, I would get rid of the couplet at the end. I know it was part of the original piece, but an improvisation doesn't have to match up exactly. If something doesn't work for your draft, you have the freedom to get rid of it altogether. I think this is a good draft so far. Looking forward to seeing what you do with it from here.

Free Entry, Post 5, Week 12

Fall (This is just a working title. Suggestions would be appreciated.)

And in the end of summer,
all the greedy trees
have crammed too many leaves
onto their branches,
flaunting like monochromatic peacocks.
The leaves turn
yellow, orange, red,
warning the trees to stop
and be satisfied,
but they keep
snatching, stocking, sprouting,
until they lose their grip on
the first leaf.
Swirling down some unseen drain,
the leaf spins until it rests
and blends with the dead grass.
the perennial willows weep along
as a child does when his mother,
in an effort to save a single falling cookie,
drops the entire dozen,
burning her hand
and standing the entire winter,
hand in mouth,
blinking back tears.

Junkyard Quote 4, Post 4, Week 11

"...and lose these Death-handles."

This is from Metalocalypse. I don't remember the rest of the quote, but it's not important. I just thought the idea of "death handles" instead of love handles was interesting.