Free Entry, Post 5, Week 6

My free entry this week is also what I did for my calisthenics exercise. I like it for its alliteration, but I'm not so sure about it as a whole.

“We need no prompter, the puppets said proudly.”

-Miroslav Holub

“’We need no prompter,’

the puppets said proudly.”

Proudly they said this,

for other puppets need a prompter indeed.

A puppeteer, or prompter,

must punch their fist through the back

of the puppet, pinching pine lips

from the inside, playing with eyelids,

pulling limbs with the other hand.

All puppets need prompters,

all but these proud puppets

can proclaim their power

to move without muscle,

to live without life.

These prompterless puppets

proudly proclaim their proclivity

to speak without voice.

Junkyard Quote 4, Post 4, Week 6

"I like the bouncing rhythm of repetition."

I included this one because I agree. Repetition is one of my favorite devices. Mr. O'Brien was asked why he included "I remember" so much in his book What They Carried, and this is what he responded with.

Junkyard Quote 3, Post 3, Week 6

"A bullet can not only kill the enemy. It can make the enemy."

Here Mr. O'Brien was talking about how, upon entering villages, the innocent civilians came to hate them because they shot at them.

Junkyard Quote 2, Post 2, Week 6

"Puppies and claymores."

I know this isn't a full quote, but I think the juxtaposition of these two items is incredible. It's something I need to work on in my writing, and this startling but true opposition is a great example to work from.

Junkyard Quote 1, Post 1, Week 6

"Fishing with hand grenades often leads to unintentional suicide."

All of my quotes this week are from Tim O'Brien. I went to a Q and A session with him last week when he visited, and without even meaning to, he produced all kinds of quotes. This was part of a true story about a soldier in his unit that actually killed himself fishing with hand grenades.

Sign Inventory, Post 10, Week 5

When Death Came
Adam Zagajewski

I wasn't with you when death came.
The municipal hospital was your last home:
white room, cobwebs, chipped
paint, a jar of cherry preserves,
an old issue of a rotogravure, a tin fork
with a tine gone, two glasses.
In the next bed, a tailor with cancer.
You were so old the doctors thought
you'd hardly weight
in the numbers of death.
So old that the children on your street
thought you another century,
an empire slouching on the broken sidewalk.
As death came, though, youth came:
you suddenly spoke the language of childhood,
the white screen between you and the living
was the wing of a glider.
The intravenous drip muttered, a pigeon
impatiently paced on the sill.
You were taking all of yourself
from that dreary place into your death:
the dandy of eighteen, the mature thirty-year-old,
the German teacher with no truck
for indolent students, the pensioner
with his long daily walk
that may at the end have measured
the distance from earth
to heaven.
You'd regenerated yourself
for your death.
In the hall, the muffled laughter
of nurses; at the window,
sparrows fighting for crumbs.


- This piece uses a lot of enjambment.
- The repetition of phrases such as "when death came" and "so old that" emphasize certain points within the piece.
- It's interesting that he chose not to capitalize Heaven. I wonder if it was a personal choice or if he just didn't think about it.
- The idea from the first line of the narrator being absent from the death is reiterated at the end when he mentions only nurses and sparrows.
- The actions of the nurses (laughing) and sparrows (eating) reinforce the previous idea of the old man not weighting in the numbers of death.

Improv 2, Post 9, Week 5

At Daybreak
Adam Zagajewski

From the train window at daybreak,
I saw empty cities sleeping,
sprawled defenselessly on their backs
like great beasts.
Through the vast squares, only my thoughts
and a biting wind wandered;
linen flags fainted on towers,
birds started to wake in the trees,
and in the thick pelts of the parks
stray cats' eyes gleamed.
The shy light of morning, eternal
debutante, was reflected in shop windows.
Carousels, finally possessing themselves, spun
like prayer wheels on their invisible fulcrums;
gardens fumed like Warsaw's smoldering ruins.
The first van hadn't arrived yet
at the brown slaughterhouse wall.
Cities at daybreak are no one's,
and have no names.
And I, too, have no name,
dawn, the stars growing pale,
the train picking up speed.

At Midnight
Casey LaRue

From my bedroom window at midnight,
I saw empty mausoleums starving,
lids stacked crookedly across gaps
like mad hats.
Six feet under, only my soul
and a snaking worm wandered;
dampness crept in the cavities
souls started to awaken from bones,
and in the roots of the trees
water stretched to feed.
The transitive light of the moon, smiling
guardian, reached not to those depths.
Crickets, finally expressing themselves, rubbed
like twigs to create fiery songs;
plants curled like inked paper.
The first moment hadn't arrived yet
of the new and promising day.
Mausoleums at midnight are no ones yet,
but one day will have names.
And I, too, will have a name,
midnight, the stars glowing brightly,
the crickets' chorus rising.