Today I protested, and it was awesome. This is improv. 4th week

I attended the Rocky Horror Picket Show. I believe I saw Dr. Davidson drive by. Hi, Dr. Davidson. Nice car you gots there. I waved at you, and I think you saw me. It was a completely awesome experience, and I was glad to see so many people supporting the cause. I was all fired up, and I am afraid I may not have any voice to work with soon.

Whatever the cause, griping is not going to be doing me any good here, so I will improv off of a poet. Time to GLOW! These imoprov posts are what kill me. I start to write them and then stare for hours instead of making progress, and eventually give up and leave. It causes a complete breakdown.

I am using Ellen Bryant Voigt and her poem "Winter Field" because it is so very strange and yet tells a story. I like taking parts, so I will take another part of this one. Not the whole thing.
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from: Winter Field
by: Ellen Bryant Voigt

[After they'd pierced a vein and fished me up,
 after they'd reeled me back they packed me under
 blanket on top of blanket, I trembled so.

 The summer field, sun-fed, mutable,
 has many tasks; the winter field
 becomes its adjective.
                                 For those long hours
 I was some other thing, and my body,
 which you have long loved well,
 did not love you.]
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I like this because of the interesting way that she never even says she fell in an ice lake, but the reader knows she fell in an ice lake and had to be pulled out and blanketed. She talks about herself like a fish to be caught. Then talks about being packed, also like a fish, which is confusing and strange, and then it moves into a description of winter as it pertains to summer, and has a strange line staggering, likely signifying that there is a change back to the other story. I love how she tells what she needs to tell.

Attempt to riff!!!

After they'd laid the dynamite and burst the rocks,
after they'd bored through thick stone they laid the track
steel on top of steel, they labored so.

The laden breadbasket, sun-filled, perfect,
feeds many mouths; the wooden planks
become its proxy.
                         For those harsh days
They were some other thing, and their bodies,
which had always served them well,
were lain to rest.

Well... that's that... I have a piece of a riffy poem fragment now!

Someone else's work... PEER REVIEWZORZ! 4th week H4Xorz

did you like that totally 1337 title there? I rather liked it. Time to get mah review awn!

First up, a review for Chris and his untitled work:
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Untitled No.1

By: Chris Lyons

I love you much, my most darling dear.
In my arsenal of words, there's only one that is clear--
baby, you're a whore, nothing less and nothing more.
Slowly you escaped from the back of my mind,
but sober and grave grow merry with time.

Your trinkets of love were like packets of salt,
and no matter what you said, it was always my fault.
Your hands were settlers, and my heart was your peddler.
My hands are stained, and my heart's in a grime,
but ev'ry rose will grow merry with time.

You haunt my dreams like a loose angel in guise,
but your halo's aloof, and you're a lord to the flies.
Baby doll, you hide it all behind your horns and shawl.
A few years from now, you will come to my mind,
but there's never a rose that grows fairer with time.

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What I liked: I don't know why precisely, but I liked the Middle English style he applies to the work. It seems so blatantly old school, and he fuckin' rhymes too! shit! He sticks with with all that rhyme and old school abbreviation of letters to cut syllables out of multisyllabic words like surgeon. I like how it starts out sounding like a sappy love poem, and slaps the reader in the face with the word "whore" which I thought was much more effective than my use of "fuck" right out of the gate in my own poem. His way allows the reader to settle into the poem first. I think it is interesting to note that every stanza ends with the word "time" and with Chris, I can only assume this was absolutely on purpose. Also, I love any reference to the Lord of the Flies. Great book, and a great item to reference any day.

Improvements: I also think that the dated approach while intriguing is something a person should take care with. I think that it works in a lot of ways, but in some ways, locking into a poetic style as stiff as Chris has imposed on himself can lead to problems--the second stanza, third line seems to be less effective than the rest of the poem. The forced form and rhyme causes him to make a jump that doesn't make as much sense to me. 

All together: I like that Chris took a huge leap both with the style and the words in Untitled No.1, and I applaud him for it. I would simply caution him. In the future, I would say that this is a tremendous undertaking, forging a dated poem and trying to make it accessible to people now. I think it was very bold, very gutsy, and I enjoyed it for the most part. Some places, like the final stanza, line 2, did strange thing with the language like describing an Angel's halo as "aloof" which may or may not be the right word, and makes it a little shaky in my opinion, but overall I have to say it was a good experience.
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POEM NUMBER 2!!!

Failed Escape Artist

By: Kyley

Boughs wrap cold arms around me,
Abrasive against my bare skin.
I secrete blood from the adorned thorns,
Which I wear like the crown of Christ.
Howl
I spot the vertebra of an estranged beast,
The caliber of a ripened brute ready to pounce.
Sedimentary I stand, shallow breathing
The sniper eyes spot me, amber glazed.
Howl
Confined by the air, I’m vulnerable.
I run like ink down a piece of parchment.
Where is the freedom I crave?
Everything is priced as I bleed

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What I liked: "I run like ink down a piece of parchment" was an awesome line, and I liked it from the moment I saw it--wonderful piece of description. The poem seems like a narrative--a short one--that follows perhaps a wild animal being hunted by a man. However, it may not be a man who is doing the hunting. I did like the closing line "Everything is priced as I bleed" though, so I would say that you do some great things with the language.

Improvements: There are a lot of power words in here: Abrasive, Blood, Thorns, Howl, Brute, Vulnerable, Bleed, ect. I would say to back off so many hard words and go for softer in places. Ease up on how blatant you are about the peril. I like the title of the poem, but I don't get how "Howl" ties the pieces together and I was confused as to what was going on at times. It seems to be a narrative poem that slips into vague depictions enough that I have a general idea that something is hunted and it dies, but I am not sure how.

All together: There are moments in this poem where the poetry is wonderful and imaginative--there are places here where you make great leaps in progressing towards a great piece, but I believe it is held back by a bulky mechanic in the word "howl" and a vague quality that becomes more confusing than it is mysterious. Go more specific without being too specific, and you can forge this poem into something fantastic.  

Junkyard for week 4

I like to think I have interesting things in my junkyard. This week I have:

[1] - "I AM DR. FIST! EVERYTHING CAN BE CURED WITH BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA!"

[2] - "I am the most convincing undrunk drunk."

[3] - "All female orgasms are clitoral."

[4] - "Nobody looked up not once the day Angel Vargas learned to fly and dropped from the sky like a sugar donut just like a falling star, and exploded down to earth without even an 'Oh.'"

Was a bit under the weather... still feel sick, but I'm back now. Free write, week 4

Sorry about falling behind. I was a bit under the weather for a bit as the title of this post implies and I fell way behind in this class and some of my other classes as well. As it stands, I am just happy I got my poem in for critique. Beat it with a stick until it is bloody for me, guys. In the mean time, I'll subject you to a free write.

I Went to This Talk About Sex
By: David the Mathis

The lights are dim, and there are little note cards,
they're being passed around and people are
writing questions on them about sex
and sexuality, and
condoms.

You don't catch HPV off toilet seats or towels;
primarily, it is sexually transmitted, and this means
men are carriers, so
shouldn't we be protecting both parties? 


Everyone seems in-tune with what is being said.
The panel is arranged, ready, poised.
The questions keep coming by,
written like 8th grade research note cards:
Brief.

Sexual orientation isn't about body parts,
it's about how we love and it's mostly innate-- 
the emotional component of being gay is huge. Besides,
parenting is parenting and gays love their kids 
the same as any other parents.

Everyone is waiting and holding their breath for
offensive material or controversial material,
like gay marriage or homoerotic tendencies, or
rape.

Everything around us says we need bigger boobs,
need to show more cleavage--not all women throw
themselves out for sex and not all guys are
insensitive pricks; if someone tells you you're an idiot
or a slut, or you're for having sex, you'll believe it eventually.


The crowd cheers as answers are delivered,
born like raindrops from clouds to sprinkle
the dusty crops because they need to be told
that guys can be raped just like women, that women should
call themselves "women" and not something lesser, such as
"girls."

Someone told her she wasn't worth it.