Your Found Poems and Prompts, April 19
Before class on the 19th, post your found poem along with the prompt you craft from it. Do not post them seperately, but as one entry. Be sure to include the poet's name, and give the full source info if you can. Remember that there's a sample found poem and prompt available on toolkit if you need it.
posted by Bucky C. at 7:45 PM
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“Moth” by Billy Merrell, from his poetry memoir Talking in the Dark
I know neither how to open nor to close.
—Peter Sirr
How does it happen? That flicker in the dark
like a candle lit and then blown out.
The smoke after, the smell of it. I need you
to hear this. Do you ever stop, halfway?
Or having crossed the street, do you ever cross back
to look more closely at something in the road?
Do you walk on? Washing dishes,
do you catch yourself wandering
toward the light on the glass?
I don’t know, finally, how to love.
And yet I do. Daily and wholly,
and not only people. We live:
stop at the bank, have a cup of coffee,
forget to write, remember to lock the door.
How often do we live,
having that steady nostalgia even as we live it,
feeling memory create itself as we stand there,
wandering? Wondering? Both, I think, together.
Do you ever wonder if these moments
are what life really is? These lit moments
you rise into will be what is cut together
to finally be your life. We open into it,
we catch ourselves, and we stop. Who saw me
staring into the candle like that?
What must they imagine I’m thinking?
Let us catch ourselves opening
and then catch ourselves stopping
and not. Let us open and open,
without knowing how.
Merrell, Billy. “Moth.” Talking in the Dark. New York: Scholastic Inc., 2003. Pages 135-
136.
Prompt:
In “Moth,” author and narrator Billy Merrell discusses the importance of living both deliberately and spontaneously, of catching ourselves “opening” to the world or doing so unconsciously. Merrell mentions common human experiences that we learn and grow from on a daily basis, often without realizing it. It was John Lennon who said “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” Think about this quote in relation to Merrell’s poem. Before making decisions, do you consider the effects they may have on your life? Is a conscious resolve to live deliberately important or is spontaneity a greater aim? Reflect and then write a poem responding to Merrell’s model and/or Lennon’s suggestion in any way you choose. Like Merrell, you may question the way people “wander” or “wonder” through life. You may use metaphor or cite specific examples. Or, you may choose to write about particular experiences, whether deliberate or unprompted, that have impacted your life. What did you learn in the process of becoming “who you will be”?
Why Do Men Wear Earrings on One Ear?
By Trinidad Sánchez
Sepa yo!
Maybe por costumbre, maybe porque es la moda
or they have made promesas, maybe for some vieja
for cosmetics or because some women love it
because they were on sale
because they are egocentric cabrones y buscan la atención
because la chica selling them was sooooo mamacita
and they could not refuse
maybe to tell you they are free, innovative, avante-garde
and liberated, maybe because of the full moon
because one earring is cheaper than two
maybe to keep women guessing
and the men on their toes
maybe they are gay caballeros
maybe as a reminder de algo que no querían olvidar –
like the last time they had sex or to be sexy-looking
maybe they are sexually confused
maybe to let you know they are very easily sexually aroused
maybe to separate themselves from los más machos
maybe they are poets, writers
y la literature is their thing!
Why do men wear earrings on one ear?
Sepa yo! Maybe baby . . .
they are reincarnated pirutos of yesteryear
maybe they lost the other one
maybe they are looking for someone good at cooking
maybe it makes them look like something is cooking
maybe to send signals – the left ear is right
and the right ear is wrong
maybe it depends on which coast you are on
Why do men wear earrings on one ear?
Who knows . . . maybe it looks much better
than the nose, the toes
maybe to remind others which ear is deaf
maybe to distinguish them from those who don't
and those who won't
maybe to separate them from women
maybe because some women say:
men can only do things half right
maybe to be imitators of the superior sex – halfway
maybe they are undercover policía trying to be real cool
maybe they are Republicans trying to be
progressively liberal
maybe they are Democrats disguising their conversation
or leftists telling you they are the right party
or revolutionaries looking for a peace – P E A C E!
Maybe they are undecided
maybe to be cute
maybe because life is short
Why do men wear earrings on one ear?
Sepa yo!
Sánchez asks a question in his poem "Why Do Men Wear Earrings on One Ear?," and he then goes on to answer his own question, starting with the exclamation "Sepa yo!" which roughly translates to "I might know!" The rest of the poem is devoted to listing all the possible reasons he could think of that I man might wear an earring in one ear. Some of his speculations are humorous, some are serious, some are commonly held beliefs about men who wear earrings, and others are way out in left field.
Try to think of a question that you've wondered about before but still don't know the answer to and probably never will know the answer to. Use that question as a starting point for your poem, and then make a list of possible answers to your question. If you'd like, you may structure your poem after Sánchez's poem, making the question the title followed by "I know!" and then creating a list using the word "maybe…"
-or-
If you speak more than one language, you know that some concepts are easiest to convey in one language while other concepts are easiest to convey in another. Sánchez would probably tell you that he has a good reason for choosing to write some of his words in English and some of them in Spanish.
Write your own poem that incorporates this code-switching technique. Try to think of why you might want to write about certain things in one language and other things in another. The poem could be in English and Spanish, like Sánchez's, or it could be in English and a different language. It could even be in two or more languages and not include English at all! (though you might have to do some translating and explaining for us). Even if you don't know a language other than English, you could write a poem that switches between two different dialects of English or between slang/colloquialisms to more formal or academic diction.
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Sat in the window, bringing memories
of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
In Claude McKay's "Tropics in New York," the immigrant speaker notices tropical fruit in a shop window. The fruit stands out in the street windows, evoking memories of his home. The speaker weeps at the end of the poem, but why does he weep? Is he happy to see something that reminds him of home, or does he feel even farther from the memories evoked? Or is there something else working in the poem?
If you don't want to respond to the poem directly, think about the images that you relate to your home: the sights, the sounds, the smells, the memories that most remind you of where you grew up. Communicate some of those images in your writing.
Was there a time when seeing something away from home made you homesick, or made you think back to where you grew up? Write about how you felt, and what about the situation made you feel that way.
"A Day of Mourning, 24 November 75"
I had to sell my black sow Blackula today
She has become fallow, rejects the boar,
has no pigs and eats too much to keep.
Alas, goddammit. I loved that pig.
In "A Day of Mourning, 24 November 75," found in The Porcine Canticles,published by Copper Canyon Press in 1984, poet David Lee reflects on having to sell a pig whose place on his working farm is no longer tenable. He first gives all the very reasonable justifications for selling the pig, and finally laments, "Alas, Goddammit. I loved that pig." Write a poem about a time that you grew out of something, and, although you knew giving it up was what you had to do, you were still saddened in doing so. Maybe you donated an old piece of clothing that no longer fit you to the Salvation Army. Maybe you quit a sports team, moved houses, changed schools, or left a relationship with someone. Put yourself in the time immediately after giving up whatever it is you gave up, and start your poem with that. You might devote the next couple of lines to the pragmatic reasons why you took the decision you did, and use the last line to express your regret (try not to let your regret overshadow the rest of the poem).
So This Is Nebraska
by Ted Kooser
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop
over the fields, the telephone lines
streaming behind, its billow of dust
full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.
On either side, those dear old ladies,
the loosening barns, their little windows
dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs
hide broken tractors under their skirts.
So this is Nebraska. A Sunday
afternoon; July. Driving along
with your hand out squeezing the air,
a meadowlark waiting on every post.
Behind a shelterbelt of cedars,
top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,
a pickup kicks its fenders off
and settles back to read the clouds.
You feel like that; you feel like letting
your tires go flat, like letting the mice
build a nest in your muffler, like being
no more than a truck in the weeds,
clucking with chickens or sticky with honey
or holding a skinny old man in your lap
while he watches the road, waiting
for someone to wave to. You feel like
waving. You feel like stopping the car
and dancing around on the road. You wave
instead and leave your hand out gliding
larklike over the wheat, over the houses.
From Flying at Night, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005
Ted Kooser, the nation's latest poet laureate, writes about his home state in So This Is Nebraska. He describes the physical features of the area, such as the gravel roads, fields, dust, and the trees. He describes some of the sounds. But he goes beyond what you see and hear there. Kooser makes sure to mention what a person does and how he/she feels. This is a great way to really visit the heart of the location – a lot can be said about how a place makes a person feel. Try your own poem, describing where you live, or a favorite place you've visited. Be sure to not only include a physical description of the locale, but how you feel when you're there and what kinds of emotions the place stirs. Include in the poem “So this is __________”.
Christmas Dinner Without the Cranberry Sauce
Miss Freeland
was my ma
at the school
Christmas dinner.
I thought I’d be
the only one
without a
real ma,
but two other motherless girls came.
We served turkey,
chestnut dressing,
sweet potatoes, and brown gravy.
Made it all ourselves
and it came out
pretty good,
better than the Christmas dinner I made for my
father
at home,
where we sat at the table,
silent, just the two of us.
Being there without Ma,
without the baby,
wouldn’t have been so bad,
if I’d just remembered the cranberry sauce.
My father loved Ma’s special cranberry sauce.
But she never showed me how to make it.
January 1935
Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse. © 1997 by Scholastic.
Billie Jo is talking about her school Christmas dinner and all the wonderful things that her and her friends made to eat that day. Everybody brought something that was special to them and something that they liked to make. Billie Jo goes on to tell that part of her Christmas tradition at home was her mother’s cranberry sauce, but alas, her mother never taught her how to make it. Are there any traditions at your house that you love participating in? When are they? What are they? How far back in your family do they go? Will you be carrying on these traditions when you have your own family?
Natalie Delaney
http://www.love-poems.me.uk/wordsworth_i_wandered_lonely_as_a_cloud.htm
I wandered lonely as a cloud
by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
As you all have noticed nature is a predominant theme in poetry. Wordsworth also marvels at nature in his poem: I wandered lonely as a cloud. In the poem we find personification as the clouds are thought to be lonely, the daffodils dance, as Wordsworth imagines the endless possibilities for beauty in nature. As you read the poem think of how you would fill in the following sentence and write a poem, using personification to respond. When I look at ¬¬¬_________ I see _________ this makes me think of _______.
Though it may not be the most joyful prompt, I found Katherine's prompt for “Elegy for Challenger” to be really inspirational (thank you!).
Elegy for Sago
Deep earth-divers
how we envied you
for bringing light
into our coal-black world.
Your six-day work week
and endless overtime
put food on the table
for your loving families.
You were the image
of your Black Lunged father
and the pride
of your small community
in the hills.
As the air thickened
with the poison
that would consume you,
your selfless manner
and goodbye letters
are what remain
in the nation's heart.
As mountain mamas cried,
one barely emerged;
but today he walks
still breathing in your dust.
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Response to Colleen's prompt for the found poem "Furious" (Thanks!)
Greed
My name is greed
I live in the upper-class suburbs
My favorite game is Life
Because I always win
My eyes are green,
Like money
My mouth is full of loaded words and excuses
My heart is full of want
Less is never more
My arms reach out
My hands grab
My sly smile is your warning
My favorite food is the most expensive item on the menu
Because it is the best,
Like me
I drive a red Porsche,
With a much too young blonde in the passenger seat.
Speeding through the streets,
I stop for nobody
Yield to me,
Or suffer the consequences
I am greed.
In response to my own prompt, "A Day of Mourning, 24 November 75":
Wednesday
I had to sell my soul today.
It had become tired, all used up,
Good for little else than profit.
Good lord, I miss my soul.
This is just to say
I am doing a test post
in the haiku form.
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Thanks Harrison!
Daybreak.
Bubbling grits and
My sister’s laugh
A crash from the bathroom
My mother’s scream,
What’s wrong, brother?
No answer.
The grits are burning,
Where did everyone go?
This is in response to Ryan’s prompt for a poetic vignette based on Walter Dean Meyer’s “Here in Harlem”
“Leaving the Windy City Behind”
I press my cheek against the window
So I can get a better look
At the pink sky
Fading to grey
The u-haul behind the car
Rumbles and hums
As we roll down
The Indiana Turnpike
I’ll have to make new friends again
Mom says
But we’ll be closer to
Our family in D.C.
I turn to my brother and
Draw a line across the backseat
“This is my side”
I tell him
“Are we there yet?”
Nope. Just a hotel for the night
We eat spaghettios for Thanksgiving dinner
Because all the stores are closed today
Response to “Our Strange Lingo” by Lord Cromer
What is the deal with the platypus
And always being a gloomy gus?
Well, I know that I wouldn’t be
If I was the oddball of the animal family.
Everything about them is a contradiction.
For all I know they could be a work of fiction.
They claim to be mammals but how could this be true?
I never heard of a mammal laying eggs. Did you?
Instead of a nose, they have a bill like a duck.
And they swim in the water and forage through muck.
Yet these creatures have fur just like a beaver!
And that’s not all for this over achiever.
What covers their bodies is dark brown fur
And with two layers of it they never say brrrrr.
To swim through the water they have webbed feet
And with their large flat tail they can never be beat.
So what is the deal with the platypus
Always being a gloomy gus?
Cause if I had all these neat characteristics
I wouldn’t even be worried about the creative logistics.
In response to Harrison’s prompt "Epistle" by Li Young Lee
My “Green Number” Night
Rain pours down, hits hard against
the unforgiving pavement and sprays its
warm, acidic self onto bare legs.
I know nothing. I feel something big
Is about,
To happen.
Memory holds as if the greenness of the
land and the wet, thundering storm
was yesterday, but,
My “green number” day was just under
three hundred forty six tumultuous days
prior, and it happened so sudden.
There is only one green number
standing alone in my heart
and in my dreams.
I still know nothing, eating, staring
out the window at the rain ceasing to
exist on the curves of the land.
Eating, drinking wine, laughing,
Scenery so serene, so Spring
I begin to know something…
Wait, this moment, this place
memory clicks in as the amazement of
knowing; a ring, eternal life and love.
Thanks for this prompt, Colleen!
Fed Up
by JBC
I am fed up
I live just off of campus
My favorite game is “guess who is sincere”
Will you tell the truth?
Will you think I’m too stupid to notice you don’t,
That you don’t need to care because I can’t inflict consequences, dent your privilege?
My favorite color midnight,
My eyes are full of daggers
My mouth is a cracked dam
My heart’s mortar about to give
Don’t talk because it doesn’t matter
They only hear their own kind
My favorite food is comeuppance
Because it is nice to watch others eat,
But I don’t have the time to sit in the dining
halls waiting for something that might never happen.
I want to drive away in a chrome-covered car
and enjoy knowing the image of this place is finally revealed as bent and skewed in the chrome of my bumper. No more lip service for me because I am fed up.
Clare and Anthony's poems also inspired me to have the courage to write on the "Furious" prompt. I'm loving the different emotions and experiences I'm seeing shared here, folks!
I'm a big fan of the "less is more" school because I find it so hard to condense my own words. So, this is in response to Dave's prompt:
Can't
I can't keep it in my garage anymore.
I can't afford the parts
I can't afford the paint
I can't afford the hours
Anymore.
I can't afford
to watch it go.
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