Tag Archives: Poems

‘Best leave it to the pros and cons’: Exquisite Corpse poems, Fall 2017

Here are this fall’s Creative Writing classes’ poems written in the Exquisite Corpse method.  What I love about these lines is how they were created almost randomly but seem to have a kinda of weird logic. I like how some of these seem almost brilliant, in an obtuse way. See here for previous semesters’ poems.

Americans are impatient with my whole life.

A big storm came to my house, for I am a gentleman.

A strange door is where I be the person you admire.

I go to party like an animal goes to get some gas.

Gross-looking fish often smell what the man cooks.

I literally can’t stand people that like me or unlike my milkshake.

When he woke up, he was not in poverty.

Since 2000, I was born in the hospital.

Beautiful panda breaks the Internet to order some parts of the world.

She has an ugly smile like you’re eating lemons to make lemonade.

Boy, you have betrayed me, and you are great.

Miles we have come to the gorilla festival.

Penguins that live in the patience I held.

Thing One and Thing Two plus two equals to all human rights and lefts.

I really cannot control her nuclear proliferation.

Everyone and everything is not what you are.

I’m swimming in a sea of something funny that happened.

The school sounds fun like tying a fish to crash into a car.

Best leave it to the pros and cons.

My own sorrow cannot hold onto my hand.

Me is something that was already said.

You are my sun shine is like the sun shine.

I lost my pencil in your name.

Place the gun on the only husband.

Those who appreciate you look very hot today.

Fender on a car breaks so simple like ice is cold.

The Wright brothers are like sisters but boys.

The zookeeper ran to keep the penguins inside the body.

Dude, I want to hang out with me, said no one ever.

Here I once was a way you smile.

Be smart if you want to survive — it’s not that hard.

The bird flew far, far away where the movie was very boring.

That gray cat leaps off the sofa, but will the world end?

Behind the wall exists God or aliens.

“Duh” is what I exclaimed to your mama’s grave digger.

Dispute this because I think about it, and you are so nice.

First I went bald yesterday.

I slipped and fell down the stairs at room temperature during winter.

Sad like a broken plate with soul food delicious.

I’m trying so hard for somebody to notice the fire alarm.

Literary links: ‘The Red Wheelbarrow,’ and a definition of postmodern novel

1. William Carlos Williams’s poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” —

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

— may be a scene the poet witnessed, as described in this Times article:

On July 18, in a moment of belated poetic justice, a stone will be laid on the otherwise unmarked grave of Thaddeus Marshall, an African-American street vendor from Rutherford, N.J., noting his unsung contribution to American literature.

“When we read this poem in an anthology, we tend not to think of the chickens as real chickens, but as platonic chickens, some ideal thing,” William Logan, the scholar who recently discovered Mr. Marshall’s identity, said in an interview.

The discovery doesn’t change the meaning, he said, but “knowing there was a man with a particular wheelbarrow and some chickens does help us understand the world the poem was embedded in.”

Williams’s 16-word poem, first published in 1923, was hailed as a manifesto of plain-spoken American modernism. Williams himself declared it “quite perfect.” A staple of classrooms and anthologies, it has inspired endless debates about its deeper meaning — how much of what, exactly, depends on the red wheelbarrow? — not to mention provided the name of an English-language bookstore in Paris, a craft beer from Maine and an episode of “Homeland.”

But Mr. Logan, a professor at the University of Florida who has contributed to The New York Times Book Review, may have taken the poem’s fullest measure yet. His roughly 10,000-word essay on the poem, published in the most recent issue of the literary journal Parnassus and titled simply “The Red Wheelbarrow,” considers the poem from seemingly every conceivable angle.

There are discussions of Williams’s aesthetic influences and composition habits. (Williams, a medical doctor by profession, sometimes wrote poems on prescription forms.) Mr. Logan also considers the history of hyphenation in the word “rainwater,” previous literary references to painted wheelbarrows, New Jersey ordinances concerning handcarts, and early-20th-century poultry trends.

“Who knew there was a fad for white chickens?” he said.

2. In a New Yorker article discussing “Fran Ross’s hilarious, badass novel, ‘Oreo,'” Danzy Senna writes this definition of the postmodern novel:

Aesthetically, “Oreo” has all the hallmarks of a postmodern novel in its avoidance of profundity and its utterly playful spirit. It draws no conclusions, and the quest leads to no giant, revelatory payoffs. [my emphasis] The father and his secret about her birth constitute, in the end—and without giving anything away—as absurdist a feminist send-up of the patriarchal myth as one could hope to find. At every turn, the novel embraces ambiguity. Its quest-driven plot is diverted by wordplay and meta-references to itself. In many ways, it feels more in line stylistically and aesthetically with Thomas Pynchon and Kurt Vonnegut than with Sonia Sanchez and Ntozake Shange, to name two other black female writers of Ross’s time.

Oreo never becomes a fully believable character, and this feels appropriate to the work’s spirit. The novel does not strive for realism; Ross is not trying to construct a seamless, plot-driven narrative or a sympathetic, three-dimensional main character. We are always aware of Oreo as a construct, and of her story as a construct. Puns, wordplay, standup-comedy riffs, menus, charts, tangents: the journey to find the father is just a chance for Ross to meander through her wicked and free imagination, and to push us toward a hyper-awareness of language itself. “Christine,” Ross writes, and she could be writing of herself, “was no ordinary child … she had her mother’s love of words, their nuance and cadence, their juice and pith, their variety and precision, their rock and wry.”

3. A definition of literary interpretation, and a warning about finding patterns, from a New Yorker piece about love-song lyrics by Adam Gopnik:

One should always be wary of a book by a scholar insisting that there is a pattern where before none has been seen, since scholars have an overwhelmingly strong confirmation bias in favor of patterns—finding patterns is what scholars do. The great art historian Leo Steinberg found the “line of fate” in the Sistine Chapel, which skewered figures from separate scenes into occult sentences, with the same excitement with which Percival Lowell had once found canals on the surface of Mars. These were illusory—but, more important, irrelevant. Interpretation is the teasing out into articulate words of a complicated sensation or experience. It’s not often the discovery of some other, completely different experience that the surface of the work was hiding. [my emphasis]

‘Time Closes One I’: Erasures and rewrites of Rod McKuen’s ‘Lonesome Cities’

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So, last January, about the time Rod McKuen passed away, I picked up his poetry book Lonesome Cities, which I’d obtained long after its publication in the 1960s but which I’d never read. I didn’t really like the poems: their language felt too chatty and their subjects too familiar and too precious.

But alongside each poem was plenty of blank space in which I could rewrite the poems to my own taste, to make the poems sharper and stranger, more surprising. Some of the poems are simple erasures (see also resources here), while others have some words replaced by sound-alike words, and all poems have certain amounts of re-arrangement, editing, and rewriting (however those definitions may overlap).

I debated whether to put my new poems alongside McKuen’s originals. I have chosen not to, partly out of concern not to step on his copyrights (and this writing process felt like authentic creation, but it also prompted questions of what, exactly, copying means). But I also don’t think comparing the new to the old is necessary, as the poems below range far beyond the topics of McKuen’s poems to represent their own questions of consciousness and philosophical inquiry.

Here are my poems, with reference to the titles of the originals the new poems came from:

“An Out,” an erasure of McKuen’s poem “An Outstretched Hand”

Each of us was God.

Some of us grew.

The wind bent.

Darkness-up life.

Love is, is.

Each eye turned sound,

shoulders their feet.

It takes a hand.

Ω

“Sting,” an erasure of “Rusting in the Rain”

The old world coming stops as it goes.

Did anybody ever grow older?

Come see where we have been.

Ω

“I’ve,” a rewrite of “I’ve Saved the Summer”

I’ve.

I give you to winter when new.

I’ve need. Darkness can feed. I’ve kept your smile.

You were 19. You’re older, you’ll know.

I know no answers. Your way lies somewhere.

But I’ll give you the road.

Ω

“Like the Window,” a rewrite of the last 2 stanzas of “It’s Raining”

It’s like the window if we wait.

There’s here now. Don’t be anymore.

It’s the crickets.

Do you think? You love.

Raining.

Ω

“Summer’s It,” an erasure/rewrite of the last 2 stanzas of “Sommerset”

wind

the memories–

times: summer’s set?

Life,

day: Sunday

month May,

years–

summer’s it,

Time?

Ω

“To Glean Sin from the Crows,” a rewrite of the first two stanzas of “Sommerset” made by replacing each word in poem with a sound-alike word:

Several ways were sunny.

Canned eels’ mouths were made.

Sand heavy birds down a long cane;

that seems to compensate

for muddy ears. Comb fuzzy bats.

Tin filters amore.

Hens heal ivy. Where summer went,

him no team ignores.

Cats rhyme some more. They gored some pigs.

Endure, he knew, but how?

Repair in size our wooden trunks.

Two seen beneath a stall.

Cows mainly hear enough of static

to glean sin from the crows.

Whine was learned, yet summer kept

land-cropping all sender’s snows.

Ω

“I Live That, Always,” an erasure of “The Single Man”

I live that, always.

For just a night,

the talk wasn’t a better day.

At home, or in his private cloud, I am

a time I can’t remember.

The house might have been help.

Ω

“Cans,” an erasure/creative edit of “Cannes”

Cans waking in the morning

sweep down the street.

The empty bottles go back.

As crossword puzzles on the sidewalk,

a new foundation crawls

back under buildings

to avoid the Jets.

Still adjusting our heads,

we shoe up in the hallway

and lose bed.

Thank God for the coasts.

Ω

“Form,” an erasure of “For Bimby”

Some things you can put down.

Sheep grazing on the airport stale February days.

Smile balloons look to me.

Surprises held in the day.

A blaze with tourists and cats ruins time.

Her smile is elaboration lost

Ω

“The cross Atlantic,” erasure/edit of “Atlantic Crossing”

I gave up a while.

I had written songs to my family’s safe for years.

Had some women liked my animals in luxury?

I’d miss me, but they’d be it.

The way did much paint.

I’ll admit there were eyes I’d keep.

All in all, I was ready, so I pray more.

God had frightened years.

He first did run down.

We’d play together if we weren’t one another.

Ω

“Beaching Manhattan,” an edit-rewrite of “Manhattan Beach” as a prose poem

I’m working in a house at Manhattan Beach. Eddie came by last weekend with two women and some books. The books and the women were stacked. (Ha!)

I sleep and breathe the waves. I think of my breathing. I mist my attention on the traffic. Familiar rooms sink past my songs. A half-packed suitcase buys me oughts.

My dog does stuff up on the beach–she doesn’t seem to care that this is the very end of the land. My friends may as well be weathered sticks or bottles sans notes. My dog smells of the smells she smells; they settle on her fur.

Boats fill harbors in a dance stretching back 10 years in a morning. I live mostly in afternoons.

I nearly died. Fever made doubt or walks along. I stayed alive. Letters came, and “I” was the island I would go for. The asshole rides me to see the dog embark a seal.

Ω

“Four for Hands,” an erasure-rewrite of “Concerto for four hands”

Shadows time me.

Mischief

winter

empties forms.

A mattress

grows tired

of some

backs.

Ω

“Now You’re Even,” an erasure-edit of “New Year’s Eve”

The snow

branches

like cherries.

Wind falls

like windows

dying.

The old die.

A hundred

time-products

choose me.

I am the green ground.

I have faces.

I need,–I know.

The town slopes

the curtains.

The next room waits.

Villages rain like celebrations.

Ω

“Urban Herb,” an erasure-edit of “Suburb”

The mountain winds around petals. A desert country like smoke. Those electric-nows pine for perfume towns. The smile is smiles. Centurions anticipate chopping. Down the trees and down the hills, ants make flat.

Ω

“Bag Age,” an erasure-edit of “Baggage”

Only one day shoulders disappearing.

Room crowds your face.

Help me suppose it gone.

Leave me so I stand.

Ω

“Boa Rid,” erasure-rewrite of “Boat Ride”

You yawn.

The boredom drove.

God was full.

You were Texas.

Your tongue, again, knows.

Your arms water time, privately.

Ω

“In Dian’s Summer,” an erasure-rewrite of “Indians”

In Dian’s summer,

riot-bank frogs

empty man.

Every thicket beds flowers.

Sunshine does the painting.

The hills buy the buffalo tower

and fence. Off the factories,

we’ll build shadows.

Men die but gray.

Ω

“Engineer of Pallidity,” an erasure and inversion of “Venice” (pages 34 through 31)

a whole long moment meets time.

I am handsome; a mirror could have a hope.

Find a way to own my reflection.

I excite you with motor cuisine. You, I’ll never smile.

The glance—once—keeps you. I buy. You coin the world, and back a secret.

The sun targets me. The sun beaches you.

My hair lies. I’m your engineer of pallidity.

Tomorrow, sun ends home, shade.

Waiting, the birds.

Feeding. Ignoring me, you, chattering, the pigeons.

Coming. Moving. Eating. Chewing.

Ω

“These,” a selection-rewrite of “Three”

I face country tablecloths.

I index fingers.

I till now.

I paint 20 minutes.

Your eyes say grapefruit.

I ruin mornings.

I draw evenings.

I even drawings.

Ω

“Tuesday,” an erasure/sound-replacing rewrite of “Two”

Back to look—I, you. No!

Understand: I speak same as I bathe,

with a winnowing and a leafing through.

The heat throws. Off, we wormed each other

into tarps in different booths.

Turning me, months mediate a simile.

In the laboratory at the lakefront,

there were some seaweeds in a hair curler—

my mind looked at them—

I had drained my face from the stairs.

Ω

“When,” an erasure/rewrite of “One”

When you corner change

and wrinkle it into day,

you and lovers lose

water to leaded crystal.

Ω

“Disbelief,” a re-make of “Morning, Three”

At any “and,”

disbelief smiles “yet, “or.”

Ω

‘Every guy is a serious conversation with a kangaroo’: More Exquisite Corpse poems (2 of 3)

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More new Exquisite Corpse poems from this semester’s creative writing class; these are from my fourth-hour section. See here for more from this fall.

Guts are in the body and the mind.

Tranquility on the moon when the moon blows up to touch the sky.

Bathrooms are where to be, or not to be, mean.

I don’t want this anymore, so I will touch the backside of the bouncy castle.

Pizza, given the circumstance, is a big word.

Then I was like I was doing something.

Corn makes the cork sound a lot like cake.

Fish, scaly and forever moving like a cactus sleeps.

When we had his funeral was last week on the bench next to your front door.

Midnight is when the narwhal who ate the man’s large chest smacked the truck.

We will all tumble down the stairs, breaking up with you because it was really cold.

Snack time is for a question unanswered.

My child climbed up the slippery, so don’t fall down the, stairs.

She went to the mall yesterday. I had to work hard and play hard when she walked in.

Every way he went, people knew that apple.

Tuxedos look good on penguins deep in ice epiphany.

Night time is so pretty ugly when the clouds of smoke came from buying some illegal DVDs about baby dolphins swimming.

And “he shall bamboozle” was what she said to fly a kite.

Grapefruit is not a fruit, which proves mangoes are so boring and hungry after playing a game.

The little boy short and very annoying when I grew my hair.

Melodies played loudly in the fish in the ocean.

Eating bananas alone is a fun way to show off.

Anything can happen with hope; I can also.

She whispered, “Oh! Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon, watermelon is a red fruit is what loves me.”

The world is ending, was rather sad but

Soft, curvaceous, kind — but French fries are better.

The zoo is a great place, is so much fun to party at night when you climbed into a wet, dark hole in one.

Serendipity: like when ice cream melts into my friend’s car.

Of course it’s hot inside a person’s eye.

I do what I wish I had.

Yonder window breaks my heart that she fell down the stairs.

Fish open the gate to gardens where the seahorses play with the three girls.

Love is not love which alters when it was really, really awkward.

I like to go to the gym with my heart’s desire.

A weird-word dictionary, book-Bible God is all-knowing, or not.

Not only the pepper, but also we bake a dozen eggs that broke on the parade float stands by the blue bleachers at a game.

Pepperoni face has feelings.

Feelings are way too mainstream.

The trees’ leaves fell off a cliff and she fell over rocks.

A baby lion tried to scratch my back as we kill the neighbors across the field.

My milkshake brings all the courage it took.

My life is full of jerks and jocks; also, thine own demise is a cruel word.

A cruel word is very, very boring in the way of the day’s death, twilight.

I hate when people are wasteful; they waste the hairspray for my dog.

The ocean is very blue and usually likes eating tacos.

Common is a rapper who will be the next fire truck.

The best way to do it is with long nasty hair with the German sparkle.

Stagnate like a baker who will end the game tonight.

Old and beautiful ancient toys break when babies will bury their bottles.

Soda pop is sticky, and carbonated car engine is loud.

Most people don’t know when I can eat this with a spoon with my cute pet, the largest hedgehog ever — ever — getting back together.

The woman with huge hands grabbed ahold of me and yet he — doth thou even lift?

Why is that question, and answer this: question all that is wanderlust like a Pilgrim who will eat the cookie?

Sun shine on the beach is so hot, but I love Mexican food, which was already cold.

That is wrong done.

I love to go to the store for me to realize how would you like it.

Match the shirt with the mastermind of the American flag.

Finite color, whatever that means.

Something is gonna kill me after lunch.

Set my heart ablaze like a fire tomorrow.

Event-planning like Aunt Betty’s old maple syrup recipe to make fudge brownies but not the kind lady gave me.

Me, myself, and I will love to share me and her workout with heffalumps and weasels.

In my nightmares, paranoia like a Reece’s Pieces of my heart scattered bones everywhere at the ugly park.

Clothes should never be on and off with emotions.

The topic of the size of the cat is lame.

Nails can be pretty, or you could buy milk.

Bones break under pressure, so I married my sister.

That led her to God, but he shan’t give me money, so I am a weird kid who does other things.

Harold can’t ever fix the tires to my mom.

This is not what I am ready for.

Day or night, he will love to see the classroom is boring.

Floating around the big lake house is the perfect way to end the night.

Violets are black and falling apart from my baby girl.

The weird troll sang my favorite song when the saints go marching down by the river.

Games don’t like me.

Freddy Kruger saw the sign, and it was huge, and loud music is the way you turn right, and then I can go watch this girl play volleyball.

Very big animals hate my facial features.

I never had to smell a rose like donkeys who jump down the water park slide to the right.

Every guy is a serious conversation with a kangaroo.

Movie stars will always start something in the far distance between us, creating feelings.

Sweet chocolate is like heaven seems to be, so I do not forget that I gotta go to the bathroom bad enough to cry excessively.

Excessively telling is not a way to eat food.

I do not like to eat what I see.

Big hopes and dreams crushed God.

Stuff is fun to have.

Solstice fruit punch tastes like the way the shore line were many shells.

People just aren’t the same thing as I said to kill my brother.

‘Most flowers die fast or get passed gas’: Exquisite Corpse poems (1 of 3)

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New Exquisite Corpse poems from this semester’s creative writing class, second hour. Minor changes (punctuation, appropriate word endings) were made to improve readability. I love how poems created somewhat randomly, unintentionally, end up being so wonderfully surprising.

He shaves your grandma’s legs when cash rules everything.

Love is a many-splendored thing that scares us so.

I’m giving up, up, and away.

Stop signs are pointless because there are many dogs.

Bed time is my favorite color.

Underwear is like outerwear, except for the exceptionalism of the word.

Donkeys are dumb animals on the edge of moonbeams and rainbows having to see the light at the end.

I did not want to drink, or not, to my house and kids I destroyed.

I need you to find true love, which is beautifully hot in Acapulco with coconut.

Winter is the season that rhymes with a bat.

I want a drink of me and the time.

And the award goes to go home sad.

The alligator chewed the gum loudly. The trumpet played quietly.

I ate is the past tense purpose of writing.

Good fortune is bad luck in the bowl of being the best person.

Death-defying stunts are two words that cannot express hatred.

The future will never change.

Big people eat a lot of the tip of my nose.

To the supermarket for 20 years to life.

True friends don’t really exist, like in Jurassic Park with dinosaurs running around.

Mate like two moths under the sea where [you’d] better run or else nothing matters the most.

Twelfth Street is the place where the people stay with me ‘til we are like you.

See the big trees die in the clear blue skies and cold lemonade.

The tree was at the park to hold my love.

You gave up instantly the coffee began spilling.

Red violets are blue; I’ve been drinking watermelon juice.

Time goes by very much in the style that only I have.

Your personality intrigues me to rescue her majesty and marry her hair.

Most flowers die fast or get passed gas.

Orange squares taste exactly enough.

Milk does a body; good God, we need ketchup.

Goldfish are very funny looking through Alice’s looking glass.

The ocean sand in your toes feels like gorillas on water.

Mind-numbing gets done at the people.

The cutest little girl in the middle of the ocean where the water looks like an ugly monkey.

Once upon a time flies when you’re having a kitten.

Why did she do whatever you want to do with my favorite food?

Last night I experimented with all the power in a meadow for unicorns.

“This isn’t fun anymore” reminds me of Macklemore.

“Very odd” is what people call me later.

Selfish people always live longer than an elephant’s trunk that has baby chickens.

Night owl was an owl that I wanted to eat.

Me? I’m the best I ever had.

Man, I feel like a person with a pair of socks.

Any dish makes me feel greatness.

A wild animal had been really confused lately.

Like playing a musical chicken that sings girly stuff, yo’ daddy likes when pony tails aren’t.

Clean is better than nothing.

I’m excited about girls who stink like you.

Poem: A cat IS a cloud

Some smoke from a cake —

more steam than icing —

clouds a cat.

Some grass became pie

under dark candy-bugs.

A breeze tree, a growl in the belly,

is a smile on porcelain, or

a window with a heart.

Caramel and coffee with fish

make dirt, an eye, and a cup.

Candy glass:

my brother in sky;

a cat IS a cloud

[Written 2013 Nov. 4 using magpo.com. As I was playing around, a process idea came along: use no verbs, pick only concrete nouns – though some got used as adjectives and as figurative language]

Poem: A Decaying God

a decaying god

explores what he once

desired. he wakes a ghost

— a liquid-colored eye –

that never remembers

the growl of grass

on an autumn eve, when

even bugs breathe a lip rhythm

on an iced flower.

 

 

smoke works.

 

 

the night bleeds sex — an

eternal candy —

and, and air, and —

 

kiss her here. that window

haunts a sacred self.