HELP WITH FORMS

A certain poetry class is studying forms. What's your favorite form? How does it work?
Pantoum
http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/pantoum.htm
Four lines in first quatrain. Second and Fourth line become first and third line of the next quatrain, and again for as many quatrains as you want. The last quatrain should repeat the first and third lines as second and fourth. Lines vary slightly, and that is fine.

Consider the Shadow the Sculpture Casts

Consider the Shadow the Sculpture Casts

For Charlotte



If it is not a gathering of words
it is a color always near you
transmitting thoughts the moments no longer
emptying into because of shared blue
of course sky water jeans on the floor
but also (my) eyes change towards pure

in mornings of bed shifting doubling
memory by suspending the between
the intruder transforms to the expected
to inflection of longshot sightings
and invented reflexive language that asks
less and fewer of the individual

words taking grow and love
(never becoming lovely or grody)
and by the grace of maroon after sex
scent of moss and blood the peach clay
of pasts forgave and forgotten no more
than birth and that word that means understated

and the everywhere of the white
the backs of our feet white
the entry into our heads shrinking white
the found base of our spine
the tips of our nails of memory
the coming and the leaving dress in white

the first moment of one cell two white
the leguna which falls off in love of the white white
the came from and going to now together white
the first sight of you stroke of flash white
the always known now never alone
mixed ashes back in gathering dirt form birch white

Because If Words Like Love I Am Doing Dishes

Language is what it infers, not what it means
while the cats let themselves in and out the front door
because they infer knobs. Four feet on the ground covering
fur and purr
snarl and whisker
When snarl at you, not purr,
Infer that I have turned from Blue to
Yellow and green divided
When divided from you infer
The whisker will come, but you will never discover
Light what age has done to me.
That fur, snowy and colorless has paved life.
Always, we are placing dishes on a counter and cleaning them like paws
Always the chaos of papers and party favors
Giving time the inference of meaning
That the dead are not whispering, the small are not
Four footed and among us licking the ground, that
We being upright and unrooted soar into participle and modifier
Without permanence. This gray one upon the back of my chair, the white one circling pink, a tent ring of anticipation, but being upright, my time is dishes, cyphers, holding place not hands in a body capable if ignorance and good
At it, slinking past the hue of azure and into cobalt as if that
Was what is was all about

A letter from Captain Crunch

I'm still trying to jump through a particularly irritating financial aid hoop, but I am leaving July 4th. My ticket to come back is written down as August 3rd, but the real return date remains unclear. Everything, as usual, will be up in the air until the absolute breaking point. I swim in a maddening ocean of forms and technicalities and stress related deadline breakdowns.

I'll know more once I'm already over there. Yes. Duct tape my dreams together and squirm through the cracks to find my place among the unwanted. Indeed. Organization and planning are for the weak. Drink deep the weird juice of an uncertain future. Why not? The untrodden path is for the billy-goats of humanity. If I’m forced to gnaw my way through the cement wall of stability just to get my chance to write grammatically depraved, self-indulgent tripe, then so be it. Fate doesn’t pull punches. It’s all or nothing. Dance the dance of the doomed and sing the song of the strange. There’s nothing on cable anyway.

To mindlessly plot through a series of bizarre and seemingly unconnected events that transpire to dump me into a financial hole is my calling in life. Should I deny this calling? Apply at Burger King. I could be manager in just under a decade if I play my cards right.
But what if I want to eat my cards and slap the other players? The game is fixed and the house always wins. They want to me play their game and lose by their rules. Fifty hours a week and two week-long vacations a year? Is this the American Dream? Never know why, just plod along like a heartless robot. How much vacation did the Nazi's get? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Some answers are just too hard to swallow.

Fuck um. Dump a whole gallon of 92-octane gasoline into the anthill and send the whole pointless fucking shitpile up in delicious, purifying flames. They had their chance for the conversation of change, now it's time for the slap of shame. It's simple. Make P/R meaningless, get the info to the masses, mock the suits and their paid counter-lies. OUR LIES SHALL OVERCOME. The peasants are at the walls, climb the castle and pull down their pants to denounce their small penises. Each and everyone. It's time for the Neo-Nuremberg trials.

Tom (Crunchy)

Metaphor Ever After

Affection of words is anemone silence
in tidal chaos

The metaphor I like most is
Happily ever after
As if all of language was
the tenderness of birds

Even raptor sex
dissolves in death spirals

One church built upon another
Replacing church with church.

The words I worship most dissolve into love.

*

That I love you means
recognized impermanence
That I let you, fellow raptor,
tear at me with want and loathing.

I planted sunflowers by the gate
but left before the flower.
Did I not cleave earth for seeds to flourish?

When is it enough? That my
head will crumble next to yours
under the heft of stones?
…to become the dust of pigeon wings

I cannot promise what words will do to me.
Love and love
Church and church
The death parting.




(I'm looking for a title and comments)

The Sum of Different Fragments

The Sum of Different Fragments



All backs reflected in diminishing
light rests in the frontal lobe
but there is a heel a spine unbent
lines without the adoration of diagonals
crossings permitted within color
alone in a replicant hotel
room designed for couples
a vertical hovers just above
the bed sheets are the direction
of reference there is the nape of the neck
and a circle of hair infers
the lines looking out onto
landscapes with changing focus
on the shift from other to others
inside the room inside the house
outside in afternoon and back
closer until this becomes the waveform
the viewer is implicated
the angles layered into themselves
until color washing air over gutter seen from behind

* *

Destroy the material characteristic
of bodies withheld in perfectly
still even the eye sputters
while darkness leans in or
leaves curl toward the sunlight
in this day there can be no response
here is no worthy comparison
no alikeness of fresh bread
and the forearm while preserved
nothing correlates the lemon rind
must mold over and the color blue
is a signal a reminder of yellows
tied to a point even in stagnation
there is speed which orders
the distanced parts achieve unity
of forms of wall tiles of shutters
of doorways of legs in stockings
of the messenger crowd
behind the canvas and walk with the shadow
always disappearing when recognized

* *

We cannot reduce the subject
our reality is one fixed image
there you are in the morning
facing forward the light sneaking in the window
to your left the glass table
refracts and begins color which falls
into the covering of your face
I salvage to this stationary lemon
within this stilling day
by afternoon I have left
piecing the placement together
looking now at a man with a clarinet
or even a mandolin
while the marble recalls your arm on my right
shrinking with the only cloud in Spain
crossing over our point of reference where
we share this growing shadow
across the street a staircase
separates the length of waves
allowing each angle to supplant the invented eye
at first glance there are merely forms
simple geometrical forms
that openly represent captured

Brave New Wanda

Lynda's new book is out and at Amazon. Check it out. If
you like it, then she'd LOVE some help on a few good Amazon reviews.
(If the spirit moves ya....)

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0974342750/

Here is the Hypnotizing

Here is the Hypnotizing


formula that brings the nothing
that is its self and flows
a way with infer and smother
these singular phrasings under wilt
it branches towards the widening
of stream aloft goes bracing
and here is the equation
of clarity and bring about
until parcels hold against
the marble of solid trees
over an ocean swinging
current and starch button
and breaking bridges
the double plastic reduction
that only places of stop
not force will refer here
in the remainder of the middle
passages like moonshot again
plastic dirt much like so
very drip spout with
doughnut box and slippers
inside complaining case of pillows
with interrupt and the letter pause

Morning becomes Apoplectic

I don't like talking in the morning, and anything that demands thinking is ignored until I’ve had caffeine. I don’t know why my mind needs a slow start; it’s as if the chaos to come is kept at bay until I am ready, or at least that’s the illusion.
This morning, while making coffee, I heard distress outside. I figured my older hens were picking on the younger, which is natural. But natural doesn’t mean acceptable and chickens can be both brutal and stupid.
Because the dogs wouldn’t stop barking, I went out. Sure enough, one teenage-chick was stuck in the back of the fenced enclosure, and the other chickens were trying to peck it to death. Yelling “STOP-IT!” at a chicken doesn’t work like with a dog. Helping it meant finding a way inside the fenced portion of the coop. This fenced area connected to their hen house was an afterthought to keep them out of the garden. When I added the enclosure, I made no entry, except for the hole in the coop siding for something the size of a chicken to climb through. All it took were recycled metal fence stakes driven into the ground, enough four feet wide chicken wire to stretch three sides with the building itself creating the fourth side. Then of course, enough wire across the top to prevent escape.
I entered the building through the big door to crawl arms first, through their oak-framed, pagoda-style door. Contortionists get into the wildest places, why not me? This is the logic of fools I thought, but couldn’t stop myself. I wiggled in past one shoulder, when it hit me that if my top wouldn't fit, neither would my hips, and I got stuck. I thought about being pecked to death by the chickens. I thought about the fact that I was stuck on the ground in dirt and crap, without anyone to save me. I was glad I never installed that live-chicken web-cam I once thought would be great. But there I was, flat out in the doorway. Imagine that picture on the internet! After a few graceless, backward flops, I got out.
The search for wire cutters began. I sorted through tool drawers, found the cutters, cut through the wire cage, spread the sides with both hands, and forced my way through the stiff wire cage. Even after that, I couldn’t get the bird out. It was caught by the tongue and foot with some kite string that I couldn’t see without my glasses on. Don’t ask how the kite string got in there; it was likely some random act of wind and gravity teamed up against the stupidity of a chicken. But the poor bird, maybe its foot was stuck and in trying to peck its way out, it literally got tongue-tied. Don’t know. I fetched the wire cutters and cut the string away, cradled the bleeding bird with both arms, then forced my way back through the chicken wire fence.
Getting out was a sadistic birth experience. The chicken wire snapped closed while I was prying my way out. My arms and legs got cut up on the sharp wire, but the chick mouth was worse. The beak was bloody, clotted, string was coming out from under the tongue, over the tongue, but I couldn’t see why. It looked mostly dead. I called my vet, and they won’t do birds, they did know someone who would, but then why take a $1.50 chick to a $200 vet?
Instead of calling the bird specialist, I got scissors, a flashlight, water and a paperclip. I could be McGuyver. Rinsing the mouth and seeing if it was strong enough to swallow were both good indicators of what might come next. It was thirsty, which meant it had a will to live. I held it upside down on my lap, but before I could begin the string removal, my youngest came in. I figured …a recruit! She was made sick by the blood. I told her to put her feelings aside and to hold the darn flashlight. She was reluctant, but did it. “Oh mom, that’s Foxy.” This chicky had a name. This one was the pet chicky that they watched movies with. It was the cute Araucana from spring with the eye-liner markings they named Foxy. This one was friendly, unlike the old Rhode Island Reds that tried to peck it to death.
Caitlin had to focus on getting the light into the bird’s mouth and not getting in the way. I figured she’d be the better for it, or else I’d soon have a dead chicken, tears and barf to clean. “Mom, you’re bleeding.” “Yeah, I know,” I said to acknowledge her alarm. I used the straightened paperclip end to clean the debris, blood and to unknot, but couldn’t get all the string out. Each time I pulled at part of a knot, the whole underside of the chicken tongue would bleed. If I just clipped it shorter, it might fall off, as long as I could avoid the chicken tongue, I thought. The scissors were too big to work inside the small chicken beak. It was like shooting a bazooka at a mosquito. I ended up putting the search on for a smaller scissor, then cut as much away as possible while avoiding the little chicken tongue. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour. It seemed like forever. After the oral surgery Caitlin cuddled Foxy in a towel.

The chicken didn’t give up, and neither did we. Caitlin learned a bit about obligation, even when it’s messy, even if you have to bleed a bit. I’m hoping she grows to have a bit of McGuyver in her, but I hope she never needs it. Soon I’ll have that coffee, but not before repairing the fence. In the immortal words of the Hobbit Sam, “There’s still a little good in this world, and it’s worth fightin’ for.” OK, I’m old and I am not too sure about what the good is in a chicken, but our pet Foxy will live and my daughter knows a little bit more about responsibility.

The Greensboro Review

The Greensboro Review, edited by Jim Clark is a nice collection of poems and stories. I found many of the poems to be vignette oriented, with one being in letter format, one pantoum and one prose-poem. There were no ekfrasis poems, but maybe they should start? They have a deadline of September 15 and everyone from our class should send 3-5 poems. The publication comes out of Greensboro North Carolina. Pick up a copy, read it and see if your stuff fits in. Sorry I have no comment on the story content. I'll write all the submission info if you want it, but you're better off buying it, reading it, then sending out. J

Brevity

If you are writing or reading nonfiction, go to Dinty Moore's site for Brevity Magazine.
There are links to many other magazines which contain poetry, nonfiction and fiction. Get busy, write something worthwhile and send it out! Make time to read the published stories, they are full of concision, imagery and the idiosyncrasies of humanity.

http://www.creativenonfiction.org/brevity/links.htm

Poets & Writers

Poets&Writers online is full of information for writers. Go to http://www.pw.org/mag/
In the addition, deadlines and upcoming Grants and Awards are at your fingertips. There is even an online deadline calendar. Get organized, get busy and start submitting work.

Pictures from the seminar

Go to:
www.homepage.mac.com/kysha
password is gu3st
Great pictures, if you can't select site and use password, you can paste the address into browser and go from there. Anyone else have pictures? Thanks Kysha

Tip for writers and readers

If you are not reading Exquisite Corpse you are probably dead!
http://www.corpse.org/

A journal of letters and life edited by Andrei Codrescu
Great stuff!

Coming Home

After spending five weeks in Europe one collects many things. My suitcase was full of dirty laundry, Majorcan pearls, scarves from the Prado, t-shirts from the University of Madrid, art copies from the Thyssen-Bornemisza and the Borghese, Spanish shawls, Italian candy, Swiss chocolate, a leather purse and a Paella pan for my ex-husband.
My luggage was ominous.

On the last leg of the trip, I took a train from Rimini through Italy, Austria and on to Munich, (Munchin). The train car was a "fast train" which can mean many things in Italy, but it was German thereforw quite punctual. It only started 45 minutes late.

I got my seat, but had to leave my luggage, otherwise known as "Bertha" in the aisle way.
Bertha was blue, solid, locked, and hard to manage, I figured she would be safe a few feet away from me in the aisle. At the Bologna stop, there was total chaos on the train and she was gone.

I went after her, got off the train and tried to find her. I explained to the train hostess that I had to get off the train for a minute to pursue the thieves, she said we would leave in one minute with or without me. I needed no reminder that my other belongings, (computer, flight coupon, whatever I had left) were still on the train, and I decided to cut bait, get back on and get help.

The only thing I had going for me was that my compartment-mate spoke German, English and Italian and could help me get my point across. At first she told me to see the train "chef" and I wondered if he was the thief, then I realized that she meant "Chief," anyway, the results were no bag, but I would have to make a police report once the train stopped in Munchin.

My new friend, Lizzie from Dusseldorf, tried to cheer me up, noting that I no longer had to worry about lugging bags, someone had to sniff my dirty laundry, and that I could now shop for all new things at home! We talked about travels, shared food and fell asleep for bits of time over the next 9 hours. Although I didn't cry, my whole body felt knotted, especially my stomach.

Once at Munchin, Lizzie offered to help me find the police station and to explain in German that I needed to make a report. The female officer that she spoke to was very helpful and assured her (in German) that she would help me. Liz left to Dusseldorf and I started filling out paperwork. I filled out the forms, but was gripped with abdominal pain and had to use the toilet. I tried in German, then asked for the bathroom in Spanish. "Tienes Servicios" and she said, "you can use English." I was quite surprised.

It was bad and really stunk up the bathroom, but I couldn't find a way to flush. After looking high and low and pressing every thing, I ended up explaining to the officer that I was sick and couldn't find how to flush the toilet. She said, "That's ok, we all use it and we don't flush because the flush is outside." Clearly, she didn't understand what I did to the bathroom. I re-explained and she went off to take care of it for me.

Mortification, the stress of being gone 5 weeks, losing everything, and still having a flight to catch in another place, made me want to cry. Left alone in her office, I drifted from self-pity to exhaustion, and my mind started to drift. On the second desk was a name tag I couldn't believe: Assmann. I started to smile. I tried to figure out how you say it in German, and it still comes out Assmann. I may have lost my stuff, but at least I won't have to go through life as "The Assmann of Munchin!" or,"The Assmann Cometh!" or in Beatles style "I am the Assmann, I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob!"

It didn't really matter how long it took for the paperwork, or what would happen at that point. I smiled all the way to the airport and giggled on the 17 hours that led me home.