oulipost 27: expectant couple

I’ve lost track, but I think this is poem draft 88 for the month of April. Can I hit 100 by the end, the big finish? Here’s hoping. And then I’m going to crawl into a hole and die for two weeks, then slither out and revise for several more. I’ve stated that if I hit 100 drafts this month, I’ll be happy if I can pull out 10 which are decent enough to turn into Real Poems. Ten within one month seems like a respectable number.

The Oulipost prompt is another sonnet-y one, an irrational sonnet with the stanzas divided into lines equivalent to the first five digits of pi: 3, 1, 4, 1, 5. I tried to stay pretty true to form, pulling out whole lines of iambic pentameter (sometimes a bit long or short) from the Voice‘s weekly event listings, padded with a couple of filler words to keep the narrative structured and rhyme-ish, along with a questionable turn from “he” to “she”. The line break change actually doesn’t do much for me; I guess it’s supposed to create a different sense of balance among the parts of the poem, but if I had no line breaks whatsoever, I feel like it would read much the same. But I’ll let y’all be the judges.

Expectant Couple Named Artists-in-Residence

Although we’re never taken far beyond
analysis of sound and language, we
will have to introduce a bill to ban

this man in motion, doing stuff: maybe

he purrs instructions to the pregnant woman,
says no, it’s not a midlife crisis. He
will carefully study different kinds of voices.
In lyrics written with her mother, she

is kinder, gentler, but no less confusing:

a week of readings, talks, and master classes,
appearances by poets, scholars, the
approachably experimental. It’s
their seismic sense of interplay, what
they do with the specifics of his face.

poem-a-thon 26: evasive maneuvers

To counterbalance the heavy one from before, here’s a somewhat lighthearted one (although it was a very awkward time to live through) about certain, um, indiscretions of my youth. NaPoWriMo asked for curtal sonnets, which I haven’t written in a dog’s age. I tried to stay pretty iambic, and keep Manley Hopkins’ preferred rhyme scheme, while trademarking it with a bit of irreverence and cheekiness that I feel he lacks. Have at it.

Evasive Maneuvers

I visited the basement late at night,
sleepwalking down the stairs to the computer
    for fifteen minutes of blue video.
I’d memorized the name of all the sites
my fumbling preferred: the digital looter
    of dial-up hardbodies with sound turned low.
My girlfriend always asked why I was so tired.
There was only so long I could elude her
    before the Reveal– how I did, I don’t know.
As a lover, I was champion; as a liar,
    just so-so.

poem-a-thon 8: homecoming

Third poem of the day (though only the first post), and it’s only 4:00 PM! I feel pretty swanky about that, considering I have plans and plots to do two more by the end. But it’s eight days in and I’ve already written… 25 I think? I wonder if I can get to 100 poems by the end of the month? Although I think I’ll probably be repeating a lot of themes and language by the end if I do that, and I wonder if it will be that much harder to synthesize the drafts into something with serious legs after the fact…

This is for the NaPoWriMo prompt to do a poem that’s a re-write of a famous one. I chose “the sonnet-ballad” by Gwendolyn Brooks, as it’s one of my favorites of hers (and the form fusion is a wonderful technique). And given my Poem-a-thon hoojazz, the notion of a trans youth being sent to a religious “correctional facility” stood out in my mind; not sure if the voice here is a lover or a sibling, but I got a little heavy-handed either way. Yeesh, I have to start writing lighter…

Homecoming
(sonnet-ballad after Gwendolyn Brooks)

My prince, my prince, what has become of you?
They scraped your polished nails and washed your face
to make you right, they said. I don’t know who
this boy is, slouching homeward in your place.
On Sundays, mother wears her best disgrace
while father burns your rouge, your skirts, your weaves.
My prince, whose leatherette was trimmed with lace,
you’ve come undone beneath the hands of thieves,
these holy thieves. And mother prays, believes
the priests will save you; father mends the walls,
ices his knuckles. I’m the one who grieves:
who are you, silent when the night bird calls?
Some sacred knife has sliced your self in two.
My prince, my prince, what has become of you?

poem-a-thon 2: maithuna

Having written seven poems in 48 hours… I’m a little bit worn out. But here’s one more for the day, to fulfill my Poem-a-thon requirements (guys! please donate!) and fold in the NaPoWriMo prompt. The idea was to use a non-Greco-Roman mythology bit as inspiration for a poem, and since I’m working in some queer theme space this month, I found that there are some erotic attestations in particular South Asian mythologies. I’ve decontextualized them a lot, as I don’t want to step on faithful toes; I’ve sprung a long way from that jumping-off point. But, well, there it is.

“Maithuna” is sexual union in a ritual context. This is also a sonnet, kind of. Enjoy while I go pass out for not nearly enough hours.

Maithuna

This is not love, he says. This is balance:
all matter springs from tug-of-war. The give
and the receive. He says he cannot live
without knowing what my drug is for: the chance
to open wide, to swallow, drink in the moon.
He says he was an artist once as well.
His hands and lips burn. He says, not too soon–
a coy delay’s the hardest thing to sell.
I offer up my stock of pearls, freshly stinking,
liquid and cool. He kneels and weeps relief.
Through him I see the world– the arc of time,
the elder eyes, a parched land always drinking.
I yield my shallows to his deeps. My thief
and savior: we all owe something for our crimes.

renovation eleven: escondig at dawn

It’s been a slow morning thus far, so I was able to rattle this one off pretty quickly. And I was able to rattle it off quickly because I was feeling a bit formal today, though only just a bit. I must apologize once more to Barbara for borrowing her term again (although I still haven’t found the original quote, wherever it lies) and appropriating it into saying unseamed sonnet, which I’ll use from now on for these not-quites. Here’s the prompty bit:

1. “The clouds had made a crimson crown…” (Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, “A Moment”)
2. “All the ocean’s water without me and yet in me.” (Roger Reeves, “Black Laws”)
3. “…fresh honey and the smell of sweat in parkland.” (me, “Horoscope”)
4. crumbs
5. Try to begin unpacking a paradox that normally leaves you tongue-tied. Don’t worry, you don’t have to get very far.
BONUS. Write an unseamed sonnet.
ALTERNATE (3). Use a line from one of your own previous poems that emphasizes some specific smells/tastes (more than one, if possible).

So, I’m saying “unseamed” rather than “seamless” because the latter has a connotation of so perfectly done that you don’t even notice the thing. I think an unseamed sonnet should be noticeable; I like to use it when I want to suggest a sonnet, but be pessimistic about it. For me, it’s a “this poem isn’t good enough to be a sonnet” kind of thing. And unlike a secret sonnet which is perfect, aside from the shuffling of line breaks, the unseamed sonnet can subvert any of the various elements of a “proper sonnet”. Here’s my example:

(escondig at dawn)

Consider the kiss I did not give.
And the moon still up and ghostly with dawn.
The picnic devoured, our shirts undone.
The jam on your lip I was tempted with.
Observe how we made a mess out of this.
How our faces developed in the marbled sun.
And no bravery but the occasional crumb.
The do-or-do-not of the unclasped wrist.
Remember I thought I knew better.
All my broken glass shone up from the river.
We buttoned, and folded, packed the basket.
The day in our flesh grew warmer, redder.
Look how I swayed between now and never.
Some future in my eyes, I couldn’t look past it.

Obviously, the iambic has gone right out the window (though I oscillated around ten syllables). There is a rhyme scheme, but all the rhymes are willfully imperfect and slant. Any kind of volta in line nine is buried deep, with only a metal detector showing it up. The theme is not particularly lofty or well-developed, at least at first. Still, it’s fourteen lines, and there is a modicum of sound, and something about the poem striving for sonnethood reflects, in my opinion, the theme of cowardice in love. An escondig, incidentally, is an old troubadour theme-form about a lover’s apology: sorry I couldn’t be confident enough to make a move, sorry I couldn’t get over my jaded attitude from the past clouding our possible future, sorry I couldn’t write you an actual sonnet.

But that’s all just my stuff. Y’all do what y’all want with it.

renovation six: sonnet for matins

One-fifth of the way through the month already; where does the time go? Perhaps it’s used up creating prompts:

1. “To gaze upon the fatal / without commiserating gloom:” (Sharon Dolin, “Avoid Adapting Other People’s Negative Views”)
2. “The other says: I only know a thread is loose on my sweater…” (Hsia Yü, “To Be Elsewhere”)
3. “People are sinking into tea roses.” (me, “An Anthology”)
4. a bicycle wheel
5. Describe a sixty-second pause in your day.
BONUS. Include at least three lines of perfect iambic pentameter that are not next to each other in the poem.
ALTERNATE (3). Use a line from one of your own previous poems featuring an active, lush verb and a sensual, precise noun.

Some time ago, Barbara used the term a “sonnet with the seams let out”, and I’ve been in love with it ever since. This poem ended up being just such a thing, not quite blank verse, not quite sonnet, but still 14 lines and 10 syllables per line, with some pentameter thrown in for fun. I wish I could say there was more reality to what I wrote today than there actually is, but I did have particular places, people, and feelings in mind while writing it. I think I’m more fond of it than I expected to be (and probably still riding the wave of a positive reception at workshop last night):

(sonnet for matins)

Drifting to work, I stop by the fountain
to touch the morning glories and throw coins
into the water. My church is cement,
wrought iron, and vine. There are men with dogs
asleep among the bushes with their feet
gone red and lined from cold. This time of year
gets deadly. My two prayers are a penny
tossed for the last flowers and a dollar bill
stuffed in a coffee cup offered by hands
that shake. The cyclists roll through. The students
smoke in the shaded corners, their elbows
jutting through white sleeves. My blessings are this
square of city and visible breath, and
the parting hope of leading someone out.

If you’re feeling stuck by a prompt, I think the BONUS element is a good match to hold to the fuse. Form often helps us force our brain into a poetic space, I think, if it’s not overdone; I think it’s easy to get so caught up in the patterns that we lose some of the vision. But a little bit of form goes a long way, making bones for the poem, which is why I’ve tried to give these delicate, almost incidental hints of form as part of the prompts. Though, I might have gotten a little carried away myself with it today.

Lunch Sonnet

I’ve been on kind of a Frank O’Hara kick lately, as I am wont to do. I feel like when spring comes, it’s much easier to keep an eye out for the strange and somewhat uneasy side of New York; the truism is that the crazies come out when it gets warm. (Even though everyone gets a little bit crazy when it’s warm.) And since I’ve been reading Lunch Poems again, and since Poets & Writers asked for sonnets yesterday, and since I did indeed eat lunch today, here is an O’Hara send-up. No, it’s not a strict sonnet, but it rhymes very nicely and Petrarchanishly, I think. You could call it semi-persona, maybe. Anyway, it was fun to write.

Lunch Sonnet

I came for peace and quiet: lunch standing up, at small round
silver tables grit with crumbs, garlic, red pepper flakes,
two slices and a Coke two seventy-five. The thick-chin boy takes
two paper plates and lifts my lunch like I am about to be crowned
street-food royalty, I am starved with thanks.
Patient standing the art student and Titus who marked his place
with bundled trash, the paranoid Honduran girl and that half-face
dogfighter with scarred dewlaps. Dissension in the goddamn ranks
when a guy cuts in front, wheelchair tires squealing
he hoists his plastic leg like a truncheon. Some fucking respect
for a Eye-rack vet he bleats and I think, just let it happen, best
avoid trouble. Peace. and. quiet. In here we’re used to feeling
lullabied by salsa radio and grill smoke, when the mood is wrecked,
when he snarls up to my table, I keep my change. I leave the rest.