image poems : an attempt

paper coffee cup
drained.
clock’s hands drag

*

nails stained with
week old polish
post-it-note reminders
covering wooden desk

*

dog-eared pages
thumbed.
the familiarity of
a friend’s face

*

uneven footprints
pressed in the ice
and slush.
it must have been a close call.

*

Reflections in the puddles.
face facing down
braving the rain.

*

Dents and dings in
the picture’s frame.
Your face, five years ago,
captured.


*

Bright balloons
streamers hang
cards crowded on the coffee table.


*

papers hide my professor’s face,
still, an open door

*

The salt sets in
her new suede boots,
squares crossed out
on the calendar.

*

My ceramic coffee mug
sits upright on my shelf,
anticipating morning’s grey rise.

. . . .into a poem!

The scanner beeps. 
We hurry through
 the doorway, scanning 
the burgundy-colored 
carpeted aisles 
with our eyes for a
 place to sit in the maze 
of occupied and open seats, 
teeth and fillings 
belonging to one giant,
 gaping mouth. 

The chapel is alive; 
students push their way 
through the aisles dividing 
the rows of seats
 like blood pulsing 
through arteries. 
Each wave that finds their seats
 is replaced
 with a new, busy cluster. 

a descriptive paragraph : chapel

     We scan our four-year faded red bar-codes on our plastic I.D. cards under the red LED of the scanner attached to a lanyard draped in Sam’s loose, pink hand.  She is one of four students, each equipped with hand-held scanners, and a small band of students piling around their posts in the foyer, flanking the sides of the two wide entryways into the chapel. The scanner beeps. We hurry through the doorway, scanning the burgundy-colored carpeted aisles with our eyes for a place to sit in the maze of occupied and open seats, teeth and fillings belonging to one giant, gaping mouth. The chapel is alive; students push their way through the aisles dividing the rows of seats like blood pulsing through arteries. Each wave that finds their seats is replaced with a new, busy cluster. We claim a couple of seats towards the back. My friend leans forward to tap the shoulder of a thin, golden-haired girl sitting in front of us.  A black, wool jacket with a brand-name tag drapes the back of her chair. Securing the fit of the jacket over her seat, she turns to exchange a quick, delighted “Hello!” before snapping her neck around and standing at the bellow of the organ. I fumble to find a safe place for my ceramic mug in a space below an open seat in front of me, a shove my black messenger bag next to it, before joining the others in standing. I notice a friend rushing down the aisle, heaving his heavy backpack high upon his back, making his way towards the front of the chapel. Behind him, a few stragglers find seats towards the side of the aisles. Two faculty members and one student file out onto the stage before us.  Chapel is about to begin. 

poetry assignment 3

     When transforming these descriptive paragraphs into poems, I attempted to structure the new poems around separate scenes depicted in the prose.  Each stanza, therefore, represents a descriptive or active scene from the paragraph. The white space between those stanzas is intended for the reader to pause and digest each scene. The use of white space also allows for a separation between sounds of syllables used in each stanza or scene intended to give a musical, rhythmic quality to the flow of the poem as a whole, as a vocalist might take a breath between phrases in sheet music. Stanzas and lines were also formed in a way that allowed the syntax of the sentences in prose to naturally be structured. Stanzas were kept short to make the poem appear more accessible and not overwhelm the reader with the contents of each “scene”.
    I attempted to shape the new poems around a thematic center that would anchor the poem and draw the reader in. Choosing a thematic center required paying attention to the climax of the paragraphs, watching for the natural apex of action or emotion. For the “Pine Barrens” section, I chose to use the episode where the lizard materializing as the witch as this center, because it was the most active part of the paragraph. After this scene, the poem ends describing the mysterious origins and death of the witch. For the “Blueberry Farm” section, the thematic center was more difficult to locate. I formed the poem around the repetition of sounds in the stanza describing Charlie’s family. Although this may not be the most intense part of the story, I thought the rhythmic quality of these lines together helped set the tone and pace of the remainder of the poem.

poetry assignment 2.2 : "their own particular witch"

The Pine Barrens once had
 their own particular witch,
 Peggy Clevenger.

It was known
that she could turn herself into a rabbit,
 for a dog was once seen chasing a rabbit
and the rabbit jumped through the window of a house,
 and there-in the same instant, in the window-
stood Peggy Clevenger.

On another occasion,
a man saw a lizard and tried to kill it
by crushing it with a large rock.
When the rock hit the lizard,
 the lizard disappeared
and Peggy Clevenger materialized on the spot

Peggy lived in Pasadena, another of the now vanished towns,
about five miles east of Mt. Misery.
 It was said that she had a stocking full of gold.
Her remains were found one morning
 in the smoking ruins of her cabin,
 but there was no trace of the gold.

poetry assignment 2.1 "farm labor transport"

We had come to a clearing 

where thousands of blueberry bushes grew.

 In the center was the packing house

a small, low building 

with open and screenless windows all sides.

 In front was a school bus

marked “Farm Labor Transport”.

 The driver stood beside his bus. 

He was a tall and amiable-looking man, 

with bare feet. 

He wore green trousers and a T-shirt. 

The end of the working day had come. 

Pickers were swarming around a pump

-old women, middle-aged men, a young girl.

Inside the packing house, berries half an inch thick 

were rolling up a portable conveyor belt,

 into pint boxes. 

Charlie’s sister was packing the boxes. 

Charlie’s daughter-in-law was putting cellophane over them. 

Charlie’s son Jim was supervising the operation. 

Charlie picked up a pint box

 in which berries were mounded high,

 and he told me with disgust

 that some supermarket chains 

knock off these mounds of extra berries

 and put them in new boxes, 

getting three or four extra pints per twelve-box tray. 

At one window, pickers were turning in tickets of various colors, 

and they were given cash in return. 

One picker,  in his sixties, tapped Charlie on the arm 

and showed him a thick packet of tickets held together with a rubber band. 

“I found these,” the man said. 

“They must have fallen out of your son’s pocket.” 

He gave the packet to Charlie,

who thanked him and counted the tickets.

 Charlie said “ These tickets are worth 

seventy-five dollars.”

what makes people tick

a casual conversation
attempting some connection
resorts to the routine repertoire
of expected questions.

"psychology," i reply.
"i love studying
what makes people tick".
yet, my disclaimers
prove useless
to those nervous ears.

"Oh- "
"Are you sure?"
"You're going to graduate school, then,
of course."
"Can you tell me what I'm thinking?"
"Aha! You're psychoanalyzing me now, aren't you!"
And a jab at Freud. Piaget. Adler. here and there.

i smile, and thank them
for their kind words and
compliments. content. amused. delighted.
as one who knows the answer to a
cleverly kept riddle.

(they did not know what they were getting into.
and the best part is, neither did i.)