handful of cherry tomatoes - Nora Pellegrino
Nora,
Thank you for posting your poem! Notes below:
at night my tongue loosens
i have a tin man jaw
slick with oil
and chomping
under the glowing orange belly
of the sky, nearingof dark.
* as you can see, I’ve suggested you cut some of the
filler language, or verbs that have borderline redundancy.
also consider dropping the conjunctions so each line
of the sky, nearing
* as you can see, I’ve suggested you cut some of the
filler language, or verbs that have borderline redundancy.
also consider dropping the conjunctions so each line
is packed solid with juicy images.
i spit up my mother’s undercooked sharpness
her mother’s birdlike tendencies
pouring out both our mouths >> this has an odd mouthfeel,
since the hardness of of the word “both” chops up the soft
since the hardness of of the word “both” chops up the soft
alliteration of “out” and “our”.
nails and <<sharp objects>> be specific! I think it would be
great to choose an impossible object here. Something that
isn’t tangible.
nails and <<sharp objects>> be specific! I think it would be
great to choose an impossible object here. Something that
isn’t tangible.
i correct you
my jokes aren’t joking
the whip in my mouth cracks
and you quiet <<< LOVE THIS STANZA!
it’s not words so much as
<<the previous stanza already does the job
of the three lines above>>
i would rather have diamonds or thorny roses
than this industrial mess
<<my cheeks torn and leaking>> neither of these images
have an industrial feel
have an industrial feel
i would give all my sips of water,
and
every crumb of bread
to stop this calling up of so many women
10 o'clock at night
i spit out a record needle,
the edge of a chipped tooth that
crystallized in my palm
a piece of string tied to a small anchor from
a saltwater fish tank
there’s a lot of scraping
i grow tired of this evicting
too bloody to be a vessel
of history tonight
i beg to go to bed.
you cough up a small gem
in solidarity
and acquiesce.
What I like to do once I've finished the first draft of a poem is go back and circle every verb, adjective, then see if I can "branch out" and find a word that isn't as familiar, something that brings new life to my language. So, from "pooling" I'd write out all of the associative words, like FLOOD, then from that, I'd find GUTTER, then from that, I'd think SEWER, and stretch and stretch until I had a bank of words I could draw from. This also helps build an extended metaphor, so my images stay "married" to each other.
_ _ _ _ _ _
WEEK ONE:
Funny by Cecily Schuler
In order to write something funny, first
be upset. Find something on fire that’s crawling
up the inside of your torso like one too many
bong hits put you to sleep with the candles left burning,
wake up to the cat crying, panic tinged, unsure. Wait –
this isn’t funny.
In order to write something funny, remember
the last time you were mad. So mad
there was only one thing left to do:
laugh about it. And when laughter crumpled the damning
and gravity pulled the fury out through the tiny viaducts
on either side of the bridge spanning your reflection,
and you swore you could break that mirror with all the weight
spilling from every empty space inside, you tried, in fact, but wait –
this isn’t funny.
In order to write something funny, quit trying
so hard. Amuse yourself by acknowledging how
funny you really are, how people are always laughing
as you perform, as you are always performing, how they
all love your performance, and as you say to yourself, silly
people, what do they know about me? Laugh.
This isn’t funny.
Cecily, please write the poem about falling asleep high and waking up a few hours later to find all of the different things the cat (or your actual vagina) has done.
Include:
1. A unique place the cat or your vagina "marked" its territory.
2. Something in your home that the cat or your vagina alphabetized.
3. Three people the cat or your vagina prank called from your cellphone.
4. The take-out your cat or vagina ordered.
5. Some sage advice your cat or your vagina gave you.
I know you have some funny in you. It's okay if the anecdote is completely made up. Write this in the form of a monologue, as if you are sharing this story with a girlfriend on the subway or something. I love the idea of this having casual conversation with some surreal stuff mixed in.
_____________________________________
WEEK ONE:
Question and Answer by Ruth Dandrea
This is a test.
This is only a test.
If this had been a true
educational
experience
you would have been instructed
to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
you might have been allowed to talk,
discuss, argue or simply
delight in the beauty
of words on paper;
you could’ve had time,
taken time, time
and time
again, to reread, look
out the window
figure
how the robin on the maple
branch figures
into the bigger
scheme of things,
seen circles larger
that didn't require
filling in
with a number
two pencil,
fully; you’d have been
allowed to leave
stray marks
and fail to erase
completely,
pentimento, every
artist
knows adds a depth
worth
waiting for. But
this is only
a test, which
makes you subject
(or is it object)
not reader
and certainly not
writer.
And when the test
is in the room,
I am no longer
teacher, just proctor,
or, later, test
grader,
when a woman who knows
none of us
will drop her six-
inch binder
of training
materials (this
is not hyperbole,
I measured
with my eyes)
to prepare me
to read.
But the best
will be
the student
(excuse me,
test taker)
who
ran out of time
(we all run out of time)
who
didn’t know how to spell
the character’s
name
Morgan,
and so who
responded to
“Why did Morgan…?”
with
“Because,
Moron…”
This is the best
the test
can offer.
This is what
this test
deserves.
This is the kid
I will vote for
for president, or
at the very least
commissioner
of education.
- - - - -
This a test.
This is only a test.
If this had been a true
educational
experience
you would have been instructed
to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
Let's talk about line breaks for a moment. Since there are variations of line length
here, I think you should consider keeping with the clipped, frantic breaks like the opening (which helps set the tone of the poem) for example: This a test.
This is only
a test.
If this
had been
a true
educational
experience
you would have
been instructed
to open a real book
rather than
an examination
manual;
Or:
This a test. This is only a test.
If this had been a true educational experience
you would have been instructed to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
Due to the speaker's underlying disdain throughout this poem, I think it would be fun to provide them with some colorful language via actual foul language OR some severe snark. This poem has the potential to be an extremely biting piece of satire. I think you should make "if this had been a true educational experience" the refrain:if this had been a true educational experienceyou might have beenallowed/permitted to talk/speak, <---go
over the poem and find where the speaker takes on the kind of automated
speech that you might hear in a movie where everyone is about to blow
up and a woman can be heard saying, calmly, "This ship will
self-destruct in ten minutes."
discuss, argue or simply
delight in the beauty
of words on paper;
you could’ve had time,
taken time, time
and timeagain, to reread, look
out the window
figure
how the robin on the maple
branch figures
into the bigger
scheme of things, <---- this is imprecise. Do not be vague, here. Instead, actually write out what the student could actually be contemplating - what IS the robin's role in the grander scheme? And does the robin really "on" to anything? What does a bird do? Perch? Balance? Hover? SOMETHING!
if this had been a true educational experience[you could have] seen circleslarger
that didn't require
filling in
with a number
two pencil,
fully; you’d have been
allowed to leave
stray marks
and fail to erase
completely,
pentimento, every
artist
knows adds a depth
worth
waiting for. ** bonus points for "pentimento" I had to look that up!
But
this is only
a test, which
makes you subject
(or is it object)
not reader
and certainly not
writer. WHAT IS A WRITER?!?! STATE YOUR CASE IN A STANZA RIGHT AFTER THIS LINE.
And when the test
is in the room,
I am no longer
teacher, just proctor,
or, later, test
grader,
when a woman who knows
none of us
will drop her six-
inch binder
of training
materials (this
is not hyperbole,
I measured
with my eyes)
to prepare me
to read.
But the best
will be
the student
(excuse me,
test taker)
who
ran out of time
(we all run out of time)
who
didn’t know how to spell
the character’s
name
Morgan,
and so who
responded to
“Why did Morgan…?”
with
“Because,
Moron…”
This is the best
the test
can offer.
This is what
this test
deserves.
This is the kid
I will vote for
for president, or
at the very least
commissioner
of education.
_______________________________________________
WEEK ONE:
My Dolly Parton by Rachelle Cruz
Sprawled in front of her lit vanity, Auntie proclaims, Prince is
half-Filipino. She’s trying to help. We sit at her feet, our dirty
fingernails scratch at black letters spelling out “Our Multicultural Community”
(“I’m proud to be _____!”), while she lines her lips in Deep Coral,
rats her hair out to cover her crowning bald spot.
And so is Janet Jackson.
A shock of Extra Hold Vidal Sassoon falls over us like lenten baptism
(“Do you reject Satan? I do.”). But she can’t claim Dolly
even as we stuff Auntie’s bras with Kleenex, still warm from her night
shift at AC Transit. Even as we blow dust off from Real Love:
Dolly and Kenny and belt Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean
I’m dumb and shake our tissue tits into a shower. She snatches
my limp ponytail, blacker than penciled-in eyebrows, then points
at each fallen sheet and growls,
save it for the real tears.
- - - - - - -
Sprawled in front of her lit vanity, Auntie proclaims, Prince is
half-Filipino. She’s trying to help. We sit at her feet, our dirty
fingernails scratch at black letters spelling out “Our Multicultural Community”
(“I’m proud to be _____!”), while she lines her lips in Deep Coral,
rats her hair out to cover her crowning bald spot.
And so is Janet Jackson.
A shock of Extra Hold Vidal Sassoon falls over us like lenten baptism
(“Do you reject Satan? I do.”). But she can’t claim Dolly
even as we stuff Auntie’s bras with Kleenex, still warm from her night
shift at AC Transit. Even as we blow dust off from Real Love:
Dolly and Kenny and belt Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean
I’m dumb and shake our tissue tits into a shower. She snatches
my limp ponytail, blacker than penciled-in eyebrows, then points
at each fallen sheet and growls,
save it for the real tears.
This is a fun poem with a dangerous current beneath. I love it. I highlighted the few moments where I thought you can have bigger fun with the language, since we're talking about DOLLY RHINESTONED DENIM LARGER THAN A BLOW UP DOLL PARTON here. I want there to be maybe two or three more lines where we get a few more quick glimpses into the reality of the younger family members' lives. I want to know what the house smells like, or what dinner isn't. I want to know one more thing that is holy in this house.
- - - - - -
WEEK ONE:
Unfaithful by Laura Hull
Perhaps I should learn a foreign tongue
Explore an exotic location
Unfamiliar and pleasing
an impromptu French lesson
I find softness in a world where logic tries to run the show
a jolt of remembrance
and the salty surprise in the shape of the nape
the tender web between fingers
the shared breath of a yielding sigh
Danger entrances my bloodbeat
no, this is not the drugstore saxophone player
but the gift of wild berries found only on the side of this mountain,
conditions rare
But I will not forfeit my native tongue
the one that knows how to bridge me into a celtic past
I know little about – oh the roots, the rising of spirit
the simple spiral celebration
peaceful and riotous
- - - - - - -
I like how the final two poems posted where about culture and yearning. Let's dive in.
Perhaps I should learn a foreign tongue
Explore an exotic locationUnfamiliar and pleasing <--- this is where your poet self needs to step in and get pull up something vibrant and full of teeth. Describe the most exotic place you can imagine. What would the native women look like? What would they adorn their bodies with? OR, what wild feast would they have, and what would they serve it on?
an impromptu French lesson (love how this line reigns in the yearning by choosing something easier)
I find softness in a world where logic tries to run the show
a jolt of remembrance
and the salty surprise in theshape of the nape
the tender web between fingers
the shared breath of a yielding sigh
Danger entrances my bloodbeat
no, this is not the drugstore saxophone player
but the gift of wild berries found only on the side of this mountain, <----yes!
conditions rare
But I will not forfeit my native tongue
the one that knows how to bridge me into a celtic past
I know little about – oh the roots, the rising of spirit
the simple spiral celebration
peaceful and riotous.
What I like to do once I've finished the first draft of a poem is go back and circle every verb, adjective, then see if I can "branch out" and find a word that isn't as familiar, something that brings new life to my language. So, from "pooling" I'd write out all of the associative words, like FLOOD, then from that, I'd find GUTTER, then from that, I'd think SEWER, and stretch and stretch until I had a bank of words I could draw from. This also helps build an extended metaphor, so my images stay "married" to each other.
_ _ _ _ _ _
WEEK ONE:
Funny by Cecily Schuler
In order to write something funny, first
be upset. Find something on fire that’s crawling
up the inside of your torso like one too many
bong hits put you to sleep with the candles left burning,
wake up to the cat crying, panic tinged, unsure. Wait –
this isn’t funny.
In order to write something funny, remember
the last time you were mad. So mad
there was only one thing left to do:
laugh about it. And when laughter crumpled the damning
and gravity pulled the fury out through the tiny viaducts
on either side of the bridge spanning your reflection,
and you swore you could break that mirror with all the weight
spilling from every empty space inside, you tried, in fact, but wait –
this isn’t funny.
In order to write something funny, quit trying
so hard. Amuse yourself by acknowledging how
funny you really are, how people are always laughing
as you perform, as you are always performing, how they
all love your performance, and as you say to yourself, silly
people, what do they know about me? Laugh.
This isn’t funny.
Cecily, please write the poem about falling asleep high and waking up a few hours later to find all of the different things the cat (or your actual vagina) has done.
Include:
1. A unique place the cat or your vagina "marked" its territory.
2. Something in your home that the cat or your vagina alphabetized.
3. Three people the cat or your vagina prank called from your cellphone.
4. The take-out your cat or vagina ordered.
5. Some sage advice your cat or your vagina gave you.
I know you have some funny in you. It's okay if the anecdote is completely made up. Write this in the form of a monologue, as if you are sharing this story with a girlfriend on the subway or something. I love the idea of this having casual conversation with some surreal stuff mixed in.
_____________________________________
WEEK ONE:
Question and Answer by Ruth Dandrea
This is a test.
This is only a test.
If this had been a true
educational
experience
you would have been instructed
to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
you might have been allowed to talk,
discuss, argue or simply
delight in the beauty
of words on paper;
you could’ve had time,
taken time, time
and time
again, to reread, look
out the window
figure
how the robin on the maple
branch figures
into the bigger
scheme of things,
seen circles larger
that didn't require
filling in
with a number
two pencil,
fully; you’d have been
allowed to leave
stray marks
and fail to erase
completely,
pentimento, every
artist
knows adds a depth
worth
waiting for. But
this is only
a test, which
makes you subject
(or is it object)
not reader
and certainly not
writer.
And when the test
is in the room,
I am no longer
teacher, just proctor,
or, later, test
grader,
when a woman who knows
none of us
will drop her six-
inch binder
of training
materials (this
is not hyperbole,
I measured
with my eyes)
to prepare me
to read.
But the best
will be
the student
(excuse me,
test taker)
who
ran out of time
(we all run out of time)
who
didn’t know how to spell
the character’s
name
Morgan,
and so who
responded to
“Why did Morgan…?”
with
“Because,
Moron…”
This is the best
the test
can offer.
This is what
this test
deserves.
This is the kid
I will vote for
for president, or
at the very least
commissioner
of education.
- - - - -
This a test.
This is only a test.
If this had been a true
educational
experience
you would have been instructed
to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
Let's talk about line breaks for a moment. Since there are variations of line length
here, I think you should consider keeping with the clipped, frantic breaks like the opening (which helps set the tone of the poem) for example: This a test.
This is only
a test.
If this
had been
a true
educational
experience
you would have
been instructed
to open a real book
rather than
an examination
manual;
Or:
This a test. This is only a test.
If this had been a true educational experience
you would have been instructed to open a real book
rather than an examination manual;
Due to the speaker's underlying disdain throughout this poem, I think it would be fun to provide them with some colorful language via actual foul language OR some severe snark. This poem has the potential to be an extremely biting piece of satire. I think you should make "if this had been a true educational experience" the refrain:if this had been a true educational experienceyou might have been
discuss, argue or simply
delight in the beauty
of words on paper;
you could’ve had time,
and time
out the window
figure
how the robin on the maple
branch figures
into the bigger
scheme of things, <---- this is imprecise. Do not be vague, here. Instead, actually write out what the student could actually be contemplating - what IS the robin's role in the grander scheme? And does the robin really "on" to anything? What does a bird do? Perch? Balance? Hover? SOMETHING!
if this had been a true educational experience[you could have] seen circles
that didn't require
filling in
with a number
two pencil,
fully; you’d have been
allowed to leave
stray marks
and fail to erase
completely,
pentimento, every
artist
knows adds a depth
worth
waiting for. ** bonus points for "pentimento" I had to look that up!
But
this is only
a test, which
makes you subject
(or is it object)
not reader
and certainly not
writer. WHAT IS A WRITER?!?! STATE YOUR CASE IN A STANZA RIGHT AFTER THIS LINE.
And when the test
is in the room,
I am no longer
teacher, just proctor,
or, later, test
grader,
when a woman who knows
none of us
will drop her six-
inch binder
of training
materials (this
is not hyperbole,
I measured
with my eyes)
to prepare me
to read.
But the best
will be
the student
(excuse me,
test taker)
who
ran out of time
(we all run out of time)
who
didn’t know how to spell
the character’s
name
Morgan,
and so who
responded to
“Why did Morgan…?”
with
“Because,
Moron…”
This is the best
the test
can offer.
This is what
this test
deserves.
This is the kid
I will vote for
for president, or
at the very least
commissioner
of education.
_______________________________________________
WEEK ONE:
My Dolly Parton by Rachelle Cruz
Sprawled in front of her lit vanity, Auntie proclaims, Prince is
half-Filipino. She’s trying to help. We sit at her feet, our dirty
fingernails scratch at black letters spelling out “Our Multicultural Community”
(“I’m proud to be _____!”), while she lines her lips in Deep Coral,
rats her hair out to cover her crowning bald spot.
And so is Janet Jackson.
A shock of Extra Hold Vidal Sassoon falls over us like lenten baptism
(“Do you reject Satan? I do.”). But she can’t claim Dolly
even as we stuff Auntie’s bras with Kleenex, still warm from her night
shift at AC Transit. Even as we blow dust off from Real Love:
Dolly and Kenny and belt Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean
I’m dumb and shake our tissue tits into a shower. She snatches
my limp ponytail, blacker than penciled-in eyebrows, then points
at each fallen sheet and growls,
save it for the real tears.
- - - - - - -
Sprawled in front of her lit vanity, Auntie proclaims, Prince is
half-Filipino. She’s trying to help. We sit at her feet, our dirty
fingernails scratch at black letters spelling out “Our Multicultural Community”
(“I’m proud to be _____!”), while she lines her lips in Deep Coral,
rats her hair out to cover her crowning bald spot.
And so is Janet Jackson.
A shock of Extra Hold Vidal Sassoon falls over us like lenten baptism
(“Do you reject Satan? I do.”). But she can’t claim Dolly
even as we stuff Auntie’s bras with Kleenex, still warm from her night
shift at AC Transit. Even as we blow dust off from Real Love:
Dolly and Kenny and belt Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean
I’m dumb and shake our tissue tits into a shower. She snatches
my limp ponytail, blacker than penciled-in eyebrows, then points
at each fallen sheet and growls,
save it for the real tears.
This is a fun poem with a dangerous current beneath. I love it. I highlighted the few moments where I thought you can have bigger fun with the language, since we're talking about DOLLY RHINESTONED DENIM LARGER THAN A BLOW UP DOLL PARTON here. I want there to be maybe two or three more lines where we get a few more quick glimpses into the reality of the younger family members' lives. I want to know what the house smells like, or what dinner isn't. I want to know one more thing that is holy in this house.
- - - - - -
WEEK ONE:
Unfaithful by Laura Hull
Perhaps I should learn a foreign tongue
Explore an exotic location
Unfamiliar and pleasing
an impromptu French lesson
I find softness in a world where logic tries to run the show
a jolt of remembrance
and the salty surprise in the shape of the nape
the tender web between fingers
the shared breath of a yielding sigh
Danger entrances my bloodbeat
no, this is not the drugstore saxophone player
but the gift of wild berries found only on the side of this mountain,
conditions rare
But I will not forfeit my native tongue
the one that knows how to bridge me into a celtic past
I know little about – oh the roots, the rising of spirit
the simple spiral celebration
peaceful and riotous
- - - - - - -
I like how the final two poems posted where about culture and yearning. Let's dive in.
Explore an exotic locationUnfamiliar and pleasing <--- this is where your poet self needs to step in and get pull up something vibrant and full of teeth. Describe the most exotic place you can imagine. What would the native women look like? What would they adorn their bodies with? OR, what wild feast would they have, and what would they serve it on?
an impromptu French lesson (love how this line reigns in the yearning by choosing something easier)
I find softness in a world where logic tries to run the show
a jolt of remembrance
and the salty surprise in the
the tender web between fingers
the shared breath of a yielding sigh
Danger entrances my bloodbeat
no, this is not the drugstore saxophone player
but the gift of wild berries found only on the side of this mountain, <----yes!
conditions rare
the one that knows how to bridge me into a celtic past
I know little about – oh the roots, the rising of spirit
the simple spiral celebration
peaceful and riotous.
at night my tongue loosens
unwinding from its rusted spool
i taste iron pooling at the top of my throat
i have a tin man jaw
slick with oil and chomping
under the glowing of the sky’s
slight orange belly
the nearing of dark.
i spit up my mother’s undercooked sharpness
her mother’s birdlike tendencies
pouring out both our mouths
nails and sharp objects
i correct you
my jokes aren’t joking
the whip in my mouth cracks
and you quiet
it’s not words so much as
razor edged shards
dark metal spilling from my mouth
i would rather have diamonds or thorny roses
than this industrial mess
my cheeks torn and leaking
i would give all my sips of water and
every crumb of bread
to stop this calling up of so many women
through my lips after
10 o'clock at night
i spit out a record needle
the edge of a chipped tooth that
crystallizes in my palm
a piece of string tied to a small anchor from
a saltwater fish tank
there’s a lot of scraping
i grow tired of this evicting
too bloody to be a vessel
of history tonight
i beg to go to bed.
you cough up a small gem
in solidarity
and acquiesce.
- - - - - - - - - - - -