dove? isola ellis io qui america tre bambino, si marito, non qui i gia america vado a gli
from the belly of the big ship we are spit into the maze and i try to find my way i cannot speak, do not understand, my little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers and cry for a home they do not know was already gone before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola, green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family and cosimo already gone come he writes on the winds come he calls on the waves and someone comes a friend the padrone and puts us on a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat and puts us out to endless seas that are not blue, did they tell you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little one suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who when he can’t smoke sucks my stained fingers instead says it is almost as good maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo? yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty road of the maze i follow and follow but which leads nowhere fast and always forgetting something lost behind that i really need really need to go back and get but i’m already too late and lost and the babies tug on my dry brown fingers which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies are lost and i am really alone and need to find find everyone again and like marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth
i am the cause of the dream nipote the reason for the maze my journey is your journey we wander wind the bone of aloneness seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop in your father’s my son’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking not going out but in swallowing memories his mind has let go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone dirt formed on another continent light and wine i am the dull-colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost in the maze, hazy and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green eyes, like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now and wondering i will fill it you find you in the maze all it takes is water and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze of veins bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching fingers is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never know you and i knew you’d need to know the way there is no way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb- granddaughter fly
I couldn't get the line breakdowns correct. (It changed from the copy and paste, and then again after "publishing." The first passage in Italian was intended to be centered. The second and fourth stanzas were intended to be two lines each of approximately equal length. Sorry.
from the belly of the big ship we are spit into the maze and i try to find my way i cannot speak, do not understand, my little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers and cry for a home they do not know was already gone before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola, green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family
I just tested to see if I could copy and paste the text from above, Ruth. At the end of each line, where I wanted a line break I hit the space bar and then return.
Do you mind trying that again? It's very hard to read as a giant block of text.
dove? isola ellis io qui america tre bambino, si marito, non qui i gia america vado a gli
from the belly of the big ship we are spit into the maze and i try to find my way i cannot speak, do not understand, my little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers and cry for a home they do not know was already gone before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family and cosimo already gone come he writes on the winds come he calls on the waves and someone comes a friend the padrone and puts us on a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat and puts us out to endless seas that are not blue, did they tell you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little one suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who when he can’t smoke sucks my stained fingers instead says it is almost as good maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo? yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty road of the maze i follow and follow but which leads nowhere fast and always forgetting something lost behind that i really need really need to go back and get but i’m already too late and lost and the babies tug on my dry brown fingers which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies are lost and i am really alone and need to find find everyone again and like marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth
i am the cause of the dream nipote the reason for the maze my journey is your journey we wander wind the bone of aloneness seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop in your father’s my son’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking not going out but in swallowing memories his mind has let go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone dirt formed on another continent light and wine i am the dull- colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost in the maze, hazy and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green eyes, like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now and wondering i will fill it you find you in the maze all it takes is water and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze of veins bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching fingers is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never know you and i knew you’d need to know the way there is no way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb-granddaughter fly
from the belly of the big ship we are spit << love this. I suggest closing the line here and rearranging the next>>
(RUTH! I love love love this. What a generous weaving of language and images and voice. Thanks so much for this. Below are small suggestions for cuts. Go through and circle any image that appears more than twice. What can you do to stretch the language and bring something new to each sequence so the reader is not fatigued by the same image? It's okay to let babies and fingers become something else, or at least be called something else. The theme/content allows for a lot of suspension of logic, use that to your advantage. You might feel like you already have, but I believe you can reach deeper into each line and chisel out some startling images or word choices that will stick to the readers' psyche for a good long time. You want to haunt. This poem is 90% ghost. Let it be an entire planet of unearthliness. WELL DONE.)
i try to find my way through the maze(.) I cannot speak, do not understand(.) My little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers, cry for a home they do not know was gone before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family and cosimo already gone
come he writes on the winds come he calls on the waves and someone comes
a friend the padrone and puts us on a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat out to endless seas that are not blue, did they tell you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little one suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who(,) when he can’t smoke(,) sucks my stained fingers(,) says it is almost as good maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo? yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty road of the maze <>
i follow and follow << cut: nowhere fast** cliche >>
always forgetting something lost behind i need to go back but i’m already too late and lost and the babies tug<<---new word>> on my dry brown fingers which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies are lost and i am alone and need to find everyone again and like marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth <>>
i am the cause of the dream nipote the reason for the maze(,) my journey is your journey we wander(,) wind the bone of aloneness seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop in your father’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking not going out but in swallowing memories his mind has let go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone dirt formed on another continent light and wine i am the dull-colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost, hazy and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green eyes like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now and wondering i will fill it you find you XXXXX all it takes is water and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze <<-- switch out>>> of veins bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching fingers is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never know you and i knew you’d need to know the way there is no way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb-granddaughter fly
Cecily, I really dig this. I am going to just give you suggestions to help the rhythm of this piece. Some of the words can be switched out to revitalize some of the language, for example:
*gathering* space to periosteal skin, *collect* in slate blue rubbermaid bin, *beneath* the work bench *behind* the garage on third avenue northwest <---and I know it changes the "place" but it has a cleaner sound
the wisdom of silent <-- I'm curious about this particular line, floating (?)
nest of timothy hay, the prayer in one handful of soil is only that of flood -- liquid of tear and lava, saliva, > LOVE this stanza
blood -- *below*, the bones waiting
to become drum beater of familiar <>( I think this should be up on the first line of this stanza) now newly stretched circle or else a rattle of clattering ribs
This was a fun and permission-granting way to get weird.
Regarding the floating lines: what I was playing with was creating a poem within a poem -- I don't necessarily know what to be considering craft-wise for such a venture, I was just playing with it to see what happened.
We flooded the shoebox with glitter and gummy. A sugar rotten tooth, clothespins with eyes, a porcelain rabbit’s foot, stickers of hearts swollen but firm against bursting. My fingernails are blood-rimmed but I scratch politely at the dirt. What we didn’t bury: it darkens like an anchor in the soil.
We flooded the shoebox with glitter and gummy. >> great opener
A sugar rotten tooth, < how would you feel about transposing, maybe? and then making up a word, i.e. "a rotten sugartooth"?> clothespins with eyes, a porcelain rabbit’s foot, < same here: a rabbit's porcelain foot> stickers of hearts swollen but firm against bursting. My fingernails are blood-rimmed but I scratch politely at the dirt. What we didn’t bury: it darkens like an anchor in the soil. >> fabulous closer as well
I think, since the poem itself is small but dense, the only thing it needs is some weather. and it doesn't have to be in the literal sense. Also, be careful with your tenses. They seem to change a few times: We flooded instead of "we flood" and "what we didn't bury" instead of "what we do not"
Great job, Rachelle. I love your economy-of-language-skills
Week 2 Poem--Ruth
ReplyDeletemary grace
dove? isola ellis
io qui america
tre bambino, si
marito, non qui
i gia america
vado a gli
from the belly of the big ship we are spit into the maze and i try to find my way i cannot speak, do not understand, my little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers and cry for a home they do not know was already gone before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola, green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family and cosimo already gone come he writes on the winds come he calls on the waves and someone comes a friend the padrone and puts us on a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat and puts us out to endless seas that are
not blue, did they tell you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little one suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who when he can’t smoke sucks my stained fingers instead says it is almost as good maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo? yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty road of the maze i follow and follow but which leads nowhere fast and always forgetting something lost behind that i really need really need to go back and get but i’m already too late and lost and the babies tug on my dry brown fingers which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies are lost and i am really alone and need to find find everyone again and like marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth
i am the cause of the dream nipote the reason for the maze
my journey is your journey
we wander wind the bone of aloneness
seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop in your father’s my son’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking not going out but in swallowing memories his mind has let go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone dirt formed on another continent light and wine i am the dull-colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost in the maze, hazy and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green eyes, like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now and wondering i will fill it you find you in the maze all it takes is water and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze of veins bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching fingers is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never know you and i knew you’d need to know the way there is no way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb-
granddaughter fly
I couldn't get the line breakdowns correct. (It changed from the copy and paste, and then again after "publishing." The first passage in Italian was intended to be centered. The second and fourth stanzas were intended to be two lines each of approximately equal length. Sorry.
ReplyDeletefrom the belly of the big ship we are spit
Deleteinto the maze and i try to find my way
i cannot speak, do not understand,
my little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers
and cry for a home they do not know was already gone
before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola,
green fields and dry winds and no money only hungry family
I just tested to see if I could copy and paste the text from above, Ruth.
At the end of each line, where I wanted a line break
I hit the space bar and then return.
Do you mind trying that again? It's very hard to read as a giant block of text.
Thank you!
mary grace
Deletedove? isola ellis
io qui america
tre bambino, si
marito, non qui
i gia america
vado a gli
from the belly of the big ship we are spit
into the maze and i try to find my way
i cannot speak, do not understand, my little
ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers and cry
for a home they do not know was already gone
before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola
green fields and dry winds and no money only
hungry family and cosimo already gone come
he writes on the winds come he calls on the waves and
someone comes a friend the padrone and puts us on
a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat and puts us
out to endless seas that are not blue, did they tell
you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony
at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy
cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little
one suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory
rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes
also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who when he can’t
smoke sucks my stained fingers instead says it is almost as good
maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly
where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting
more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo?
yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where
the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood
red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty
road of the maze i follow and follow but which leads
nowhere fast and always forgetting something lost behind
that i really need really need to go back and get but i’m already too
late and lost and the babies tug on my dry brown fingers
which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies
are lost and i am really alone and need to find find everyone again and like
marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth
i am the cause of the dream nipote the reason for the maze my journey is your
journey we wander wind the bone of aloneness seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop
in your father’s my son’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking
not going out but in swallowing memories his mind has let
go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone
dirt formed on another continent light and wine i am the dull-
colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost in the maze, hazy
and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true
witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding
not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child
and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green
eyes, like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown
and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now
and wondering i will fill it you find you in the maze all it takes is water
and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings
never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot
to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze of veins
bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching
fingers is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never
know you and i knew you’d need to know the way there is no
way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail
maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb-granddaughter fly
from the belly of the big ship we are spit << love this. I suggest closing the line here and rearranging the next>>
Delete(RUTH! I love love love this. What a generous weaving of language and images and voice. Thanks so much for this. Below are small suggestions for cuts. Go through and circle any image that appears more than twice. What can you do to stretch the language and bring something new to each sequence so the reader is not fatigued by the same image? It's okay to let babies and fingers become something else, or at least be called something else. The theme/content allows for a lot of suspension of logic, use that to your advantage. You might feel like you already have, but I believe you can reach deeper into each line and chisel out some startling images or word choices that will stick to the readers' psyche for a good long time. You want to haunt. This poem is 90% ghost. Let it be an entire planet of unearthliness. WELL DONE.)
i try to find my way through the maze(.)
I cannot speak, do not understand(.)
My little ones tug on my tobacco-stained fingers,
cry for a home they do not know was gone
before we left pietrelcina, san angelo a cupola
green fields and dry winds and no money
only hungry family and cosimo already gone
come
he writes on the winds
come
he calls on the waves and someone comes
a friend the padrone and puts us on
a wagon to napoli and puts us on the boat
out to endless seas that are not blue, did they tell
you this, too, they are green darkening to gray, ebony
at night never blue long days wander the maze into crazy
cradle-rocking nights and the babies cry and the little one
suckles me dry and my fingers brown from the factory
rolling rolling rolling tobacco like these waves which are sometimes
also brown sometimes stealing one for cosimo who(,) when he can’t
smoke(,) sucks my stained fingers(,) says it is almost as good
maybe better and it tickles not the wet finger but inside my belly
where the babies grow cosimo’s mouth hot and wet and wanting
more than my fingers can give so when he asks me yes andiamo?
yes i will tell him anything when my fingers and belly where
the babies grow throb like cocoons waiting to split fisted into blood
red geraniums in a pot by a window lining the dusty
road of the maze <>
i follow and follow
<< cut: nowhere fast** cliche >>
always forgetting something lost behind
i need to go back but i’m already too late and lost
and the babies tug<<---new word>> on my dry brown fingers
which are twigs and break off in their hands and now the babies
are lost and i am alone and need to find everyone again and like
marquez’s general look for a ladder to climb out of this labyrinth <>>
EDITS: PART 2
Deletei am the cause of the dream nipote
the reason for the maze(,) my journey is your journey
we wander(,) wind the bone of aloneness seeking lost suns of ancient soils
it all winds down to you granddaughter sitting on the stoop
in your father’s black rocking chair rocking and rocking
not going out but in swallowing memories his mind
has let go even those he never knew he knew just felt in the bone
dirt formed on another continent light and wine
i am the dull-colored pigeon gurgling in the street lost, hazy
and speaking a language nobody knows but what they tell you is true
witchwoman that i was are you carried over water winding
not finding the way until the rocking chair cries like a lost child
and now i am the black crow of the raucous call that called your green eyes
like the sea deepening to dark, your dirt stained fingers brown
and crying to be sucked your belly where the babies grow empty now
and wondering i will fill it you find you XXXXX all it takes is water
and three drops of oil in a bowl and though the windings
never end and we stay in the maze forever the thing they forgot
to tell you granddaughter the blood that winds the maze <<-- switch out>>> of veins
bulges in hot weather over the knuckles of your reaching fingers
is one i wove before you were born because i knew i’d never
know you and i knew you’d need to know the way
there is no way out of the labyrinth labor though you may
you are the cause of the dream nipote but i am the way red blood rocking hail
maria full of grazia blessed is the fruit, red and ripe, womb-granddaughter fly
Sorry so late! Here's what I came up with:
ReplyDeleteRabbit Bones
collecting space to periosteal skin, gather
in slate blue rubbermaid bin, under the work bench
in the back of the garage on third avenue northwest
the wisdom of silent
nest of timothy hay, the prayer in one
handful of soil is only that
of flood -- liquid of tear and lava, saliva,
blood -- underneath, the bones waiting
to become drum beater of familiar
skin now newly stretched circle
or else a rattle of clattering ribs
hammer to porcelain illusion
darkening sermon
refurbished anchor
mundane instrument
shatter that to shift what is only felt
Cecily, I really dig this. I am going to just give you suggestions to help the rhythm of this piece.
DeleteSome of the words can be switched out to revitalize some of the language, for example:
*gathering* space to periosteal skin, *collect*
in slate blue rubbermaid bin, *beneath* the work bench
*behind* the garage on third avenue northwest <---and I know it changes the "place" but it has a cleaner sound
the wisdom of silent <-- I'm curious about this particular line, floating (?)
nest of timothy hay, the prayer in one
handful of soil is only that
of flood -- liquid of tear and lava, saliva, > LOVE this stanza
blood -- *below*, the bones waiting
to become drum beater of familiar
<>( I think this should be up on the first line of this stanza) now newly stretched circle
or else a rattle of clattering ribs
hammer to porcelain illusion
darkening sermon
refurbished anchor
mundane instrument
shatter that to shift what is only felt
- - - -
I love the sparsity of language and the wise word choices here. Such rich, dense imagery in a short poem. GREAT work.
Thanks, Rachel!
DeleteThis was a fun and permission-granting way to get weird.
Regarding the floating lines: what I was playing with was creating a poem within a poem -- I don't necessarily know what to be considering craft-wise for such a venture, I was just playing with it to see what happened.
Hi folks,
ReplyDeleteSorry for the delay! I've just finished the school year and now visiting family, but will post soon. Thanks for understanding!
-Rachelle
Time Capsule
ReplyDeleteWe flooded the shoebox
with glitter and gummy.
A sugar rotten tooth,
clothespins with eyes,
a porcelain rabbit’s foot,
stickers of hearts swollen
but firm against bursting.
My fingernails are blood-rimmed
but I scratch politely at the dirt.
What we didn’t bury:
it darkens like an anchor
in the soil.
We flooded the shoebox
Deletewith glitter and gummy. >> great opener
A sugar rotten tooth, < how would you feel about transposing, maybe? and then making up a word, i.e. "a rotten sugartooth"?>
clothespins with eyes,
a porcelain rabbit’s foot, < same here: a rabbit's porcelain foot>
stickers of hearts swollen
but firm against bursting.
My fingernails are blood-rimmed
but I scratch politely at the dirt.
What we didn’t bury:
it darkens like an anchor
in the soil. >> fabulous closer as well
I think, since the poem itself is small but dense, the only thing it needs is some weather. and it doesn't have to be in the literal sense. Also, be careful with your tenses. They seem to change a few times: We flooded instead of "we flood" and "what we didn't bury" instead of "what we do not"
Great job, Rachelle. I love your economy-of-language-skills