Workshop
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Funny
ReplyDeleteby 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.
Notes above, Cecily!
DeleteQuestion and Answer
ReplyDeleteby 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.
Notes above, Ruth! :)
DeleteThanks so much! It's great to have helpful poetry criticism again. Here's the revised poem:
ReplyDeleteOld Pipes - Nora Pellegrino
at night my tongue loosens
from its rusted spool
iron pooling at the top of my throat
i have a tin man jaw
slick with oil and chomping
under the glowing orange belly
of the sky, nearing of dark.
i spit up my mother’s undercooked sharpness
her mother’s birdlike tendencies
pouring out our mouths
nails and ugly pauses
i correct you
my jokes aren’t joking
the whip in my mouth cracks
and you quiet
i would rather have diamonds or thorny roses
than this corrosive mess
my slivered tongue pink and red
i would give my tender
neck, raw with speech
to stop this calling up of so many women
after 10 o'clock at night
i spit up a record needle
the edge of a chipped tooth
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.
Ooooo, love the new title and the tightened language here. Great job!
DeleteHi folks,
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to writing and reading with you all!
My Dolly Parton
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.
All best,
Rachelle
Notes above, Rachelle! :)
DeleteHi - I'm getting a late start so thanks for your patience, this is what I came up with for the first prompt.
ReplyDeleteUnfaithful
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
notes above, Laura!
DeleteHere is the rewrite:
DeleteI want to learn a foreign tongue
a daring feast between the lips of Lisbon, loosened with flamenco notes;
an impromptu French lesson on dead end streets
I find softness in a world where logic tries to run the show
a jolt of remembrance
and the salty surprise in 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
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.