What's the News?

I loved our last theme, and I've decided to build on it a little for our next prompt. One of the great things about living in our digital age is the ability to tap into a nearly infinite network of information. The whole of human knowledge is quite literally at our fingertips. The world is our library.

With that in mind, this week I'd like to dig a little deeper. For this prompt, choose one article, photograph, status update, headline, tweet, or whatever else you find out there on the world wide interwebs and elaborate it into a poem in your own words. Dive in, and enjoy!

Found Poem

To begin with: I apologize for my dereliction of duty last week! I was experiencing a serious case of writer's block tied to some recent anxieties and upsets. But I'm back now, and I absolutely love this week's prompt. Social media is so much a part of our every day lives, but it's rare that we stop to find the poetry in it.
Artists have been exploiting the bounty of the digital age since the 90s, acting something like DJ's, rearranging bits and pieces of found visual information, creating meaning by altering the context in which these images are received. I tried to approach this assignment from an artistic angle rather than a literary one, creating a collage of words that's meant to evoke a certain mood rather than prompt textual analysis. The poem is pieced together entirely from sentences and fragments of sentences that appeared on my Facebook newsfeed in the past few days, as is the picture, which was taken by a friend of mine in New York as Central Park was buried in the first snow of the season.

Fog Machines

Oh, hello, nor’easter.

The first flurries of the season fell, carried by the wind, followed by the leaves.

But there is still that lingering thought.

How could you ever

Confirm/deny?

There are no words

... Perchè niente è cambiato anche se tutto è diverso.

For now we are young.

Still, that lingering thought.

Chemistry and timing.

I write

and hope to see.

That lingering thought.

Even then it is a moment of grace.

Theme: Social Media Found Poetry

Found poetry has been one of my favorite genres of poetry since I first played with it in high school.  Infinite combinations can be made when you only take the words of other people and reconstruct them in new and meaningful ways.  Our dialogue theme last week made me think a lot about how we communicate today compared to generations past.  Certainly the internet and social media have opened communication channels that were previously untapped, whether that is for good or not is open to debate.  So, in honor of this meditation on communication I challenge you to choose one channel of social media, be it your e-mail inbox, your Facebook  or Twitter stream, or whatever the kids are keeping up with these days and create a found poem using the words of the social network.  Enjoy!

Poem 4- War Correspondence

I work in the Clements Library at the University of Michigan which is a collection of primary materials and documents all focused on American History. It is an amazing place to be, and I have access to people's personal lives over 500 years (take that, Facebook!). One collection I just spent some time with was a collection of letters between an Army doctor serving in England in World War II and his fiancee at home in Syracuse. They wrote more than 600 letters in the two years that they were apart, sometimes writing 3 or 4 letters a day. However, despite the seemingly prolific communication, there was a month wait time for their letters to float across the Atlantic Ocean so they never were really able to have a dialogue. They weren't able to respond to each other in time, so their correspondence takes the form as parallel individual narratives. They are quite lovely, and made me think a lot about how much dialogue has changed. My own significant other lived in England for a year and our communication took quite different forms. I wonder if historians will have access to our correspondence?

Some of these lines are taken directly from the original letters, though much of it is inferred. Read it as you like. I attempted to construct separate narratives, as their letters were, but also give it an overall structure that could be read in multiple ways.

War Correspondence

(I had a hard time with formatting, so I just took a picture of the text)

I've lost count of the themes...

But here is this week's! It's always a challenge to try out new forms of poetry - it can be a real pain trying to mold your own unique style and language into a form that can seem stilted and archaic. It's amazing, though, how liberating restrictions can be. Closing one creative pathway inevitably necessitates the opening of another. I'm not going to propose we write sonnets, although the thought did cross my mind, but I am interested in exploring one of the less common poetry forms: the dialogue poem. Unlike most poetry which is written from the vantage point of a single character, dialogue poems allow for a conversation rather than a dramatic monologue. For this week's assignment, write a poem that engages two or more characters in some kind of verbal exchange. To inspire us, here's one of my favorite (racy!) dialogue poems by e.e. cummings.

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

Poem 3 - Susan

Navigation

Distance is losing meaning –

this, we know.

It is an old thought;

old as telephone lines,

railways, steamships,

rickety, rolling, shining cars,

and all things that puff and chug

and cough up fumes.

Old as the great grey

snakey windings

of a million-tailed nest

of highways, byways,

and stubby driveways,

leading nowhere,

and everywhere at once.

There is meaning in a journey –

from solid ground surrounded

on all sides by endless blue.

You wrap your bundles tightly,

one by one:

here is taro, breadfruit,

coconut, banana,

here is clothing, weapons.

There are animals, packed,

as well, alongside human cargo.

They are fat, now;

the sea will leave them gaunt

and wild eyed.

Your hope, you tuck

beside your gods,

at the prow of the boat.

You strike out into nothing –

and for days that will be all you see.

You will watch the stars;

mark their passing

from one concave horizon to another –

the birds will guide you,

and the color of the sea,

the gathering of clouds

hugging the flanks

of still invisible peaks.

One day, your will again see green –

mountains rising taller than the waves.

Your feet will kiss the sand,

sweet and white, untouched and infinite,

and you, also, will be made new.

There are no journeys, now –

only transportations.

I am here, and the sand is white

and sweet, and bounded on all sides

by glass, and concrete, and cement.

There are a thousand miles

that separate myself

from all I left behind.

But my bundles can’t sustain me,

and, not having marked the path

with my own un-callused feet,

I cannot seem to find

the right way home.

Poem 3 - Naomi

There is a system here--
a pattern of whirs and purrs and churns,
its presence is not as felt now
as it once was,
exhaling thick black
panting
slowly at first and then with increasing
intensity
But now
--not without starts and stops
crossing lines--
we glide,
the system pushing me
steadily to you.

A Favorite Transportation Poem

She Being Brand

e.e. cummings 

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg.  ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

         (it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

Theme 3: Transportation

This summer David and I went to Promontory Point on our way to Michigan.  We saw the place where the Transcontinental Railroad came together, opening the United States up to rapid travel from sea to shining sea it had recently taken in their war(s) with Mexico.  It hit me particularly because my students and I had studied wagon travel extensively, had followed Lewis and Clark and then the ill-fated Donner Party across the treacherous American landscape.  And then bam!  Suddenly you could take the same journey in a matter of days, on cushioned seats, with warm dining car food!  I know we talk about our current age as the technological age, but I can't think about many things that have had so profound an impact on our lives as transportation.

Susan and I are probably acutely aware of transportation as we both live far from our families and dearest friends and both have, until recently, maintained relationships over miles and oceans.

I have met few people who don't love to travel, but most people also complain about transportation (especially in this 'post-9/11' world everyone keeps talking about).  But transportation can be an escape in itself.  Sometimes I like the trip separately from the journey.  Being on a plane, or a train, or a long car ride, or even a bicycle ride can take us out of the every day movement of things.  There is also a certain beauty in the mechanics of these things (refer to the Steampunk aesthetic).

So this week's theme is transportation.  Take it as you will.

Past Personification

This poem doesn't exactly follow Susan's theme (come on, Blake!), but it definitely gives voice to someone outside William's perspective.


Two Sunflowers

Two Sunflowers
Move in the Yellow Room.
"Ah, William, we're weary of weather,"
said the sunflowers, shining with dew.
"Our traveling habits have tired us.
Can you give us a room with a view?"
They arranged themselves at the window
and counted the steps of the sun,
and they both took root in the carpet
where the topaz tortoises run.

William Blake

Poem 2 - Susan

Sea and Fire

This week I too was inspired by the inanimate - in my case, the Hawaiian islands that I currently call home. The Hawaiian island chain was formed at the site of a hot spot between tectonic plates, deep deep in the Pacific Ocean. Each new volcano is formed as the magma produced by the hot spot cools and builds up upon itself, eventually breaking the surface as a new island. As the Pacific Plate moves, so too do the island volcanoes. As they get farther away from the hot spot, erosion begins to act upon shores that are no longer replenished by cooled magma. The islands shrink, and eventually sink back into the ocean. The Hawaiian hot spot is currently shared by three volcanoes on the Big Island of Hawaii, among them, Mauna Loa, which, if measured from the its base at the ocean floor, is the tallest mountain on Earth.

Mauna Loa

I was born into contradiction –

from molten fire

into the cool and deep

of the ever shifting Earth.

I grew.

Youngest of my brothers:

in the salty dark,

I built myself

of liquid flame, extinguished

and made hard, again,

and again.

I grew by centimeters,

and millennia would pass

before I felt the kiss

of Tradewinds on my faces,

the lick of waves in hidden inlets,

the great green caress of Life.

Youngest of my brothers:

I am not now so young.

The boiling life within my veins

grows cold, and cracks.

The Earth still moves beneath me,

I am powerless,

and vast.

I will die in contradiction –

sucked into the womb

that birthed me.

In the cool, and deep,

fire becomes stone.

Take 1-Naomi

 I love the idea of picking inanimate objects, so if the mood strikes me I might possess another unsuspecting object this week.  But here's one for starters.  I was inspired (as I often am) by the beautiful, majestic ginkgo tree that rests beside the University of Michigan Student Union.  Title pending.

Photo from Wikipedia, not from Student Union (but similar!)

The height of it is high
and with every quake
every shake
I sense the depth of it too.
Every swing of the branch takes me
higher by my own height
and by my own height again.
Once, in my youth, the distance
was part of the fun.
My green limb clung and swung
bending and grasping
tightly to its base.
But with every blow, every bluster
green tightened to yellow
and yellow is too delicate
much to delicate
to hold.

Assignment 2 - New Perspective

What a wonderful first week we've had on this new incarnation of our beloved blog! Naomi's last post has me thinking that we should end every week with some Emily Dickinson - nothing like her for getting the mental cogs turning...

So, down to business. As poets, and most likely as people, Naomi and I both tend towards the deeply personal. Much of our inspiration comes from within, from our own emotions, cares, worries, and attempts to make sense of the world and other people. Of course the aim of most poetry is the universal within the personal, but I believe it's worthwhile in both writing and life to try to step outside ourselves every once in a while and see what emerges through a new pair of eyes. That's why this week's assignment will be to write a poem from a point of view other than your own. Choose someone you know, invent a whole new character, or even try to see things from the perspective of an inanimate object - write as anyone or anything you can dream up. Have fun, and I can't wait to read what comes next!

Poem for Thought from our Namesake

Autumn - overlooked my Knitting-
Dyes - said He - have I -
Could disparage a Flamingo - 
Show Me them - said I - 


Cochineal - I chose - for deeming
It resemble Thee
And the little Border - Dusker
for resembling Me - 


Emily Dickinson

Reader Submission

This poem comes from Laura, a poet in California.  She wrote this in honor of an autumnal birthday, and sent it along with a photograph from her lovely garden.

When flowers sing,

They dance with breezes,

They stir the leaves,

When flower dance,

The sky watches,

The clouds join in,

When flowers bloom,

It is a brief celebration of life

That happens each year,

At the same time

It’s a new birthday

Like yours

They just remind us.