THE BLOG HAS MOVED!

I Was Born Doing Reference Work in Sin has moved!
The new web address to visit and link is www.dustinbrookshire.com

WHY DO I WRITE ~ Arisa White

WHY DO I WRITE ~ Arisa White

Photo by Sven Wiederholt


I write because I'm trying to love others and myself.

It is a way of getting to.

It's an opportunity to try on humanity, from varying points of view. If I can write from the perspective of the murdered and murderer, I can discover in myself something I did not know.

To get to a place where I am not ashamed of my secrets.

To not judge.

It's how I keep myself sane and honest. Growing up with six other siblings, a mother who chose abusive boyfriends as partners, I needed a space to breathe, to remind myself that I had a voice that could be listened to, even if it was only by me. And despite the lies my mother told herself and us to permit and excuse such violence in our home, writing allowed me my own truth.

Writing is raising the silenced and inaudible voices to heard.

I've chosen poetry to help me navigate the questions I ask about people and the things people do, and the systems that we create to keep people doing the same, often, unhealthy things they do.

I can't let things go: I like the challenge of finding the words to remake the moment again. The constant translation of events, situations, and emotions keep my brain turned-on.

I like to be turned-on.

It is truly, the times when I feel safe. Free to take risk, to emote, and to be led by imagination without fear.

Sometimes, I need a knife, a lover, a priest, a compass, and the poem offers direction, listens, loves, and stabs.

It allows me to not be while still being. When you walk in the world as black, woman, queer, poor, and the such, you get read before you reveal who you are. And sometimes, there is no space to learn who you are without being constantly challenged by assumptions, stereotypes, and expectations to perform or produce in a certain way because of those social identities. So writing is restorative, recuperative and permits me to ask myself vulnerable questions about my own who-ness and humanness.

I love it.

Double Ds Move!

Well, I have a lot on my plate. Yes, I'm a big boy who enjoys a full a plate and often seconds, even I have to realize when I need to embrace change to keep everything on my plate balanced.

I have decided to move the Double Ds, which is a monthly column I organize with Denise Duhamel, from Read Write Poem to I Was Born Doing Reference Work in Sin. I hate to move the series from the fantastic Read Write Poems site. Read Write Poem has it all-- writing prompts, forums, and more web traffic than my blog; however, I have to think of the project. I am balancing a full-time job, college, Atlanta Pride Committee, Atlanta Queer Literary Festival Committee, Project Verse, Quarrel, Poetry Swap, Limp Wrist, and as of this week, promoting a chapbook that is going to be published by Pudding House Press. I'm a one man show doing all of this, so I have to do what is easiest for me while keeping the integrity of the project. --- moving the Double Ds to I Was Born Doing Reference Work in Sin will do just that!

I owe Dana a huge thanks for embracing the Double Ds as soon as I pitched the idea to her. I owe a big thanks to the RWP staff for posting the first entry with Marilyn Nelson.

Please check back for the Double Ds questioning Dara Weir in September. You won't want to miss it!

Sagittarius Agitprop from Black Lawrence Press

Matthew Frank's new collection of poems exchanges ideas for music and music for pictures, with completely unexpected freshness and velocity-- and this is not the experience of surrealism, but of a current realism that is hastening with the times. And these times are often rude and beyond all correction and all comparison. This book is sort of miraculous. I love it.
-Norman Dubie

In Matthew Gavin Frank's splendid debut collection, Sagittarius Agitprop, poem after poem is unswervingly bold and astonishing. "Parts of a Feather," to give an illustration, may be grounded in the experience of newlyweds home from a rainy honeymoon in Venice, but its opening announces that something very different from a personal narrative is at work in a Frank poem: "The superstitious geometry of the rock dove rests/ between its first and fifth rib. And you// rest between it, poised as water. It’s easy/ to call you a disease. Better: a heart or rain[.]" These are striking lines and they move into a startling meditation on art, life, union, and mortality: "Of course, you say, my hands// are the skeletons of everything with wings . . ./ A feather // stripped of barbs is bone." Frank is a master of deft balance between the material of experience and lyric transformation, never losing his poetic footing or his sense of humor. As the speaker hilariously observes: "A marriage license/ makes a lousy umbrella" ("Parts of a Feather"). These poems are inventive, fearless, and wise. To be Frank, I think he walks on the water that is the page!
-Cynthia Hogue, author of The Incognito Body and Flux

Judge Announcement: The Replacement

This morning it was announced that Dana Guthrie Martin will not be able to serve as a judge for Project Verse's Week 10: Final Assignment. Click here if you missed the post with all the details.

Matthew Hittinger is stepping in to fill Dana's spot for the Week 10: Final Assignment. Not only did Matthew serve as the guest judge for Week 3: Simile Vs Metaphor, he has been following Project Verse since Week 1.

Welcome aboard, Matthew!

ADAM & STEVE: Gay Dance Off

In my search for a specific Parker Posey clip from ADAM & STEVE, I found this gem:

Project Verse: Judge Announcement

Originally, the final Project Verse assignment was not what was posted early this morning. In fact, the original task probably wasn't even a hard enough task worthy of the fierce final two: Emily and Kathi. After a discussion with weekly guest judge Beth Gylys, we decided to incorporate change. This change keeps us close to our mission of promoting poets and poetry by giving a poetic makeover to Project Runway.

Unfortunately, weekly judge Dana Guthrie Martin will not be able to participate in the judging of the final assignment because of this change. Dana poured herself into Project Verse-- my thanks to her is endless. The contestents will never truly know how much she cared and cheered for each one of them-- I heard it in her voice each time we spoke on the time to discuss Project Verse. Your hard work and dedication is greatly appreciated. Thank you, Dana.

Here is a statement from Dana:

The Project Verse competition has been a wonderful experience, and I wish the final two candidates — as well as all the incredibly talented poets who competed — the very best with their writing.

Because of changes to the competition’s end date that have pushed Project Verse into September, I unfortunately won’t be able to be part of the final judging and must step away from the competition at this time.

An extra-special thanks is due to Dustin for all he’s put into this competition, and for having such a fantastic idea in the first place.

Good luck, everyone! I’ve learned a lot, and you have all been amazing to work with.

Poem on! And step in a little shit when you write. (That’s the opposite of the best advice my mother ever gave me. You don’t even want to know her second-best advice to me. It involves what kind of speculum not to allow the gynecologist to insert into you during a pelvic exam.)

Stay tuned for updates!

Week 10: Final Assignment

Emily and Kathi, you've made it a long way; however, you have one last assignment.

Only one poet can win Project Verse and receive the Project Verse prize package.

The final assignments consists of five parts:

Poem #1:
Part of your Week 9: Duel Task assignment required you to select what you consider the strongest line from your revised poem. The selected line will be used to write a new poem. While the new poem must use the strongest line, the new poem must not be anything like the poem from which it came. I almost forgot: you must swap lines.
Emily, you will use Kathi's Unrequited love can kill you.
Kathi, you will use Emily's and glittering. The sky is vintage celluloid, the hell.

Poem #2:
Revisit Week 5: The Between; redo the assignment. Yes, you must follow the rules as originally listed in the assignment. Poets, you may NOT use the lines you selected the first time around. Here is a reminder as to which lines you used the first time around:
Emily: He already has a name, she sighs reproachfully.
Kathi: As soon as he saw her, he knew that this wouldn't happen.

Poem #3:
Revisit Week 6: Epigraph; redo the assignment. Yes, you must follow the rules as originally listed in the assignment. Poets, you must select a different poem to create an epigraph from. Here is a reminder as to which poem you used the first time around:
Emily: "With Mercy for the Greedy" by Anne Sexton
Kathi: "Famous" by Naomi Shihab Nye

Poem #4:
Dorianne Laux participated in the new celebrity writing prompt series at Read Write poem. Click here to read Laux's prompt. Poets, you will use Dorianne Laux's RWP prompt to write a poem. Follow the instructions of the prompt carefully.

Poem #5:
Write a poem that begins with "I started writing poetry when I found out..." You can insert line breaks into those eight words any way you see fit; however, the poem MUST begin with those eight words. No, using the words in an epigraph won't suffice. The poem must be written in 50 lines or less. There is no form constraint.


DEADLINE: Poems should be submitted in a single Microsoft Word document by 4pm on Friday, September 11, 2009.


Good luck!

Get to writing.

Week 9: Duel Task ~ Results

Beth, Dustin, and Dana were joined by guest judge Denise Duhamel for Week 9: Duel Task. Click here to revisit pop culture portion of the assignment, and click here to revisit the revision portion of the assignment.

THE FINAL THREE:
EMILY VAN DUYNE
W.F. ROBY
KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR

Beth Gylys said it best when she said, "I want to be clear, my top choice and bottom choice are not separated by miles, but rather by degrees of degrees." I hope each of you take Beth's words to heart.

Emily, you've earned a spot in the final two. Congratulations!

W.F. and Kathi, both of you are talented poets. Both of you have been active in the poetry scene before this contest, and I know you'll continue after.

I'm sorry, W.F., you are on permanent caesura.

Kathi, congratulations!

I want Parker Posey to be my sister

Week 8: Villanelle Results

Beth, Dustin, and Dana were joined by guest judge Maureen Seaton for Week 8: Villanelle. Click here to revisit the Week 8 poems.


W.F. ROBY
KRISTEN MCHENRY
KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR

The weekly judges & guest judge Maureen Seaton all agreed that there is a clear winner for Week 8: Villanelle. Congratulations, W.F.


While the decision for the winner was easy, Kristen and Kathi, the decision for the bottom two was not easy. In fact, the decision for the bottom two was quite difficult, and the decision as to who goes on permanent caesura was extremely difficult.

Kristen and Kathi, the weekly judges feel that for most of the competition the two of you have been neck and neck. Both of you have had your ups and downs-- we've thought you've been great at times; we've questioned what you were doing at times. We see it all coming down to the week 8 assignment.

Kristen, you revised your poem correcting the AAB rhyme scheme error to the proper ABA rhyme scheme of the villanelle. However, the judges feel your original poem was stronger than the revision.

Kathi, the judges won't deny that you made great choices with your revisions; however, you didn't address the issue of slant rhyme.

Who stays? Who goes on permanent caesura? The poet who took the chance to revise and took two steps back, or the poet who wrote a good poem in spite of the rules....

Kristen, you are on permanent caesura.

Week 9: Duel Task (Poem Revisions!)

Week 9: Duel Task is a two part assignment for the remaining Project Verse contestants. Below you will find the poems from the revision portion of the assignment.


*************************************************
*************************************************


EMILY VAN DUYNE

ORIGINAL:
Elegy

Oh My God, the angels
wear white gloves on their left hands!
Eternity’s a big fat fucking show
tonight, vacuous black churned white

& glittering. I can see it
from my little clammy foxhole. The sky
is vintage celluloid, the hell with digital.
I hope you didn’t think

you’d make a nice clean break!
For’s Christ’s sake, don’t fail
us now— the stars went scuttling when
they heard you coming! You wouldn’t

leave us with no light
to top the bill? You couldn’t leave
us in the dark. We need another
comeback, need to know this isn’t how it ends—

(if you can end, then so can we)
& trust this Jersey girl who stalks
the sky— we never cared for your humanity.
The world’s no

stage these days, it’s just a screen,
some dumb flat firmament; convince me
why your death would break the mold.
Look up— even the moon’s turned out

for you; old hag of rag & bone,
she’s donned her crescent gold, she’s
donned her best. She’s know
tonight she hosts an honored guest.



REVISION:
Elegy

Oh My God, look up! The angels wear white
gloves on their left hands! A chorus line of shimmy

hipping seraphim. Eternity’s a big, fat blazing
show tonight, vacuous black churned white

and glittering. The sky is vintage celluloid, the hell
with digital. The world’s no stage

these days, it’s just a screen, some dumb
flat firmament; why should heaven break

the mold? Even the moon’s turned out! She’s donned
her best, crescent gold. She hangs in wait

for your arrival; the stars are milling in the aisles.
Mars has snagged the house’s choicest seat. So sorry,

but there isn’t time to sleep! Look, there— the lady
moon’s sashayed into eclipse for your debut:

your show will go on, with or without you.


Emily revised her poem from Week 3: Simile Vs Metaphor, and her strongest line selection is and glittering. The sky is vintage celluloid, the hell.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: I'm glad to see this revision as well. The original was somewhat confusing and the revision seems to me more easily applicable as a general elegy and reads as more sad and more powerful to me because of that. The end "your show will go on, with or without you" is lovely and could be said for and to many who have died, not just Michael Jackson (which I think was the inspiration for the poem). I like the revisions of the beginning too, though I did miss the "big fat fucking" line in the revised version. I agree with Emily about he strongest line, and I think this is a fine revision.

Dustin: I remember my disappointment when I read the original version of this poem. You've taken most of that disappointment away. Your original poem was almost in the land known as hot mess, but your revision rescued it. I do believe there is still something missing from this poem, but I'm not quite sure what is missing. I'm happy you picked this poem, and I like the line you picked as your strongest.

Dana: Very much loving your revisions. Now the piece, which still does not mention Michael Jackson, is about more than him, so the whole thing works beautifully. The elegy is now, in my reading, not to Jackson specifically, but rather to the fact that: “The world’s no stage / these days, it’s just a screen, some dumb / flat firmament.” This move positions your poem as being contemporary in terms of pop culture but also as being conversant with literary history. The allusion you make to the world being a stage, and how we’ve moved beyond that, is remarkable — as in, something to be remarked on, as I am doing right now. You do a lovely job with the extended metaphor, creating an entire world inside this poem. I love the line you chose as your favorite from the original, and I feel the new form really helped snap this poem into place.

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: Yes to the couplets! The poem is much “cleaner” in this version—earth and sky, humans and angels, digital and analog. This is a lovely poem—“sashayed” and “snagged” indeed.



*************************************************
*************************************************


W.F. ROBY

Original:
Singing “Death Letter” at Dawn

Crickets out there singing “Teach me, teach me.”
My baby she wrote me a candle
just long enough to read her letter by,
in the time it takes to flip the record.

My baby she wrote me a candle
in the moonlight sharp as chicken bones.
In the time it takes to flip the record
my baby kicked holes in the toolhouse.

in the moonlight sharp as chicken bones.
Now I look for the grave at my toes.
My baby kicked holes in the toolhouse
until the sun went cannon dark,

now I look for the grave at my toes.
My baby she wrote me a cloudburst --
until the sun went cannon dark,
just long enough to light a candle by,

My baby she wrote me a cloudburst --
my baby she wrote me a letter
just long enough to light a candle by,
just short enough to skip the record.

My baby she wrote me a letter
just long enough to read her letter by,
just short enough to skip the record.
Crickets out there singing “Teach me, teach me.”



REVISION:
A Song Written on the Wall of the Communal Shower
Crystal Beach, Texas, 2002

The beach road’s jutting stripes spit back.
We lost the rubber of a tire
scouting out a pasture where two horses
melt a little every day. The cut still smells like meth --
the cops are quick to point their pens under umbrellas.
That night we spit smoke, waved off the storm,
wonder-eyed and kicking the ass of the cobweb highway.
We edged out along the front winds, we wrecked
and lost the bet.

Now, there’s a crack in the wall of my beach house
between the screen and the front door.
A flower grows there. When
I pick the flower another bud pops up
in the time it takes to flip a record.
There is a mark on the face
of the latest bloom, this one
bent toward the beach, reaching
for the dune where you rest, where your car
sits torched and whining. The tires spin
against the pebbles set aside
for oyster's mouths or the sandals of a tourist.

For the sake of wind there are clouds and for
the sake of clouds there are umbrellas, though
the two have never met, in fact would not get along. The sun
puffs cannon dark, setting behind offshore rigs,
painting the water as coconut might stain
the sleeve of a dinner jacket, just
a whistle of color. I wait
for the grave at my toes.
This is the coffee and this is the tea
I drink, lonely as laundry left to stack
and wrinkle in its pile -- perhaps
a hyphen is tragic to watch up close but
delicious when seen from a bullet train. Crickets

set up shop while the light drips off to Mexico.
They sing “Teach me” over ankle horns and driftwood.
At night I move with the grace of a death letter --
I jump over rocks, across sand, I jump with feet pressed numb
to the planks buried half in sand, half in sleep.
I find you in the dark, open the car door
callous-stiff and salty. I pull you out, we run
where delicate shore beasts press
their claws against the beads of the beach. And when
at day's end the sun gives up
we decide we are not ready.
You hold the sun there, heavy on the horizon,
making glass of everything.


W.F. revised his poem from Week 7: Pantoum, and his strongest line selection is At night I move with the grace of a death letter-.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: This revision blows me out of the water. It's so completely different and so much richer and more complex than the pantoum. I love seeing the way the poet recreates the impulse and fashions it into a whole new outfit, as it were. And the language and imagery and movement of the poem all seem rich and surprising and right. "The sun/puffs cannon dark, setting behind offshore rigs,/paintint he water as coconut might stain/the sleeve of a dinner jacket, just/a whistle of color." I love that "just a whistle of color" I love the dreamy, surreal quality of the poem. This is wonderful and impressive work.

Dustin: I'm happy to see you selected your week 7 poem to revise. You did an amazing job with this revision. Seriously! This poem is splendid in terms of revisions. Yes, this poem could use some trimming in places, but I'm only concerned in the before and after. The place where you pulled this poem, that's where I want you to write from. On the other portion of the assignment, I stated that you didn't have control of the poem; you definitely have more control in this poem. I'm also in love with the line you selected.

Dana: I could pick this poem apart in terms of what is not working. But why do that? What I need for you to know is that this poem is so powerful that when I read it while I was at the Wave Books Weekend Poetry Festival, the following three things happened: 1. I could not stop reading it and must have read and reread it for an hour, 2. I chose to read and reread it instead of reading any of the books I had just purchased from Wave authors (and that is saying a hell of a lot), 3. I ended up in the restroom at The Henry, where the event was being held, crying. That’s right. I was overcome by this poem the way I am often overcome by classical music — all that it contains and all that it leaves our for us to insert our own lives, emotions and minds into. This is a risky poem. This is a beautiful poem. I see so much in it, and in you as a poet, when I read it. The difference between the original and the revision is startling. Even that title! Wow.

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: I honestly thing you have TWO strong poems here—the pantoum which mirrors the skipping record and this new version which riffs on the original.


*************************************************
*************************************************


KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR

ORIGINAL:
From the Phrase Book of my Fearful Mother

Adventures are for careless people.
Life is dangerous—then you die.
Here’s the church and here’s the steeple.
Watch out for the other guy.

Life is dangerous—then you die.
Every man will want your body.
Watch out for the other guy.
Eating dessert first is naughty.

Every man will want your body.
Knee his groin; poke out his eyes.
Eating dessert first is naughty.
Don’t believe their twisted lies.

Knee his groin; poke out his eyes.
Never say I didn’t tell you.
Don’t believe their twisted lies.
Unrequited love can kill you.

Never say I didn’t tell you.
Henry James, The Wings of the Dove?
Unrequited love can kill you.
Sex, drugs, rock & roll, and love.

Henry James, The Wings of the Dove?
You should go rent Vertigo.
Sex, drugs, rock & roll, and love.
Stop that, now! You know, I know.

You should go rent Vertigo.
Here’s the church and here’s the steeple.
Stop that, now! You know, I know.
Adventures are for careless people.



REVISION:
My Mother’s Explanation


Adventures are for careless people:
never say I didn’t tell you.
Here’s the church and here’s the steeple—
unrequited love can kill you.

Never say I didn’t tell you,
when I was young, I was naive.
Unrequited love can kill you;
he loved his art more than he loved me.

I was young, like you, naive—
your father was a terrible spouse.
He loved his art more than he loved me;
those garish abstracts hung in our house.

Your father was a terrible spouse
and he could be a nasty drunk.
Those god-awful abstracts in our house,
my closets stuffed with still-life junk.

Yes, he could be a nasty drunk:
I stayed with him because I should,
filled secret closets with married-folk junk,
and drank until I understood,

I stayed with him because I should.
Here’s the church and here’s the steeple—
fold your hands. You understand?
Adventures are for careless people.


Kathi revised her poem from Week 7: Pantoum, and her strongest line selection is Unrequited love can kill you.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: I can see exactly what Kathi is pushing for in this revision: to create a more clear character, and I would say she is absolutely successful in that attempt. Oddly, though, I felt like the poem was a little flatter in this version, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because I had read the earlier version, so I knew the general setup, or maybe because the language is a little flat, even though more specific and more effective in some ways. I like the impulse behind this poem, and for further revision, I'd suggest maybe loosening the rhyme scheme so that the language has a little more breathing room. THe poem feels a little like it's trapped inside something. I do agree that the poem "unrequited love can kill you" is wonderful, and I almost don't understand the mother, unless she had an unrequited love and then married out of necessity? Maybe there is more to this story, and we need those details here? I don't think the poem has quite found its final shape, but an admirable attempt here.

Dustin: If we put each line selected by the poets on a list, well, I'd have to go with "Unrequited love can kill you" as my favorite. Great choice! I'm also happy with the poem you selected for the revision portion of the assignment; however, I think there is still some work to be done. Maybe get rid of the cliche "Here’s the church and here’s the steeple." "Yes, he could be a nasty drunk: / I stayed with him because I should"-- much better than what you had in the original version.

Dana: I found myself writing “yes, yes, yes” next to so many of your revised lines. Thank you for opening this poem up to the form and all the potential and subtlety the form contains. And you opened up in terms of content as well, letting the reader learn much more about this narrator’s mother — and in the end about the narrator — than before. I personally would have selected the line “Adventures are for careless people” as the strongest from your original, but that’s a minor point, since the line you chose is also very strong. You used the line you chose, and incorporated the line I liked best as well — and you turned out a very strong poem in the end. You’ve created shades and nuance and depth where there wasn’t any before. I do have to say that I like the title better from the original, though, maybe without the word “phrasebook” but instead just “book.”

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: Yes! Great revision. Though I miss the “dessert” line. Anyway to bring that back?

*************************************************
*************************************************

I Love Marcia Gay Harden

PV Week 9: Duel Task (Pop Culture Poems!)

Week 9: Duel Task is a two part assignment for the remaining Project Verse contestants. Below you will find the poems from the pop culture portion of the assignment.

*************************************************
*************************************************

Weekly Guest Judge Beth Gylys wants to send out this message:
These poems are all really wonderfully inventive and powerful and fun. I have to say that I want to be clear, my top choice and bottom choice are not separated by miles, but rather by degrees of degrees, and all of the poems are well worthy of high praise. You four poets have been consistently strong, stalwart, hard-working, innovative and delightful. It has been a pleasure to read your work. Kudos to you all!

*************************************************
*************************************************


EMILY VAN DUYNE
Ars Poetica

‘If Fred Astaire was up and around again and dancing with a humming Frank O’Hara across the dear and broken landscapes of our lives, the sound of their steps, through the late spring afternoon, might have some of the sweetness of these poems. But these poems are sweeter than even that…’ – from Marie Howe’s blurb for All-American Poem

My grandfather is back up and banging
heavy nails with a heavy hammer. None of this if shit,
none of this might. I’m telling you, it’s cold
in my poem. It’s not the late spring. It’s winter
again. The sky’s that deep, headstrong,
island slate, but it won’t fucking snow. We can’t get a break.
We are poised on the verge

of nothing but another long season, building summer
homes for the American rich. I’m stuck
in this town. Try and look out to the ocean—you can’t! It’s blocked
by this skeleton house my grandfather builds, for a family I’ll never meet.
The dad’s a lawyer in Philly. The mom’s got a wet
nurse. I’m not making this up. No one’s dancing
in my poem, ok? I spent last week trying to write

about desire and ended up
in the cold. I thought about the Beatles, blared
Abbey Road, ran my hands down
my taut summer skin, I want you, I want
you so bad… I got tarted up: a bird in fishnets
with a seam down the back. ‘Girl’ played on repeat
on my turntable, I smoked, topless... It didn’t matter, no one

wants to hear that story. Least of all, my grandfather, whose sweat
is frozen to his hoary brow. Usually in my poems, he’s half
Viking, half Tennyson. He remains
all dead, but this morning he’s visiting
as himself: checkered red flannel and a black wool cap. He wants
a cup of coffee. It’s ten o’clock break. I get the thermos
from the truck. He can’t believe I’m still going

at this poetry shit. Pop-pop, me either. You wouldn’t
believe the asses you have to kiss. And the boys!
They’re the worst. All delicate bones and paisley scarves. Give me
a man, I need a fullback. Someone whose glasses won’t break
in bed. Pop-pop laughs so loud, he snorts. He says they sound
like Gene Kelly. He hates Gene Kelly. Namby-pamby
son of a bitch… Fred Astaire, now there was a dancer, he could really move…

Totally, I nod, sip my bitter, black coffee. I still can’t see
the ocean, but the sun’s out. He picks up his hammer and drops
me a kiss on my red, freckled cheek: back
to work. His heavy steps echo in someone else’s kitchen. No
sweet patter. All boots. He disappears
behind a half-built wall, stuffed pink with insulation. The paint
splattered boom box blares,
                  Oh, darling! If you leave me,
                                             I’ll never make it alone…

THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: This is the Emily I've come to love over the course of the last few months. I love the wacky energy and the bravado of the imagery "The sky's that deep, headstrong/island slate" And also the wonderful command of tone: "The dad's a lawyer in Philly. The mom's got a wet/nurse. I'm not making this up. No one's dancing/in my poem, ok?" And there's a wonderful sense of humor at work too "he's half/Viking, half Tennyson". At her best, Emily's work is both fun and wildly imaginative at the same time that it is poignant, and this poem for me shows all of her strengths. The relationship between speaker and grandfather is touching and funny and wistful and the dramatic scenario of the poem effectively defines who Emily is as an artist. Well done.

Dustin: Your title does work; I think it would beckon people from a table of content, and it would do so with an air of mystery. I would flip to the poem wanting to know what "Ars Poetica" is about. I've heard Laure-Anne Bosselaar talk about the on-ramp---what we need to get our poem started. You needed the epigraph while your poem doesn't. There are so many parts of your poem that I love: "None of this if shit, / none of this might" and "The mom’s got a wet / nurse. I’m not making this up." and " I smoked, topless" and "he’s half / Viking, half Tennyson. He remains/all dead" and "He can’t believe I’m still going / at this poetry shit"--- there's more to love, but I'm not going to keep going on and on. You do a fantastic job with this poem. This poem does need a little dusting; however, after that dusting it will be ready to be placed on your mantel with pride and joy.

Dana: Nice epigraph. The combination of pop culture references and the poem being about the narrator’s Pop is lovely. I was scared by the title — not a poem about poems! — but this poem does the ars poetica so well by remaining steeped in detail. I for one absolutely want to hear the story about the narrator smoking topless. (I am just saying.) Also, this is a different voice. I love your other voices, but I love this one, too. Totally. I think this is your gift — the assumption of voice and your ability to be immersed in it. I know that’s stating the obvious. I would love to see a collection from you in which you really push into all sorts of voices, where multi-vocality and modulation of voice from poem to poem are what drive the collection as a whole. I would look at the lineation on revision. It seems a little funky in places right now.

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: “Ars Poetica” is a strong and feisty poem. The voice is clear, determined, a scrappy gal who I am rooting for the whole poem. My only difficulty with this poem was the Howe quote which seemed strange—a blurb to introduce another poem was hard to wrap my head around. I wonder if the poem might just start with the speaker reading the back of a book, seeing the blurb, and launching into her “None of this if shit” riff. Her take on overdevelopment, masculinity, and loneliness are brilliant and real. In fact, “None of this if shit” might be a great title for this poem.


*************************************************


W.F. ROBY
Twenty-six Words for Snow

O Eskimo Pie, O confection frozen
stiff to the wall of the freezer, O vanilla,
O chocolate coat, O foil sleeve you fit inside --
home is where the heart hits the asphalt
my dear, my cold misnomer. In summer
you leave your color on my hands,
you paint the needy grass with tar.
Here is a letter I’ve written to you
and washed of ink, and slipped into
the Gulf of Mexico. Here is a photo of us
caught between noon and the second hand.
I am stuck ankle deep in sand the color of ash --
you are learning the name of the heat,
you are writing it down.

We lie on our backs in a haystack,
you with your pinched face, eyes tight,
your mouth frozen in a perfect O – and I
welcome you to the cave of the Oracle. Where
we turn the gas way up. You are my golden ball,
the thing I forget in sleep but remember
with fondness in the morning, saying “O she certainly does shine.”
Es-ki-mo pie, I fold your foil jacket into words, I hold
each syllable in the palm of my hand
like a train ticket or a promise from a friend.
I've given up the smoking, mon petit chou,
chased it off the front porch. All for you.

My Eskimo Pie -- in a dream we got married
down South. We walked hand to stick
from cabana to dark swamp
where dry sticks caught a pile of sparklers,
where sparklers wrestled with smoky coals,
where coals sent fire trailing back towards
the wood panel of your dad's old wagon.
When I woke up, you were pinched between
two chipped fingernails, a girl in a cowgirl suit
with chocolate on her lips. She thought
she'd sneak into the races, find a boy on a horse maybe
could drive her back to Loose-e-ana to see
the hurricane kick and the bayou kick back.

O Eskimo Pie -- sometimes when I say your name
I feel my heartbeat in my thigh. Other times
it’s just an incoming call or
the words in red in the family Bible
buzzing through the dead leather. Inside the freezer
where you rest in a hunch
someone nailed shelves at precise heights
for the hand of a child to switch on the lights,
neon, fluorescent and a third light incandescent
taped to the wall for precision. Tonight
let’s walk upwind. I’ll try to remember what Whitman says
about the Learn'd Astronomer with his charts and graphs --
I think it goes like this.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: This is another one of those poems that makes my mouth go agape. I love the traditional invocation in the poem to the 'eskimo pie'. THe poem's inventive, wildly imaginative, "O foil sleeve you fit inside--/home is where the heart hits the asphalt." The poem's over the top, but wonderfully so. "sometimes when I say your name/I feel my heartbeat in my thigh." Wowza! I did struggle with the end cause I keep reading it as a colon. I think it goes like this: and want something more. This is probably my problem, not W.F.'s. Fine work.

Dustin: W.F., I want to love this poem. I really do, but I can't. With your revised week 8 poem, you showed you finally trusted yourself to write what you wanted to write, but the key is that you controlled it. I think you lost control in "Twenty-six Words for Snow." I think there is a lot of room for cutting to make much tighter lines. Don't get me wrong-- this is not a bad poem. You have lovely parts: "the words in red in the family Bible / buzzing through the dead leather" and "In summer / you leave your color on my hands." I only wish there were more of those kinds of moments.

Dana: I love how this poem resonates with your revision — asphalt, color being bled from one thing to another, the beach — to name just a few of the parallels. This whole section is rad: “home is where the heart hits the asphalt / my dear, my cold misnomer. In summer / you leave your color on my hands, / you paint the needy grass with tar.” (I used to paint the needy grass with Silly Putty when I was a kid, and I also picked tar bubbles in the road — obsessively, as if I was picking away at some truth.) I was so enthralled by this poem that I completely forgot it was a poem driven by pop culture references. Some might argue that I forgot because pop culture does not drive the poem; I would argue that they are wrong and that this poem has pop culture so seamlessly grafted to it that it’s like a cybernetic moth which looks as if it is navigating the air on its own terms, when there is actually a tiny mechanism inside making it go this way and that. And I love the reference to those old Luzianne iced tea commercials. Get out! (That’s not your narrator’s heart beating by his thigh, btw.) What do you think about ending it on “Tonight / let’s walk upwind”?

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: YES! OUI! SI! This is a fantastic fantastical poem about love. The personification of the Eskimo pie is hilarious and metaphorically apt. Where I get a little confused is the date—just hard to actually see. How big is this Eskimo pie, for example? Know what I’m saying? I was willing to go there, but I just needed a few more details to ground me. I absolutely adored “When I woke up, you were pinched between/ two chipped fingernails, a girl in a cowgirl suit/with chocolate on her lips.”

*************************************************


KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR
In the Dream of my Father at the Bar on Tatooine

It was my father’s favorite Star Wars scene, so I’m not surprised to find him
here, drinking and tapping his glass to the cantina band of Bith aliens,
dubbed over with clarinet, saxophone, and even a Fender Rhodes piano.
(My son says the Bith species has evolved past the need for sleep, and here
I am, asleep and listening.) I think, Mos Eisley’s not unlike the dives
my father played, underage, out in the desert by Pasco, Washington:
the red-eyed wolf-men, G-I’s on their Harleys, a bounty hunter now and then,
a one-eyed sheriff, and bartenders steady as priests. Not quite that
“wretched hive of scum and villainy” Old Ben Kenobi pronounces
Mos Eisley, but still an alcoholic’s paradise.

             Looking down on us, Luke has just said,
            I’m ready for anything.
            I see him come in.
            I see him tug
            on the bartender’s sleeve.

But I am across the table from my father, in this dream of the movie
renamed “A New Hope,” a man who died before the prequels, speeding
in his red car, drunk and unbuckled. No doubt, he is my father,
and he is already dead. (Let me help him lift off his mask;
let me hear him breathing.) I have to ask him where he was going
that night his car swerved and flipped, but he’s not listening,
and no one else seems to see his darkness, as he nods at a Cleopatra-girl
and orders me a Shirley Temple. Nearby, Luke falls into an argument.
I know this part. It’s right before Obi-Wan pulls out his light saber
and slices off that alien’s arm (Ponda Baba, says my son).

            You just watch yourself, someone said.
                       “I’ll be careful,” Luke answers.
            You’ll be dead.

As my father points out Chewbacca to me – He looks a lot like my student Steve.
Tall and hairy – someone sets down my drink. With a blue Jedi flash, there’s blood
on the floor and windshield glass raining on our table. My father’s forehead expands,
his ribs crack at the music’s pause. I don’t expect this, the force that brought us
to this place, after his life, years later, after I’m ready for bed, the galaxy’s violence.
I can just make out Han Solo’s face: my father’s Imperial entanglements, the 7-Up
and maraschino cherry of my drink, foreign to everyone there,
that red Ford Probe upside-down on the bar.

            And I’m yelling, I don’t like you. No, I really don’t like you!
            like someone who’s lost more than an arm.

THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: Another relative in a dream poem! I love the Star Wars scene, the well-developed narrative, the problematic father figure, the cast of characters. The long lines, the compelling intermix of family drama with pop culture drama (sci fi drama), is wonderfully handled and rich and terrific. Bravo.

Dustin: Kathi, I'm shocked. My shock is NOT from your writing a good poem---I've come to expect that of you. I'm shocked a poem this good (written in such a short amount of time) is this good with such a heavy reliance on Star Wars references. Great job! In this poem you show us once again you are good with detail: "(My son says the Bith species has evolved past the need for sleep, and here / I am, asleep and listening.)" and "the red-eyed wolf-men, G-I’s on their Harleys, a bounty hunter now and then, / a one-eyed sheriff, and bartenders steady as priests," and there is more! At this moment, I'm happy with what you've given us as it reads. Yes. At this moment, I wouldn't change a thing with this poem; however, I bet you'll end up making changes that will make this poem even sharper, and we'll be wowed that the poem could be any better.

Dana: Are you all manipulating time to write such amazing pieces? I don’t really understand where all this fantastic work is coming from given the time constraints. It’s been a joy to read. This poem could have gotten away from you and turned into a parody, but you deftly control it and kept the emotional center in place throughout. Lines like “… but still an alcoholic’s paradise” are part of what keep the poem grounded in reality. That line is just this side of too much, just this side of trite, and you make it work. Then you follow it up with the plainspoken facts: “speeding / in his red car, drunk and unbuckled.” We are all visited by the dead in our dreams. Your poem touches on the universal, while your narrator pulls us into the specificity of this death, of this relationship. My father died when I was very young, and I have tried to write poems about my dreams of him. I’ve never come close to anything this skillfully or elegantly executed.

Guest Judge Denise Duhamel: I picked “In the Dream of my Father at the Bar on Tatooine” even though I am not much of a Star Wars fan and didn’t know all the movie references. This poem exemplifies the power of pop culture in that it took something as banal as a blockbuster movie and re-worked the mythic implications of masks and fatherhood to a personal/universal story about a “real” father and child. In addition to the Star Wars references, we get the Americana of the corner bar, Harleys, a bounty hunter, and Shirley Temple (the drink, but also the actress/innocence is implied). A very moving poem.

*************************************************

Why Do I Write ~ Mark Wunderlich

WHY DO I WRITE ~ Mark Wunderlich



I learned to read when I was four and soon discovered the set of books on a small shelf in my room; I would spend much time reading and re-reading these books over the next dozen years. The set had once belonged to my father and had been published in the 1930’s. There were 14 in total—My Book House—edited by Olive Beaupré Miller. Beaupré. Beaupré! This name confounded me, irritated like a pebble in my shoe. That choking gobbet of vowels! That accent like a bee’s stinger! How was I to know how to say this name? No one I knew could tell me, and so it remained a mystery, foreign and untranslatable, as far away as France. Someone was able to tell me this name was probably French, and so I came to think of France as the place books came from. At some point, I was given or I found a Canadian nickel. Here too was writing in French! I began sorting through my parents’ change purses, looking for Canadian money. The quarters and nickels were uncommonly beautiful; what kind of a genius puts a beaver or a caribou on one side, and the profile of a queen on the other? More importantly, this money, like the books, suggested a world to me that lay beyond the rural corner of Wisconsin hemmed by bluffs on either side; you could see up the river to the first bend, and down the river to the wooded slough, but no further. This money which was familiar and yet altogether different, had made its way to my small town; it was useless there, but it had arrived nonetheless. The fables, poems and stories in My Book House were equally out of place with their allusions to Greek mythology and Shakespeare, though both the books and the money were useful, somewhere, to someone.

I was recently called “emotionally retarded” by an intimate. It was meant in jest, but it was meant nonetheless. Remarks like this have a way of working themselves into one’s psyche, clinging to your soft parts like a burr so I’m happy to have the chance to exorcise it here. This person is wrong, of course; I have, in fact, a full and nuanced emotional range, and those emotions find their best form in written language, in the poems I write. I was raised in a part of the world where expressiveness and emotional largesse are not valued, where displays of temper or strong opinion are considered shocking or just unspeakably rude. Much credence is given to humility, to simplicity of language. In people raised in this culture (I’m speaking of rural areas of the upper northern Midwest) this is sometimes expressed by a cool demeanor, or excessive politeness. It can also be seen as a general pleasantness, a sunny disposition—neither too hot nor too cold. Just nice.

While an adolescent, as I came to understand that my sexual attraction was oriented toward men, I saw that the world of seeming could differ sharply from the world of being. I learned to read subtle cues in tone and mood, learned to understand what was felt, but would remain unsaid. I searched the faces, gestures and voices of people I met, looking for evidence of likeness.

When I discovered poems and began to write them, it became clear to me that poems were objects but ones with a minimal physical form; that they gave pleasure but they also irritated (Beaupré! Beaupré!). The best poems suggested more than they said, and rewarded you for re-reading them. Some poems I knew could never be plumbed, were bottomless pools. The words made patterns and sounds and those sounds, though attached to the meaning of the words, created their own more mysterious meaning. Poems revealed and concealed simultaneously, and when my first book was published, my family and I both experienced a great deal of anxiety and distress about being exposed. I felt I had accomplished some great goal, and that the accomplishment came at great cost. My mother told only a few close friends about my book, and my father refused to either read it, or discuss the matter at all. I understand and respect their reactions, though I will continue to write and publish as it brings the world of seeming and the world of being closer together, and that work makes sense to me.

Several years ago while visiting my family in Wisconsin, I came across my collection of Canadian money which I had collected as a child. All told, I had about $50 in change and a few small bills. On a whim, I bagged it and put it in my suitcase. My partner and I made a trip to Montreal later that year, and I took along my money, changed it for bills at a bank, and spent it I don’t remember how—on a meal, or on the city bus, or maybe I left it as a tip for the bartender who listened patiently as I tried out my broken French.

Why do I write? I write because of Canada with its beavers and caribou and queens as tokens of exchange. Beacause of Olive Beaupre Miller. Because I grew up on a farm. Because my parents left books in my room and often left me alone. I write because my grandparents spoke a language other than English, even though their grandparents were born in America. I write because I’m queer. I write because I yearn for order. I write because I am emotionally retarded. I write out of revenge and with the desire to punish. I write to create a vision of myself at my most articulate, my most generous, my most cruel. I write because I seem to be one thing, and am another. I write in order to praise.

Week 9: Guest Judge Denise Duhamel

Denise Duhamel's most recent poetry titles are Ka-Ching! (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009); Two and Two (Pittsburgh, 2005); Mille et un Sentiments (Firewheel, 2005); Queen for a Day: Selected and New Poems (Pittsburgh, 2001); and The Star-Spangled Banner (Southern Illinois University Press, 1999. A recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, she is an associate professor at Florida International University in Miami. Don't forget to visit Denise in a monthly column at Read Write Poem called the Double Ds. Become a fan of Denise Duhamel or a Duhamalite on Facebook!

ET Spotlights THE LOVELY BONES

Revisiting Week 8: Villanelle Revisions!

Well, there was an unexpected twist to the Project Verse week 8 assignment; the weekly judges were not impressed with the poems submitted. Click here to see what the judges had to say.

In this post you'll find each contestant's original poem followed his/her revision.


*************************************************

Weekly Guest Judge Beth Gylys wants to send out this message:
I'm very impressed by these revisions. I know some of you were distraught to have to rewrite, but the poems are for the most part much improved, I think, so bravo to you all!


*************************************************
*************************************************


KRISTEN MCHENRY
ORIGINAL:
The Menfolk Whisper of The Gulabi Gang

“They wear pink saris and go after corrupt
officials and boorish men with sticks and axes.”
--Soutik Biswas; BBC News, Banda

Why do our good women gather in a fuchsia crush,
to bow their heads, but not to pray?
A tribe of flamingos in rags of blush,

they're hoarding stones from the filthy dray.
I hear they are hungry in a bottomless way.
Our good women gather in a muffled crush;

they have nurtured us with that same pink hush.
Now their lullabies seethe with a cryptic sway.
A cloud of flamingos in rags of blush,

they shroud their rifles in the underbrush.
I've heard it told: one night they may
gather our daughters in a fuchsia crush

and baptize them in the river's rush--
Banda wives wading in the moon's crimped ray;
a rage of flamingos in rags of blush.

I've heard they grow fervent, lithe and lush,
their hair unruly as the grass owl's bray.
Why do our good women gather in a fuchsia crush,
a tribe of flamingos in rags of blush?


REVISION:
The Menfolk Whisper of The Gulabi Gang

“They wear pink saris and go after corrupt
officials and boorish men with sticks and axes.”
--Soutik Biswas; BBC News, Banda

Our good wives have taken to convening: tight-knit and savage crushes
of bowed and fuchsia heads, but their heads aren't bowed in prayer.
A massing of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes,

we've seen them hoarding rocks from the gutter's oily slushes.
The women have taken to whispering: we've heard them smirk and swear.
Our good wives have taken to convening in tight-knit and savage crushes.

Remember when they'd comfort us with sanguine, melodic shushes?
These days when they caress us, their hands shake with a livid flare.
A massing of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes,

I hear they've stashed crippled rifles in the rusted sticker brushes.
Gentle men, though we have nourished them, their hungers strip us bare.
Our good wives have taken our daughters, in tight-knit and savage crushes--

they'll swathe them in that treacherous pink, all pink-skinned from the water's rushes,
where they baptized them in their pastel ways with a hard, insurgent stare.
A massing of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes,

the wives of Banda have grown still, but as tense as a tree of thrushes.
These days, they're as silent as their nurturing is spare.
Our good women have taken to convening in tight-knit and savage crushes;
a rage of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes.

THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: I admire that Kristen tackles this interesting and rich subject, and she uses some beautiful language here: "A massing of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes." My criticism of the earlier draft was that it felt distancing, and I think she's managed to make the poem less objectifying with lines like "Remember when they'd comfort us..." Still, the tone of this one is less successful I think than it might be, and that is in part because of phrases like "Gentle men". Because I think finally, these men are going to be angry, and the speaker then comes across as disingenuous. I also worry about the long-ish lines, some of which seem unwieldy. Lines like "where they baptized them in their pastel ways with a hard, insurgent stare." I'd like to see the poem's lines more lean, and I'm still a little worried too about the point of view which seems to me really hard to pull off.

Dustin: Kristen, I'm not completely won over with this revision; I think this is due to the change of lengthier lines. I don't have a problem with long lines; however, I don't think it works for your poem. In your first draft, I loved "A tribe of flamingos in rags of blush," so I was glad to see you basically kept it in your revision: "A massing of flamingos in sweeping rags and furtive blushes"---beautiful. I'm happy to see that you corrected the form error you had in your original poem. I do like that you rhymed in plural; however, I wonder if this held you back any. This is not your strongest poem from the competition, but it is much better than your Week 6 poem.

Dana: So I have a matrix of sorts that I use which takes into account several things, including doing the assignment, skillfulness of execution, emotional resonance, level of risk taken, and other elements I looked for in the poems I read. I am not saying this is an objective matrix that anyone, even a computer, can plug in and use. Other people will have other matrices, other lenses through which they evaluate work. That’s what it means to be a reader and to have individual responses to pieces. But this *is* a way to externalize my personal process.

According to my matrix, you have a good balance of all aspects I was evaluating. I actually think your edits strengthened the piece, particularly the first line. But I do have some concerns. You chose two-syllable feminine rhyme all the way through, when there are more interesting ways to employ perfect rhyme. And in terms of emotional resonance, I still think you could push further. This piece feels a little like a Fabergé egg. I’d like to see it come down from the shelf and maybe even get a knick or two in it.

Guest Judge Maureen Seaton: Great subject. Kristen uses color well in this runaway persona piece. Memorable images: “a rage of flamingos” and “treacherous pink.” (I like “a massing of flamingos” too.) The repetition of pink, in “pink-skinned.” The epigraph gives us just enough. And I love the lines: “Gentle men, though we have nourished them, their hungers strip us bare” and “These days, they’re as silent as their nurturing is spare” and the image “tense as a tree of thrushes.” However, the piece doesn’t read like a villanelle to me, but more like a long-lined narrative with imposed rhymes. The poem begs for at least one companion piece, either in another persona or a narrative about the Gulabi Gang.


*************************************************
*************************************************


EMILY VAN DUYNE

ORIGINAL:
The Lacrymosa, Washing the Dishes: Wednesday Night in Wartime America

‘Mozart’s Requiem begins with you walking towards a huge pit…’
                                                                                           -Zadie Smith

Those can’t be my hands in the sink! Expunge the crass
dried blood of this night’s wine, strewn
in the glass. That can’t be my face, cast

in the window—lonely woman, eyes like the Black Mass…
kyrie eleision, now scrub those pots & spoons…
expunge the crass sink. Those can’t be my hands that blast

the grease of fat & bone, latticed like the past…
and why should you have this life, this boon…
That face in the glass? It can’t be her place to cast

aspersions to the night’s eclipse, the sweet, dark grass,
another person, far away, who seeks the same hidden moon?
Those can’t be my cries! They sink in the crass

face of history: slouching beasts, dead stars… the last
shall be first, penance is like ashes— no one is immune…
That can’t be my face in the window: bloody glass

house we’ve assembled and hewn.
The pit is ever closer, surely you come soon,
surely: those must be my hands that sink in the fast
cast of water. That must be my face in the glass.


REVISION:
The Lacrymosa, Washing the Dishes: Wednesday Night in Wartime America

‘Mozart’s Requiem begins with you walking towards a huge pit…’
                                                                                           -Zadie Smith

Those can’t be my hands in the sink! Absolve the crass,
dried blood of this night’s wine, strewn
on the porcelain … that can’t be my face in the glass—

lonely woman, eyes like the Black Mass…
kyrie eleision, now scrub those pots & spoons…
those can’t be my hands that absolve the sink: crass

grease of fat & bone, this warm night’s mass …
and why should you have this life, this boon…
that face in the glass? It can’t be on her to pass

judgment (14 more dead) on the dark grass,
someone far away who seeks the same hidden moon.
Those can’t be my cries! They sink in the crass

face of this slouching beast, (a roadside bomb), dark morass…
penance is like ashes, no one is immune…
That can’t be my face in the window: the bloody glass

house we’ve built on another’s green grass…
The pit is ever closer, surely you come soon,
surely: those must be my hands that sink in the crass
well of porcelain. That must be my face in the glass.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: As usual, I admire Emily's skill with language and sound and her lovely turns of phrase: "Absolve the crass,/dried blood or this night's wine, strewn/on the porcelain...that can't be my face in the glass--" I'm a little less charmed by the metaphor here though. I get that filth and filth work together: war is dirty, we are all made dirty by war, the dishes reflect that on some level. And then of course there's the helplessness of the speaker standing there at the sink is poignant. Still, there's something a bit less natural about this poem than the poems that Emily has so charmed me with earlier in the competition. Still, I have to say, I think the revisions are smart and there's real beauty here.

Dustin: This isn't your strongest poem from the competition, but it is a good revision. You did a great job playing by the rules. Now, do you see it doesn't hurt to play by the rules? In the past, I have enjoyed your longer titles, but I am not sure about your title this week. I think you can come up with a title that is a shorter and packs a punch, or you could have a title that is the same length that packs more of a punch. Basically-- I want more of a punch with the title. You are capable of it. I love "lonely woman, eyes like the Black Mass." Also, I love your opening line "Those can’t be my hands in the sink! Absolve the crass." Your first line does a good job of pulling in your reader, and I don't think your reader will be disappointed one he/she reaches the end of the poem.

Dana: If this were an ice-skating competition, I would give you a 10 in terms of using perfect rhyme. But that’s not *all* we’re looking at as judges (or all I myself am looking at). Yes, there’s the matrix. I put your piece in the matrix and, balancing everything, how do you think you fared?

You fared great. This poem had me at the Requiem reference in the epigraph and held me until the very end. Just look at what you do with language throughout — I can’t stop smiling when I misread “night’s wine” as “night swine,” an error I hope you intend your readers to make, thus giving another layer to the image. (And even if you didn’t intend it, that’s great, too. We could chuck intention out the window and still be drawn to words and phrases in ways we don’t fully understand.) This is a wonderful piece to read aloud as well. I love how it sits in the mouth, very musical, and not in a child-playing-the-recorder sort of way.

Guest Judge Maureen Seaton: I immediately noticed the rhythm this poem sets up, the enjambment of lines that make it interesting to me: “…crass/grease of fat & bone..,” “…the bloody glass/house we’ve built…” Ending in the effective last half of the last line, “That must be my face in the glass.” I would question the italics—their source(s). And I would get rid of the ellipses, and perhaps the exclamation points, although I normally like them. The poem appears busy although the image itself is carried from the first line all the way down. I like “the bloody glass/ house we’ve build on another’s green grass.” And I’m touched by the self-reflection of the piece. Its earnestness carries it.



*************************************************
*************************************************


W.F. ROBY

Original:
Through the Gauze of Heroin Hydrochloride

I took to the drug like a baby
takes to incidents of peas. A bore
we tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.

In the distant city, two birdies
lined up their beaks and poked at the core.
I took to the drug like a baby.

Dope on my desk, brown and crumbly
as steel and ash on the city’s floor.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.

The news so graceful, silver latchkey
on my neck, the stash drawer
open to the drug like a baby,

like a fly to a glass of sherry.
New York fell, I was a sophomore.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly --

a needle’s difficult to bury.
Let’s watch smoke cover up the seashore.
I took to the drug like a baby.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.


REVISION:
Through the Gauze of Heroin Hydrochloride

I took to the drug like a ferry
ducks into the crests of waves, a bore
I did not think I’d ever marry.

The TV hummed -- a monastery
somewhere far away, airplanes galore.
I took to the drug like a cherry

takes to red, a fresh capillary
bright as bent steel on the city’s floor.
I did not think I’d ever marry.

The news was up loud. Cautionary
words fell out – heroin’s a trapdoor.
I clung to the drug like a berry

clings to a stem, math to binary.
New York fell, I was a sophomore.
I did not think I’d ever carry

a needle into church, or parry
perfect rhyme until my hands were sore.
I took to the drug like a ferry.
I did not think I’d ever marry.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: I love the revision. Love the simple lines, Love the similes. I mean "Like a cherry/takes to red" "like a berry/clings to a stem, math to binary". There's a confessional quality, undermined by the slightly self-mocking tone "I did not think I'd ever marry." My only one small quibble is that in the last stanza the repeating line "I took to the drug like a ferry" doesn't have quite the same punch as it did in the opening stanza.

Dustin: W.F., I love this revision. Okay. I want to make this clear. I love this revision. Everyone did a good job with revisions this week; however, I think you did the most work in the revision arena. Do you remember what I've said to you about your similes? If you've forgotten, here it is, analyze more before you simile. W.F., you listened! Well, you didn't listen in your original poem---I have no clue what you were thinking with "I took to the drug like a baby / takes to incidents of peas." Honestly, I stopped reading and had a what the hell moment. OK. That is behind us because we are juding the revised poems. I was thrilled to see your beginning simile changed to "I took to the drug like a ferry / ducks into the crests of waves"----lovely. Then there are more lovely lines/similes: "I took to the drug like a cherry / takes to red, a fresh capillary / bright as bent steel on the city’s floor" and "I clung to the drug like a berry / clings to a stem, math to binary." Again, lovely. The end of your poem needs work. I don't think your last stanza is as strong as the rest of the poem. I know. I know. Your hands are tied by rules. THIS revision is what I've wanted to see from you during this competition. This revision makes me feel like you trusted yourself and the poem while you wrote. Good job!

Dana: We asked you to be a little dangerous, to let loose, and you did. All the poems were strong this week, as you would expect toward the end of the competition, but I can’t not get behind a poem that tackles the subjects you tackle. On Read Write Poem, Marilyn Nelson said this about her poem “A Wreath for Emmett Till”: “I don’t think I would have written the poem if I hadn’t imagined the form could be something I could hide behind in self-defense.” Your poem has that wonderful tension between form and content that I absolutely love to see in a piece. You used the form not to strap you down but to give you a new kind of freedom, and the reader senses how much the form contains the uncontainable content as well. It’s not perfect, but it’s dangerous — and it’s an important poem.

Why isn’t it perfect? There’s one slip-up with regard to the perfect rhyme: “binary” and “carry” are not a perfect rhyme in that there are two syllables after the accented syllable in “binary” and only one after the accented syllable in “carry.” Overall, however, you employ the perfect rhymes with precision, and you keep it interesting by pairing words that do not have the same number of syllables but do have the same number of syllables and the same sounds after the accented syllable. Nicely played.

I have to add that your rewrites made this piece sing. You accepted the challenge of using the form to sharpen the poem, and your poem is now so sharp it won’t be allowed as a carry-on item if you try to board a plane. So stay home, or travel by car.

Guest Judge Maureen Seaton: This poem feels most like a villanelle to me with its syllabic count of (mostly) nine. I found it subversive for its fitting the subject matter into a loose meter. I enjoyed reading a poem about addiction (which was well done in itself) in the “traditional” form of the villanelle. Like wearing sneakers to church when I was a kid, but better than that, wearing no underwear to church as an adult. (Not that I think of the villanelle as a church symbol. Do I?) Changing the rhymed endwords was really cool as well. I love doing that in sestinas. Not sure I’ve seen it before in a villanelle. Great choices, not your everyday: “monastery,” “capillary,” “cautionary,” “binary,” etc. This is my first pick for originality and proficiency with the form.


*************************************************
*************************************************


KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR

ORIGINAL:
Gretel Copes

Repression’s underrated. She’ll forget
her cookie-house binge with M&M trim, licorice whip pitch;
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit

all run together. She’ll always hate chocolate,
is rumored to huff Easy Off and do witch
impressions badly. She’ll forget

to watch Hansel on Letterman: instead, flit
from club to club to Daddy’s house. A hazel switch,
the reek of burning witch and cloves and kitschy shit—

grief after grief, it stings her. Damn it.
Damn the greedy crumb-eaters. Damn the itch
of repression, too slow. She’ll forget

her chubby brother behind barbed wire, but she’ll spit
at old ladies with gumdrop smiles. Anorexic bitch,
motherless witch, smokes cloves, shoots the shit—

that tabloid-Gretel: famous, wrecked, unfit
as a Nazi, murder charge dropped, filthy rich. . .
Repression’s underrated. She can’t forget
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit.


REVISION:
In Which Gretel Becomes Tabloid-Gretel


Repression’s underrated. She’ll forget
her cookie-house binge with M&M trim, licorice whip pitch;
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit—

Hansel in that cage. She’ll always hate chocolate
and gingerbread, hoard Easy Off and do witch
impressions badly. She’ll forget

to watch her brother on Letterman: instead, flit
from club to club to Daddy’s house. Abercrombie & Fitch,
the reek of burning witch and cloves and kitschy shit—

even centuries later in Hollywood Hills it
finds her: hunger’s cruel pose, behind kindly masks a twitch
of cannibal. Repression’s too slow. She’ll forget

her chubby brother behind barbed wire, but she’ll spit
at old ladies with gumdrop smiles. Post-traumatic bitch,
motherless witch, smokes cloves, shoots the shit

as she becomes that tabloid-Gretel: famous, wrecked, unfit
as a Nazi, clubbing with the stars, filthy rich. . .
Repression’s underrated, but she can’t forget
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit.


THE JUDGES SPEAK:
Beth: I like this poem's imaginative innovation. I'm still a little bothered by the use of the slant rhyme--"forget/shit" in terms of following the rules--especially given the revision option. The rules aside, the poem's really wonderfully rich and fun and smart with some great sounds: "licorice whip pitch;/the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit--" And I like the contemporaneous look at the myth. Not that I haven't seen re-visions of the Hansel/Gretel story, but this is a really smart and fun and apt one.

Dustin: Kathi, I'm disappointed. The judges specifically commented on the use of slant rhyme in the week 8 poems; however, you revised your poem and left the slant rhyme. Are you giving us the finger? I realize each contestant is pouring a lot time into this contest, but the judges are pouring in a lot of time as well. These are the only comments you're getting from me for this week.

Dana: I thoroughly enjoyed this piece, Kathi. How can I not like a poem that lets the shit fly? This was so imaginative and controlled and had so many unexpected moments. I love the part about Hansel appearing on “Letterman,” for example. I will say that I was sad to see huffing Easy Off go in the rewrite, as well as a couple of other details lost in revision, such as, “Damn the greedy crumb-eaters.” I know it was impossible to keep everything and meet the requirements for the assignment, but I would still take a look at your first version and see what else you could fold back in. Of course, you gained a lot, too, in the revision, including a killer new title.

One thing I did take into account was the rhyme, per the matrix. It’s hard to ignore the fact that many of your rhymes were slant, not perfect. In addition, your middle lines are off in terms of the rhyme scheme because they don't provide a "b" rhyme. I even looked up the pronunciation key for each rhymed word (as I did for everyone’s rhymed words) to be absolutely sure the vowel sound in words such as “forget” can’t be pronounced the way the vowel sound in words such as “shit” are pronounced. They’re not the same sound. Maybe where I am from — Oklahoma — but people play it fast and loose with language in those parts.

Guest Judge Maureen Seaton: Very funny take on an old fairytale. And the short “i” has to be my favorite sound in the English language. Those second and third lines are a blast: “her cookie-house binge with M&M trim, licorice whip pitch;/the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit—.” And, from there, we’ve got more to go because Kathi has decided ALL of her endwords will have that short “i” (except maybe two or three). And as if all that assonance isn’t enough for the ear, we’ve got all that consonance as well—every end word ending in “t” or “ch”. I really enjoyed the craft and the humor.

*************************************************
*************************************************

Damages, I long for your return!

Watch the first seven minutes of Damages: Episode 1, Season 1 to see why I want to be Patti Hewes.

Week 9: Duel Task

WEEK 9: DUEL TASK

Next week, we will announce the two finalists for Project Verse!

Contestants, read this assignment thoroughly:
Pick what you consider your weakest poem written during Week 1 through Week 7 of the competition. You are going to revise the selected poem. (Yes, there is a bit of repetition with this part of the assignment since you are already revising your Week 8 poems; however, please remember the weekly assignments were written before the start of the competition.) At the bottom of the revised poem, you must write what you feel is the strongest line of the poem; I suggest you pick a line you feel you can work with. Pick everything wisely; besides being judged you on your revision technique, we are also judging you on the poem you select as well as the line.

As if revising isn't enough!---you also have another poem to write. Pop culture references are often hard to weave into poems; however, poets like David Trinidad and Denise Duhamel do it with ease. Duhamel has a whole book inspired by the pop culture icon known as Barbie. If she can write a book of brilliant poems, surely you can write a single poem that is DRIVEN by a pop culture reference.

Your poem driven by a pop culture reference must be written in 60 lines or less.

No form constraints.

Get to writing!

Week 8: Villanelle-- Unexpected Twist

Project Verse Contestants,

The weekly judges are not impressed with how you handled the Week 8: Villanelle assignment. Part of the rules for week 8 read, "Slant rhyme won't cut it for this assignment," yet some of you use slant rhyme. One of you should remember that the rhyme scheme for a villanelle for the first fifteen lines is ABA, and the rhyme scheme for the last four lines is ABAA. The bottom: The Week 8 poems are not the best representation of the quality of work each of you can produce; therefore, we can't accept these poems.

Your options:
(1) Revise your poem. Make sure you're not using slant rhyme. Make sure you follow the rhyme scheme. Submit your revised poem by noon on Wednesday, August 12.
(2) You can choose not to revise your poem; however, this means you'll be entering into a double elimination with your poem as is, and you'll be adding that poem as is in your overall collective work, which will help decide the contest winner.


Your Week 9 assignment will still be posted on Monday, and it is still due by 10am on Friday.

We want you to know that we're pushing you because we know you are talented poets who can handle the challenge. We know you must be tired, but it is almost over. Don't fizzle out on us. Shine.

Good Luck,
The Weekly Judges

PS.
Yes, the week 8 guest judge has our backs with this decision.

Why Do I Write ~ Andrew Demcak

WHY DO I WRITE ~ Andrew Demcak



As Joan Didion says “In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying: listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It’s an aggressive, even a hostile act. You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want with veils of subordinate clauses and qualifiers and tentative subjunctives, with ellipses and evasions, with the whole manner of intimating rather than claiming, of alluding rather than stating but there’s no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writer’s sensibility on the readers most private space.”

All of my poems are "cut-ups" of poems which originally appeared either in The New Yorker, Poetry, or in Sylvia Plath’s various books. This very act of “cutting” is a violent reclamation of language. I use a variation of the "cut-up" method pioneered in the 1920's by both the DADA and Surrealist movements, refined in the late 1950's by William S. Burroughs and Brion Gyson. I have further augmented it, moving the praxis farther from the creation of non-objectivist "collages" and into what I can only describe as a way of facilitating textual "mutations." I edit the meanings of the poems as they evolve from the various permutations of word fragments. I further edit for syllabic line length and maximum syllabic line total, while playing around with various rhyme schemes, making the end product a hybrid of traditional English blank verse and French lyric and metrical/formulaic syllabics, e.g. OULIPO methods. In my “how” is my “why.”

Week 8: Villanelle (The Poems!)

Here are the poems from Project Verse ~ Week 8: Villanelle.


*************************************************

KRISTEN MCHENRY
The Menfolk Whisper of The Gulabi Gang

“They wear pink saris and go after corrupt
officials and boorish men with sticks and axes.”
--Soutik Biswas; BBC News, Banda

Why do our good women gather in a fuchsia crush,
to bow their heads, but not to pray?
A tribe of flamingos in rags of blush,

they're hoarding stones from the filthy dray.
I hear they are hungry in a bottomless way.
Our good women gather in a muffled crush;

they have nurtured us with that same pink hush.
Now their lullabies seethe with a cryptic sway.
A cloud of flamingos in rags of blush,

they shroud their rifles in the underbrush.
I've heard it told: one night they may
gather our daughters in a fuchsia crush

and baptize them in the river's rush--
Banda wives wading in the moon's crimped ray;
a rage of flamingos in rags of blush.

I've heard they grow fervent, lithe and lush,
their hair unruly as the grass owl's bray.
Why do our good women gather in a fuchsia crush,
a tribe of flamingos in rags of blush?


*************************************************

EMILY VAN DUYNE
The Lacrymosa, Washing the Dishes: Wednesday Night in Wartime America

‘Mozart’s Requiem begins with you walking towards a huge pit…’
                                                                                           -Zadie Smith

Those can’t be my hands in the sink! Expunge the crass
dried blood of this night’s wine, strewn
in the glass. That can’t be my face, cast

in the window—lonely woman, eyes like the Black Mass…
kyrie eleision, now scrub those pots & spoons…
expunge the crass sink. Those can’t be my hands that blast

the grease of fat & bone, latticed like the past…
and why should you have this life, this boon…
That face in the glass? It can’t be her place to cast

aspersions to the night’s eclipse, the sweet, dark grass,
another person, far away, who seeks the same hidden moon?
Those can’t be my cries! They sink in the crass

face of history: slouching beasts, dead stars… the last
shall be first, penance is like ashes— no one is immune…
That can’t be my face in the window: bloody glass

house we’ve assembled and hewn.
The pit is ever closer, surely you come soon,
surely: those must be my hands that sink in the fast
cast of water. That must be my face in the glass.


*************************************************

W.F. ROBY
Through the Gauze of Heroin Hydrochloride


I took to the drug like a baby
takes to incidents of peas. A bore
we tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.

In the distant city, two birdies
lined up their beaks and poked at the core.
I took to the drug like a baby.

Dope on my desk, brown and crumbly
as steel and ash on the city’s floor.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.

The news so graceful, silver latchkey
on my neck, the stash drawer
open to the drug like a baby,

like a fly to a glass of sherry.
New York fell, I was a sophomore.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly --

a needle’s difficult to bury.
Let’s watch smoke cover up the seashore.
I took to the drug like a baby.
We tapped out grain by grain, all tingly.


*************************************************

KATHI MORRISON-TAYLOR
Gretel Copes


Repression’s underrated. She’ll forget
her cookie-house binge with M&M trim, licorice whip pitch;
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit

all run together. She’ll always hate chocolate,
is rumored to huff Easy Off and do witch
impressions badly. She’ll forget

to watch Hansel on Letterman: instead, flit
from club to club to Daddy’s house. A hazel switch,
the reek of burning witch and cloves and kitschy shit—

grief after grief, it stings her. Damn it.
Damn the greedy crumb-eaters. Damn the itch
of repression, too slow. She’ll forget

her chubby brother behind barbed wire, but she’ll spit
at old ladies with gumdrop smiles. Anorexic bitch,
motherless witch, smokes cloves, shoots the shit—

that tabloid-Gretel: famous, wrecked, unfit
as a Nazi, murder charge dropped, filthy rich. . .
Repression’s underrated. She can’t forget
the scent of burning witch and cloves and chicken shit.

*************************************************