What We Do Here:

This Blog is about Poetry, and its purpose is to forward poetry in the world with connections to any and all poets I can find. This blog works in conjunction with me other blog.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

My Paper using the 7 Steps

The Rolling Ball

A loud noise pulls me off the coffee table and onto the floor. The sun stings my eyes for a moment—this is the living room, and my bed, last night, was my coffee table. My mouth is a hot mess of what I can only assume is snot and Kool-Aid, and my teeth are covered in fuzzy foam that is reminiscent of grit—I need to brush them. Collapsing here last night was probably due to the Kool-Aid, a bright plastic Red cup rolls along the hardwood floor, crumpled because I must have crushed it. On the outskirts, Jessica’s handwriting in bright red ink—Drama Be gone. Jessica’s special punch—takes the drama away—and your mind.

For a moment, I catch my breath and a cold sweat slips down my forehead—whatever I was dreaming, it is gone, and all I have left at this time is the distinct impression that I should be in my room rather than mom’s coffee table.

My back is stiff, but the living room floor is cool to the touch, and it seems like mom’s hand carved coffee table actually can carry my body which I can keep in mind the next time someone needs a bed. From the back of the room, there are two barks, each in succession, and I know that to be my Mom’s annoying dog Sascha. Reaching for her, she growls a low growl and takes a few steps back—she’ll probably run away. Another female who thinks I’m worthless, who runs from me whenever I get close. Mom is never here, and that’s another story—Dad’s excuse is that he is dead.

Sascha regards me with a look of pity (as if dogs can summon pity?) and sniffs my leg for a brief moment before yelping and running back to the kitchen. The slow light peeks its way through the curtains, stretches along the floor and warms the edge of the coffee table. The nearby clock blinks 3:05 in bright neon red letters. It is the afternoon, and I have been sleeping eight hours, as far as I can recollect. The edges of the living room light up, and along Dad’s fireplace are his trophies: Third place Science fair ribbon, a “Future Farmer’s of America Pin,” which is also the color of corn. Next to the pin is a picture of Tina.



Tina sits holding a ear of corn as a joke, her left hand pointing it towards me like a gun. She smirks in the frame as if to say, “What shall I do with you sir, you’ll be the death of me.” Behind Tina’s photo is another object, this one is round and scruffy, and it takes me a minute to see that it is a baseball with the stuffing smashed out of it. The baseball itself is tucked behind the other trophies. Taking a moment, I pull myself up and grab it from the shelf. It is round and scarred on one side, where half the stuffing and twine have been knocked out of it. The edges of it are frayed, and I remember how I beat the hell out of it that one time.



“Enelow get your head out your ass!” screams the coach! “You’re up next Moron!” “Sorry Coach!” I yell and kick the dirt off my cleats. Moving toward the end of the team box , I pick up Lucinda my favorite bat. “Knock it out the park you little shit.” He says as I pass him. The air is cold as I unzip my jacket and pause for a moment.

Barson’s Field is covered in a light haze, the stands are filled with people and they are all looking at me as I exit the team box. For a moment, the wind itself seems to freeze—the players all look in slow action as I move past them—Tommy Johnson picks his nose and flicks the green remains toward the ground. The umpire looks at me for a moment, and shakes his head.

The Catcher has a small grin on his face and he winces for a moment—bad eyesight probably—he scratches his crotch and nods his head at the pitcher—no hit—no problem. Approaching the batter box, I tap Lucinda against my cleats twice, and a small cloud emerges and I’ve got to make this hit. The scoreboard reads 20 to 14 in white chalk on black hardwood

Lucinda and I have been here before—she trusts me, and I trust her. We do some real damage together. “Pay Attention James!” screams the coach. He does that when I am being reckless and when I have the tendency to lose myself. “Keep your eye on the goal!” he screams again and then rubs his forhead. The plan is to knock this bitch of a ball across the field and into the nearest car’s window. Usuually, every game I manage to break some poor ass-whipes window and they can bitch all the want—accidents happen.Tina is in the stands as usual. She shakes her head and I give her the look. I point the bat at her, then toward the right field, and she rolls her eyes. “Pay Attention!” she screams!

The ball in my hand is cold--the imprint of Lucinda’s edge is still left on the side of it. “Suckers.” I say and toss the ball back toward my desk, it rolls for a moment and on the outer edge of it is a red mark, a mark that reminds me of lipstick and for a moment all I can see is Tina’s head rolling and rolling and looking at me.

“You’re not going to go to that party.” She says as I turn the corner in my car. “It’s just a party Baby.” “No, it’s a place where people get drunk and sleep around!” Smirking for a moment, I look at her. “Gee, really? And you don’t trust me?” I say pointing to her engagement ring. “I trust you—I just don’t trust them. And I know you mean well, but I think you can’t see when something is about to happen. You stumble into it without thinking.”

“Baby, I’m not—“ but before I can finish, the edge of a blue sedan comes into view.

The side of the car crumples like paper behind Tina’s head and my eardrum becomes silent. The window shatters around her head, becoming a halo of light and glass, and the two of us defy gravity for a moment. The sky turns itself inward for a moment, becoming pavement, then sky, then pavement. Tina screams and for a moment--spit comes from her mouth, splashing into my face—my arm twists itself backwards and my head thuds against the ceiling. For a moment, all that I have is on top of me, and I am in the back seat, and then silence and sirens.

For the next house,the world is rolling blur or images. Tina's head appears briefly in my vision for a secomd

(Incomplete)

Examples of How to Start without writing the exact same phrase.

How to Wake up Abruptly without writing, I wake abruptly. Use the Senses.

Examples:

Start with a Sense:

The first is sound:
“Wake up Dallas Texas!” screams the announcer straight into my ear, and I flail for a moment, grab the radio and throw it against the wall.

Sensation:
A warm feeling covers my face and when I open my eyes, Shadow is full on coating my face with her tongue. “Get off me Cat!”

Sight:
When the darkness goes away, I find myself face down in a bowl of potato chips, and the pressure building in my groin is telling me to go to the bathroom—now.

Sight:
At first the air is still, and then, the blurry vision of my father’s stuffed deer on the wall becomes crystal clear as my eyes adjust.

Taste:
For a moment I am calm then the sour, rancid dryness enters my mouth. Moving my head up, I notice that my pillow is covered in drool, and I move backwards from it quickly.

Smell, then Sound then Sound:
When I open my eyes the heavy scent of cheese and eggs enters from downstairs. A crackling noise of grease spitting off a frying pan crackles from downstairs and my Mom’s shrill voice cuts through the house like a battering ram. “Garret! Get your ass up!”

Touch:
A sharp and distinct pain enters my neck, and I cough as I open my eyes. A six inch cockroach about the size of my thumb scuttles across the floor straight at my mouth! “Jesus!” I yell and pull myself up before smashing my head against the bottom of the coffee table. “Dammit!” I scream and quickly press my right hand to my head

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Work of Stephen Gardner and How I Came to Love Poetry

Stephen Gardner was the first professor to teach me poetry. This is one of his poems which I emulated years later:

2 a.m., Incense, a quart of gin, my dog with a bone

--for Jim Peterson

Outside the rain has finally begun to end.
The quiet here among these books
Has all the elements, I know,

Of murders in the dark:
Of blood, and gagging on that blood.
I stroke his fur, I feel his breath

Move the hair on my hand.
I light a candle against the dark.
But he hears things I cannot hear.

So I invent. I invent madmen
Walking just beyond our sight,
Leaning, listening outside the door,

Scentless so he cannot know they move
Within the circle of our life.
The ice rattles against my glass.

The flame dances. He stops to hear.
And when he does
All breathing in this room

Jerks to an end. I take a drink.
The candle steadies.
The Bone snaps between his teeth.

--Stephen Gardner

*Published in Southern Review*