The L.Ho Show

Poem #30 (!)

2011-04-30T07:38:00.001-04:00

"Miner"

For thirty days, you are a poet
sifting through the daily bread
of your life, lifting words
like light from the depths of a mine

You rediscover quiet mornings
filled with sparrows and dew
the hush of trees newly clothed with blooms

You remember the taste
of ink on paper, the sweat
to polish and cut a rough diamond

You remember
this is why you are here.

*

[Whew! I made it! All 30! Woo-hoo! Of course, out of these raw drafts, I'll probably only have an handful of keepers. Maybe 3 or 4 poems. Maybe. Still, it feels like quite an accomplishment to complete 30 wannabe-poems in 30 days. I can't believe the month is over! Well, for my audience: thanks for reading! And now the big question: will the Show go on? Or will it go on hiatus until next April? We shall see, my friends, we shall see. L.Ho out! :)]

Poem #29

2011-04-29T06:19:00.000-04:00

"Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt: February 11, 2011"

My clothes were torn to
pieces. They raped me with hands.
Will no one stop this?

*

[The first two lines of this haiku are direct quotations from Lara Logan, the CBS journalist, who was sexually assaulted by a mob during the celebrations of Mubarak's fall. Read more here.]

Poem #28

2011-04-28T06:30:00.002-04:00

"The Naming Ritual"

They arrived at the hospital
all huff and puff--
Lamaze an evaporated memory

Swept into labor and delivery
a room papered with flowers
to create calm: a failed plan

They had forgotten everything:
warm socks, a tennis ball
overnight clothes
the baby's layette
even a name

After hours of labor
a cloud of baby's cries
in the air, tiny lungs working

then cooing

a peace

Someone turns on the tv
"Mission: Impossible" is on
He says, I like that name
She nods, exhausted, on the edge of sleep

Yes they name the baby
after the actress
Lesley Ann Warren

*

[The writing prompt was to write a poem that explores how one was named & the meaning of the name. I only went with the first part because, as usual, I'm out of time. But there you go. True story. Well, the last two stanzas, anyway. :) And of course, for me, those "true stanzas" feel like the weakest ones of the poem-draft.]

Poem #27

2011-04-27T06:35:00.000-04:00

"Secret Garden, April 26, 1986"

The sudden bloom
of Chernobyl's flower
shoots up in the air--
a surprise this April spring day
Its seeds falling out
like active radio-
waves over Prypyat

It radiates like an invisible sun

spreading its rays far and wide

over Urkaine, Belarus, Russia

scorching the earth

to an arid char--

the forest blank with shock

the farmland useless and limp

No one whispers a word

No one says anything for two days

They want to keep this flower

to themselves, to keep

this beauty--four hundred times more

potent than Hiroshima--

to keep this beauty

a secret

[I wrote this poem on the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, which was yesterday. I sense there's more to this poem but as with every unfinished poem this month, I'm out of time. Go here for photos and here for a quick article on the anniversary.]

Poem #26

2011-04-26T06:23:00.000-04:00

"Just One More Snooze"

Reach over and feel
the magic button. Press it
for more dreams of flight.

*

[I feel like a cop-out when I write these BS haiku, but the goal this month is production, not quality. Right? Right. The practice is what counts for now. The good stuff is coming. I know it is.]

Poem #25

2011-04-25T06:44:00.001-04:00

"In the Sauna"

Nice bonnet
she says to the towel-wrapped woman
who walks in, sturdy shower cap on

"My hair is different from yours
I can't get my hair wet"
a beaded braid pokes out
from beneath the elastic

I'm dying
she wanted to say
but instead offered
I can't get my hair wet either
but that's because of my cancer treatment

fully clothed in exercise gear
she sits on the cedar bench
with two friends

they talk about nothing
dancing around that word
that floats like a balloon
tied to one's wrist:
you want it to fly away
but it won't

nail salons, hair appointments
gym guest passes
anything to forget
the civil war in her body
anything to forget
she can't get her hair wet

Poem #24

2011-04-24T08:09:00.001-04:00

"The Old Drunk"

Does too much wine ex-
cuse the razors from your mouth?
Sad woman, hush now.

Poem #23

2011-04-23T07:13:00.002-04:00

"Manila, May 1973: Immigrate"

She boards the plane
rice still stuck in her hair
turns and tosses the bouquet
to the crowd of family, weeping
even her new mother-in-law
who does not approve

She does not know
when they will return

Martial law tightens its grip
on the country's exit doors

She and her husband sit
in the exit row, poised
for a quick escape

There is crying everywhere
Someone lights a cigarette
Another unwraps a pastilla
A mother hums a lullaby

Twenty-four hours
to the other side of the world
twenty-four hours of night

No friends, no family
Only a hospital and an apartment
in Akron, Ohio

What will she do
in a place known to her
as jeans and Diana Ross
What awaits her

She fingers the rosary
given by her mother
wondering if she should pray

Poem #22

2011-04-22T06:58:00.000-04:00

"Judas, After"

shiny silver suns burn in my palms
their brightness beckons me
I cannot turn away

the crack of whips snap
me awake, moans
and laughter mock me like crows

I see him fallen as a tree
cloaked in purple thorns
what have I done

the suns bleed in my hands
and I throw them on the temple floor
try to wash in the river, useless

the highest tree then
the strongest rope
the tightest noose

no one can bring me to life
no one can save me
I have come undone

Poem #21

2011-04-21T06:31:00.000-04:00

"Morning Ritual"

race against the sun
whose slow and steady birth finds
you hiding in prayer

*

[A BS haiku because I woke up a little late this morning. I don't even know if I know what this is about! :p But hey, it's one to log in the 30/30, right? :) Better poems will come, I hope!]

Poem #20

2011-04-20T06:46:00.000-04:00

"Friday"

They're taking him
from me
You're taking him
from me

They bind him with rope
strip away his clothes
whip him whip him whip him
like a criminal
like a murderer
like Barabas a year ago

For loving you--
some God that no one
has seen, all this blindness
rampant like a disease
Watch your disciples
scatter like mice
into the shadows
No one claims him
No one will defend him

This was your will
This was your word
but must there be so much suffering
Must I watch him crumple
like an olive tree without water
Watch him stumble
under the weight of so much wood
Watch him get nailed
like a sign, hanging
in the sun
What mother can bear this?

There is nothing good
about this day.

*
[A hurried poem. I'm running late. There is more to this poem...]

Poem #19

2011-04-19T06:07:00.002-04:00

"It Hurts to be Awake"

Teary sting of eyes
Fatigue: an ache, like anchors
Oh, Sleep, don't run. Please.

Poem #18

2011-04-18T06:28:00.000-04:00

"November 2004"

The Raritan moves slow in its silt
a gray sheen to its surface--
On Hoes Lane, in the cold sun
we bury him next to burning bushes
bright with their flaming leaves
Who knew he'd stay here in Piscataway?
The immigrant who saw war
survived Bataan
then came here
to deliver mail

We left oranges for him
so that he'd rest in sweetness--

*

[a totally unfinished poem. unfinished and incomplete in every sense of the word. ah, the madness of the 30/30 challenge.]

Poem #17

2011-04-17T06:35:00.004-04:00

"How to Win the School Talent Show"

Call your four best friends

Say you'll be the black Pussycat Dolls

or the next Destiny's Child

--but with five--

there haven't been any black girl groups in a while

Decide to sing "Say My Name"

because you want everyone to know yours

Practice in your room:

break out harmonies like puzzle pieces

build choreography like lego houses

design costumes like Beyonce

you will win this contest

Until you hear the rumor mill churning its words

their clatter echoing on hallway floors:

that girl Shacara

had a lock

on the win

There's no way this is true, you think

but don't want to risk losing to that loser

that poor excuse for a girl

that second-rate singer

So you call your girls, gather

in front of her voice coach's house

like paparazzi, waiting to pounce

Soon, she emerges and you spring

with a lock in a sock

whip her like a slave who's been bad

(the repetition of hate lost on you)

aiming for her head

while your girls, like anchors, pull her down

to concrete

kick

their newfound soccer ball

This is how you win

This is how you lose

This is how you find

yourself

[I'm reluctant to post this because it's so rough, in dire need of revisions. I think I've done almost everything I tell my students *not* to do, but that's what rough drafts are, right? Just the getting-down-on-paper. The real writing is in the revison.]

[Also, this was inspired by an incident that happened last week. Go here for more details.]

Poem #16

2011-04-16T06:59:00.005-04:00

"Altercation"

He shot his mouth off--
don't he know who I am? Gun-
totin' silencer

*

[A man was shot on College Ave at Rutgers-NB around 2am this morning after he and the shooter exchanged heated words. The shooter is still at large. The man has been treated for non-life-threatening injuries.

A message from the police:
Anyone with information related to this incident or who may have been in the area at the time is asked to contact the New Brunswick Police Department’s Investigations Division at 732.745.5217 or the Rutgers Police Department at 732.932.8025 or 732.932.7211.]

Poem #15

2011-04-15T06:10:00.012-04:00

"Her Ten-Year-Old Son Speaks"

Because of me they are dead because I was too busy to show them how to scoop with their hands too busy to show how to kick with their legs how to blow bubbles to keep the water out how to float on their backs because I had to do my homework because I had to wash the dishes because I wanted to shut out the fighting because I hid in my room because I didn't teach you how to swim because of me you are dead

Poem #14

2011-04-14T06:19:00.001-04:00

“The River’s Secret”

A white teddy bear at the edge

of a boat ramp, the water still as glass

The sparrows are not yet singing

their morning concerto, the trees silent

in sleep—

No one knows the river’s secret

How a mother –all rage and sadness

blind with fear and darkness—

clasped her four children into their seats

drove away from the cramped apartment

littered with broken toys and unwashed dishes

away from that man

How she stopped for a brief moment—

perhaps a moment of light—

to let her oldest, her ten-year-old son, out

of the worn light blue minivan—

before driving on, driving away

How she kept driving

until there was no more road

no more asphalt

only water

How her foot kept the gas pedal down

even after the water

after the van began to float —an instant boat—

before sinking, before filling

with the mouth of the Hudson

the light melody of a children’s song

drowning out the cries of her own children

the fiery blindness driving her foot

against the gas, fierce against water

and then

the swallow of the Hudson

and then

silence

the teddy bear remains

keeping the river’s secret

until the boy—forced to age at light speed—

finds a firehouse

and whispers into the night

[This needs a lot of work. For example, more details about the incident have surfaced after I wrote this. There's more but I've run out of time. Keep a lookout for the revisions.]

Poem #13

2011-04-13T06:31:00.004-04:00

"Ode to Advil"

Tiny brown pills, coated with candy:

how you fit into my cupped palm--

the miracles that lie within!

How you come in other forms

liquigels / PM / cold & sinus / allergy sinus / migraine

The relief possibilities are endless!

You possess the power

to crush menstrual cramps

to chokehold toothaches

to suffocate any ache: muscle, bone, head

but above all, you wipe away

the remnants of excessive drinking

leaving a cloud to rest upon

If only you could remedy

that mother’s grating voice

pleasantly scolding a child

Impatience stuffed down

into the tiny coin pocket of her jeans

Please, dear Advil, cast her out

into the sun and expose her

for the fraud she is:

she is no Supermom.

Oh, candy of my eye!

Small tabs of delight!

I toss you in

to the back of my throat

gulp down some water

to chase you down

relish in knowing

you will

cure

all

Poem #12

2011-04-12T06:27:00.001-04:00

"First Hot Day"

Temperature rises
breaks eighty A runner peels
off his shirt like skin
unwanted prisons of cloth
shedding his hibernation

Poem #11

2011-04-11T06:10:00.000-04:00

"Jesus Tries Not to Serve Aces"

I toss the green ball in the air

with my left hand

raise the racket behind my head

with the right

elbow bent like a catapult

ready to spring

the ball begins to descend

I release the coil of my arm

and serve across the net

into the shadows

I wait for the return

silence

I toss another ball into the air

retract the racket

and launch another serve

nothing

maybe I have the wrong sport

I palm a white ball with my left hand

my right, loose in a fist, bumps it

from beneath, fires the shot

over a higher, larger net

again into the darkness

my legs wide, knees bent

a stance ready for a return

still nothing

I try everything to start a rally

to engage in a volley

but they do not hear

the sound of the ball coming

they are too preoccupied

with fumbling in the dark

looking for a place to stand

to see that my ball is filled

with light, that my voice

is their salvation

[This poem took a turn that surprised me. I started thinking the poem was about A but then it turned out to be about B, something completely out of left field. I love when that happens. And for the record, I'm not a religious person but I think the season of Lent and Easter has me occupied with Christian figures, like Jesus and Mary (see Poem #8).]

Poem #10

2011-04-10T07:06:00.000-04:00

"Girl Talk"

I want raisin toast with butter
I want pink juice
I want Froot Loops
I want my penguin slippers
I want my sheep
I want the panda bear with the giant eyes
I want the little monkey with the giant eyes
I want a princess crown
I want footie pajamas
I want a pretty dress
I want sparkly sandals
I want the bubble wand
   no-- I want the bubble wand
I want it! It's mine. That's not nice.
I want a Band-Aid
   a fairy Band-Aid
I want you to kiss it
I want a hug
I don't want to nap
I want to read
I want to watch tv
I want to color
   me too
I don't want to eat my chicken
I want dessert
I want raisins for dessert
I want mochi for dessert
   I want mochi for dessert, not raisins
I cry because I don't have words yet
I want words
I want you to carry me
I don't want to use the potty
I want to use the potty -- I'm a big girl now
I don't want to share
I want to share
I want to build a tower with blocks
I want to knock it down
I want to cry
I want to scream --she ruined it
I build it again
I laugh
I laugh
I laugh
I want you to hold me
I want to give hugs
I want you to hold me
I want to give kisses
I want you to hold me
I want you

Poem #9

2011-04-09T07:53:00.002-04:00

"How to Love a Disappointed Parent"

I want to swing a bat
at your mouth, watch the knives
of your teeth fall like hail
on the broken sidewalk
I want to smash the glass
of your face to hear the scatter
on pavement. But I don't.
I can only clench my jaw and hold
the table's edge, white-knuckled
breath held, waiting for release--

Poem #8

2011-04-08T06:31:00.000-04:00

"The Virgin Mary, After"

thy
will be
done, my Lord

take
my life--
host for yours

take
my love
for your Son

take
my son
off the cross

take
my grief
away like rain

take
my body
my faith unshaken

take
it whole
consumed by heaven

take
me for
I am yours
always

*

[This follows the form of the hay(na)ku. I've always been interested in giving the Virgin Mary a voice --people write *about* her, there are movies about the birth of Jesus (as well as his death) where she has speaking parts, but has she really ever had a voice of her own? I haven't found anything that gives her an individual voice, anything that shows she was a person just like the rest of us. This particular poem is only the beginning -- it's not exactly the voice I imagine her to have, but I have to start somewhere.]

Poem #7

2011-04-07T07:22:00.000-04:00

"What She Cannot Say"

1.
sista-girl look here
hair nappy in the kitchen
you are not angry
I always assume you are
black skin is nothing but---

2.
     white teeth, picket fence
   I want to open your mouth
   climb in, look around
   wave my flashlight beam on words
   buried under PC's cover

3.
no one wants to talk
about this word that lies still
on our tongues' edges
we dance a waltz around it
pretend its fire-breath quenched

what will happen when
we trip on our own feet and
fall into its lap
this word we believe is dead
but no, it's not, sista-girl

*

[This is a tough one. I'm working within the poetic form of tonka --a sister to the Japanese haiku-- which is 5 lines long and follows the syllabic pattern of 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 but I'm also trying to write about things people don't talk about --how to write about the unsaid? to say the unsaid?-- without being esoteric, though I feel that this draft is just that: a big code for something vague --and I hate that! So I need more time to work on this... time I unfortunately don't have right now. So yeah, I don't like this poem. Not this draft, anyway.]

Poem #6

2011-04-06T06:59:00.002-04:00

"On Eagle's Wings"

was your favorite hymn as a child
outfitted in a light blue blouse, a navy jumper
sitting with other children dressed the same

You would sing, mouth open wide
imagining being borne on the breath of dawn
and fitting in the palm of His hand

You even learned sign language
and performed at the choral concert
   palms turned toward your heart
   thumbs interlocked
   fingers fluttering as wings
   rising to the heavens

You dwelt in the shelter of the Lord
feeling safe from harm in His shadow
your Rock in whom you trusted

Then she died.

Your grandmother, your second mother
whose voice you cannot remember
even as she lay there listening to you speak--

Her funeral was at the very church
where you sang as a child
and even now, you cannot remember her voice--
if she sang with you, if she prayed aloud

You only remember hands
your hand holding hers
the cold metal bar of a gurney between them
wondering if this was what trust looked like

wondering if God has raised her up
on eagle's wings and now holds her
in the palm of His hand

*

[still working on this one. not crazy about the ending.]
[Note: some lyrics from the hymn appear in this poem]

Poem #5

2011-04-05T06:17:00.005-04:00

"My Eldest Daughter, Age 5, the Philosopher Makes a Declaration"

From the back seat, she
searches the sky for answers
Clouds are followers

Poem #4

2011-04-04T06:37:00.002-04:00

"Paradise (Lost)"

An explosion of fire, smoke
swells from an oil rig:
this artificial island suspended
over water, its fractured legs
bent like a heron's
its head tilted away from heaven
a fall from (dis)grace

Oil spreads like the devil's hands
reaching out for sinners unrepentant
and greedy for sunken treasure
swallowing wahoo and yellowfin
along the way Brown pelicans
bearing the weight
of man's transgressions

The horizons of this deepwater hell
have broken into pieces of a nightmare
that no one can sweep up
not even God

And the sinners who ask for mercy
suffer from amnesia, their memories
evaporate like smoke
vanish into water

They begin to build
another island

Poem #3

2011-04-03T07:08:00.000-04:00

Today's writing prompt: write a postcard poem.

"Greetings from the Garden State!"

Sturdy daffodil stems poke
though the cold ground
It's April and the snow has not stopped
The pollutant sheen of sunsets is lovely
and traffic moves like angry bees
looking for honey that isn't there
We don't wish you here
We dream of warmer gardens

Poem #2

2011-04-02T07:31:00.001-04:00

"Still Life"

a bowl of chocolate-covered sunflower seeds smile
in pastels of lavender, orange, yellow, pink
mug of tepid half-drunk coffee
toast crumbs on a plate, drips of butter

pre-dawn sky vanishes
morning sun fills the kitchen
--it's later than I thought

then suddenly a cry
muted and distant
cuts the soft light
into pieces

my day has begun

Happy National Poetry Month!

2011-04-01T12:03:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I'm starting a new Season of the Show, but leaving up last Season's failed attempt at blog-as-educational-tool... just in case someone finds it useful.

As you may or may not know, April is national poetry month (happens to be my birthday month, too --so it's smiles all around). With this month comes the 30 day/30 poem challenge. And here we are, April 1st. April Fool's Day.

My first poem of the month comes from an in-class exercise I did with my students this morning. They seemed to like it (though I think it's ridiculous) so I'm posting it here as my first poem of the month. Enjoy! (or not - hah!)

[The exercise was to write a love poem using scientific language we came up with during class & wrote on the board.]

"Supernova"

Light my Bunsen burner, baby
and I will show you a galaxy
beyond your wildest dreams of fusion

The viscosity between us is undeniable
as red stars explode in celebration
of our molecular binding

The teslas of our love can withstand
the collision of planets, the pull of other hearts
together, we are a supernova

We are the quarks within the atom
the fire within the spark
the constellation in the night sky

Notable quotes from Junot Diaz at Montclair State University

2010-10-20T13:54:00.000-04:00

The following quotes were taken during the Q&A portion of the event, so the topics were inevitably dictated by the audience members posing their "questions" (sometimes they were actual questions, other times they were orations based in and on self).

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

On compassion:
"How many of us tell a 4-year-old:'you're a moron'? Compassion begins with the self --stop kicking yourself and be kind."

On art:
"Art is a fundamental human vocation. We try to summon beauty."
"In art, you are who you really are. It gives you a space to be human."
"Art asks you to be in contact with your true self."

On success:
"The most successful people are those who tolerate failure the best."
"You're awesome because you fail a lot."

On the college experience, beyond a classroom education:
"Lower your guard. Accept that you can look stupid or be wrong in order for transformation [of self] to happen."
"We, the educators, the professors, want you to be transformed --that's the point of college."

On violence:
"The best way to fuck something up forever is with an act of violence."
"Violence lasts forever."

We will return to our regular programming

2010-10-19T15:00:00.000-04:00

...as soon as I find my notes on Junot Diaz at Montclair State University and the Dodge Poetry Festival in Newark...

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming--

2010-10-01T14:33:00.002-04:00

I need to take some time to process what has happened at our university.

A first-year student, Tyler Clementi, committed suicide last week. Two first-year students, Dharun Ravi (Clementi's roommate) and Molly Wei (Ravi's friend from high school), are charged with invasion of privacy after allegedy broadcasting over the internet a sexual encounter that Clementi had with another man. The details can be found anywhere online. Here is one article. Here is another. This article offers an interesting angle from Clementi's point of view.

This is a terrible terrible tragedy and the actions of the suspects are appalling & outrageous. Though I did not know Clementi, nor do I know Ravi or Wei, I feel really affected by this because it has taken place in my own backyard. I have a heavy heart.

But what's unsettling to me now is some of the responses by the general public.

Some have commented on online articles with a lack of empathy for Clementi. Things like, "I felt like he did but I didn't kill myself, I found a way... --why would you do that?"

Some are quick to pass harsh judgment, calling for involuntary manslaughter charges for Ravi and Wei. There is name-calling and villification.

But let's take a step back. Breathe. Pause. Take a closer look.

These are three first-year students who have been in the process of making that significant adjustment to college life --after all, it's only been a month since the semester started. I brought this discussion to my class this morning. Two of my own students commented that Ravi & Wei's behavior is "very high school". This touched on what had been bothering me these past few days: these three students are kids, really --and they are from a generation that has grown up in a vastly unwieldly world. What do I mean by "unwieldy"?

Think about this: the average first-year student was born in 1992. They do not know a world without the internet. Their main mode of communication has nothing to do with pen or paper or ink of any kind. The speed at which technology moves is incredible, to the point where we (the grown-ups) are chasing it just to keep up. How many times have you read or heard a story about a pre-teen girl taking a naked photo of herself and sending it to a boy she likes, just so he'll like her back? And then that boy sends it to his friends, and soon that photo is circulating out in the unmanageable world of the internet. It is so easy for young people to communicate with each other, physical boundaries be dammned. You want to share a song with your friend in the Philippines? No problem. You want to rant about something to the world? Piece of cake. You want to broadcast your roommate's sexual encounter without his knowledge? Go right ahead.

So here's the thing: we lived in a world that gives young people --kids who are still trying to figure out who they are in the world-- the easy tools to invent themselves & create personas; this requires some serious guidance. They know they can get away with certain things --saying outrageous or cathartic things online through a screen name, for example-- and not be held accountable. Not immediately anyway. And sometimes, they're never held accountable, depending on what was said.

Many young people don't think twice about what they share on the internet. Many young people can't tell the difference between what is real and what isn't. There are so many boundaries that have been blurred by the internet, including how to handle something like cyber-voyuerism in a court of law, but particularly moral and ethnical boundaries. So where is the guidance?

We as a society need to step up and provide the values that have fallen to the wayside (and in its place is sex & violence). We need to set examples for this young generation before they self-destruct.

I think about Tyler Clementi and wish he had taken a moment to breathe, to pause, to take a step back. Maybe he could have found some help, some support. I think about Dharun Ravi & Molly Wei and wonder where we as a society have failed them and the others who have resorted to this kind of behavior. I think about all three students' parents and pray for them as they struggle with what has happened. I cannot even begin to imagine what that would be like, if that was one of my kids.

So please, pause & take a breath. This is more complex than it seems.

Author identity

2010-09-30T11:25:00.002-04:00

An issue that was raised in class a few weeks ago: how important is an author's identity to a poem or story?

We're taught to separate the author from the speaker in a poem or story. This is easier to do when it's a work of fiction --after all, the genre itself says that the story is "not true". But what about a poem? Do we assume the speaker is the poet or not? Is it a case-by-case basis? When do we know that a poet's identity should or should not inform one's reading of a poem?

Here's an example:

"Pulled Over in Short Hills NJ, 8:00 AM"

It's the shivering. When rage grows
hot as an army of red ants and forces
the mind to quiet the body, the quakes
emerge, sometimes just the knees,
but, at worst, through the hips, chest, neck,
until, like a virus, slipping inside the lungs
and pulse, every ounce of strength tapped
to squeeze words from my taut lips,
his eyes scanning my car's insides, my eyes,
my license, and as I answer the questions
3, 4, 5 times, my jaw tight as a vice,
his hand massaging the gun butt, I
imagine things I don't want to
and inside beg this to end
before the shiver catches my
hands, and he sees,
and something happens.

--Ross Gay, Against Which

Many of my students read this poem as someone being pulled over, perhaps for getting caught speeding, and the physical experience of that. No one paid attention to the town named in the title (even though most of my students are from Jersey... though, how many of them have heard of the town, one known for its affluence? I can't say.). One student suggested that the speaker was late for work, indicated by the time mentioned in the title, and was speeding. There was no mention of the poet being a black man, because, really, is that relevant? But in light of this, knowing the color of the poet's skin, does this change the reading of the poem? Of course it does.

So how do we, as readers, know when to take a poet's identity into account and when to ignore it? There are no hard and fast rules to follow, but how do we determine how to read a poem?

The writing process: "All I write is crap!", part 2

2010-09-28T06:24:00.001-04:00

Here's one solution: read. Read as much as you can. Fill the creative well with all that you can by reading. Read everything and anything. I can't stress that enough. Reading is the backbone to writing.

For me, if i read crap, I end up writing crap. So if I want to write strong vibrant poems, I try to read strong vibrant work. I may not necessarily like what I'm reading, but if it's written well, then I may learn a thing or two. And you might too!

So read!

Hey audience! Any suggested reading? :)

The writing process: "All I write is crap!"

2010-09-25T12:58:00.000-04:00

One of the primary hurdles for my students is that they're afraid to write crap. They sit there, pen in hand (I insist on pen-to-paper for that first raw rough draft), before the blank page and mentally wrestle with what will go on paper. Some have said that they worry what they say will be dumb, or crappy, or totally not what they had in their minds. This worry prevents them from doing any kind of writing --crappy or otherwise.

I've encouraged them to just write the crap --get it out of their systems and onto the page, not worrying about whether or not it'll win the Pulitzer, or if it even fulfills the assignment. Writing anything down is always the first step. The real work is in revision. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To show that even people who have been writing for a while write crap, I shared this result of the in-class writing exercise we did yesterday:

"First" [dumb title]

Walking along the edge of the Hudson River,
we tried to count the lit windows of office buildings
--the stars of Manhattan--
tried to locate our building
where we first met
on the corner of 56th and Madison
in the cool April air
where we masqueraded as ad execs
but shed those selves at night
that night when you sliced a mango
and kissed me pink

[ugh! how awful!]

The exercise was to write about a personal first experience and to include the name of a river you know, a color, a city, a street, a fruit, a month and a job.

I hope, at the very least, this gave my students permission to write anything, no matter how crappy, or, even, unexpectedly stellar.

So what about you? Any thoughts on writing crap? Any examples you'd like to share that illustrates a crappy first draft polished into something fantastic?

The writing process

2010-09-24T15:03:00.000-04:00

Ah, the good old topic of process. It never gets old, does it?

Today, we talked about the writing process, specifically the daily writing. I have my students commit to daily writing --it doesn't have to be long; it can be as short as 10 minutes or as long as, well, as they feel like. I have no way of checking their work, but that's not the point. Those who are committed to developing and improving their writing skills will practice daily.

I checked in with the class today, to see how the writing was going. The problem that some are having with the daily writing is that it's repetitive. Some are writing about the same things: what went on in their days, who did what, etc. Nothing new was really happening --both in their daily lives and in their writing. I made a few suggestions on how to change it up, but I wanted to start out my first post by asking you, my audience, for some ways to approach the practice and exercise of daily writing.

What've you got?

An experiment: the blog as a teaching tool

2010-09-24T14:30:00.004-04:00

So here's the idea: use the blog as a teaching tool to continue classroom discussions and open them up to the rest of the world (specifically, the literary community who reads this blog). Imagine that: using the "outside" world as a source of education! I'm excited!

I've just sent an e-announcement to my students informing them of this new adventure and have invited them to post their thoughts in the comments section of this blog. I would really appreciate it if you, dear readers, could also contribute to our discussions.

I know it's been quite some time since this Show has been on the air & I wonder: do I still have an audience? Well, instead of wondering, why not create a new one? I'll post invites to FB and see what happens.

I have no idea what will happen, but let's just go for it and find out!

Won't you join us?

[As an FYI: this is for my Introduction to Creative Writing course, which covers poetry, fiction, and this year, screenwriting. Oh, and I teach at Rutgers-New Brunswick.]

New season coming soon!

2010-09-11T07:34:00.000-04:00

Stay tuned...