Process Poem.  ???

The challenge this week was to write a process poem.   I had no idea what I would do.  But the instructor also sent out a link to 92 experimental poem starters (his exact words were- " First, Your prompt: Write a poem that takes a material process, rather than an object, as its object. Or try out one of these 92 experimental prompts: http://www.writing.upenn.edu/bernstein/experiments.html. ")

On the list, I found a website called The Lazurus Corporation, and deep in their website was The  Text Mixing Desk ( http://archive.lazaruscorporation.co.uk/cutup/textinput.php ).  It allows you to submit a piece of text, which it will cut up into strips, reorder, cut into new strips, reorder, etc.   You can reorder up to five times, and you can vary the lengths of strips from one to seven words long.  I was fascinated by this tool!  (It also can transgenderize  a text, switching male to female, female to male , or all, and it can scrub out obscenities).   I spent hours playing with this tool, cutting and pasting passages from Mrs Dalloway in the Text Mixing Desk.  Lots of fun.  Take a minute to try it out.

Then, I remembered that I take an injection every two weeks for arthritis, so I copied the instructions on how to inject Humira into the Text Mixing Desk, and I ran it 15-20 times through the process, trying different lengths of phrases, cutting and pasting multiple times.  Look at me- I'm creating Dada poetry! ( http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/poetic-technique-chance-operations )   Below are two of my favorite results of running instructions for injecting Humira through the Text Mixing Desk at the Lazarus Project.


Version one:

Area.

place grey

hold pen raised quick tips for using plum-colored until area of skin with an well.

pick an hear injection site to

 make a raised humira

pick

wash angle.

press

press at a 90° pen firmly end of pen onto gray cap off

pull off

place

pinch and dry your hands site.

wipe clean will plum colored “click” at the a load alcohol the yellow firmly in place or wait 10 seconds. skin together at against button.

you cap indicator stops skin.

push moving swab.

pull

pull injection start.

 -------------------------------------------

Version two:

  

Swab.

pull

pull gray moving or wait 10 cap clean with an alcohol pen onto raised area of an site to make a raised will angle.

press

press pen injection site.

wipe off

place

pinch plum-colored button.

you skin at a 90°

hold pen firmly in place “click” at the start. area.

place grey end of skin together at injection quick tips for using stops yellow indicator seconds.

 cap hear a load until the firmly against skin.

push off

pull plum colored humira

pick

wash and dry your hands well.

Pick

The original:

Quick tips for using Humira

Pick

Wash and dry your hands well.

Pick an injection site.

Wipe clean with an alcohol swab.

Pull

Pull Gray Cap off

Pull Plum colored Cap off

Place

Pinch skin together at injection site to make a raised area.

Place grey end of pen onto raised area of skin at a 90° angle.

Press

Press pen firmly against skin.

Push Plum-colored button.

You will hear a load “click” at the start.

Hold pen firmly in place until the yellow indicator stops moving or wait 10 seconds. 

------------------------

All the best to you who read, and thanks for dropping by.

 

Still Life- Lime

"Write a poem in which you observe and describe a single object. This object is of your choosing; it can be pedestrian, everyday, meaningful, significant, poetic, prosaic, awful, cheerful, normal, almost invisible, imaginary, or whatever. Certainly it can be an art object or a love trophy or a piece of trash. But it is important to me that you look closely at one thing until it changes into something else. I am thinking of this as a practice in looking, staring, observing."  From Scott Challener

Still Life- Lime                       

Green.  Of course.

It must be green.

Not one, or two, but several greens-

moss and kelly and olive and lime.

It rests, still, on the kitchen table;

waxy shine reflects the ceiling light,

but over its horizon, what will I find

on the dark side of the lime?

From where I sit, I see

surface mottled, small bumps

and dents

and rivulets.

Tectonic plates almost appear;

an equatorial hint runs stem to stern.

And I, Galactic – scale astronaut,

will soon rise up,

orbit the lime, this little citrus world,

take its measure, and return again,   

with new words for lime and green and still.

John Andrews   7/10/14

Pocket Buddha

"Write a poem in which you observe and describe a single object. This object is of your choosing; it can be pedestrian, everyday, meaningful, significant, poetic, prosaic, awful, cheerful, normal, almost invisible, imaginary, or whatever. Certainly it can be an art object or a love trophy or a piece of trash. But it is important to me that you look closely at one thing until it changes into something else. I am thinking of this as a practice in looking, staring, observing."  From Scott Challener

Pocket Buddha

He sits on coils of a snake demon,

its seven heads fanning out above him,

seeming threat, but representing protection.

He rests an open hand on  crisscrossed legs;

the other seems to grip a knee,

though these details  are nicked and muddled

and his corners are rounded,

from jostlings in bookbags and suitcases,

backs-of-drawers and under-beds,

buffeted by day-to-day epiphanies.

His eyes stare into the far distance,

but the dust gathers in the nooks

where his back meets snake.

You are a copy,

a knock off,

a mass-produced palm-sized Buddha,

emulating finer icons of enlightenment.

I carry you with me now and then,

tucked away with calendars and spiral notebooks.

I forget you’re there.

When I remember you,

take you out, cradle you in my open hand

(seeming protection, representing threat),

no bigger than a rabbit’s foot,

you offer no wisdom, no shelter nor sympathy,

only nicked and muddled memories

of a trip to the other side of the world.

Farmer’s Market Sonnet 4

-->

There’s something missing from the farmer’s stand.

The lettuces and berries (straw) are there,

And herbal odors waft and fill the air.

But I don’t see the sexy farmer man.

Where could he be, my Farmer’s Market beau?

Perhaps he moved on to a different site,

Or kinder town?  It’s possible, he might

Have gone away for good.  I miss him though.

I miss his willow arms, his nightdark hair,

His smile when he’d bag a peach for me.

Sometimes, he’d offer up a taste for free;

That smile was not the only thing he’d share.

I yearn for him, his vegetables, and fruit. 

In me, his seeds of love have taken root.

Irony with Goat

This summer, I am taking a poetry writing class- 6 weeks, 6 poems.   I'm excited for the opportunity to write weekly, to be in a community of writers.   I wrote the poem below for the first class.  Not very subtle, it expresses my desire and excitement to start something new, to try on a new role.

The Goat

“Race horses and goats have been befriending each other for centuries. For whatever reason, the goats seem to have a greatly calming effect on race horses, who are often extremely temperamental.” –Jill Harness

When he awakes,

the goat knows.

Is it the

sunlight streaming into

the stable? The

smell of May?

He trots out

through the open

paddock door.  All

the jockeys’ eyes

on the mares, 

no one notices.

He saunters into

the empty post.

Man O’War and Seabiscuit

flank him, curious.

Do they look

down their noses?

Shake their manes?

Stomp their hooves

in puzzled confusion?

The goat ignores

them. His eyes

clear and focused

down the furlong.

He doesn’t hear

the crowd, the

horses, the flies

buzzing his tail.

All he sees--

the track unfolds ahead of him.

Ready to run, the goat leans forward.

John Andrews  6/25/14

The great irony of the day is that the goat never started the race.  Today, in the first class, we went around the room discussing everyone's poem.  But we ran out of time, and my poem and another person's were shelved for next week.  The goat will have to spend the week in the  post, pawing at the ground, not quite making it to the finish line for a little while longer.   You can't make this stuff up, people.

Farmer's Market (not a) Sonnet 3

It went a different direction, maybe because I was out of town and writing from the other coast.

----
(Now I've changed up the rhythm,
as I dream of life with him,
and my sonnets have shifted to some sort of song.
But a change isn't harmful,
though it might be alarm-ful
that I'm playing with rhythm and rhyme for so long.)

Today is a Saturday,
a day for a market
of farmers and lovers and dreamers and me.
But I'm far away,
in California(y)
and I won't see my beau, the boy from the barn.

He is selling tomatoes
and celery and carrots,
and I'm far away by an ocean out west.
A continent parts us,
a landmass gi-normous.
I wish I were back home,  a reluctant guest.

And I wish I could see him,
if only while shopping,
for he's become a new anchor, a mark in my week.
For the contact is grounding,
his existence astounding,
and he offers me something that I seem to seek.

And his smile is alluring,
and his arms are like willows,
and his hair is as dark as the nightfall at sea,
And I surely do miss him.
What I'd give for to kiss him,
And take him to live with me for eternity.

Farmer's Market Sonnet 2

The produce at your stand is plump and sweet,

Inviting all of us to take a taste

Of berries, peaches, golden corn (or maize)

A plethora of beauty for to eat.

You check us out and calculate our bill,

But some of us are also checking you.

We wonder if there's something we could do

To bag you up and take you home.  And still,

You joke and grin.  Perhaps you're unaware

Of all the heat your smile generates,

The passion that your compliment creates,

The lightning bolts that  crackle in your stare.

But I suspect that part of you can see

The growing feelings you produce in me.