Tag Archives: writing practice

Spam poetry: Movie review

As best I can tell, the text for this spam comment was about the spectacularly awful sci-fi/horror flick Maximum Overdrive. I have no idea what language the review was originally written in, but it may well have been auto-translated twice: first out of English into another language and then back again into English. The results are almost as interesting as the film, and mercifully much shorter.

Movie review

caught in the tail of your comet
for a short time all machines have grown
self-aware far from the kingdom
this has bloodstream and guts
ancient American action and grit
at its best

Composted poetry: Daily grind

This is a compost poem because it rose to the top of my mind from I-don’t-know-where. Somewhere, sometime, I heard someone talk about poetry being the product of consistent work rather than the result of accidental inspiration. This is not to say that accidental inspiration can’t be used in a poet’s consistent work, but accident is a pretty poor basis for anything, even a hobby, let alone a career or vocation.

Daily grind

poetry is not lightning
a spinal jolt of plasma that splits open
mind to the sky in random
rare serendipity

poetry is laundry
worn piles that tumble over
and over made fresh by infinite
tedious cycles

Prompted poetry: sky photo

Shawn has provided another photo prompt this week: Sky over Barceloneta Beach. I was surprised at how quickly I thought of something in response. Maybe I’m starting to get the hang of this writing thing…

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Etch A Sketch

the wide blue screen plots certain
journeys — destinations and departures
scrawled in vapor trail
some expand to dissipate into
nothingness while others contract
to invisibility — in the end
all vanish

Spam poetry: Forests of Puget Sound

I’ve been playing with spam lately; I find the auto-translated stuff a great source of amusement and inspiration. The wonky syntax and near-psychedelic word juxtapositions light up all kinds of brain activity. Sometimes I take whole chunks and try to punctuate them so they make some kind of sense in English; other times I lift choice bits from here and there and combine them to see what happens. Here’s my favorite poem from this morning’s work:

Forests of Puget Sound

On a great treelined side freeway, a sanctioned handsome conical
specimen with simple roots and sagging, greygreen sharp needles
matured with regard to wet, detailed mud.

Always those already established Northwest mystics (to find
a reasonably sultry painting of them) have been a far more spectral
only no less helpful presence.

We simply come across your wife’s perception openly
once, many years after the scandal.

Prompted poetry: Write at the Merge week 38

I missed the deadline for submitting this poem to be part of the weekly collection of blog posts at Write on Edge, but decided to post it on my blog anyway. The prompt was a photo and a Sylvia Plath quote; click here to see both.

Inclination to equinox

summer light slowly tilts
toward autumn not yet born
canning jars suspended on fence
pickets collect slow-witted flies
who rattle in blue-green heat until spent
then drop out to lie
dazed and dusty by the road

(22sep13 update: I changed the title of the poem from “Toward the equinox.” I just realized I use the word “toward” in the second line, and that kind of repetition doesn’t work in a poem this short. Just goes to show how difficult — i.e. impossible — it is to edit your own work. Hire an editor, people!)

Prompted poetry: robin photo

This is in response to a photo prompt/meme posted by Shawn at Shawn L. Bird on Monday. The title isn’t very clever, but it provides some context that’s lacking if you don’t have the photo as a reference. Suggestions and comments welcome!

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Robin at Montserrat

bit of parti-colored fluff on a rocky ledge cares
nothing for the travelers on this pilgrim way, intent
rather on insects stirred by their passing, dusty votives
for the wide-mouth choristers who clamorously intone
the offices of her days — their stuffed silence the peace
she seeks, their bulging craws the benediction
over which she folds when evening’s chill sets in

 

Prompt poem

This poem is a mash-up of bits and pieces from a long list of prompts I’ve collected in my writing journal. Nothing profound, just something fun I tossed off Saturday morning.

listening to the voices in the cracked
red bowl while you were lost
I could not sleep — bowlegged dreams
follow the grain of indolent beliefs and discarded
remainders of ideas in a dark time

use your favorite letter traveling alone
without leaving home out of fear
I could not sleep — growing in an old place
as if seeing it for the first time
a scrawl of words in the background

Ekphrasis: Self Discovery

This is my response to a writing challenge prompt by Elizabeth Beck and John Lackey from the Accents Publishing blog. Accents Publishing is a wonderful independent press with a global literary presence and a commitment to the local writing and visual arts community.

within the very atoms of our bones
swirl the fires of creation and our flesh
smolders with the expanding
passion that gives birth to stars

luminous though our celestial bodies appear
to instrument and naked eye alike the greater
part of matter and energy remains
dark and unknowable

Found poetry: Advice to a writer

The other book I purchased from the gift shop at the Mark Twain House was also written by a New England author who had taken part in one of the wonderful writing workshops the museum sponsors. I’m working my way through the book very slowly, saving it for those days when I sit down to work and struggle to find something coherent to write.

Advice to a Writer

you should not walk
around with your heart
hanging open — there’s too much
danger out there
just find a way to make your heart
safe for opening slowly
chamber by chamber
so you can get back
to those in-the-moment
moments

— Nancy Slonim Aronie in Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice, p. 33 (Hyperion 1998)

Prompted poetry: overboard

Here’s a little something from my journal. I toyed with a different title (Lost at Sea); let me know what you think. I’m also not sure how well the imagery holds up, especially at the end. I would love to know your thoughts on that as well.

Man Overboard

he pressed his lips to the back of her
hand, held her fingers lightly in his
own as he did, lest he telegraph his desire
to clasp them like a lifeline and haul himself
kiss over kiss up the length of her arm
to salvation