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POETRY: FORMS, PROMPTS AND WRITING IDEAS

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Matthew Walsh

on 28 May 2014

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Transcript of POETRY: FORMS, PROMPTS AND WRITING IDEAS

POETRY: FORMS, PROMPTS AND WRITING IDEAS
FOUND POETRY
THE FOUND POETRY REVIEW
FOUND POEMS
What is a found poem?
PROMPT 1


TAKE FIVE MINUTES AND WRITE A POEM USING AT LEAST FIVE OF THESE WORDS:
EXAMPLES
FOUND POETRY
Any kind of approach can be implemented in making found poems AS LONG AS YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING NEW WITH THE TEXT.
HILL, PLUM, OPEN, SINK, SKIP, COLD, FATHER, MINE, SKY, CUP,
FOUND POETRY
http://www.foundpoetryreview.com/
A found poem is created from existing text, that is remoulded and presented as them as poems.
Found poems amplify or elaborate on themes, issues, and conversations from the text they are sourced from.
Erasure poems, centos, and cross-out poems fall under the branch of found poetry.

Look at the Compatibility Between J and Whitney

In some cases this function is constant, embedding complimentary
structures for a pair. Real and valued functions, a partition
of unity, a generator of rings, then bundles. Easily verified, it can be
cyclic, in order. To prove its existence, sometimes it is only necessary
to observe. It is an extensive and beautiful theory concerning
immersion, we unfold over the same interests,
our origins are intersecting. So there exists a continuous
real we define, and proof can be indicated. On the other hand,
an additional hypothesis may give some detail into what is overlooked.
Is it necessary to make use of the fact that it is arbitrary? Then we obtain
a new restriction, but our perseverance can be pieced together from a common
boundary. The canonical line is a first step in this direction. It satisfies
the following: the most classical and convenient natural structure is real division.

FROM A MATH TEXT BOOK
JEN BERVIN'S NETS
From Shakespeare's
SONNET 64
Erasure poems
SOME EXAMPLES ARE COMING UP
She calls it her 9/11 poem.
CROSS OUT POEMS
http://austinkleon.com/category/newspaper-blackout-poems/
AUSTIN KLEON
Current submission calls: June 30th
Special online edition: Poems created out of text from Ulysses by James Joyce May 30th
PLEASE NOTE: Finding a section of prose and adding line breaks is not a found poem and you must cite where the found text comes from.
PROMPT!
Create a found poem out of this section from James Joyce's Ulysseys.
their names were coupled, though, since he was her declared favourite, where was the particular necessity to proclaim it to the rank and file from the housetops, the fact namely, that he had shared her bedroom, which came out in the witnessbox on oath when a thrill went through the packed court literally electrifying everybody in the shape of witnesses swearing to having witnessed him on such and such a particular date in the act of scrambling out of an upstairs apartment with the assistance of a ladder in night apparel, having gained admittance in the same fashion, a fact that the weeklies, addicted to the lubric a little, simply coined shoals of money out of. Whereas the simple fact of the case was it was simply a case of the husband not being up to the scratch with nothing in common between them beyond the name and then a real man arriving on the scene, strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms and forgetting home ties. The usual sequel, to bask in the loved one's smiles. The eternal question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped up. Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap in the case, exist between married folk? Though it was no concern of theirs absolutely if he regarded her with affection carried away by a wave of folly. A magnificent specimen of manhood he was truly, augmented obviously by gifts of a high order as compared with the other military supernumerary, that is (who was just the usual everyday farewell, my gallant captain kind of an individual in the light dragoons, the 18th hussars to be accurate), and inflammable doubtless (the fallen leader, that is, not the other) in his own peculiar way which she of course, woman, quickly perceived as highly likely to carve his way to fame, which he almost bid fair to do till the priests and ministers of the gospel as a whole, his erstwhile staunch adherents and his beloved evicted tenants for whom he had done yeoman service in the rural parts of the country by taking up the cudgels on their behalf in a way that exceeded their most sanguine expectations, very effectually cooked his matrimonial goose, thereby heaping coals of fire on his head, much in the same way as the fabled ass's kick. Looking back now in a retrospective kind of arrangement, all seemed a kind of dream.
EKPHRASIS POETRY
EKPHRASIS POETRY II
is a poem about visual art or a reaction to visual art.
an ekphrasis poem can be used to criticize visual art.
it can also used to elaborate and amplify themes in a painting, allowing us to see the painting from a new perspective or insight.
EKPHRASIS POETRY III
as writers, we see things in the world that we like dislike, hate, or admire.
ekphrasis poetry is a way to comment on what we see in the world and a way to interact with it.
it is poetry interacting with visual art.

LANDSCAPE WITH THE FALL OF ICARUS

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

William Carlos Williams

IN THE MUSEE DES BEAUX ARTS
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Brueghel's Icarus for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

WH AUDEN
Using found text for creating poems is beneficial to writers!

It's a good way to introduce yourself to new words, keep up on pop culture, what is
going on in the world, and explore different forms of writing.

It's also a way for writers to try out new voices and experiment with form.



EKPHRASIS IIII
we see each poet take a small detail from
Bruegel's painting and write about it.
they approach the ekphrasis in different poetic styles.
both are examples of an ekphrasis.
CV2
CONTEMPORARY VERSE 2
http://www.contemporaryverse2.ca/en/poetry/
UPCOMING THEMES:
The Poetics of Queer: July 15th 2014
The Repurposing of Poetry Forms: Jan 15th 2015
Water Poetry: July 15th 2015
FORMS OF POETRY 1: SONNETS
the Shakesperean sonnet is a tight,
controlled little poem.
the rhyme scheme alternates like this:
ababcdcdefefgg.
they end with a blow-out amazing rhyming couplet.
SONNET EXAMPLES:
Shakespeare
SONNET 64

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate --
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

SONNET EXAMPLE 2: WELDON KEES
Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen
That may be hers appear: foul, lingering
Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting
Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel
Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
These speculations sour in the sun.
I have no daughter. I desire none.

FOR MY DAUGHTER
SONNET 3: DENIS JOHNSON
Heat
1949

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover
tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.
It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,
Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,
streaming with hatred in the heat
as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin
to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,
and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.
August,
you’re just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon of tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

THE VILLANELLE
Refrain 1 (A1)
Line 2 (b)
Refrain 2 (A2)
Line 4 (a)
Line 5 (b)
Refrain 1 (A1)
Line 7 (a)
Line 8 (b)
Refrain 2 (A2)
Line 10 (a)
Line 11 (b)
Refrain 1 (A1)
Line 13 (a)
Line 14 (b)
Refrain 2 (A2)
Line 16 (a)
Line 17 (b)
Refrain 1 (A1)
Refrain 2 (A2)
2 repeating refrains
19 lines

A MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
DYLAN THOMAS
Difficult form to pull
off due to the repetition
and rhyme scheme.
ONE ART: ELIZABETH BISHOP
One Art
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
GHAZALS
are about loss or romantic love.
they consists of grammatically and syntactically complete couplets.
have an intricate rhyme scheme.
each couplet ends with the same word or phrase.
each couplet is the same metre or length.
GHAZAL II: EXAMPLE
I’ll do what I must if I’m bold in real time.
A refugee, I’ll be paroled in real time.

Cool evidence clawed off like shirts of hell-fire?
A former existence untold in real time ...

The one you would choose: Were you led then by him?
What longing, O Yaar, is controlled in real time?

Each syllable sucked under waves of our earth—
The funeral love comes to hold in real time!
AGHA SHAHID ALI
GHAZAL III
Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips,
decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.

As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,
inhaling bassline, cracking backbone and singing thru hips.

Like something boneless, we glide silent, seeping 'tween floorboards,
wrapping around the hims, and ooh wee, clinging like glue hips.

Engines grinding, rotating, smokin', gotta pull back some.
Natural minds are lost at the mere sight of ringing true hips.

Gotta love us girls, just struttin' down Manhattan streets
killing the menfolk with a dose of that stinging view. Hips.

Crying 'bout getting old—Patricia, you need to get up off
what God gave you. Say a prayer and start slinging. Cue hips.
PATRICIA SMITH/HIP HOP GHAZAL
Structure and Punctuation
How do you want your poem to be read?
The punctuation you use in your poems is important. It guides the reader.
How do you want your poem to look on the page?
TAKE A LOOK AT SYLVIA PLATH'S PUNCTUATION IN "TULIPS"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178974
FREE VERSE POETRY
Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

STEVIE SMITH

SOUNDS IN POETRY
Boys
Not old enough to pay for our trouble,
or even name it, we wandered the town

after dark like dogs, half-tamed at best.
We set small fires and hurled rocks and pissed

against school doors, nosing the margin
of the disallowed, the out of bounds.


We ranged as far as the trestle,
sniffing underbush and the long grass

for anything dead or lost or unusual,
broke into empty buildings for the thrill

of stealing through forbidden spaces,
of standing at darkened windows, invisible

while the innocent traffic drove past.
We perched at the lip of change, we knew it,

though in our eyes time itself stood still,
we couldn't imagine ourselves at thirty
or married or living in other places--
what we wanted was to see the world undress,

to lie down naked somewhere dirty
and fuck, to do all the unspeakable

things our green minds could only intuit,
a communal urge we suffered alone.

Half-grown, we were living our lives by halves,
our dreams were vacant rooms we didn't own

and roamed in silence, shadows behind the glass,
our mute hearts a mystery to ourselves.
Not old enough to pay for our trouble,
or even name it, we wandered the town

and roamed in silence, shadows behind dark glass,
our mute heart a mystery to ourselves.
BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
PROMPT 2
Take a moment and try writing a poem about some sort of visual art a movie, a painting--
or even a book, a person--anything in the world.
Or try writing a found poem again if you want!
Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, Back From the Dead, Talking Endlessly on a Tiny TV
He says in the news real, like
a hundred little dodges
to make his Sherlock Holmes think straight,
meaning crooked, meaning sense and surprise do mix.
A museum thing. Surgeon's Hall, Edinburgh---
bones in bottles, flesh ravaged by disease or musket balls
or plain bad DNA, oh chloroform, save us,
carbolic soap and Lister Lister Lister now
Conan Doyle, homeboy
of this old and gorgeous city.
It's just that, holy jealous! His detective
gets mail. One young woman would drop her darling
village boy to marry him. Holmes,
that is.The doctor should be saying, yes, my stilted prose,
yes rare luck of the draw, a great character
came to me. Dogged effort pays off.
Everything is a mystery
until a narrative kicks in.

You know what? It's still a mystery.
Such a small screen. The film's scarred, badly lit, on repeat.
I sit in a chair, watch
the big man welcome the camera as I imagine
he rose to the wide-eyed patient who's
quite forgotten why she came or what is wrong.
That sweet blank stare of the lens
is hers. Now it's mine.
But he hasn't practiced for years, outdoors in the footage,
blurry shade, late Twenties, his
my stories, my novels and what to do, and how
do it and not doctor all day, and so on
and so forth

to 1929. Where my mother turns eight
in the mind's eye behind him,
or the stock market---hear that crash?
Disaster comes. And it goes. Probably
a flower bed
the real backdrop, and shade means
oak or wych elm, a house
wicker table for tea, this loop, this loop, this loop...
So much is plain exhausting
and exacting and every stupid reason loves its reason,
those hundred little dogdes that
get us in the end.

Sir Arthur, my name is
Merely, and it's Dust Mote, it's Future, and Gray Dissolve
where time put me in this chair
to watch you my accident because
so what. And who knows. And no telling.
a
b
a
b
c
d
c
d
e
f
e
f
g
g
THANKS FOR LISTENING
SONNET 64

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate --
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

OR USE THIS LINE: "In the poem I show to no one," FROM KAYLA CZAGA'S POEM "VICTORIA SOTO" AND WRITE A POEM AROUND IT.
http://www.themaynard.org/
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