Archive for the ‘powm’ Category
Describing a person by describing his or her belongings Explain meaning and write an own definition Peaking from the point of view of something Things I’ve heard people say on buses or trains, history Does any one have any? I guess you need a really silly brain to begin with Some people use Facebook Watch what they do and listen to what they have to say The region the door knob There are ideas everywhere just waiting for an open mind, a quick wit and an observant eye Go for a walk They can be conceived from just about anything – an object, a thought, a feeling, a mood, or a dream Things you notice, details, words, similes, things people say. § § §. Things I’ve heard people say on buses or trains, history Come from everywhere! Listen to your feelings They pop into my head Write 10 words that best describe a jump rope A eulogy can express our innermost thoughts and feelings Which I’d write down on hotel stationery or on the back of boarding passes What to do with line breaks, how to encourage showing rather than telling in a poem Some are serious, some are humorous, and some are somewhere in between! Find somewhere quiet and daydream for a while See what ideas come to you If nothing comes, why not try writing something Describing a person by describing his or her belongings Quotes I could send him to help cheer him up Fun/light-hearted poems can come through the observed lives of others Something to write about besides suicide, car accidents Focus on use of carefully selected adjectives and similes A lop-eared rabbit called Miffy and four chickens – Darcy, Twiggy, Dora and Boadicea Can come from anywhere and these entries will be good raw material for the drafting of poetry to come You can write a poem: describing a person by describing his or her use of alliteration (repeating the same consonant sound)
Question giver (for the hitchhiker in Hundestage)
Stay where you stop, then move on stay where you stop then move and / paragraph paragraph paragraph, after a long time. After a long time, he hears her in the body of a grown-up, lady and boy, bird who cannot fly or flies too high, people call her Alaska, s/he stands in a plane of snow, no footsteps!
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A Zone (for Monkey in Stalker)
S/he sits at a table. S/he slouches her body drapes her arms on the table, lays, her head on one side, on the surface of the table. S/he bends towards the other-formed, moves three glasses by staring, one glass at a time, over the surface of a table. A perception of possible movement. The mark of her father in the gaze from her eyes. She rests her head on the surface of the table. In his zone, the man, rests his head in the moist earth. In this zone he leads wanderers by wandering, with the absolute seriousness and dedication of a child. Child’s play, silence as movement. She is unimaginably distant from him. Absolutely further far, each other, so close. He finds a room of impossible desire, same place different wander. He cannot enter, where he offers himself. And the Scientist, the Writer, the wanderers, sit slumped before this room, puppets in the wet sand, arms dangle forward stiff, heads bow half forward down
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The painter (for Rinus van den Bosch)
S/he is painter, using the Queen for a model, s/he has painted the shadow of the Queen, and the Queen did approve of the difference. Much later the best s/he can do is paint with one colour. S/he paints one colour, horizontal, one colour vertical. Difference in direction becomes a difference in colour. The painter is ridiculed, accused, ignored. S/he feels the hurt of a child, the terror of a child (door slam) or soldier (possible imminent bombing or death). S/he sees her painting, stares thoughtlessly into her painting, for hours, thumb and index fingers fumble with the hem of her skirt, when until a person presses from behind with caress, her hands, on her hands;
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Guilty landscape
He sits in front of a meadow, looks into the meadow. A plane of grass and lined by trees. He does not know, and, what kind of trees, some oaks probably, but only because people often talk of oaks. He remembers nothing, no place, death, the feeble bones. Sings a song alongside the death. Long rolling. Dark dark river, entangles the meadow grey and bloody dust
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Ageless pre-teen (for Eli and Kåre)
Dressed all black s/he curls up for a journey in a black coffer. There is no pain in her joints there is rubber. A young boy lets his index and middle fingers slide over the studs on the trunk’s edges. He can never see the blackness that s/he rests in, but it passes through him. He keeps her safe inside her black box. Maybe s/he will devour him, one body for another. When s/he is in her blackest box he feels the blinding desert, blast wave of an atomic bomb: one atom wave diffracts another. Sometimes tears from his eyes. Sometimes it makes him tremble, stare with unblinking eyes. He is hidden from sight, can feel the little particles of being wriggle, violently larvae. S/he is in a black box, in a forever black box. Ageless pre-teen, unthinkable, what we might call monster. The boy is about to have thought her, is about to have died. The boy is about to have thought her, is about to have died. He is for his life a salvation for her. He for his life redeems her blackest. He is a boy whose fingers stroke the stitching of her coffer, he with the murmuring of an old man offers his life as blood. He offers awkward and gentle as a child. When s/he opens her box, the slam of a wall of air when s/he touches his face her insides hurt, he is a streak of flash (the trace of an impossible star)
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A figure
An old woman standing, and with the light, and it appears as if, receding into, or emerging from a darkness. Heavy black dress with white frills white collar. Thick leather face, deep faults, etched grooves. The blackness from which into which, comes thru at some spots comes thru a woman’s face, only slightly as if not. When she looks left there is a gust of movement behind her eyes, a violent smashing of window panes. When she looks right, a collapse and rustling, some squirrel shooting thru high leaves, some rat or fox shooting thru a cartoon, thru dry leaves. Sagging but thick her face, heavy not sad, troubled but only because of her face,
Not again for Mozes’ sake, any way around this, keeping options open, is not an option, done that, wiggled my way out, I thought (I thought), a rush of sound, a peripatetic truck, a jolt, of love, of reason minus a something else, diffraction patterns, where objects meet, curve each other around, so singularly, of stalemate, minus paper mate, ‘mate’ in Dutch, means mate and measured, not in extremes, ‘drink but drink with yr mates’, the juices flowing, controlled but littered, freedom only to choose, no ground, where you think, it is, cruel chiaroscuro, smooth space equating, the ever fall, pound of flesh, matriculate desire, acts by reserving potential, hack strut, slack fret, I capitulate into who will hold, s/he will catch him falling backwards from the ledge, s/he will not, hold him having fallen, I trust you but am heavy-boned, coffee toner, creaky hinges, the hinges s/he has heard them, a speckle of frog, because of the distance, not stretching, thinking a body without bones, dance boneless, in excess or recess of your movements, half weary a pilot session, can be done, unclear about directions, but they will be t/here, Adam Smith was wrong, constellations in the stars, not just the ones on record, any old umbrella, or bucket or pail, with spillage
Sewer
S/he pinches at a blister in her wrist. Her teeth touching delicately like cupcakes. How did it get there? S/he is sitting on a pipe in a derelict sewer system. S/he tries to pull at this blister in her wrist. When she pulls there is only a tender spot. When she pinches there is a blister. Her lower jaw slides like a curling stone over a curling sheet. She tries to push up this blister from below. Must have tried this before. She looks askance at a beam of sunlight thru a manhole. She slams a heel against a pipe. Deterioration echoes through the creaky underground. And a dripping somewhere quickens. She sucks at the splinter in her wrist. She sucks at her other wrist, magical thinking, makes a small case for symmetry. She imagines her repetition and feels with imagined holes in her body. Her teeth are so, perfect, they move lightly, as if hardly,
Well
S/he is sitting in a well / bring water. Dirty mix up. Prying at her nails to make the darkness seem more tangible, sculptable. / stars in my eyes / dust in my face. A slate of sunlight. A cone of shadow. Bring water. For to breathe in water for. Hair floating tendrily to the surface. And a body that water bends. ‘Are you well down there?’ asks a shout from terror, from below s/he would’ve sworn, thru the slant of sun, but from below. S/he does not understand his words as meaning. Words, ok, chalkdust on her skin. Dust on her face / stars in her eyes. Can you be b(l)inded by stars? he asks of hisself with his eyes shut tight like a baby who does not want to eat.
Room
S/he is sitting in a room. There is a door and its key is on her tongue pushing gently against her teeth (cat’s paw). It tastes as would be expected. Metallic, tinny. S/he imagines the key sinking further into her tongue. A song of infinite slowness fills the air, unheard, the room is not empty. S/he sits on a wooden floor in an otherwise empty room. There is a wooden chair. There is an infinitely slow song that fills the air. S/he feels her face fall in two when at once all of the star light falls across her face. Or a half of a face slide away as if suddenly hard sand collapses. Happenings of animals have been being happening. Thru the open window a sparrow has flown ((almost) as if there were no window). Flies, spiders, the small unseen household pests, teams of termites, spiders. If I laugh like a madwoman they may open the door. I can do this? S/he can pull out the hairs on her head one by one. S/he is pulling the hairs out of her one by one head. S/he will not bleed? Someone may or may not open the door. There are more on a head with black hair. And there are private hairs. We could say 150000 hours (17 years). This could work there might be change. That is a, a … it might not take that long.
Courtyard
A drill in the courtyard, bored persistence. The sun slams down like a UFO beam but slant. S/he stares askance to practice. S/he taps her fingers on her fingernails, except the thumb. The sound of rain, or of teeth grinding, or of a box grater. S/he feels she must – magical thinking – tap her other fingernails with her other fingers. A mailing-list-lurker turns into a troll. He is asked to desist! He has a final word before desisting. Does this count? Difficult to tell. He looks up desist up in uh, dictionary. Oh baw, oh boe,
Field
In a field (desert) s/he makes, marks, on paper, one for each person (sometimes more than one). S/he makes them beautiful. With all of herself, s/he makes a group of marks, for every each person s/he can keep up with. S/he might call them sacrifices. In a desert (meadow) s/he sits disappearing into the sand, the nomads, bump by on camels and wrapped in thick colours. What is this, what kind, of dream? Because they see her? They do not change their position; they do not use their voice boxes, their vocal chords; they do not change their behaviour. But they see her, s/he, saw. A storm rises; the horizon disappears. The sand is no longer sublime; the sand is boring.
