OK, we hit a few bumps there and made such a rattle it scared away some of the definitions we were stalking. The problem was our prey knew we were coming. We told them we would be hunting them. We should have just crept slowly near, and taken them. So let’s try another tactic:
Roger Mitchell, in The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises from Poets Who Teach (ed. Robin Behn and Chase Twichell; New York: HarperCollins, 1992), proposes an exercise he calls “Breaking the Sentence; Or, No Sentences But in Things.” His instructions is very simple: “Write a poem that is simply a list of things.”
His exercise is meant for poets who are sometimes caught in the determinism of language, especially those imprisoned under the dictatorship of the sentence. He offers this exercise as a way of breaking free from that oppressive rule.
I’ll appropriate this exercise for a different reason, which Roger Mitchell also mentions: “What happens in this exercise is that you find you only have images to manipulate” and you “begin to see the possibility of ‘speaking’ only in images….” (I’ll show you a sample of his work in class.) It will also help you practice how to not say, to show rather than tell.
Let’s see what you can come up with in your blogs…
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in the first room by the kitchen
six complementary copies of Encarta installer,
a video documentary on Hitler,
vials as token of a sorority,
a bar pin hooked on
a withered stem of a once-pink-rose,
uncapped tequila bottle of a Jose Cuervo Especial
made into ‘alkansya,’ while another
an Absolut Citron Vodka
an unsealed letter for ‘Marjie’
and an egg case of playing cards
sprawled on a dresser’s cabinet
speckled with dust
over the weekend’s absence–
negligence.
draft papers
a paintbrush
with traces of pink and black
a cassette case; empty
a Nike tumbler; water three days old
hardened Milo in a pink canister
Safari wrapper
little ants feasting
all sprawled
on this bed:
rejection is ancient
draft papers
a paintbrush
with traces of pink and black
a cassette case; empty
a Nike tumbler; water three days old
hardened Milo in a pink canister
Safari wrapper
little ants feasting
all sprawled
on this bed:
rejection is ancient
pink scarf inside an open present box,
three bars of wafer fingers in milk chocolate coating,
hand written “for you” in a greeting card,
receipt from a fancy restaurant’s diner-for-two,
on top of his bed.
Ringing cellular phone,
An open door!
crumpled bed sheets,
worn out blanket and pillow cases,
broken glasses of wine,
thrown out jeans and T-shirt
scattered around the bedroom floor.
Withered rose petals kept between the pages of a book,
like the grasses hidden in the deep mountains:
there is none that knows,
about his forbidden love, for her.
*The second and the third line of the fourth stanza of the poem is from the book cover of Gemino Abad’s Getting Real. While the phrase, “forbidden love” in the last line of the fourth stanza is from the book cover of Lynn Lowery’s “Starflower”. And the phrase “for her” is from a note posted in my study table beside my Grandmother’s birthday present, which says: “Hon, give this to your Lola. This is for her.”
hope i got the instructions right
your name written
on the plaque placed
at the middle end is guarding your territory
like calling cards of an architect,
a doctor and a division manager
surrounding your four passport-sized photographs
your work schedule
has been moved to graveyard
leaving your children,
one of some six and the other of fifteen,
and the rest
frozen
underneath this
thick transparent glass
Last Drop
A depleted rim of bond paper. Scratch
Paper filled with scrapped out ideas.
A fully drained cell phone beside an
Overheating laptop. A set of outdated
Computer Installer found above an
Obsolete printer still printing the last
Page of a manuscript that does not
Interest any publisher
REVISION
naa qy ghimu nga revision..naa pd ni xa sq blog..comment lang plhug..lamat
in the first room by the kitchen
outdated complementary copies of Encarta installer,
a black and white video documentary on Hitler,
tattered strips of token from a sorority,
a withered stem of a once-pink-rose
inserted in an uncapped tequila bottle of a Jose Cuervo Especial
made into ‘alkansya,’ while another
an Absolut Citron Vodka
an unsealed letter for ‘Marjie’
and an egg case of playing cards
sprawled on a dresser’s cabinet
speckled with dust
over the weekend’s absence–
negligence.