Poem for peer review

Water Rafting

A waterfall G and the boat B

represent the system that will take you down the river

the alligator H watches open mouthed

prompting you to smack your oar C and yell "pura vida" 

The system depends on the guide D, but you depend on your family

E 

From the fall I to the duck J to the watch K

the instructions are clear

the red L must follow

without sun F, there is no chance, no flow

of water A

d (e (g+b > h x c) + (i+j+k) - l + fa)

The experience is your own, represented by letters 

in an equation that is dependent on you alone. 

"I didn't seem possible. Yet neither did her mind's complete extinction."

As far as science can tell, that lump of tissue had held the series of connections and feelings, associations and impressions, that had been this woman. But where was her mind now? When we had first unwrapped the formalin-soaked cloth covering her hands, we'd found our cadaver's fingernails still wore a perfect coat of light purple polish. Did this woman's taste for lavender survive the death of her body? Was it contained in the brain I now held, frozen there? I didn't seem possible. Yet neither did her mind's complete extinction. Did her loves and disappointments and memories exist somewhere still, or had they died when her body did?

As I mentioned in class, the nail polish in the Cadaver, Speak poems stood out to me. This is the passage from Shannon Moffett's book The Three-Pound Enigma that I was thinking of when I read those poems. I find it highly relevant to our conversation about where/what it was of the Cadaver that could speak beyond death.

"Where Do We Go From Here"- workshop poem

Where Do We Go From Here?

What have I done to you? To us?

I let you down and lost your trust.

Over some foolishness, a bad day, and a few curse words

We let go years of joy, tears, sorrow like flying birds.

The true enemy is not you, me, us

I honestly think it’s behind my lust.

Who really knew pride was this dangerous

It’s like a new virus, simply contagious.

With this here pride,

We don’t ask for forgiveness,

And worse we forgive and not forget.

So here we stand,

Feeling canned.

I failed you,

As your man.

There lies the power of our love.

We’ll stand here forever,

But never walk away.

“I’ve known you for years,

I know what you’re thinking,

C’mon just say it.”

“You’ve known me for years,

You know I can read your mind,

Like a book…You’re in the wrong.”

So here they are,

Both afraid to speak.

Suffering from the same scar,

While their knees get weak.

The sun finally falls,

You know what,

I think I’ll call.

Irreplaceable

IT IS A STRUGGLE, trying to revamp Marianne Boruch's Cadaver, Speak, that is. Monica and I had picked (well, actually I think I just told Monica which one we were doing, sorry Monica) #14. At first because of its short size and seeming lack of complexity, I thought it would easiest to reciprocate. But I wanted all of her words.

Her first line is Love. It isn't what / I want. I was still thinking, this will be great, just pick what should be there, it will not be too difficult. Love, I thought. Oh wait, silly me, that is already there. Love. No. Love. Why can I not think of anything else? It was a puzzle piece I kept trying to jam into the same spot. Insanity, they call it, is repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting a different result. 

But the puzzle piece fit perfectly there. Her words fit perfectly. Why would I jam something else in its place? Part of why Marianne's poetry is so good is because each word has a purpose, each word was deliberated over, and proved itself worthy in being there. That is something I will think of in revising my poems, because each word should try to be irreplaceable. 

Payton's Poem

Potion To Turn Back Time:

1.         Give ½ a care more about life,

½ less depending on destination

2.         Learn to walk

3.         Forget how to speak

4.         Take 3 hours to build a sand castle.

5.         Destroy with a team of blonde Barbies,

            4 high heels not afraid of dirt

6.         Ride a red bicycle (Add ribbons to handlebars

            as desired)

7.         As you ride, eat a 2 scoop ice cream cone,

            let the blue and red of Superman drip across

forearms, stick to elbows. Let yourself fly.

8.         Try not to be too devastated when you drop it.

9.         Paint with blue fingers, even if you have brushes.

            Scatter 5 smudges on surfaces Mom is sure to see.

10.       Want to be the man your Dad is (Repeat)

11.       Cry when something hurts

12.       Run for the love of sweat

13.       Read books, even in secret

14.       Admire the girls dressed

in slightly pinker confidence.

15.       Write

16.       Do not harbor dreams. Let your boat swim in turbulent

lilac tangerine waters. Be odd.

Celebrate it often.

            6 manatees wearing bikinis sunbathe in your glow.

17.       Write

18.       Refuse to grow up

Poem for Workshop

Ode on a Maize & Blue Pen

It is my pen- for now.

I could drop it, and tomorrow it could be somebody else’s

A professor, perhaps

Another student, to scribble the opening lines to his later-to-become award-winning novel

My pen came to me free

dual-colored

and served as an advertisement, a promotion for the university-

You can engrave anything in a plastic pen and it won’t wear away.

Same goes for the ink it produces- it can stain a page for decades

Everything about the pen seems to be permanent:

It could be the last man-made item left on this Earth- what would it say about humanity?

There are multiple parts to the pen’s construction; I could tear it apart if I wanted

It clicks when my mind clicks

And yet I might loan it to a friend and forget about it,

As it is just as easily replaceable.

Hannah Poem

Beatrice & Ivy

There is a ghost,

she calls herself Chapstick because that is the only physical thing

her body does not pass on through

and no one seems to bother about giving ghosts legal names.

Beatrice has a letter flag banner on the door of room 936

this means she is semi-permanent.

When the lights in the half-real fish tank

switch to a lower setting

Beatrice pretends to be asleep.

Papa believes enough to rest.

It was November when the marks begun showing up on the tough patches

on the back of pediatric elbows.

They were faint at first, mostly

clear sparkles that rubbed away quickly

on white sheets or heather leather armchairs.

None of the marked even noticed

the slight stickiness.

Kei watching Cars, a reward for not whining disproportionately

about the vomit.

San sleeping for the first time in 40 hours.

Deepva sneezing in her dreams of pine trees.

Beatrice watching the hall from the triangle of visibility afforded by her “sleeping.”

The ghost found her first cylinder of Chapstick in a sterilized

unused corner of the waiting room.

Classic skin protectant/sunscreen spf 4.

Sealed for your protection, twist cap to break seal.

Apply liberally before sun exposure as needed

the ghost did not suppose that she would “as needed” very much, but

active ingredients Padimate 0 1.5% (of what?) Spearmint flavored, either white or green.

white petrolatum 44% the ring around the bottom

like the edge of metal money.

The ghost twisted cap to break seal,

holding it perfectly vertical, afraid it might spill.

The ghost knew that touching glitter was pointless

she had tried a few times when the Arts&Crafts Lady stepped into the bathroom

leaving bottles unprotected on the table.

It wasn't the presence of barely visible markings that drew Beatrice’s attention

rather a sudden onset of inexplicable interest in elbows.

Why couldn't they feel touch? how did they get strong?

The ghost knew (well, assumed) that there were no physical laws

limiting contact between Chapstick and glitter.

Beatrice first hypothesized that cancer made your elbows excrete glitter.

She soon observed the failure of this proposition due to overwhelming data suggesting this was not verifiably correct.

The first few marks were just a test. Could you affix glitter to the skin with Chapstick?

Mortal skin? Her shadow?

Beatrice didn't need to believe in ghosts.

The ghost didn't believe Chapstick was sticky enough.

but between attempts

the glitter that secretly hitched a ride on her

shadow left little thumb prints and heel marks

of ghost.

That is how the ghost got a name

Ivy

the name of a fairy in a tail woven by the mother of an almost gone girl.

The elbow marks had been subtle,

but nurses eventually noticed Ivy’s trail,

they called her Ivy, a 5 year old princess who lived in a castle made of zucchini bread

always left a trail of glitter in the wake of her tiara.

It was an unfit name