Stuff

Well...you don't have to know me to know I'm a bit of a Disney Freak XD

So, I wanted to share my Disneyland flickr

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mordooraq/

also this is sort of random but... I just love this song from 1967's Doctor Dolittle
sung by Anthony Newley



if you have never seen this movie I recommend that you do :D

Short Update

I started work yesterday. Re-learning everything, getting back into the Cashier Groove.

Nothing else exciting has happened...but that is life.

Sentence

I thought of this sentence a couple of nights ago, and I wrote it down...but with all the papers I have and finals I have a feeling I am going to lose it so just as a back up I am writing it down here.

Her laugh sounded like sharp nails smothered in honey.

Ok. Thats it.

Last Poem for WR 441

Yes I have pictures and video just for the heck of it. It amuses me :D

So, yesterday right after class I got an idea for a poem. This maddened me because I wish I could have included it in my book. Though I already wrote my last thoughts for WR 441 I did not write my last poem. So, here it is now, sort of a farewell present to anybody in my class who is actually reading this.

YO HO

If Pirates
were a lollipop flavor
would you guess it
to be mango?
I believe
that mango
gets rid of scurvy.

But being a Pirate
Isn't about being
a fruity spherical candy

it's about sword fights
hidden treasure
and Orlando Bloom.

But sometimes
It's about the Muppets
Singing "Cabin Fever"

But mostly it's about
Orlando Bloom.

and talking skulls
that tell you
that "Dead Men Tell No Tales"
Which really doesn't make sense.
Because it's a skull...
that can talk.

I guess now everything from here on out is totally not going to be for 441...weird.

The Ending and then the Begining...or maybe the end.

So I inadvertently asked my mother what she thought poetry was today. I said I thought it was about ego, and she told me that she thought it basically boiled down to connection, and hoping what you write connects with someone else.

I don't think that I agree, though I wasn't sure (while laying on the couch discussing this) how to argue against it. I guess on some level poetry is about connection. But then I think about all the poetry we have read or have listened to where there is no connection. It isn't about pretty lakes/forests/birds/deer/mountains/[insert more nature words and phrases here], lost loves, or finding yourself...all the things a regular Joe person usually associates with connecting to poetry....but it's the poet who writes (and maybe even says)about nothing, that it is all about sounds...it's about sounds.

Are sounds connection? Do I connect with sounds? When sounds form words, and then those words form sentences, and those sentences are coherent (and maybe even commanding) then I guess I connect, but what about when you see:

Uhgha mugga mooga moof-frickle bood facky miffle morf. Naffy gordon copple plaf.

Do you connect with that readers? Do you have some emotional connection to mooga moof?Ok, yes I admit it, I am being facetious writing that.

Then it got me thinking...anybody here watch Home Improvement? If you do, or did, or you are familiar with Tim Allen you will probably get what I am about to say and have probably imitated it:

Tim the Tool Man Taylor, in every episode makes grunting noises. They differ in pitch and tone depending on the situation but it's still grunting...yet the audience gets exactly what that grunt means in that moment. It can be an excited grunt, a confused grunt, an angry grunt, or a grunt of despair.The point is they are mostly just noises...not even words but they inflict an emotion.

So what would happen if those grunts were on a page rather then on t.v? Would they convey the same emotional connection? I am guessing that if one was to read it correctly it would- but on paper how would one convey that connection?

Oh oh oh oh oh
wrowro oh ah ah ah ah
AH AH AH AH!

Is that anger? Sadness? Tenderness? Or complete bullshit? I really don't know, yet if Tim Allen were here to read it out loud maybe he could convey some deep emotional feelings that will make me weep in joy.

So maybe just maybe when read the right way even Uhgha mugga mooga moof-frickle bood facky miffle morf. Naffy gordon copple plaf. Would have someone balling like a little baby.

So where was I? Oh yeah connection. Maybe it really is all about connection maybe the poet doesn't even care what connection it is as long as one connects.

So maybe it really is about ego, we are trying to make someone feel something and if we succeed it is because we are the masters of some higher power.

It's like bully's encouraging the little kid to cry and then getting some sick joy out of watching that kid ball their eyes out...they are so porud of themselves because they got the kid to cry.

So what am I saying? Is poetry all about being egotistical bullies? Maybe.

I think there is so much to poetry, so much I want to write about and share and ask but there is always not enough time to soak it all in. Life is like that, you can never answer the question in exactly the way you were initially thinking.

I could go on and on, trying to convey every thought I have about poetry...but then I wouldn't be giving anybody else a turn. So there, I have written a small snippet of how my brain works, and what I think poetry, and writing poetry is all about.

and hopefully, I have made a connection...

Bad Country Song

We all have problems
some more then others,
and we all want to be
loved by our brothers
reach out your hands to strangers,
for we all wander the same road
our lives are broken circles,
with forgotten oaths.


Some people talk of sunshine,
some people talk of snow
some people talk of rain
but we don’t know.

We all say we're different
yet we all act the same
we are all hypocrites,
but no ones to blame.

Some people talk to somebody
but that is rare,
mostly we talk to nobody
because nobody cares.

We want to be noticed,
we don’t care how
all we want is,
to be noticed now.

And,

We all have problems
some more then others,
and we all want to be
loved by our brothers
reach out your hands to strangers,
for we all wander the same road
our lives are broken circles,
with forgotten oaths.

Wayne Allwine February 7, 1947 – May 18, 2009

No more, no more
the voice is gone
my childhood
my childhood is gone.

Oh Monday, Monday
it was thirty two
thirty two and sixty two
not alive in 77 but
my childhood is gone.

life and love he preached
life and love and joy

I wrapped him in my arms
I wrapped him in my world
so tightly did I hold him
so tightly did I know him

No more, no more
the voice is gone
my childhood
my childhood is gone

Twenty three
and my childhood is gone.

Thanks Guys

Don't Teach Your Class This

Yes a crystal never tries to make a paragraph,
but does a tree ever try to paint a person?
Mixing fire and ice and expecting
that tree.
I'll keep a picture of my enemies on a chain.
I'll try to force myself
to like them better.
Throw my net into the sand, though I'll only get sand
and maybe a pissed off crab.

3 Poems

a few more poems :D

Question

I have a comfort zone and I am not afraid to use it.
Am I a feminist? A Humanist? A Whateverist?
Take your pick, I don't care.



It Tick's Me Off

Why is it, that people ask me
if I am ok...am I ok, am I ok...
No, I was NOT shot down by a smooth criminal
I'm not blaming, I'm just stating facts

Hey, but, you know...
don't worry about it.
It was bound to happen.


Yellow Motorcycle [Lucky You]

There was a yellow motorcycle.
I saw it on the road.
It turned in front of my car
while I was waiting for the bus.
The rider was wearing khaki shorts; and I thought
what an idiot.
It reminded me of the first rain of the year...the green truck.
Except, then, when the truck spun in the road...
and I thought we were going to die
as we slammed into the divider

we weren't wearing khaki shorts.

drawing by me


I am going to respond only to the poets I felt strongly about.

BEAT/SF RENAISSANCE

Gregory Corso:

I read The Mad Yak and got really excited for more of Gregory Corso's poetry. I really thought it would be in the Mad Yak style. Simple, with a neat/unique point of view kinda I dunno earthy but still sorta mystical. I don't know how our anthology portrays Gregory Corso's work because after The Mad Yak I sort of got disappointed. His work just didn't captivate me after Yak. It almost seemed like it was a different poet...and that saddens me because I thought I might actually like Gregory Corso. But like I said we are reading from an Anthology so it might be manipulating my thoughts about him as a poet.

NEW YORK SCHOOL

Frank O'Hara:

He really started to get into my head. I really don't know if he has left yet. I like how he is able to have a poem that sounds like he is telling an everday story but how the story can be somewhat distorted and the reader dosn't care. Maybe it's just me but I love the clever references to Movie Stars (like they are his own little nods/odes to the past). But it's not just the Movie Star references...it's also (like I said) how he can tell a story and I feel like I am listening to a story and I feel satifyed after reading it. My favorite poem of his in our Anthology is Why I Am Not a Painter it has this awesome franticness and playfulness to it.

My favorite section of the poem is when he talks about orange:

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's tweleve poems, I call
it ORANGES.

Kenneth Koch:

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams it's funny. It's absoulty funny. It's a great parody but you can totally see the respect for William Carlos Williams. 'I don't think I could do that very well... I just mock.

The snippets that Kenneth Koch comes up with are hilarious. Notes you would never see ever written yet you kinda wish they had been written just because it would be so absurd to have them be written.

I think my favorite has to be #4 it's silly yet kinda creepy if you really think about it...



alright so next post will be the MISC.

Posting is a Result of a Chocolate Meltdown and Maple Blondie

A title idea for my chapbook

Slightly Divertivo

and a couple of poems. (I think I'll expand on two of them. Maybe.)

Facts

There are people who get hit in the head
with an out of control flying monkey bar
and there are people who get catapulted into a barbed wired fence.



FEAR

It vibrates when I step onto the crosswalk
dose(does?) the ground feel like jello?
Sometimes.




OBSERVATION

She got on the bus, and there were four of them.
They were sitting on the left-three were in the front
and one was in the back.
When she went to class
two walked by her as she was climbing the stairs.
When she sat down, one was in front of her.
If he turned around he would have seen the smile.

BLACK MOUNTAIN

photo by me


BLACK MOUNTAIN

I found the Black Mountain poets impossible to read... the formatting of the poems just kept throwing me off, and I know I sometimes have problems with my own formatting but these were just hard to read. I found myself reading in the same mechanical voice every single author I read.

The hardest to understand for me was Paul Blackburn. Each poem was so...all over the place I had a hard time distinguishing one poem from the next. If the dates and the names of the poems weren't in our anthology I would probably have a really really really big headache right now. But because there are dates and names I only have a slight headache.

I couldn't concentrate and I couldn't enjoy the poetry because my eyes hurt from trying to follow the formatting. This doesn't go for just Paul Blackburn I had a hard time with each of the BLACK MOUNTAIN poets. Robert Creeley seems to be the only poet in the BLACK MOUNTAIN who isn't all over the pages. His formatting is easier on me and I like his use of enjambments he seems to know when to cut off to the next line...I don't know if I like his poetry per say but I do think he is an excellent enjambment-ator.

so yes...in conclusion BLACK MOUNTAIN hurt my eyes.

Another Poem

BUMPY ROAD TO LOVE

I wish I could sing like Ella Fitzgerald
and dance like Cyd Cherise.
Detrick is close to Dietrich
and the middle school teacher
I once knew
told me I should change my name.

When I think of rain
I think of Gene.
And that helps me get through the day.

Edit

I promise I'll have a post soon of what I thought of the readings *shields self from flying tomatoes*

But here is something for the time being...

I realized that the long poem I had written was definitely two poems...not one :)

so here is a much better version of the poem. There is more to come!

FACE CHARACTER

I hate writing.
Everything I write has to be smart.
I'm caving under the pressure.
and my Dad wants to know what I am going to do with my life.
He tells me I should start driving again.
I am not driving with him.
He mumbles everything.
I'm like a deer in headlights
my hands grasping the wheel
I'll kill everyone on the road.
What would happen if I told him
all I wanted to do was be a face character
in Disneyland?
I'm the right height for Snow White.
I got the round face
and the squeaky voice
I think little kids like me.

Internet and God

Database connection error!
How the hell am I supposed to goof off
when I have no good internet.
This is some sick
twisted joke.
I need my homepage
because I am
an addict.
I know whose fault this is
and I don't think it is funny.

GOD I KNOW YOUR DOING THIS JUST TO SCREW WITH ME!

I Think Frank Took Over My Brain.

God I hate writing.
Everything I write has to be smart.
I'm caving under the pressure.
and my Dad wants to know what I am going to do with my life.
He tells me I should start driving again.
But there is no one to help me and god damn it I am not driving with him ever again!
He mumbles everything.
I'm like a deer in headlights my hands grasping the wheel I'll kill everyone on the road.
What would happen if I told him all I wanted to do was be a face character
in Disneyland?
I'm the right height for Snow White.
I got the round face
and the squeaky voice
and big eyes.
Little kids like me.
I would rather hug a zillion boys and girls
and call them "little Prince" and "little Princess"
then be stuck here writing a damn essay about Frankenstein.
Which by the way I haven't started yet.
I'm thinking of getting another iced tea.
It would be my second today and that would make it four servings.
Sometimes I wonder if I am hiding behind my weight.
As I write this I realize I am only stalling for time.
I have to write that damn essay.
God I hate writing.

I Celebrate It!

photo by me

I have a comfort zone
and I am not afraid to use it.
Think I am some sort of freak?
Well fuck frick that!
Just deal with it.
I celebrate it.
I own it.

Whatcha going to do?
Try to change me?
You already tried, don't you remember?
That was a delicious disaster.
So chock full of absolutely wonderful failure.
I felt joy from the demise.
I jumped around the fire pit
watching the deep complete burning
of the corrupted corruption.


I praise my comfort zone
I pet it, and it purrs.
It is mine and not yours.

Poem Edit 3

poem I read in class:

Secretary.
Waitress.
Girl in blue,orange,brown.
Walks by Stage Right.
Runs Stage Left.
never stops.
Wings
warts
gray hair
burns
blood
mask.
She points and laughs and cries.
Cue the music.
It's a simple dance.

edited poem:

Secretary.
Waitress.
Girl in blue,orange,brown.
Walks by Stage Right.
Runs Stage Left.
never stops.
Wings
gray hair
masks.
She points and laughs and cries.
Cue the music.
It's a simple dance.

Poem Edit 2

poem I read in class:


Here comes the beat
count it ...one two three
silence.
Gasp for air
and just continue
don't worry
keep going
it's bound to happen
here comes the second beat
count it...one two three
Don't slow down
keep the momentum
wait for the next one
here we go
you know the routine
stick to the plan
don't let the silence, silence.

and edited poem:

The beat
count it...one two three
gasp for air
and continue
here comes the second beat
slow down
but keep the momentum
wait
know your lines.

Poem Edit

Poem red in class:

Dancing Dancer dances
Plié Plié Plié
On the top
Tippy top of her tippy toes
Dancing Dancer Dance
Fire in the dance
Dancing Dancer Fire Dance
Fire Dancer dances
Plié Plié Plié
Dancing for the Phantom
Phantom Dancer
Phantom Dancer Dancing Dancer
Phantom Dancer Fire Dancer dance
On the top of the tippy top of their tippy toes
Phantom Dancer done dancing
Fire Dancer Dancing Dancer dances
Plié Plié Plié
No Phantom Dancer but Fire Dancer Dancing Dancer dances on
On the top of the tippy top of her tippy top toes.

Edited poem:

Dancing Dancer dances.
On the top
tippy top of her tippy toes.
Dancing Dancer Dance.
Dancing for the Phantom.
The Phantom Dancer.
Phantom Dancer, Dancing Dancer,
on the top of the tippy top of their tippy toes