If you’re wondering how to turn in writing, here is the space for that. Share any of the writing exercises & new poems you’re generating as we go.
9 thoughts on “Weekly Writing Exercises”
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If you’re wondering how to turn in writing, here is the space for that. Share any of the writing exercises & new poems you’re generating as we go.
You must be logged in to post a comment.
Transitional poem (untitled):
Survival of the fittest (beyond the science)
Reads like a game of cat and mouse
Except the cat and the mouse
Are a square and a circle
In orbit around one another
A state of despair, trying to pair
Two unlikely objects into one
Beautiful, unorthodox shape.
In a natural state of mind,
The unnatural learns to wend
A journey is but a progression
Reconciliation of time spent
Trying to fit exhaust into a meadow,
Shooting gasoline under
The wings of starlings
Beaks, cheeks blue under the sun.
Cracked knuckles feel like salt
Crystallized under fingertips
A preservation of touch
In order to keep a memory alive
To survive
Whatever this time is supposed to be,
To bare the mountaintop
Until breath is a mist
A hydration for dry skin
And parched voice, warped cording.
Against it all, the mind survives,
Mouths open to hot air
And cool mornings
Wend, he said, wend.
( an exercise in free –> experimental )
drunk texting
> once again i am pretending that you love me.
see, this is the start of our story
> one that i will write again and again until i get it right
> i need to get it right
> i will pull out pockets for you
smash cut split seconds for you
keep the driver’s seat warm for you
> look, i’m untwisting ampersands with my teeth and flossing
> see, i can listen
> i can be good
> and perfect
> and everything you need.
> here let me hold that
here let me carry it and never put it down
> this is just how i love,
zip ties and duct-tape and jurassic park amber.
> sorry if it scares you
> sorry for the triple texts and paragraph texts and month-long no-texts.
> sorry, but you get it, right?
> i can eat the salt from your hand.
> meanwhile the earth turns, meanwhile the log rots, meanwhile
the bees bump heads on their way to the botanical garden and
in the middle you have last summer,
flawless and annoying.
> see if i hated you i would’ve deleted your number by now
> give me something to chew on will you?
> toss me a bone
> a fish hook
> an open mouth
> there are three sides to everything so show me my share.
> you should have known i was insatiable.
(an exercise in form–>free)
seeds
my mom chews on pomegranate seeds and
spits them out as copper pennies that
clang inside empty corn cans which
we call the american dream.
i could make a career out of this:
filling glass bottles of milk and saying
“he loves you. that’s not what he meant.
come back home. we’re hungry.”
i have seen marriage as a major operation,
stitches of steel sealing skin against skin,
oceans across oceans,
i have seen the dirty laundry dripping
through the spot on the ceiling,
drop after noisy drop.
i have seen the napkins,
crumpled and wet.
there are buckets for that.
and daughters, too.
this is how to mend a seam.
this is how to clean a fish.
this is how to spray white vinegar
on the stain of orange crawfish juice
smeared on the kitchen table.
these are ways of coping,
of filling your stomach with water.
of being bloated with life and
smiling at sheets stained red.
(Attempted) sonnet for last week’s form exercise:
A child will not know how to survive
Without sunburned cheeks and tangled hair
The small and hollow heart, will not, cannot thrive
Unless one with voice whispers, “Try to dare.”
The meadow took fingertips out of touch,
And kept their imprint hidden in the brush.
Freckled cheeks made destination a clutch
A binding promise murmured in hush.
Breath on the mountaintop evaporates
Hot air, cool mornings cement time with two.
Time puts hands on voice, a force to coagulate,
The sweet and steady promises of you.
The mind survives like the flight of starlings.
A flocked mass of migration, mouths snarling.
(Here is my list poem I tried writing)
things I found in the bottom of my asian mom’s purse:
two crumpled receipts,
a price tag
half-marked,
a stack of napkins
from restaurants we will
never visit again,
a shiny button from a dress
too expensive to be
worth it,
an orange and
a fruit knife and
a pair of
plastic gloves to be
passed around at mealtimes,
the cooked heads
of crawfish
dripping orange
juice
more napkins,
a bible,
a blog post,
a blue packet of baby wipes,
the invisible thread of
plastic surgery on the fold
of her sewn eyelids,
a tube of lipstick,
a tangle of string,
a graveyard of bees
and their useless
stingers,
plastic bags in
plastic bags
napkins and
more napkins
enough to patch the
hole in the sky and
a bucket
to catch the water
that leaks.
Haeun, I love the flow of this poem so much, especially the final few lines about the napkins and the hole in the sky
Here is my transitional exercise:
Narrative poem)
Hard boiled egg. Sweet rice drink. White towel
wrapped in twin buns hung loosely around my head.
I am lying prone on a bed of salt
inside a heated stone kiln. This is not a metaphor.
Every lungful of steam is thick with jasmine and oak
I might as well be a Christmas lamb, I think.
But I’m paying to be cooked.
Behind the door, I can hear the muffled sounds of children
laughing in the main hall.
If I concentrate, I can feel the soft
thuds of running feet on hardwood floors.
I repeat in my mind things I know to be true
and I ground myself on this.
It’s July. It’s summer vacation.
It’s July and it’s summer vacation and
the kids are finally running.
Lyric poem)
Hard boiled egg.
Sweet rice drink.
White towel
wrapped in
twin buns
hung loosely
around my head.
I am lying
prone
on a bed of salt
inside a heated
stone kiln. This is not
a metaphor.
Every lungful of steam
is thick with jasmine
and oak.
I might as well
be a Christmas lamb, I think.
But I’m paying
to be cooked.
Behind the door
I can hear the muffled
sounds of children
laughing in the main hall.
If I concentrate, I can
feel the soft
thuds of running
feet on hardwood floors. I
repeat in my mind things I
know to be
true and I
ground myself on this.
It’s July.
It’s summer
vacation.
It’s July and it’s
summer vacation and
the kids
are finally
running.
Here is a sonnet I wrote:
The Stage of the Gods
The sun slips under her gossamer curtain
The moon enters stage left, casting a spotlight on center stage
The stars, suspended by silver satin
Hang loose from Zeus’ golden rage
A shooting star enters stage right
Except it’s not a star, it’s Apollo taking his horses for a ride
In a mortal blink, they are out of sight
Unburdened by the sun and her heavy pride
A moonbeam reflects off a silver arrow
Slithering, silent, through the slippery air
Lands in a stag’s heart, victim to a Greek pharaoh
It’s Artemis, night’s favorite hunter, thoughtful and fair
A mother robin ruffles her wings protectively over her flightless chicks
An easy target, Artemis sheathes her sprightless arrow
Here’s the sonnet I tried writing for this week’s class.
waiting sonnet
waiting is not a passive moment slow
where on fine threads of gold I lie naked
and still, that night began eight months ago
and still, that night’s love remained unstated
waiting is not the waves mixed with color
where forward and back you kept me at bay
and still, your saltine dissolved me smaller
and still, your sand touches remain my flay
waiting is not the light from which to hide
where purple-tint goodbyes made me anew
and still, spectred rainbow memories I find
and still, spectred possession’s all I knew
tonight, my closing lips will weep no more
never again waiting to be loved poor.