Wednesday, April 9, 2008

"No Ideas But in Things"

So wrote William Carlos Williams. We're going to test his proposition. Each student will select a big, abstract noun -- society, love, hate, country, etc. -- and then write a short (250-word) scene or prose poem (in the style of Forche, Bly, etc.) that defines or illustrates it, with this additional proviso: the student can use the chosen word itself no more than three times in the scene or poem. The scenes should be posted as Comments.

16 comments:

bilysseb said...

I was wondering if you could post a link to an example of something like this writing style. I need to get a better idea of what you're looking for.

thanks

ps: i think this is going to be an awesome example of how artistic and poetic writing in our field can get.

Howie Good said...

I'm going to supply you with some extreme examples from writers who are generally considered poets rather than journalists. Of course, you can also refer to many of the scenes or episodes in our various class readings for models.

kristen h said...

Father

Five years old and waiting on the bench next to the front door.
The bench shoes go underneath.
The bench where she sits and waits for the long, yellow bus on school days.
It is Friday afternoon and he is coming.

She sits and she waits and her Polly Pocket high-tops dangle near her red suitcase.
The tiny red suitcase mom helped pack.
She sits and she waits because he is coming.

He does not come to her girl scout ceremonies, but she will wait for him today.
He does not come to her tee-ball games, but he is coming today.
He does not come to her tap dance recitals, but he will come today.

He will come and he will pick her up and he will be tall with a tickly beard.
She sits and she waits and her feet dangle and the suitcase is ready.

The sun lowers itself behind the trees and she waits.
The streetlights flicker on and she waits.
Mom comes to the bench and she says it's getting late and she says maybe next time.
She helps unpack the red suitcase.

Amy Lubinski said...

Death

How am I supposed to deal with losing five in a year and half—whom all passed away when I was away, like it was finally OK to go when I was gone. An uncle, a grandfather, a grandmother, another uncle by suicide and my other grandmother three days ago. There were four funerals and I was only there for one, Gramma Gracie. My sister and I stared at her urn and the family members we hadn’t seen in ten years, I told my sister to thank her for her old engagement ring and I barely cried when I know I should have been balling when the pianist played Amazing Grace. My grandpa and grandpa are buried next to my Aunt Janice and I know something is wrong with me when I wonder how my aunt’s murdered mangled corpse must look after 22 years of being in the ground. How is my dad doing, with having lost his brother and both his parents in a year? Why won’t he talk about it, ever? But I know it gets to him, like the way it did when Tawney died, when he took her leash and collar for a walk that day and we said not to but he said “I have to, I have to take her for a walk,” with his voice breaking. I cried so hard that night that my I gave myself the biggest headache of my life Two and a half years later, I still cry for her. But over losing family? I don’t know why I haven’t been able to.

Jennifer said...

Disillusionment

The tulips have withered and died. They droop over the sides of a vase filled with murky, brown water.

The “things” on my “list of things to do” have gradually been scratched off. It’s now a page full of checks and scribbles. It still hangs on the wall as a reminder.
Of what’s passed? What I’ve accomplished? A measurement of the worth of my time?

I look different now than in that picture from a few months back. A little worn around the eyes, a fainter smile. The changes build; subtle acts of distortion.

I feel as though it’s coming to an end.

Packing my life away in big brown boxes and plastic garbage bags.
Moving into a house that is not home.

Fuck. I need a job. Need some clarification. Some direction. Affirmation.

Slept past noon again. What day is today?

The tulips have withered and died.

Reminders on little calendar box-days fly past: test paper move birthday work breakdown interview deadline crashburn, repeat.

I’m staring at tomorrow, wondering where it’s going. Trying to figure out where my yesterdays will take me. Yesterdays spent between pages as the laughter grows in the next room.
I wonder what’s so funny, Nietzsche. Was the work worth the joke?
I’m talking to a book.

crashburn, repeat.

I’m waiting to see where my yesterdays will take my tomorrows.

“Thank you for taking a chance with us.”

I’m waiting.

“We do not wish to publish your material.”

Waiting.

No new messages.

The tulips have withered and died.

Alex said...

Belonging

2 girls lay on the green expanse. One: bikini on the grass a fashionably bald dome; Sinead O’Connor at MTV Spring Break. The other: sports bra tight boardshorts jet-black hair ponytail a Hollywood jawline shirtless boyfriend in 63-degree partly cloudy weather. The burned bathers turn their heads over their shoulders to see who is blocking their precious UV. It is my friend. Fitted baseball cap tattooed arms thrift-store t-shirt lip ring. You don’t fit in there I tell him. Does anyone he asks me. Does anyone?

Will said...

“Distance”


You. I speak reluctantly to your face, but not to you, because honestly, you’re not even here with me. And likewise, I can hear your words, but their meaning is shrouded behind the smell of alcohol on your breath. All I hear are syllables. I make out a sentence or two.

“OHMYGAWWWWWD, I haven’t seeeen you in soloooong, whave you been dung?” All I can think: stop kidding yourself – you don’t fucking care.

I’m alien here because I don’t have a red Solo cup in my hand. I’m keeping my balance and speaking in sentences. I’m growing belligerent, so I clench my fists and step outside for some air. There is vomit on the sidewalk, and every few minutes, an egg flies by, like midnight artillery. The fresh air smells like sulfur from the splattered yolks. I have a rock in my hand, and it’s going right through the back windshield of whoever fires an egg my way. It’s warm for October.

I return to the basement, and Noelle tells me she wants to leave. She doesn’t really want to leave – she sees me stewing, slowly turning red, getting ready to screech, like a lobster, and decides to shorten her night for my sake, maybe also for the sake of those around me. What a selfish mess I am.

Walking home, all I think about is the party – the makeup, the miniskirts, the polos, the slurring, the swaying, and the 80 proof vapors coming from their mouths.

I think about you. I think about your vodka breath, and I think that maybe, if I got a lit match into your mouth, I could watch you burn from the inside.

Good night.

James said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
James said...

Competition

I was working in a cubicle, scheduling deliveries of expensive beds to rich people’s homes. I would tell them, “I’m sorry, but we’re booked up for Saturday,” and they would tell me “I paid $8,000 for this bed, damn it!” and then they would ask for my supervisor. He never gave them Saturday, except the time Dan Marino called.

We talked to pass the time. I came in with a hickey one day, so the girl in the cubicle next to mine interrogated me about my girlfriend. The next day, the guy who sat behind me came in with a bigger hickey.

After the boss left for the night, we passed the time by playing games. Uno didn’t hold our attention very long, so we made a game which was basically farting on each other. I’m not very gassy, so I had to drop out after a couple days.

The farting game escalated and soon they were pulling down their pants to get the victim more directly. Soon, almost everyone had given up.

I was sitting in my cubicle one day, trying to beat my friend’s “Donkey Kong Country” score, when I noticed one of my coworkers with his pants down, and ass up right behind someone else, who was sitting in a chair in his own cubicle. His face was strained, like he was really struggling to get the gas out. Just as the prey in the chair noticed someone was behind him and began to turn, a squirt came out of the exposed asshole and sprayed all over him.

So we beat on, competing against each other, borne ceaselessly back into shit.

Howie Good said...

I'm enjoying your short pieces. I encourage you to submit them to journals that take short fiction, prose poems, humorous anecdotes, etc. Follow the links on the blog to likely target publications. Don't take rejection to heart (even if I do!). Persevere. What other choice is there?

jared said...

Moving On

Can’t sleep. It’s early. Roll over, check the clock again, get up. Stare at Doppler. At the computer. The coffee machine on the dresser. The slouching backpack on the floor.

Friends are out at the bar.

The window. Jesus, the window. I can barely see out to my truck in the driveway. Sitting still but flying through time and space. Star Wars shit. Whiter than my ass out there, only blowing around everywhere. Nuking.

And friends are out at the bar. Puking.

Clock says 11:30 pm. Dopplar swings a blobby leg over the fence and comes slowly my way. A whiff of coffee. A gust of wind.

Friends are out at the bar, again.

At last the sun crests like a radioactive duck riding a roller of lime jell-o. The sky looks like blue-raspberry Fla-vor-ice. Snow drifts in from Candy land.

Friends all stuck in bed, though.

Fuck it. Smile, solo, grab your planks and go.

nicole99 said...

Friendship

Someone to hold back your hair, after a good night at the bar. Someone to hold up your head , when it wants to hit the floor. Listening when they wish they didn’t have ears. A comfortable body to share your time and emotions, good and bad. People you can release your inner idiot in front of and know they might be annoyed but still love you. Yes, love. Someone you can use the “L” word around and mean it. I love my friends!
The best. Sidekick, partner in crime, the one who you would put as your significant other on facebook. Getting into trouble and not worrying to much because it makes a great story and you were in it together. Lying to your mother and telling her your sleeping at each others houses. When really you both sneak off to a house party that was forbidden. Having parents who are also friends, and find out you lied anyway.
The advice giver. Always around when you need to talk. Always knows what to say. That one person you go to talk to with no intentions of crying but do because you can.
The crew. Late night road trips that leave you sleeping the entire next day. The ones you will arrive to a party with even though you weren’t invited but still feel cool cause your with “them”.
Your outfit sucks, they lie and say you look great. But with them around who cares anyway.

tthomp said...

2 bottles dismissed,
the third prime material
sitting on the aerial rug
of her dorm room, bedroom, living room, whatever.

Cig break.
One girl clings to substance in the cup
for the journey.
Her friend puffing out
for the journey,
Outside in the night. Raw.

On the wall she plops.
Her friend before her,
atmosphere of smoke,
shifting foot to foot.
The girl speaks with wine.

“I want a baby.
I want eight, actually.
First I wanted twelve, but I can deal with eight.
You know.
I could deal, even if I only popped three out of me.
But it’s not in me.I can’t have one.
I can’t have them. I’m a waste.”

Eyes glazed at nineteen
Wine-o eyes,
wanting to meet the concrete,
then looking up.
Her friend puffs,
and stands still.

“I had a baby.
I had and baby and it was all mine.
Clothes where picked out,
and I was ready.
But the doctor said the baby was in my tube.
It would kill me to give birth.
So I killed my baby.
I murdered my baby, when I could have been a mother.”

Her friend took a drag,
at twenty an addict.
Tears ran between them,
wine giving truth.

bilysse b said...

Friendship \fren(d)-ship\ adj.


1. You try to never let her down. She thinks lower, less, nothing of you. You crave significance and you earn the right to merely follow. You are a shadow, an outline of a person. What’s between the lines means nothing, adds up to nothing. Your intentions go unnoticed. You do because you care. You drop everything to make time. She thinks you do because you have nothing better to do.

2. A friendship you value more than you value yourself. You put out, nothing comes back, you make an effort, whole hearted and you get not even a glance. You seek approval, satisfaction. A thank you.

3. You call. A bad relationship. One sided. She calls, you answer, you’re right there, you help. A cycle. Goes unnoticed. Inside you can’t see the truth. Outsiders tell you but your ears are selective and filter out what you’re told. There are only two in this world. You and what you aspire to be. You’re never happy with yourself, never satisfied. You do until you break, you cry, you don’t understand. She ignores you for days and you’re plagued with your downfalls. She calls you and you wonder what you did right. She owns your stamp of value, your sense of worth. You forget your own goals, your reality, and you allow it to slip from your fingers as you run blindly through her world.

4. You let yourself down, fall, fail at what you were once master of. Being you.

5. She is vital, essential to your existence, you are superfluous, unnecessary to hers. People wonder if you will ever learn, see how different you’ve become.

Example: You’ll never stop forgetting yourself until you lose yourself completely.

Howie Good said...

Most of the entries were excellent, using specific details and actions even when being poetic or imagistic. A couple of entries, though, never quite escaped abstraction. They didn't give readers as firm a sense of their subjects as they might have. Nonetheless, I appreciate the effort put forth by all and hope that you learned something about the value of taking "crazy" risks with your writing.

Jena said...

Love

On Sunday mornings, the best place for breakfast is the King George Diner. Starved, my boyfriend and I drove there for our morning meal. As we walked in, shivering off the January air, we were greeted by the smell of fresh bread, bacon and the notch of the neck revealed only in a warm embrace.
A tiny, plump Greek woman seated us at a booth in the corner. From my side of the table I could see the other customers. A couple of booths down sat an old couple. Wrapped in hand knit sweaters, they sat chatting with their waitress.
“Oh yes, we just had our third granddaughter,” the old man said, voice accented with age.
“Oh how wonderful,” the waitress cooed at them. The man’s eyes twinkled and his wife clicked her dentures in and out.
“Looks like your hungry,” the man said, grinning at her wiggling teeth.
She gave him a sheepish grin. Laughing, he ordered, “Oh, I’ll have a tuna sandwich on rye and the little lady will have soup…”
“Split pea soup,” she piped up excitedly. “With that toast I had last week.”
The waitress scribbled the order, flipped down the cover of her pad and walked away grinning. The couple leaned in whisper too low for me to catch. I imagine they were saying something entertaining because they’d pause every so often to smile.
They were served quickly. The diner’s staff seemed quite attune to their routine, like their meal was prepared before their arrival.
Dipping into her pea soup, the lady let out a burp. Laughing slowly, they giggled like it was the best joke they’d heard all week. Almost brought to tears, her eyes sparkled bright, the way blue eyes in black and white films do.
Reaching over the table, the man grasped his wife’s fingers. Knobby, wrinkled and shaded the blues and browns of age, their fingers resembled wrinkled twigs. Wrapped together, their hands made two nests on the table, warm and solid.
I looked back over at my boyfriend, he has gotten lost in the snow falling just outside our window. I take his hand and he wriggles his fingers in between mine. Looking at the backs of our hands, they are smooth and brown. There are spaces between our fingers. Grinning, I mouth “Olive oil,” as the waitress asks us for our order.