PWoF 2016 - Topic 08 - Sept. 29
#1
(Sorry... was up late with cat, overslept, then the damned word list took forever.)




         PWoF 2016 - Topic 08 - Sept. 29
         
        Standard instructions:
       
         You should attempt to write a poem inspired by this topic -- not a derivative, literal
         interpretation of the topic.   Create a poem that reflects your own true self.
         
         --> Since the officious rules of PWoF 2016 stipulate that you can submit more than
         one poem; may I suggest, if the fit strikes you, that you include, after your major work,
         a second poem consisting of a bit of transient doggerel, a limerick, or a trenchant
         end-rhyming nonsense poem that somehow reflects the intention of this topic.
         
         (And for anyone who's a bit uncertain about starting out here: Ignore my bullshite and
         just string some words together (that's what everybody else is doing Smile ).  
       

        Topic 8:
       
A "word-field" is used in the business world to inspire creativity.  I've used it in the past to
write poetry and I've found it to work really well.  So, I thought, why not make it a damn topic?  

How you're supposed to use the thing:

Get relaxed, center yourself, meditate, slow your brain down, don't think about writing a poem,
just take a look at the field of words below. View them, one by one, don't read them like you
normally read, pause on each word, look at the word, let the different images, meaning,
feelings float off it.  

Look at them randomly, or bottom to top, or right to left, however you want. What you're
doing is feeding them directly into your subconscious, directly to that little hunk of your
brain that some people call a muse.  Now, after you've done this, go do something that
has nothing to do with writing: feed your animals or kids, wash the dishes, fold your clothes
(however that's done, mine never make it out of the hamper). Do something dull, not mentally
stimulating.  

Then come back in an hour or so, briefly look at the word-field again. Then write something
related to, inspired by the thoughts, ideas, that come to you from the word-field.  Or, if you
think this is just plain new-age-huggy-stupid, ignore it all and write anything you want.

And damn! I forgot to say this before merc got to it: This is NOT a word game. While you
are free to use the words in the word field, concentrating on using as many as you can
tends to defeat the purpose of the technique. I guess this is one of the problems I hadn't
considered when trying to convert it to use in the word-based environment of poetry...
Oh well...

So, in a relaxed sort of way, get busy.

Word field:     (It's not supposed to line up evenly.)

telescope     stockings     carrier         presents       ventured
directions   rug               nonsense       golden         poison
  garden         hopeless       cry             moment         curious

shedding       gallant       tears         pattering     splendidly
  trotting       savage         yesterday   puzzle         sherry
ringlets       puzzling     geography           letter         jobs

alone           measure     shrinking         narrow         fountains
escape         cheerful       knife         burst           cats
  shrinking     hastily       narrow         garden         bottle

splash         sea             wooden         lodging         punished
  drowned     spades         mouse         grammar         beasts
knowledge     pardon         lazily         bristling         fitted

offended       cupboards     marmalade     underneath         tumbling
brave           house           miles         aloud         earth
  school         degree         knowledge   longitude         grand

  downwards     antipathy     curtsy         saucer         sleepy
dreamy         question         earnestly       sticks         overhead
passage       hanging         locked         wind             whiskers



And, should you be interested, some additional info:
1. Your subconscious has been infected by the word-field and anything you write can't
help but reflect it. For all I know it will affect you for the rest of your life. (Luckily, it's
pretty much impossible to hold me legally liable.)

2. Word-fields, when they're used in business, are generated from a customer wish list
(in lieu of formal specifications) involving the solution being worked on.  In our instance,
I took them from a famous literary novel.  But, not wanting to bias you, I'm going to wait
until later to post its name under this button here.

3. Method of generation:
The words were selected from the first 3500 words of the novel.  I used the random
number generator at random.org to select a number from 1 to a 3500 and then got that
word from its text.  (My text editor allows me to put a number in it and it will get the
word for me.)  I eliminated any trivial words such as articles, prepositions, conjunctions,
and most terribly common ones.  I also removed any character names and proper nouns
that might identify the specific novel. And if I'd known how much damned work this
was going to be, I might not have done it. Smile

It will be interesting to see in what ways, if any, the poems correlate with the novel.
                                                                                                                a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
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#2
I used the words as a word bank, and assembled something from them, changing tenses and adding connector words, but sticking closely to the supplied list. Apart from the repeated line, which I overheard someone say once, and thought instantly of Virginia Woolf's book, which is all about having it in front of you and talking about it but never actually going to the lighthouse. Is it a poem? Not yet. I think it could be, though. The title is something I read and wrote in my notebook yesterday.

The heart is a map of the earth


A puzzling geography, medieval, located
on the longitude of drowned knowledge, all
the earth an island, shrinking, surrounded
by savage dreams, gardens of golden poisons,
puzzling presents and hopeless nonsense.
Miles of yesterdays locked underneath
marmalade cupboards in the house of cards.
I’m leaving for the lighthouse.

Before my telescope can shed all directions,
wind questions narrow measures overhead
downwards, pattering into the saucer like
tears. Alone in my narrow lodging I cry for
escape from letters and jobs and knives,
the cat and mouse grammar of antipathy,
stifling pardons and earnest school degrees.
I’m leaving for the lighthouse.

Sherry bottles and offended whiskers bristle
from the rug of fitted stockings. Hanging ringlets
hastily venture a grand curtsey but the gallant
carrier has been locked. I can still get there by
trotting, splendidly cheerful and sleepy, until
fountains burst, tumble and shrink lazily.
For one curious moment I’m brave.
I’m leaving for the lighthouse.
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#3
So how does posting late affect time zones?? lol
Thanks to this Forum
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#4
(09-29-2016, 09:59 PM)kolemath Wrote:  So how does posting late affect time zones?? lol

The whole world has to set their clocks back.
But keep this in mind: you only have until after your death to post.


P.S. And just a reminder: You don't have to use any of the words, they're just for inspiration.

                                                                                                                a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
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#5
Creepy Stalker Fantasy

A look through my telescope reveals your stockings on the floor.
I watch as the mail carrier give you presents as you venture without directions on the rug.
I pretend I'm you, which is nonsense to the golden poison garden.
I'm hopeless and cry for a moment but still curious of the shedding pants of this gallant mailman.
Staring through my tears still pattering to the floor, capturing you splendidly atop this trotting savage.
Yesterday I pondered this puzzle. What's your name? Sherry?
Who gave you those ringlets?
And tomorrow I'll continue puzzling over your geography, write you letters I won't send about jobs I won't get.
And tomorrow I'll be alone again, measuring the shrinking timeline through my narrow telescope, allowing the fountains of joy you pour are my escape.
It makes me almost cheerful instead of holding the knife again.
When you're not there, I see your cats and pretend the shrinking days aren't hastily narrowing my garden of you.
Sipping from the bottle and splashing the sea of alcohol on my wooden floor, trapped in my lodging and punishing myself with this drowned fantasy.
I play spades with the mouse and scare him with the grammar of beasts, the knowledge of your cats, and beg his pardon for being lazy.
Still waiting by the window, bristling beside the fitted pane.
I hope your not offended that my cupboards are filled with marmalade underneath the tumbling polaroids I take of you leaving your house.
I think it makes me brave that I watch you leave your house and follow you for miles, listening aloud to the earth, the school you pass, fantisizing about the degree of knowledge I keep of your every longitude.
One day will be grand.
I'll pick my head up from the downward antipathy I grasp, tell you all of this.
You'll curtsy and invite me to feed your cats milk from a saucer until we're both sleepy, dreamy.
I'll ask the question earnestly until it sticks overhead and you let me in the passage, hanging out locked inside, nothing but the sound of wind, nothing but you, me, and the whiskers of your cats brushing our legs.

(09-29-2016, 11:05 PM)rayheinrich Wrote:  
(09-29-2016, 09:59 PM)kolemath Wrote:  So how does posting late affect time zones?? lol

The whole world has to set their clocks back.
But keep this in mind: you only have until after your death to post.


P.S. And just a reminder: You don't have to use any of the words, they're just for inspiration.


Hysterical The world turns for poetry.

Why not use all of them?  It helps embed them in my subconscious.
Thanks to this Forum
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#6
I got busy in a relaxed sort of way, as per instruction. Only used about four of the words; bit of a chilled out effort on my part;

This is house music;
this is cupboard music, rug music,
sofa music,
it's busted light bulb music
confused cat music, sleepy house mouse music
come in get deep music
tunes to
lock your legs across the lounge
music for your
home stereo speaker system,
for you the
lone headphone volume buster
to make
skid shoe marks on chewed vinyl
Come on, move that coffee table!
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#7
Mercedes, I haven't been following these threads religiously but...love the title! I mean really love it. You could anchor a collection with that title. (Oh, and I'm fond of the poem too, but don't get me started again on that title).
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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#8

The whole world has to set their clocks back.
But keep this in mind: you only have until after your death to post.


P.S. And just a reminder: You don't have to use any of the words, they're just for inspiration.


[/quote]

Hi Ray
Just wanted to say hope the cats ok and a big thank you for keeping us all going, really appreciate your effort and your ingenuity, and to every one else who's joining in, thanks also I am really enjoying reading your poems and I've been blown away by the standard. This one a tough one but I'll get there.
Cheers
Keith

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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#9
Santa's Favorite

Forget cheerfulness on Christmas.
Forget relatives --
write letters to your beastly cats.
Pardon no one.

Narrow your eyes and bristle
at people and their poisonous
presence, their curious directions.

[They'd have you shrink till you burst]

Pour yourself a sea's worth of sherry
and lay on the bearskin rug
by the fire. Wait lazily
for Santa; he gives the best presents
to women in fishnet stockings
with a golden line up the back.
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#10
don't write hungry

in one golden moment the setting sun
transformed a telescoping road
into magnificent miles of marmalade

I am a bit brain dead today  Confused ... not a long distance runner.  I did use every single word to make a story though Big Grin-->
In one golden moment the setting sun transformed the narrow path before me into telescoping miles of marmalade road.  I ventured lazily along this dreamy passage while overhead the wind was tumbling in bursts through sleepy branches barely finished shedding. I stopped in the garden underneath the hanging sticks, their fitted fingers locked in hopeless puzzles, and earnestly began to cry about the letter I received yesterday.  

You see,  I sent my gallant lover a bottle of sherry and silk stockings by carrier pigeon, but it mixed up the longitude portion of the directions and my presents were lost when the pigeon hastily spiraled downwards and splashed into sea where it drowned. And so my offended lover, having never received the gifts, in a savage letter accused me of antipathy and sent me a vial of poison lodged in a wooden mouse.

I begged for pardon with fountains of tears pattering down my face in ringlets.  Bristling with indignation, he punished my trotting beasts by shrinking their whiskers with a knife.  I thought it brave of him to so splendidly escape any measure of forgiveness from me.  In return, I fitted his curious cats into the cupboards (lured by a saucer of milk) and refused to answer his questions about my knowledge as to the geography of their lodging.  He brought up the time I, with a curtsy, corrected his grammar aloud in front of the entire school, to a degree limiting his potential jobs.  I pulled the rug out from under that argument and caused his house of cards to tumble by reminding him that he would now be alone in all the earth simply because he believed my truth to be grand nonsense dished out in spades.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
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#11
Anno Domini 1076


Guiscard de Hauteville inclined
his pointed helmet to observe
the progress of his armored troop
upon the Adriatic Sea.

Their wooden galleys probed among
Venetian and Byzantine ships
chained in a ring, with platforms built
above them stocked with heavy stones.

If only his French knights could get
among these wretched southerners
their Norman blood and broadswords would
make short and grisly work of them!

For who could doubt the bravery
of men who fought on heaving seas
in chain-mail that would drown them quick
as candle-snuff (not one could swim)?

But stones fell on his galleys’ decks
and splintered through them one by one
their fellows rescued some but then
withdrew - no fools were Norman men.

Guiscard shrugged hauberk-heavily
to see his knights defeated by
Venetians hired by Byzantines
unworthy of their Norman steel.

And then he plotted, for the age
was scarcely past Millennium
which left nine centuries and more
to die before the Savior came.

He’d triumph (Guiscard always did)
with honeyed words or stratagem
and then return to Sicily
Taranto and Apulia.

Meditation failed - incidents from the book I'm reading left ony a tint from the word field. 

[Lest anyone think the Normans only invaded Britain.]
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#12
(09-30-2016, 04:43 AM)Todd Wrote:  Mercedes, I haven't been following these threads religiously but...love the title! I mean really love it. You could anchor a collection with that title. (Oh, and I'm fond of the poem too, but don't get me started again on that title).



Thanks Todd - it's a Yuge title, isn't it?
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#13
Just a thought on process, this assignment was much more enjoyable for me than the last three. I like how this one encourages creativity through suggestion rather than restriction. I wonder if there's a personality difference at play. I need my freedom....
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#14
I'm looking forward to knowing which book! I'm getting a vibe of Dickens, or is it a Bronte? Or is it Virginia?
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#15
(09-30-2016, 06:07 AM)Quixilated Wrote:  You see,  I sent my gallant lover a bottle of sherry and silk stockings by carrier pigeon, but it mixed up the longitude portion of the directions and my presents were lost when the pigeon hastily spiraled downwards and splashed into sea where it drowned. And so my offended lover, having never received the gifts, in a savage letter accused me of antipathy and sent me a vial of poison lodged in a wooden mouse.

Hysterical Hysterical Hysterical

(09-30-2016, 06:11 AM)dukealien Wrote:  Anno Domini 1076

Guiscard de Hauteville inclined...

I'm always impressed with your fine control of meter.
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#16
(09-30-2016, 12:05 PM)lizziep Wrote:  
(09-30-2016, 06:11 AM)dukealien Wrote:  Anno Domini 1076

Guiscard de Hauteville inclined...

I'm always impressed with your fine control of meter.

But always just two to the foot, unless I'm humming a tune (i.e. it's lyrics).  Very limiting - like cloven-hoofed feet or something. Sad
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#17
I ended up going off-course. I absorbed the word list twice (I couldn't absorb it just once, I've recently been so hyped), then bam, shit rains. Here's the best I got, a somewhat tangential remark on the issue that so stung me:

It is no lamb but lambs that draw the cat
whose fearful symmetry strikes awful dread
even in our Lord's eyes -- as if your course,
aloof and distant from the flock, should grant
security. It is no lamb -- the tiger
spots then stalks then pounces at those alone
and by his sounds of feasting draws the flock
toward his fellow hunters. Times have changed:
as lions wait for death and falcons gyre,
tigers gather in flocks and lambs divide.
When shall God's fear revive the slouching pride?
When shall new verse thus well-considered mend
a nation's mind -- and ill-considered, lead
to overthrow of slaughter, haste, and greed?
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#18
(09-30-2016, 10:00 PM)dukealien Wrote:  But always just two to the foot, unless I'm humming a tune (i.e. it's lyrics).  Very limiting - like cloven-hoofed feet or something. Sad

Hmmmmm, an interesting twist that the meter is controlling YOU.
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