Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Peanut. Brittle.

In which we explore the uses of limited vocabulary

What I noticed about the frig poetry is, I tend to use the same words over and over. And being meta. And cheating by cutting words up and stuff. So I decided tonight to grab a word I hadn't used -- at least I don't think I used porcelain -- then pick out words that struck me as any way related. Wished I had the word 'brittle' but, nuts! -- no such luck. Given the small universe of words on the frig, there wasn't a lot of places to go with it. Kind of like semantic jail. So poems (bad) are written that I normally wouldn't ever write. If (ab)normally a poem is written around an image that won't let me go, or a phrase that takes over my brain, a frig poem is all about the words. And the things seem to make even less sense than usual -- hello, again, post-modernism! But it's almost like the words are in charge. Although come to think of it, maybe they're in charge anyway.

It's Neville Longbottom's birthday, Neville, the bravest person in Gryffindor, a Samwise Gamgee of a friend. This is for him.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Also, there were llamas

In which we travel the world 

At Buckingham Palace we walked up the great staircase and imagined kings. In the Picture Gallery we saw paintings by Rembrandt and Rubens and imagined blazing battles and saw beautiful women in portraiture. The State Dining Room was well-appointed, although no meals were served; the Ballroom was vast and elegant and bereft of music.Treasures abounded, although no monarchs ruled in the throne room. We exited through the Bow Room to the formal gardens, green and lovely and empty. We took tea on the lawn, and had pastries. It was lovely.


At the fair the little girls, in flip flops and neon dresses, wanted cheap shiny beads from a carnie shop and took free Bibles from the merchants' tent. They demanded warm pretzels with frosting dip for dinner, and we ate in a big, open picnic shelter crowded with tables and everyone ordering Things Which Had Been Fried. Elephant ears smell wonderful. In the Exhibit Building were poster boards of 4H projects like 'Uses of Electricity' and 'Me and My Pet.' Plates with one green bean, or one tomato, or one onion, were showcased in the middle. Blue ribbons had been awarded. We took the girls to a field at the back of the fairgrounds where half-a-dozen hot-air balloons were to ascend, passing by the grandstand and dirt track where the donkey races would be held 'AT EIGHT-TEN.' We sat on the long, scratchy dry grass with girls in our laps, watching as the rainbow 'envelopes' were inflated and heated and became balloons that couldn't be contained on ground level and floated above us. Excited by the idea of flying, the girls demanded to ride some rides and took off for the midway with the grownups with ticket money. The balloons, after a short flight, were driven back to the field around dark, and, staying grounded, glowed for the little girls, and everyone. It was lovely. 

London to Fort Wayne, wherever, let's go

You know the tunnel of love, well it ain't my style / So I'm take her on the ferris wheel / Way up in the sky, with the stars in her eyes / I'm gonna tell her just how I feel

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Somebody get these appliances under control

Like, we mean, now

The refrigerator spoke to me and wants capital letters and punctuation marks in the next kit, so that this bad poem could at least look like this

Less Than This

Away, then words!
You look like fire,
But bring slow steam.

Which makes no more sense but at least has a vague formality about it.

Speaking of fire

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Even cowgirls get the blues and have to post five things

In which we turn to 5 Things to fill up a blank canvas

1. Sometimes even bad frig magnet poetry is too bad to share so we make rotating gifs and pray you don't read fast. The bad title is 'Blazing' and the gif goes by blazingly fast. Perhaps it should be called 'Deconstruction.'

2. This from Book Riot: 'Books I'll Never Reread.' Her choice is Cormac McCarthy's The Road, a book I've very deliberately never read for the very reasons she doesn't want to reread it. On my list would be Needful Things by Stephen King (I'm very sorry I read it the first time) and William Styron's Sophie's Choice. Also Knock on Any Door.

3. The New York Times examines James Franco, poet, and we end up feeling kind of sorry for him, such close critical attention and all. Oh wait. Maybe that's just what he's.... I believe we've written of his possible awfulness as a poet before. This is a slightly more in depth examination. I take heart that if MFA holder and Oscar host James Franco can write bad poetry maybe we can too. Oh wait. 

4. “The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for the wordlessness.” —John Steinbeck. In some cases you may pray for wordlessness.

James Franco just makes us feel better about the entire process. Cue Sam Smith

You say I'm crazy / Cause you don't think I know what you've done / But when you call me baby / I know I'm not the only one

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

No kind of magic at all

In which the bar hovers pretty low but we manage to evoke my refrigerator, the practices of wiccan, post-modernism, our literary trevails, Ray Carver, Raymond Chandler, Leonardo DiVinci, the Eagles, and toilet humor. We win.

No more than a game, these magnet words. They make you write poems you wouldn't otherwise. Bad post-modern poems. I spent half an hour just organizing the words. And then the experiments with photo filters. It's like I'm torturing you. The only thing I like about this one is the connection between the salt circle -- which I think is part of wiccan ceremonies -- to the 'magic' of the first line. Totally by accident. And the smoke, I think wiccans set things on fire quite a bit. Obviously I'm pretty ignorant of things wiccan.

Who's this? It's not our usual Ray. But rather Raymond Chandler, whose birthday is today, and who said, "Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon." Which sounded particularly brilliant to us, since we're not having a particularly creative day, having two different things we keep trying to write in our heads. One we're playing with just for fun (not the frig stuff) but the other has driven us to stop-and-start fits with lots of deletions and no result. It needs a hook but all we have is a sinker. It's a piece with dry heaves that would be better off if we could just barf it up. We better flush the toilet, and wash our hands of it. 

(sorrysorrysorry. Realize I need to read a little Ray.)

As long as we're throwing names around let's approach the denouement with this, from Leonardo DaVinci. Because all the connections.

It's all going down the crapper anyway so why not

And there's some rumors going round  / someone's underground  / she can rock you in the nighttime / until your skin turn red