Monday, July 21, 2014

I've told you now

In which we justify the means by indulging our inner Elvis




So about this refrigerator magnet poem kit. Buying one may have been a bad idea, given the number of times a day I open the frig -- or pass by it. And there are those words, always ready, waiting for some new arrangement.

And hey, as you longtime readers reader know, I don’t consider myself much of a writer and no poet at all -- that’s been proven! -- but there’s enough writer in me that if I create something, by God, if there’s a chance somebody else might read it, it’s getting published somewhere.

Which is why I’m dangerous on the Internet. I mean, HELLO, HI. Blog. And Instagram -- why not take a picture of this nebulous poem baby and share it on Instagram? Because apparently there are other Instagram-poem-sharers out there. And unfortunately Instagram is too easily connected to Facebook -- AND Twitter. And good morning, my graphically inclined friend, Tumblr. At last I see your utility.

What the poetry kit has me thinking about is poetic form, and how it can fuel creativity rather than kill it. I’m sure someone has written a thesis about that, although I didn’t find much when I googled it. I don’t need to go that large, though. What I think happens when limits are imposed is the original poetic thought undergoes a metamorphosis -- and what a strange, strange word that is to use in a post about refrigerator poetry: I know I’m laughing.

Someday soon I’m going to figure out a way to put my camera in a steady position and take pictures as I work on a frig poem -- it’s really interesting, I think. I could make a little video. Anyway, I’ve made up a scheme where I only use a word or two from a previous day’s poem, so I’m not writing the same bad poem (You. Are. Welcome.) over and over.

I start picking words out of the mess of them on the frig front and fitting them together. Like a free-form puzzle, maybe. I might pick something up that I like, but then (of course) what or need a word that isn’t in the kit; so the line either becomes something else, or dies a magnetic death. In full confession, I have, will, and do cheat -- I had the word ‘poetry’ but wanted the word ‘poem’ so I made it up. And I’ve cut a word or two apart for artistic reasons. Hey, it’s my poem and my kit.

Mostly: It’s just fun. Which is the whole point of a word game that goes on your refrigerator. Excuse me for a sec. I gotta go magnetize me a poem.

Elvis was too obvious, but maybe this is too


Watching everybody else meet theirs, on that cornerOr losing in an argument / Although you're right, can't get your thoughts in order

Sunday, July 20, 2014

It's like stew

In which we kind of channel bad Emily



Sorry, don't mean in any way to compare bad frig magnet poetry with Emily Dickinson but something about that last line -- terrible as it is -- just gave me an Emily kind of feeling. Again: apologies.

No matter what I do, you know she's

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Originality. SO over-rated.

We're warning you

It's not safe to be here when we play with the words. You're better off on days when I got nothin' and we depend on Weird Al videos and real poems of tender poets. But no, here you are, dear readers reader, and it's an all-CathyBlogs-Thursday.

In spite of our best intentions -- not playing with the frig magnets today -- the tiles sang a siren song and started moving around like Tom Riddle's name in Chamber of Secrets.


I have no idea what this means but makes me think of Gwendolyn Brooks's 'We Real Cool,' which is much, much cooler than this. 

And 'cool fool' isn't the worst of it. No, we didn't have enough to think about on the way to work. Must have been a slow day on Morning Edition. And I just realized we over-worked the word 'cool' today. 

cool blue morning

Funny. The sun.
Renders.
An opaque sky.
Something’s always hidden.
Night opens
into infinity.
maybe
And. Black. Holes.
This car
rides the earth.
Less than zero.
All I can do
is drive through
this.
Cool. Blue. Morning.

As a bad experiment I posted this to Instagram and you'll notice the line that here reads 'maybe' used to be POSSIBLY. Taking votes on which is better. I should probably not use 'this twice' within six lines. 

Maybe...

cool blue morning

Funny. The sun.
Renders.
An opaque sky.
Something’s always hidden.
Night opens
into infinity.
maybe
And. Black. Holes.
Cars
ride the earth.
Less than zero.
All I can do
is drive through
this.
Cool. Blue. Morning.

It doesn't matter I'm just an

\\

Well maybe I'm the faggot America. / I'm not a part of a redneck agenda. / Now everybody do the propaganda. / And sing along to the age of paranoia.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Thorn among the roses

In which we throw a sow's ear among the silk purses. Let's get that over with early.



Our thorny problem today is the frig magnet poem we've called 'Poison Me,' and, for SEO purposes, goes like this, in its edited version:

Poison Me

Devour the desire,
breathe light and drink smoke --
Only naked can you eat poetry.

Seemingly I'm incapable of writing frig poetry without a pair of scissors, some punctuation, and a roll of two-sided tape; is that cheating? I don't care, it's my bad frig poem and I can make up the words as I go along. I am SO buying some more kits.

How about a real poem now? Over at Poets.org, the poem of the day is written by an Indiana poet, David Dodd Lee, and we must give a shout-out to him. Read 'Suffering the Unattainable' and maybe you'll love the lines as much as me:

The oak pitched around / like a ship’s mast, or I was no longer alive; perhaps I was yet / to be / all over again, though I kept recalling your name. The verdurous roots.

How appropriate is it that Weird Al Yankovic releases a video about tin foil, like you use in a REFRIGERATOR?! It's like he's speaking to me this week, first grammar and now leftovers. In the frig.



It's cold again tonight. Which means Bon Iver, again. At the beach.



Only hold till your coffee warms / But don't hurry and speed / Once a time put a tongue in your ear on the beach / And you clutched clinging heels

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Second shift, short shrift

In which we could not find the words we wanted, magnetically speaking


The trouble with this little frig magnet exercise is, our moderately creative brain refuses to limit itself to the words at hand. For example, what I wanted to say is

Night Work

Bring the words here
You must show me now
What makes poetry.

which is, of course, a very different little bad poem.

I wanted the sense of immediacy in the 'show me now' and I didn't want to repeat the 'you' in the third line; I wanted the question and vagueness of the 'what,' not the emphasis on the unidentified 'You.' Because I'm not sure who that 'you' is. And yea, I am probably thinking way too much about a refrigerator poem.

DO NOT leave this post without watching our new gold grammatical standard, thank you Weird Al: