Classmate Response 1, Week 7

Response to David's Junk.

I was struck by the language in your post. I think tornadoes tap dancing is a great reflection of their speed and whimsicality, their disregard for humanity. I tried using that language a little below.

When I hear another
tornado tap dancing our way,
I wonder whether I should write
or blow up a levee.
I convinced myself of the former,
so when she came
she took the dam thing away.

Free Entry 1, Week 7

"They Walk..."

Out the front doors of the raddison
On prueview haggardly
past the cookie cutter coffee spot
She ahead
He staring
at her spine
Quickly behind him
all around
They cross the street
Heads down
Fake frowns shirts
rumpled
Choices made
Beds remade
Staying ten feet apart
Into the first and third yellow
cab

Junkyard Quote(s) 1-4, Week 7

The Sage is occupied with the unspoken
and acts without effort.

Teaching without verbosity,
producing without possessing,
creating without regard to result,
claiming nothing,
the Sage has nothing to lose.

-Tao Tê Ching

A fully achieved person is like a spirit! The great marshes could be set on fire, but she wouldn't feel hot. The rivers in China could all freeze over, but she wouldn't feel cold. Thunder could suddenly echo through the mountains, wind could cause a tsunami in the ocean, but she wouldn't be startled. A person like that could ride through the sky on the floating clouds, straddle the sun and moon, and travel beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life can cause changes within her, and there's little reason for her to even consider benefit or harm.

-Zhuangzi

Great knowledge concentrates on what's close and vivid.
Small knowledge concentrates on what's far away and obscure.

-Zhuangzi

It's possible to have personal beliefs, but not to allow them take an actual form - to have feelings about things but not to create dogma around them.

-Zhuangzi

"It is surprising that he managed to get 130 yards with all the injuries he had, but also the fact that the deep penetrating wound of the right side caused the upper lobe to partially collapse his lung. It is therefore a testimony to Stephen's physical fitness that he was able to run the distance he did before collapsing."
—Richard Shepherd (pathologist) on the murder of Stephen Lawrence

Junkyard Quote(s) 5, Week 5

"My ex used to like floppy bacon, probably why I never respected him. Can't respect a man that likes his bacon floppy."

-Calisthenics exercise by Kay Lowery

Free Entry 1, Week 5

A revision of an earlier piece, with a new title.

When Father Fling

Ijaw fathers fling their babies
into the Ibadan River,
tubes in their navels,

faces cement-cold.
The ones that swim swim.
Mothers cheer
as their little Phelpses go.
Darwin's underwater show

Takes to the sky.
Yoruba fathers hurl their sons,
after puberty,
across the Atlantic, on
seven-hundred and forty seven fowls.
Everyone cheers,
no one weeps.

Classmate Response 2, Week 5

This is a response to Kay's Free Entry.

Hey Kay.

This text is captivating because the introduction is uncanny. The detailed description is a great example of micro-specificity - taking an object and describing it in great detail. This is a technique I want to employ. How does one apply micro-specificity to a person's face? Secondarily, the narrator's ruminations about her boyfriend's gaming is clearly shown, without devolving to simple explanation. The text allows me to fill in the details about the tensions in the room.

For a next draft, I would suggest that the game being played be described in more detail (as April has noted above). I also suggest that other scenes be created to display the narrator's OCD quirks, and relation to her boyfriend or other individuals. What are more details like the "dried blood color" around the room?

Keep it up.

Classmate Response 1, Week 5

This is a response to Taylor Junkyard post.

Hey Taylor. The last line of your entry is great fodder for thought. "All I'm worth on Valentine's Day is the 75 cent chocolate from a vending machine." This line would sound great in a piece. Try writing around, about, this line. Below is my preliminary rumination. Great entry!

Seventy five,
maybe 50,
no - 0.25,
rusty pesos,
are what Jesus
slips into the dingy box
on the corner of Medina Mora,
to get the red pack of Pikotas,
his Abuela's favorite,
though her ten remaining teeth
are like orange peels.

Reading Response 1, Week 5

This is a response to Rosemary Moore's short play, "Pain of Pink Evenings".

This piece is appealing to me because it employs specificity to counterbalance and accentuate the complexity of the narrative. The play is narrated by Tracy, a single mother who has lost her husband. The details the text provides paints a vivid description that throws me quickly into the world of characters and experience affect. I will be adapting the descriptive approach here in my own work.

The introduction of a sub-text, narrated by Tracy, about her father is very appealing. In fact, this sub-text allows me to grasp the emotional state of Tracy, what she holds dear, and the profundity of loss, after burying both her father and husband.

If this text was to be revised, I would suggest that the relationship between young Tracy (in relation to her father) be developed further. This can serve as a counterpoint to Tracy's relationship with her husband, revealing how she deals with loss and male relationships.

This was a great, short, read.

Junkyard Quote(s) 3-4, Week 5

"pink turquoise veins"
-Rosemary Moore, "Pain of Pink Evenings"

"We can't all be heroes because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by."
- Will Rogers

Junkyard Quote(s) 1-2, Week 5

"Not that fire is ever friendly."
-Dr. Brommage

"What's the difference between porn and rape?"
"Penetration."
-Classroom discussion

Reading Response 1, Week 4

This a response to David Madden's reading.

David Madden’s reading (a more appropriate term here is performance or rendition) is fascinating for several reasons, however here I will focus on his application of drama technique. Madden uses various drama techniques such as vocal manipulation, inflection, timed pause, and posture changes. This should not be surprising since Madden spent a year at Yale Drama School studying under John Gassner. This is perhaps where he learnt to warm up his voice before performing. I like to believe that the latter is why he spent the 30 minutes before his presentation in engaged conversation.

To begin with, Madden employs vocal and sound manipulation. He chiefly augments his vocal delivery by lowering and raising his voice at particular points, like when Carol or another character says something important. However, Madden reveals that it’s not just about inflection. When reading I have to manipulate my voice by slurring some words, speaking rapidly, and changing my cadence. A notable example is his enactment of Glenda’s abduction in rapid pace, producing chills, captivating the audience with a cinematic delivery. In addition, Madden achieves sound manipulation by stepping towards and away from the microphone. This is a technique almost exclusive to drama and musical performance.

Furthermore, Madden creates several voices for different characters, a dramatic technique most prevalent in modern cartoon acting. This process involves shifting the pitch and tone of his voice, and, more importantly, inserting subtle accent differentiations. The subtle nature of these voice changes allows the rendition to move along smoothly without jarring the audience (too much). The voice for F is coarse and pseudo-Southern (by which I mean “uneducated-sounding”), whereas the voice for Melissa is a soft timid tone pitched higher than, yet maintaining a similarity to, Carol’s. Most intriguing is the voice of the narrator. It is subtle, unnoticeable as an interlocutor, and close to Madden’s natural voice.

I have previously learnt many of these techniques from watching drama, delivering public speeches and singing, but I’ve never considered applying them when reading poetry or creative writing. Thanks to Creative Writing Dept. for bringing Madden to read.

Junkyard Quote(s) 1-6, Week 4

"You have to trust your audience, and respect them."
-David Madden

"Go to the art."
-David Madden

"A ship blows up, something definitely went wrong!"
-Dr. Thomas Brommage

“I went into the church, partly because I had been driven there all my life … there was no place for me to go ... But, I was so afraid of everything else that, in a way, I ended up with a devil I knew.”

– James Baldwin on the church and his time as a preacher from age 14 to 17

“I got the Bible and the Gun. One of these is gon’ work”

– Preacher, in "Blues For Mister Charlie" by James Baldwin

"You know who you look like? Antwoine Fisher!"

-conversation with a friend

Calisthenics 1, Week 4

Dr. Davidson urged us to write about an embarrassing moment with a parent. I followed that prompt, and came up with what might be my piece for workshop.

"Meeting Mom"

Dad told me she would arrive today. She is my mother. That’s what he said. Why is she not like the other mother? Why have I never seen my mommy till now? Why did she leave me?

Dad is smiling, fixing, cleaning, like a butler eagerly awaiting his master. He always talks about them - the others, my siblings, and his older children. Unlike him, I don’t pace back and forth. I hide behind the old red couch in the left corner of the living room, staring at the TV. I crawl into the space between the back of the chair and the window in with my knees pressing into my chest, and my hands tucked underneath my thighs.

Hunched over, in the crevice, I pray: “Father God, please forgive me for being afraid to meet my mother, I mean, my mommy.”

She is a wicked woman! Absolutely dreadful, worse than the characters from the late night movies, the ones after the NTA news, that daddy never lets me watch. She killed many people in a short two hours. All I could think was: “I hope she dies.” A slow death, not like in Tom and Jerry, but a real, prolonged death. I wish she could go to that hell place Pastor Monday and my Bible school teacher warn us about. I hate her even though daddy says I should love everyone like Jesus. How can I love her when she has ruined so many lives? I no be Jesus oh!

The only images I have of my mom are from a movie she never auditioned for, and doesn’t get royalty checks for. The woman I do know, my mother’s surrogate, is also referred to as Mama IK, because her first son was named IK, like my dad’s oldest son with my mom. So I filled the empty space in my skull, the one where other kids put happy memories of mommy, with the images of the fictional Mama IK, a witch.

Thoughts raced through my mind, quicker than Okada bikes on New Benin’s dirt road, with no traffic lights to stop them. I cradled myself there, in the makeshift womb behind the couch.

She walked in with two small figures huddled behind her, almost as scared I was for this awkward family reunion.

“Where is my baby?” she asked, glancing at my father with mistrust, or fear.

“He’s over there hiding” he said, pointing over to the shabby red couch, with mistrust and pity, for me, in his tone and pupils.

“Is he scared of me?”

“Yes, but what do you expect after more than six years?”

She, we, could hear the condescending indict in his voice. I thought she would snap back; maybe reach out and rip out his tongue like Mama IK did on television.

“Why is he afraid of me?” she asked looking at my dad, not expecting sympathy from him. “Didn’t you tell him who I am?”

“Yes, Iyen, I did! But, he thinks you are crazy lady from the movies. Ugh… what’s her name? Mama IK.”

“Osayame,” my dad called out, “come here. Your mommy is here with your brother and sister, Osas and IK. Remember them? Come on, don’t be shy.” His suggestion that I not “be shy” did nothing to stop the lining from peeling in my tummy, and the big drumbeats in my noggin that needed Panadol. Bur, he knew that. Why do old people say things they know are useless? Do they hope that this time will God will perform a miracle, maybe crack open another can of Red Sea? Maybe if they hold their arms akimbo a little longer. They think God is testing them like he did job.

Saying “brother and sister” was unnecessary, because I already knew them. Ikpomnwosa was the boy clinging to his, my, mother’s dress. He is my older brother, five years my senior. I could tell that he was much more attractive than me. His head was square-shaped, not like my oblong bean, but refined like daddy’s. His complexion was light, like mother’s. Definitely not fair, like Tani, but lighter than mine. And of course, he was taller. Staring at him made the drum beat in my medulla slow down a tad. Peering at his face reminded me that IK in the movies was not the same one here, and that his mother was not a witch come to hurt me and daddy.

As I dropped my gaze from my brother my eyes moved to the girl still bunched at mother’s left side. While turning my neck, I caught a glance of my mother’s calves, built like that of an athlete from those Roman sculptures. She wore leather shoes with silver buckles, like the black pair I wear to school.

The girl, Osarumwense, or Ethel, as she would later have me call her, clung, tighter than her brother, to the blue skirt suit dress mother wore. She was older than me by two or three years. She looked like my father, or mother, it was hard to tell since they are still standing by the front door with the broken light bulb.

Nevertheless, I knew she was beautiful, and that I loved her. Her skin was similar to my own; dark ivory, not charcoal, but a tone that reflected the light perfectly, and clung to each ray. Her hair was braided with pigtails at the end, and pink hair clips on each tail. She wore a white dress with blue and red flowers, or dots, painted on in no particular order – none that I could see, even though I’m good at puzzle games.

After surveying the children, I finally got the courage to rise from my hiding spot, leave the womb, and look at my mommy. I could see now why they clung to her.

She was well built, not one of those skinny types. She wasn’t very tall, but had a sturdy dignified posture. Her dress suit clung to her hips. It was must have been made for her, or altered by a tailor friend. Her face looked like mine, not happy, but not sad, just focused. She was focused on me.

Her eyes dug into my skin, checking every detail, like I always do when I get a toy back from my cousins. When I looked at her (not in the eyes, because daddy and granny say that’s disrespectful) I didn’t know if I loved her like I loved the girl, but I knew I didn’t hate her like Mama IK.

Free Entry 1, Week 4

Meditation on immigration and survival as a Nigerian.

Ijaw fathers fling their babies
into the Ibadan river, right
after birth,
with tubes in their belly buttons.
The ones that swim swim.
Mothers sing,
cheering, never weeping,
as their little Phelpses
go for the gold.
Darwin's underwater cabaret

Takes to the sky.
Yoruba fathers fling their sons,
after puberty,
across the oceans, riding
on the backs of seven-hundred and forty seven birds.
Everyone cheers,
no one weeps.
Not even me.

Free Entry 1, Week 3

An image of Benin.

The chalk-faced juju friar (our township's self-declared pope) scolded the fire while circling it, jumping from one foot to the next, with his red-mud beads gyrating. The stream of sweat smudged the chalk, leaving white tiger patched on his coal cheeks.

Osas, Ameze, and I stared at him, wondering if, no, hoping his scolding worked. The fire fought back, hissing out kerosene scent and firewood smoke. We cried, even though Mommy wasn't peeling onions for okra soup. The fire, not daddy, thrashed us, because the juju man made her mad.

We ran all the way home, not even looking left or right when we crossed Ekpere Road, never noticing the curtain in the sky.

Junkyard Quote(s) 1-4, Week 3

"Sex is death!"
-phone conversation with a friend

"I heard that you like the bad girls
Honey, is that true?"
-Lana Del Rey , "Video Games"

"You know you're wrong when there's only one right"
-Agnes Obel, "Avenue"

You are uncanny electricians; make odd connections.
-Dr. Davidson (paraphrased)

Classmate Response 2, Week 3

Response to Damiyr's Free Entry.

Damiyr!!!

Thank you for writing such a frank piece about Carrollton. Being from Miami, a big city, albeit not like the "Big Apple", I can understand your frustration with this lowly place.

Your description and contrast of New York and Carrollton is captivating. I can attribute the latter to the fact that you detail your activities, or the availability of activities. This allows me to picture being back in Brooklyn, on East New York or Flatbush, with my sister, at the corner store eating beef patties. None of that in Carrollton.

Thanks for the great read. Keep it up!

Classmate Response 1, Week 3

Response to Drika's Free Entry.

Great entry Drika!

Two great features:

Your attempt to write about a specific person and relationship is great, because gives you a lot of material to cull from.

The bold statement - "I am the image of my mother" - is amazing and grabs hold of my (any reader's) attention immediately. It spurs me to read on.

Point of improvement:

Specificity. This piece is rather abstract. What parts of your mother image is "shaped" by "tough times"? Perhaps her palms are rough like my mother’s hands. How exactly are you similar to your mother? Try looking in a mirror, and describing every feature that is in your "mother’s image". More detail will make the piece more captivating, and allow you to "discover" the generated subject without trying to.

“Improv”-ing/imitation 1, Week 3

This is an improvisation based on Robert Frost's "The Vanishing Red".

Selected Stanzas - the entire poem, which can be found here..


The Vanishing Purple

"He is said to have been the last Purple Man
In Carrollton." And everyone laughed -
wildly clapping and screaming. The red-haired rotund
comic rushed backstage.
He pulled his coat from the closet, patting to be sure his keys and wedding ring
were still in the in the liner pocket.

On his way out the pub to the Square, a busty
old woman stopped him
and asked:
"What happened to the Purple folk?"
"They went back home. The mayor arranged it.
His brother works for the airlines."
"All of them?"
"Most."
"And what about the rest?"
"They worked for free at the sewage plant behind the college."
"And?"
"They died of lung cancer?"
"Oh. Wanna get outta here?"
"Sure. My car's out back."