Poetry Friday: Haikubes

I admit to buying myself an occasional gift. It might be for my birthday. (Mine is the last of our four family birthdays, which all happen within five weeks, and is at constant risk of being forgotten -- the victim of birthday malaise.)

Our birthdays are 1/16, 1/31, 2/13 and 2/22. Even the dog is in the mix, 2/17.

During the holidays, I might gift myself with a Hanukkah goodie, or something tucked under the Christmas tree, where no one will see it until it is too late.

Which is exactly where I put my set of Haikubes this year. Think Magnetic Poetry meets Mah Jong, and you'll get the idea.

Haikubes come with a variety of verbs, adjectives, nouns and two red "suggested theme" blocks.

I ordered these from one of my favorite book-lovers' catalogs, Bas Bleu.

My daughter and I have been  having a great time with these. Some of my friends in education use them as poetry starters. For Poetry Friday, I am sharing some of our favorites. Here are the photos, and a transcription if I thought punctuation was needed.

fast wind whispers hmmm --
promises grace my window,
inside: a lame tiger

curvy heart candy
oozing over your wet lips
I shiver, villain

Strictly speaking, you end up with more of a senryu than a haiku.

 My daughter felt this one required a little revision:

 I point into
dripping grass eyes, trouble
licks the gentle ground

Interesting. I never would have thought of autumn leaves as "candy-esque blocks."

I hope you had as much fun with these as we did. (We've sort of abandoned the red "theme" blocks and let the dice roll how they may.)

Jim at "Hey, Jim Hill," is our host this week. Thanks, Jim!

The Ravens

You may not know this, but I am a die-hard Ravens fan.

It started in quarterback Joe Flacco's rookie year, when they made it to the playoffs. I became slightly obsessed. I started listening to sports talk radio. At first it was just during the playoffs, then it was all season long.

I have a Ravens jersey and Ravens earrings (both gifts). A Ravens stocking for the holidays and a wreath on the door with snowmen dressed in Ravens tees. On game day, I make the dog wear his Ravens jersey (he hates it).

Sam mopes every time we put him in his jersey.

The Ravens have been in the playoffs for four straight years, but have not been in the Superbowl since they won in 2000. Not coincidentally, we moved to Baltimore just a few months prior to that game.

When the Ravens lost tonight, I thought, we may be the only NFL team named after a work of literature, but maybe we should have picked a different work of literature. Something uplifting. Something you can get behind. Something with a more "We're going to kick butt" line than the opening of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven":

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,"

It's not exactly the poetry of champions.

While I am not proposing a new poem and name for Baltimore's football team, I did need to work out my feelings of anger, disappointment and overall nausea after the loss. To the Patriots. On a flubbed 32-yard field goal attempt.

Ravens are purple and black -- to represent the dark circles under Poe's eyes?

Naturally, I turned to  poetry. I give you my version of Poe's poem, with apologies to its original author.

The Ravens

by Laura Shovan

Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over a decision to run for a conversion on down four --

While I cried, instead of clapping, suddenly there came a snapping,

As of dying wings a-flapping, flapping on the stadium floor--

"'Tis some dream," I muttered, "a figment flapping on the stadium floor--

               Not the Ravens, I implore!"

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak of winter;

And each hopeful ember dying in our hearts, now sore.

Eagerly I wished for spring; -- another team with the Superbowl Ring

And Charm City past the sting — the sting as we lost and swore--

For the rare and glorious trophy which escapes our grasp once more--

               Nameless here for evermore.

And with players sad and humbler, the gleam off of each purple number

They almost thrilled me— but flubbed a tie with errors never seen before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"Not the Patriots, I’m entreating, celebrating on the stadium floor--

My eyes deceived me, the kick went through, of that I am sure;--

               A bad camera angle, nothing more."

Presently my dread grew stronger; I could avoid fate no longer,

"Kids," said I, "Don’t bug your mother right now, I implore;

“The fact is I was hoping we would win and now I’m moping,

To see my Ravens choking. They were knocking on the Patriots’ door!

That I scarce can believe I heard the correct score;

               It was a dream and nothing more.”

Deep into this darkness peering, long I sat there staring, fearing,

Doubting, cursing dreams a Ravens fan could have no more;

Hope is gone, our will is broken, on the team bus, no words spoken,

A deathly pall, no one dares whisper, “But we had a chance to score.”

The clock ran out. An echo murmurs through the streets of Baltimore --

               Another year of Nevermore.

Read the original poem, "The Raven," at the Poetry Foundation. 

Feel free to share this with anyone who is feeling my pain.

Poetry Friday: Happy Birthday William Stafford

I've been away from Poetry Friday for a while, but I could not pass up William Stafford's birthday.


Stafford was born January 17, 1914. This week marked his 98th birthday. His first collection, Traveling though the Dark, won the National Book Award in 1963 (he was 48, all you late bloomers). "Ultimate Problems" -- oh, on my all-time favorite poem list!

Some time ago, I started a poetry project. I began writing response poems to each of Stafford's pieces in The Darkness around Us Is Deep: Selected Poems of William Stafford. (It's one of my favorite books of poetry.)

The project's beginnings were accidental. A line in "With Kit, Age 7, at the Beach" prompted a memory of observing my child in the snow, after the blizzard of 2003. I titled the poem with a phrase from "With Kit, Age 7": "An Absolute Vista." You can listen to Stafford's poem here.

Sometimes it was a line of Stafford's that prompted a memory or image for my own poem. Or it could be the title, the theme, even something in the feel or tone of the poem I was trying to capture. One of Stafford's poems perplexed me so much that I opted to take a short phrase, "fingers into stones," as a jumping-off point. The resulting poem is a surreal meditation on aging.

Recently, life has gotten in the way of continuing with my project, though I did write about a half dozen response poems. I hope to pick it up again some day.

Today, I'm sharing an original poem, written in response to one of Stafford's.

Here is his poem, "Passing Remark."

Passing Remark
by William Stafford

In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don't like much to happen.
In personalities I like mild colorless people.
And in colors I prefer gray and brown.
My wife, a vivid girl from the mountains,
says, "Then why did you choose me?"

Read the rest (and more poems) at Friends of William Stafford.

My response poem involves a passing remark, but has deeper resonances with Stafford's piece. It appears in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone.

Tomorrow Is Going to Be Normal

by Laura Shovan

Walking home from the school bus, my son says,
“Tomorrow is going to be normal.”
He speaks with the confidence of relief.
When every day is the same, he can breathe.

Each morning, I tell myself,

Today, is the day --
I wait for the remarkable to land on my shoulder
or call me on the phone.

Sometimes it is a fortune written on the tag of my tea.

Sometimes it is a bird. Other days
I miss the quiet calling to attention.
I go to bed tired.

My son knows there is comfort in monotony.

Do I really want the phone to ring? It could be the lottery
or a hospital calling. He thinks my life is enough:
the mildness of the room when I am the only thing moving in it.

No. I must begin each day

wanting the next few hours to jolt me out of sameness.
He shakes his head. That we could be so different
we both find remarkable.

This was not a "normal" day.

Poet Robert Bly interviewed Stafford for the introduction to The Darkness around Us Is Deep (which includes such well-known poems as "Traveling through the Dark," "Fifteen," and "Ask Me.") Bly asked about Stafford's practice of rising early to write each day. He said something like, "What if you're not so good that day?" And Stafford replied, "Then I lower my standards." I love that.

If you're as fascinated with Stafford as I am, here is an interview with his son Kim. It's a beautiful meditation on his father's writing space and daily practice. His book, Early Morning, is one I'm putting on my wish list.

Happy Poetry Friday. I'm going to celebrate by playing with my box of Haikubes. I'll post some of the results soon.

Elaine at Wild Rose Reader is our Poetry Friday host today. Stop by her blog for more poetry posts.

Obsessions

I would probably never write a thing if I didn't pay attention to my obsessions.

I'm not talking about chocolate, much as I crave it.

He drives me wild.

This is a different type of obsession -- when something catches your eye or ear and you immediately feel, "I want to learn everything I can about that."

Normal people don't let these "catch your ear" moments develop into full obsessions, but doing so is key to how I function as a writer.

Writers have obsessions, and that's a good thing. The more involved we become with an idea, concept, or tidbit from history, the more deeply we can express these things in a poem, play, story, or essay. I know it's a true obsession when I am researching or writing and I go into hyper focus. My kids know not to interrupt me then. It's almost a physical pain to be called out of what I'm working on to help find a missing shoe.

My current obsessions are:

• The Roc-A-Jets, 1950s all-girl rockabilly band based in Baltimore
• This painting, by Vincent van Gogh:

All it took was one look at that ocean of a beard, and I thought, "That painting might be a good subject for a poem." It only took thirty minutes of clicking around the Internet to find out that van Gogh had an uncharacteristically close relationship with his subject, postmaster Joseph Roulin, and Roulin's family.

What happens when obsessions collide? I don't have mental space for them both.

I'm writing down as much as I can about Roulin now, when the idea has energy. As long as I capture the initial impulse, I can come back to Roulin and van Gogh later.

Then, it's back to work on my piece about the Roc-A-Jets. Roulin looks like he would have enjoyed a good rockabilly show.

Stay tuned.

One of my favorite examples of a writer clearly obsessed with a subject appears in the novel The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje (here is one blogger's review). Chapter 7 covers Kip's bomb squad training in the kind of attentive detail that can only come from deep research.

Come out to Ahh, Coffee! in Annapolis this Saturday evening and to hear the end result of one of my obsessions. I'll be featured at a reading, along with  my friend Fernando Quijano III. This will be my first public reading of a long ekphrastic poem. It's based on a work of fringe art -- the title of which I can't repeat here. Seriously.

A Very Good Play

My leap for Leap Year, 2012, is to write a play.

Must write play before end of world.

Several years ago, our local public radio station did a profile of the Roc-A-Jets, an all-girl rockabilly band, circa 1959 Baltimore. At the time, I said to myself, "That story would make a great musical." I didn't forget about it, but I put the idea on the magical Shelf of Great Ideas that Will Never in a Million Years Actually Happen.

A whole series of events aligned recently, prompting me to take that idea off the magical shelf, including:

• A dream about my favorite college professor. (Read about it here. It will give you the shivers.)
• Hearing the radio segment on the Roc-A-Jets rebroadcast.
• Meeting the producer of the segment, the brilliant Aaron Henkin (who was kind enough to give me one of the band member's contact info.)
• A "chance" meeting with Howard Community College's dramaturg, Lisa Wilde.
• Who sent me info about the online play writing class with Liz Duffy Adams.

As with most "the stars are aligning" experiences, passivity would have meant returning my Great Idea back to the dusty shelf, along with many wondrous, time-saving objects which I have never patented.

I had to:

• Tell Aaron Henkin how great I thought the Roc-A-Jets segment was and that it would make a great play.
• Tell Lisa Wilde that I was thinking of writing a play, but my drama skills were rusty.
• Sign up for play writing class, send the check.
• Call the Roc-A-Jets to set up an interview. (Almost didn't happen. The number sat on my bulletin board for weeks, inching closer to the dreaded Shelf.)

The next exercise for Liz's class was writing "a very good play." We were supposed to do 3-5 pages, as with the bad play.

The best part, for me, was that we had to include frequent use of a specific word. That word -- the opposite of the funny word we'd used in our "bad play." (You can read my bad play here.)

My funny bad play word was "pamplemousse," French for grapefruit. Uh...

Opposite from France on the globe is New Zealand. Fine. There's no real opposite to "grapefruit" or "fruit," so I chose a vegetable native to New Zealand, puha.

Puha is a bitter green that grows wild. Supposedly, you can't find it in stores. It's a Maori staple. The way the taste is described, I imagine that it's somewhat like broccoli rabe, a little bitter.

Puha flowers look a lot like dandelions.

My "very good play" takes place in a Victorian bed and breakfast on a New Zealand beach. A couple has come to renew their wedding vows at this exotic location. The pleasantly bitter taste of puha becomes a metaphor, in my short play, for marriage.

The play's not very good, which was the point of the exercise (don't try too hard, you'll only mess with your head and write like crap). But I'm happy with that puha metaphor.

A Bad Play

Friends, it has been so long, I'm not sure where to begin.

I'll come back to explain why I am taking an online playwriting class, why I have been spending time with members of a Baltimore rockabilly band (circa 1950s/60s) called the Roc-A-Jets, and why all of this is extremely scary.

The prospect of writing a play makes me feel like this, with a lot of nail-biting and crying at random people added in:

Some quick background. In a former life (right out of high school), I went to NYU's Tisch School of the Arts to study dramatic writing. It was the only school that had a real writing program for undergraduates (everywhere else, you had to study English with a creative writing minor). I wanted to be a writer and NOT in a minor way.

Naturally, as I was nearing graduation, I realized that I was a poet, not a playwright or screenwriter. I remember walking into Mark Dickerman's office, trying to convince him to let me write a book of poems, instead of a screenplay, for my senior thesis project. His reaction can be summed up in one word: "Ha!"

(Don't even ask about the thesis project. That was a big lesson in "write what you know" and I knew nothing about the world of professional wrestling.)

It's been over 20 years. I have been working successfully, all this time, as a poet and educator. And now I feel like I'm back in Mark Dickerman's office saying, "I want to write a play." And he is saying, "Ha!" in my memory.

Enter, Liz Duffy Adams. I am taking her online playwriting course. I'm hoping I can still ride that bike, but training wheels won't hurt while I'm getting started.

The first exercise was to write a bad play, just 3-5 pages, including things the writer does not like to see in theater. Take a guess -- what's on my top ten list of things I hate in a show?

BTW: The exercise required using a word we think is funny, repeated ad nauseum (like "ad nauseum," I guess the point is repeating the word until it is more grating than funny -- like, "What you talkin' bout, Willis?")

My all-time favorite funny word is "pamplemousse," French for grapefruit.

Laugh with me, laugh at me, I don't mind. Throw a few french grapefruits at your screen. As a friend pointed out, it is leap year. If you're going to take a leap, better take it now.

WALKING THE DOG

By

Laura Shovan

CAST OF CHARACTERS

JUNIOR:        a ten-year-old boy.

DEIRDRE:     his teenage sister.

FATHER:       their father, a businessman.

MOTHER:      his wife, a homemaker.

Note: All characters are played by white men age 18-26. All except Deirdre wear space-suit versions of 1950s PSA attire. MOTHER wears a white apron decorated with cherries over her space-dress. DEIRDRE is dressed in a TV version of 1980s punk gear. She wears a pair of giant silver headphones over her neon pink hair.

SETTING: A family room of the distant space-future. Everything is silver and metal, with white and black accents, including a chrome couch, a wall of nine flat-screen televisions (each tuned to a different channels) running throughout the play, a white floor. The walls are white with giant silver “bubbles” or circles. Near a metal pocket door (left) is a metal tree with silver leaves. At right, a roundish “door,” really just an opening.

Two bean bag chairs.

                                                (At RISE, the beanbag chairs are occupied by JUNIOR and DEIRDRE. JUNIOR is reading his e-reader. DEIRDRE appears to be listening to music. The pocket door slides open and FATHER enters. He puts a silver case down next to the tree. JUNIOR looks up. DEIRDRE does not notice his entrance.)

FATHER

Hi, honey! I’m home.

JUNIOR

(With boredom)

Hi, Father.

(MOTHER enters from right. She goes to FATHER and kisses his cheek, kicking one leg up as she does. Her shoe flies off and lands on the couch, slides off. She moves to pick it up.)

MOTHER

Darling, my sweet pamplemousse, did you have a wonderful day?

FATHER

I’ve been crunching numbers for fifteen hours. The last thing I want to do is talk about work. I’d rather talk about pamplemousse.

(I am not a songwriter, but if I were, there would be a big, showy number here a la “Put on a Happy Face,” where the characters would toss around French grapefruits with smiley faces drawn on them.)

How was school, kids? Did they serve pamplemousse at lunch?

(While JUNIOR speaks, FATHER sits on the couch to take off his shoes and quickly slides off. Everyone ignores this. FATHER stands. He tries to put a foot on the couch to take his shoe off. His foot slides off. He falls again. He gets up. Opts to take off his shoes while standing.)

JUNIOR

It was great. My quantum physics teacher showed us how to create a black hole. We each got a pamplemousse to test our black hole’s gravity.

(FATHER walks to the bean bag chair and ruffles JUNIOR’S hair.)

FATHER

I bet your black hole had the suckiest gravity in the class. Am I right son? Did it crush the bejeezus out of that that juicy, yellow pamplemousse?

JUNIOR

You betcha, Father. Speaking of pamplemousse, are we eating soon, Mother?

(MOTHER says nothing. She is slumped against the tree, near where she picked up her shoe. DEIRDRE goes to MOTHER, lifts her shirt up in the back, winds a gadget on her back like a wind- up toy, and returns to her beanbag chair and music.)

MOTHER

What did I miss?

(Humming Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces,” MOTHER moves to the couch, sits, slides off. Everyone ignores this except the dog, which starts barking. Big musical number here, “I Fall to Pieces” as a jaunty tap routine.)

FATHER

Junior asked about dinner. That’s my growing boy. But he’ll have to walk the dog first.

MOTHER

Dinner! I knew I was forgetting something.

JUNIOR

Aw… do I have to? It’s supposed to be Deidre’s turn. She is such a pamplemousse. She always tries to get me to do her chores.

(MOTHER moves to DEIRDRE, lifts one headphone away from her ear.)

MOTHER

Earth to Deidre. Come in Deidre. This is Mission Control. Over.

(JUNIOR laughs. DEIRDRE scowls and turns her music louder. The dog barks. MOTHER sits on the couch, slides off. Everyone ignores this.)

FATHER

What that girl needs is a firm hand. And a dose of pamplemousse wouldn’t hurt her, either.

MOTHER

Oh, go ahead then, Mr. Lord and Master. Show us how it’s done.

JUNIOR

This, I have to see. Even a firm hand disappears when it gets too close to a black hole like Deidre.

(JUNIOR and MOTHER sit on the couch, slide off together in a heap. The dog jumps on them, barking aggressively.

FATHER sings, “A Black Hole like Deirdre,” in the style of “How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria.”)

MOTHER

You know Rover doesn’t like it when you fuss.

(FATHER walks purposefully toward DEIRDRE. He stands before her. She looks up, pulls her headphones down to her neck. Does not speak.)

FATHER

Deirdre, Junior says it’s your turn to walk the dog.

(DEIRDRE makes the “whatever” sign with her fingers, starts to pull her headphones back on.)

I am the Lord and Master of this house. I demand that you walk the dog.

(DEIRDRE shrugs, stands up, bows at her father, motions the dog toward her, pulls its leash out of her pocket, picks the dog up, puts it on the couch. Cue techno music. The dog walks a few steps on the couch and slides off. DEIRDRE picks it up again. It slides off. She picks it up again. It slides off. DEIRDRE repeats this process during the next exchange.)

MOTHER

She’s got you, there, Daddy-o! Ho, ho! That’s funnier than saying “pamplemousse” twelve times.

JUNIOR

Can I walk the dog, Father? Deirdre, let me have a turn.

(JUNIOR grabs for the leash.)

You’re such a pamplemousse.

(DEIRDRE shrugs, hands the leash to JUNIOR. Instead of the dog walking a few steps and sliding off the couch, the dog’s robotic feet gain traction, moving the couch, which scoots in the direction of the pocket door (left). The couch crashes into the silver tree, with one end blocking the door. The dog catapults through the round doorway (right), dragging JUNIOR behind it. MOTHER stares after JUNIOR and the dog.)

MOTHER

Was that the kitchen or the walk-in freeze dry vacuum?

(DEIRDRE returns to her bean bag chair, puts on her headphones.)

FATHER

Oh, pamplemousse! The couch is blocking the port. How am I going to get to work? I’m up for that big promotion tomorrow. What will I tell the boss?

(FATHER goes to sit down on the couch. Slides off. Crashes into the tree. Holds his head in his hands. Does not get up. FATHER sings a song in which he fantasizes about confronting his boss.)

MOTHER

You can blame the dog, Honey. It works for Junior. Rover is always eating his homework.

(The dog enters, right, with a cardboard cut-out of Junior in its mouth. The dog settles into its bed, gnawing on Junior.)

It’s a disaster! Junior will never be normal in time for dinner. Oh, I forgot dinner. Again!

(MOTHER rushes off, right. Quickly returns with a large silver pot, smoke pouring out from under its lid.)

MOTHER

My pot roast with candied pamplemousse is ruined!

(MOTHER sits on the couch. Slides off. Spills the pot roast. Does not move from the floor. Pulls a branch off the silver tree. Chews it.)

FATHER

Who cares about the pot roast? My career is over!

(FATHER sits on the couch. Slides off. Lands in the spilled pot roast. Does not get up, but puts a finger in the gravy. Tastes it.)

Not bad, Mother. Too bad about Junior. Pot roast with candied pamplemousse is his favorite.

(The dog approaches, carrying the cardboard cut-out of Junior. Drops it in the spilled pot roast. Jumps on the couch, where it continues to gnaw on Junior’s arm. Does not slide off the couch.)

MOTHER

Good boy, Rover.

(Big dance number, “Good Boy, Rover,” in which the characters take turn dancing with the cardboard cut-out of Junior.)

DEIRDRE

                                                (To audience.)

I’ve always liked that dog. But Junior’s not so bad. I just pretend not to like him or candied pamplemousse. Gotta maintain my street cred.

(DEIRDRE stands, pulls out a large Star Trek-style phaser that’s been hidden inside her bean bag. It has the words “Anti Deep Freeze Vacuumer” written on it. DEIRDRE goes to the couch, tries to tug Junior away from the growling dog. They pull back and forth. DEIRDRE yanks Junior away. He flies across the room. The dog slides off the couch and lands in Father’s lap. DEIRDRE picks up the cut-out of Junior. She tucks Junior under her arm and goes through the door, right. A blue glow appears in the doorway.)

FATHER

Was that the kitchen or the walk-in freeze dry vacuum? Maybe if you freeze dry me before work tomorrow, I won’t get fired.

MOTHER

I believe in you, Darling. And my belief will be enough to keep your job safe. If you just remember that I believe in you, you’ll get that promotion. And if you truly believe, with all your heart, in my belief – with all my heart -- in you, the boss will throw in – with all his heart – a bonus lifetime supply of pamplemousse.

(DEIRDRE enters with a restored JUNIOR. The arm of his space suit is tattered and a little bloody.)

JUNIOR

I don’t care what Mother and Father say, you’re not a rotten pamplemousse, Deirdre.

(JUNIOR goes to hug DEIRDRE. She puts a finger in front of her mouth and shushes him, and winks hugely at the audience.)

MOTHER

But can she fix the pot roast with candied pamplemousse?

(ALL laugh, sitcom style.

The big finale is a musical ode to pot roast with candied pamplemousse and the importance of regular sit down dinners that maintain the ideal family of one man, one woman, 2.3 children and a dog – even in chrome-couched future.

CURTAIN.)