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Poetry exercise #1

unapologetic

unapologetic

Literotica Guru
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I am currently reading The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing Poetry by Nikki Moustaki, because reading books about how to do things is how I best relate to the universe. At the ends of chapters, she lists skill-building exercises. And, in the spirit of share-and-share-alike that we've got going here, I thought I'd share them periodically along with my noob-ish responses. Feel free to join in, to critique my responses, to hijack my threads, or to ignore me. :D I'll start new threads for each exercise, and include this explanation for each of them.

(Note: I wont be able to post them too regularly, but I'll try not to let too much time pass between.)

Excercise #1

"Write a 20-line poem describing the objects on your end table or in your kitchen 'junk' drawer."
 
Coffee Table Corruption

I cannot even begin to guess
how I’ll create, or even
concentrate, among this mess.
This jumble and bumble of
useless and useful
is a concrete definition of
miscellaneous. Remote controls,
a water bottle, a soda bottle,
a three-hole punch, two music cds,
and another with just data.
But more than anything else,
I am astoundingly surrounded by
mounds of paper. Some loose
printed pages, of course,
but also magazines and books,
advertising flyers and a legal pad,
and, buried beneath, a greeting card.
The physical and psychic clutter,
blocks my process
more than any other.
 
Side Table

One telephone,
unhooked;
one magazine,
unread;
one jar of sweets,
untouched;
one pack of cigarettes,
unopened;
one ashtray,
unused;
one stack of letters,
unsent;
one photo album
unfinished;
one book of notes,
unwritten;
one bottle of pills,
empty.​


Side tables have a tendency to be a bit melodramatic, I think.
 
The Purpose of Desks

Above it all an old keyboard sits.
Down its front, a cliff face of cork tumbles:
A scree of alumina, torn away
from bottle necks, falls into wires,

That was next, onto the desk, spilled against
The old faithfuls, the ever needed pens.
They huddle away from the laptop, its
Pride of place assured: it speaks to the world.

There sits his wreck of life, the old keyboard
O'er topped by discarded eyeglasses,
A reading set he has to wear in front
of his old ordinary pair if he

Wants to read up his latest ramblings: caught,
inscribed on papers - lying idle there.
Echoes of commentaries on screeds, whose
Words are hopeful offerings, seeking praise

Numerical. Another step t'ward
forgetting that once they might have cared, that
they could have changed the world. Not that he could
Let them, his neat red pen confining them.
 
Last edited:
Inventory

I live in an empty house.
There is nothing

in my kitchen. Well,
there is dust, of course,

and perhaps spiders.
There may be mice

but I don't know how
they survive. My junk drawer

has not any junk
to speak of, nothing

I ever use, in any case.
I haven't opened it

for quite some time.
You left long ago.

Oh, yes—end tables.
They are still there,

beside the bedframe.
I don't sleep there.

As you once told me,
it's just a house, not home.
 
Last edited:
Lauren Hynde said:
Side Table

One telephone,
unhooked;
one magazine,
unread;
one jar of sweets,
untouched;
one pack of cigarettes,
unopened;
one ashtray,
unused;
one stack of letters,
unsent;
one photo album
unfinished;
one book of notes,
unwritten;
one bottle of pills,
empty.​


Side tables have a tendency to be a bit melodramatic, I think.
Click to expand...
If this is a competition, Lauren wins. :)
 
One letter from Mom when
are you coming, she asks and I
have no answer, but sit at my desk,
instead because it's easier to consider
the plastic packet of flossers,
brown hair clip, scotch tape I should
have put away how many days
ago? Way too many bills I can't
see, but know are hidden under
two books, The Floating Opera
by Mr. John Barth
(which I steadfastly ignore),
one well-thumbed copy
of Ted Berrigan's poems as worn
and loved as a favored stuffed bear,
one packet of cigarettes and look here--
my Boston Red Sox lighter.
I'm all about the statements,
never the cleaning up.​
 
End Table

An eldery camera, loaded and ready to
freeze a moment of time --
a roseate sunset,
the puppies being especially cute,
the morning glories as they greet the dawn.

A stack of movies in their boxes --
i know most of the dialogue by heart
Constantine and Hellboy
elbowing for position with
Eliza Doolittle and Gigi.

A legal pad (yellow and college-ruled, if you please)
and mechanical pencil --
same as on every other horizontal surface in the house,
never knowing when a stray line will
wander into my brain and demand to be recorded.

A potted ivy --
started years ago from a cutting from a dear friend,
the only potted plant i haven't managed to kill yet;
lush, green, and threatening to overtake all the rest,
as the jungle overtakes the ruins of a forgotten civilization.
 
Last edited:
No bothersome end tables,
not even a leggy, pine bedside
in the house. Instead, a metal,
eat-on, high-stacked vintage
serves up kitchen towels and piles
of panties--neurotic clutter,
boiled wet and heated dry.

Soon, we'll have penne and petit fours
but for now
space,
flat, flat space,
is needed.

I wash the cat.
The cat is soft, like fabric,
never hard
nor nonporous. We place the cat
on the kitchen table
beside our piles and stacks
and wait
for our epidemic's finis.
 
Bedside Table.

Too many reminders
of who I am,
have become.
A semblance of organization
in a life of
placid confusion
Books, books, books
and six CDs
reflectively eclectic.
The glowing clock-radio
reminding me
time passes even
in sleep.
In another life
I might have kept my teeth
in a glass on the bedside,
instead there lies
the shell of my empty
floss container.
I need to dust.​
 
If you could see what
I can see infront of me
It wouldn't take you long
To realise that I am
Not one of lifes
Natural housewives.
The only thing completely
Visible is my computer
And the debris is already
Reaching out to engulf
The keyboard.
Dust? What's dust?
It doesn't stand a chance
It's under there too
Somewhere.
 
A Polaroid rots to blank,
double negative, in a sense.
A key rusts to faux finish,
and won't fit your door any longer.

A cautious spider has found a home,
she has a husband, and a couple dozen
mouths to feed.
She didn't need to make a web,
because in those shadowy depths
I've already spun an intricate one.

A loose cigarette swings
with each new opening and closing,
trapped by the filter with silken strands.
She has created an idol of it,
as with the key,
the photograph,
and the other nostalgic pieces,
tucked away for safe keeping
or safe forgetting.
 
unapologetic said:
Excercise #1

"Write a 20-line poem describing the objects on your end table or in your kitchen 'junk' drawer."
Click to expand...

I thought the lamp
would still function as both
light and distraction from
the stacks of paper
accumulating day after week,
but it doesn't help. Rather,

EW and People and all the
women's mags my wife never
seems to read sit one on
another waiting for time,
or cats,
to knock them to the floor
and remind me to strip the
address labels and cart them
off to the local thrift store.

Visitors probably just see
the mess and our lack of
horizontal surfaces, I see
multiple discount coupons
just waiting to be made.


:cool:
 
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