December 12, 2007

Day 12: Prose poem

Try writing a prose poem or describing something ordinary in a new way. Here's an example by poet Vern Rutsala:

Sleeping

Though winners are rarely declared this is an arduous contest similar, some feel, to boxing. This fact can be readily corroborated by simply looking at people who have just awakened. Look at their red and puffy eyes, the dishevelled hair, the slow sore movements, and their generally dazed appearance. Occasionally, as well, there are those deep scars running across their cheeks. Clearly, if appearances don't lie, they have been engaged in some damaging and dangerous activity and furthermore have come out the losers. If it's not dangerous—and you still have doubts—why to we hear so often the phrase, He died in his sleep?
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5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Now that I am older I have discovered a spectator sport of which the young are not aware. Picture a race track with our grayer citizens jogging around it at varying speeds. Death, disguised as a runner, sneaks from behind and rams one of the entrants up against a wall, then spurts on and knocks others aside who skid into pit stops where the crews, in record time, change out hearts, kidneys, livers, hips, knees; excise lumps,clogged intestines, gall bladders, teeth; amputate broken appendages; change out the fluids with all sorts of additives; fit them with crutches, canes, braces, chairs and walkers; then push them back out onto the track for a few more laps.

1:04 PM
Anonymous said...

(this was to share at book group a couple of months ago but I didn't get to go...I'll share it here)

My mother loves whole baked chicken, the kind you get already cooked from the grocery store. It’s good, that first night. After that you have to pick it over, lifting the greasy wings, sawing off the meat, turning it over onto its brittle ribs to scrape the back for the parts nobody wanted the first time around.

While I did this, we discussed my brother. His ways, his silences. Why his ribs stick out, why he won’t eat.(Light meat stained dark by tendons.) Mom likes to do this too, pry people open. Discover their whys, their secret parts. (Rubbery fat on the thighs. Cracked wishbone.) Why is he depressed, why isn’t he married. (Stringy arteries that get in the way. Grainy marrow.)
Why sometimes he talks too much, why sometimes he wants to die.

She laughs, I think to lighten the mood. “What.” I say.
“You’ve seen me do this so many times, now it’s your turn.”
“What?” I say again.
“To take apart the chicken,” she says. Oh, I think. I try not to think about it too hard. The carcass, its cooked muscle. The bird it used to be.

4:16 PM
Brooke said...

With Good Reason

The only things
on my to-do list
tonight are
clip my nails
and go to bed
with a book.

I dawdle
anyways and
think about 17
other things
I could’ve put
on that list.

But finally,
like a monthly
ritual of paying
the bills
giving in to some
greater power,

I climb under
my blankets
a cotton cocoon
and give in
to stillness.

9:15 PM
Anonymous said...

Christi, your piece is excellent and I can certainly identify with Brooke as well.

9:36 PM
Deborah said...

Christi -- What powerfully ordinary and real imagery. I think I've had that conversation, but see it again here.

5:33 AM

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