Okay, this is the last exercise for 2009. We've gone through twenty of these suckers (and by "we" I mean...I have no clue) and a lot has happened since my first exercise. For one, my first full-length book of poetry, "Pink Elephant" (Cypher Books) was released, debuting at number 12 on SPD's poetry bestsellers list (what? how?! Also, if you've read it, wouldn't it be fun to review it at either Amazon or GoodReads? I thought so!) I went on a mini book tour to New England where, once again, Massachusetts made me feel like the prom queen. I have had more poems accepted by journals as well as some flash fiction and I am tightening the screws on three beasts I am working on simultaneously (in between nursing, changing diapers, baking birthday cakes, texting funny memories to my dad and brother, painting my toenails a deep wet red...) This has been an amazing year, as well as one of the roughest. More on that later. Or not. Who knows? I just hope this year has been gentle and sweet and necessary for YOU. Whoever you are. LOVE.


Ingredients:

1. Something very hot

2. The first object you see when you close your eyes and think of him/her

3. The not enough, list them and be specific

4. The too many things, list them and be specific

5. The first thing that ever scared you. Make it up.

6. What did you change to accommodate _____ ?

7. What inside you will never budge.

8. Where does the blue sky go at night?



- - -


Now, take all of the answers you've written, and move them around. They don't have to make sense. The morning skillet. Somewhere, at the end of the woods. This bone of survival. Love and vitamins and secrets. . .

List them. Then, decide for this group the title. It will be what makes this poem come together. Make sure the title is a little too long. Like, "The other things you took from me the night you came back to the apartment to get the last of your belongings out of the medicine cabinet."

Add lines. Move them. DO NOT TITLE and then arrange. Arrange. Title. Re-arrange. Re-write. Remember what never happened. Write whatever the hell you want. This is yours. No one else could have written it but you. This last exercise was inspired by whomever and whatever and wherever you choose.

To conclude writing exercise #19, you must write the second half, of course.

Here are some ingredients that might help you:

1. A calm sound

2. What brings you warmth

3. What you never said

_________________

Part two starts here: The Gone Away Place. It can be when your spirit left your body. It can be where you went as a child when you were scared. It can be where you hope to go, where you hope to wake up when you have left this world.

Decide the soundtrack for this place (#1.) Decide what bellows this sound. A bird? A woman? A piano hanging from a tree? Let the walls or the ceiling or the floor or the sitting chair or whatever you want be made of #2. And have someone or something be covered by the text of #3.

The ingredients are:

1. Three historical moments that happened the day/week(s)/month(s) BEFORE you were born. Wikipedia your year. Just type in, say, "1967" and it will give you a good long page of events that happened. Mine through it. Choose an event and write it out.

2. Five things that did not happen (yet) THAT YEAR.

3. Three features you think of when you think of your mother or father (or both.)

This should take some time. Research the year you were born. This will supply you with #1 & #2. Write each event out. If a ship sank, write about the lone person in the cold water. Write their last thought. Write the one crucial line of the farewell love letter they rehearsed in their head. Was something discovered? Did an important person pass away? Choose an empathy point from these events and write write write. Finally, have these moments affect your #3. The drowned sailor in your mother's soft blonde hair. The shrapnel lodged in your father's mustache...

Paint a picture. How it was before you came. This is part one. This is probably gonna take time. Part two is coming on Monday.

This poem will be in parts. You can break it up however you like. "Part One." Or just "I." Or, "The Beginning of The blah blah blah"

My first blog posting since this got moved over to my website. Sorry for the change. I know how people get ('cause I'm like that too.) But, it was for the best. And the content won't change. I'm gonna still post exercises and random musings.

Tomorrow I will be on the Blood-Jet Writing hour, a really cool radio show devoted to poetry. I'll be hangin' with Rachelle Cruz, reading poems from my book (Yes! I have a box of them! They are pretty, I swear!) and talking about craft. I'm excited to have the opportunity to talk to an adult.

Here's more info: http://thebloodjet.wordpress.com/

It'll be on at 10am on the west coast, 1pm eastern. Tomorrow I'm posting an exercise that will require a lot from you. So get your rest and eat your veggies.

Detroit, MI

Found this guy during the week of the Women of the World Poetry Slam. I have a zillion amazing photos from the Heidelberg Project, as well. More on that later (as a writing exercise.) I want a sandwich this big. I will drill a hole in it and sleep on a bed of lettuce. I will pull my hammy comforter up to my chin and dream sweetly.

Somewhere in upstate NY

Ironically enough, this was found on my way home from a writing workshop I was teaching in the Adirondacks, via the WoWPS. I was going to lie and tell you I am the Woodmen of the World Axe Juggling champion, but I thought that was going a little too far.



This was incredible because the actual motel looked like little gingerbread houses. Insert witty Faust references here.


Off the highway, somewhere in Virginia

aka "a turquoise jewelry convention."


Pennsylvania

These fried potatoes are more intelligent than your fried potatoes. They also know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. And will punch you.

Williamsport, PA

I'm sure they have really long hot dogs.

Somewhere outta Virginia

In fifth grade, I wanted nothing more than to have Chad Campbell hold my hand and skate in circles with me. Listening to Chaka Khan. Eating too many Red Hots.

Santa Monica, CA

Yes, I know, it's Sears. But look at that font! Much of Santa Monica is like this. If I worked here, I'd wear polyester pantsuits and frosty pink lipstick. And I would be crispy.


Portsmouth, OH

Bet you five bucks your potato salad has a crinkly hair in it.



1897, dudes. The year Frank Capra & Moe Howard were born. The year Dracula was published. The year Mark Twain was reported as "dead," only to announce to the New York Journal, "The report of my death was an exaggeration." The year one of my favorite writers was released from prison.

I try my best to make time to answer/send emails, brush my teeth, write a poem, save a dolphin... Someone recently asked what my work space looks like. So here it is. Complete with an empty jar of milk, the crust of today's turkey sandwich, my lucky rock, an undoubtedly belated birthday card for poet Jane Cassady, my favorite mug (chock-full of pencils), a beetle encased in glass and a crap-ton of books and papers and what appears to be a piece of my boo's rotisserie grill. Splendid! What's in that pink notebook behind the phone, you ask? Well, lemme tell you!

It's my little book of word lists, images, poem ideas and spells. If a word pops up in my head, I write it down and then decide what other word best compliments it. "gasoline pacifier" is a fun word combo, though I haven't put it anywhere yet. I also like "dashing rifles" and "cast-iron thrill." I do not actually write any poems in here. I started writing poetry during my last office job (criminy! that was 9 yrs ago!) and for some reason, I can't seem to write unless I'm "sneaking it in" and clackitty clacking at a keyboard. (Preferably one adorned with spilled milk and bread crumbs.)

Of course, this post would not be complete if I didn't show you my literary Jesus Juice. Some poets drink whiskey, some pretend to smoke Virginia Slims, others have an i.v. hook-up of coffee, but I'm a multi-tasker, remember? I like to write poems while building stonger bones. BAM!!!