Poetry Month Scouting

As I mentioned on March 25, I am participating in the Poety Month Scout project, sponsored by the Found Poetry Review.  “Found Poetry” is an interesting concept, challenging the writer to create something new out of a pre-existing work.  The editors of the Found Poetry Review have crafted 31 prompts intended to be a fun way to introduce poets to this process. I've managed to complete nine prompts, or badges.  In effect, I've written a poem a day.

Some of these attempts have been more rewarding, some have been frustrating.  For example, the "Redacted" badge required the poet to use an on-line tool to black out words on screen; the remaining words would constitute the "poem".  I found the on-line tool very hard to use (especially in Firefox).  However, after reading the experiences of other poets, I decided to give it another go, this time using the Chrome browser. I'm happier with this result; the source text is a meditation on the resurrection narrative from the Gospel of John.

“Crumpled is a Verb” is possibly the most popular of my attempts, at least judging from the number of positive comments it has received. To quote from the Scount Badge Handbook:

To earn the “On Demand” badge, start by coming up with an unlikely word combination. You can make up your own, choose words at random from a source text, or use a generator like the one at JimPix to come up with your words. Examples:

• Foolish Ninja
• Calamitous Rock
• Hurry Pork
• Jugular Magnet

Visit Google (http://www.google.com) and do a search on your chosen word combination (no quotes around the terms)..

Google will display a list of pages, as well as short descriptions for each site. Compose a poem using only these page titles and short descriptions — do not click into the sites themselves to grab more text. You can use multiple pages of search results if necessary.

I used the Jim Pix tool, and got "“Crumpled Change” as the word combination.

“Working On Doodles” was in response to the “Spaced Out” prompt.  It's possible I didn't select the best source text for this challege: a one-paragraph blurb on “Ally McBeal” from Entertainment Weekly.

The irony in all this, of course, is that I was a wash-out as a scout; never made it past cub. Don't know what the editors would call a person who completes 15 or more of these prompt badges, but I hope it's better than cub. Padre would be amused, if not proud.

Idée d’jour

Bad weather always looks worse through a window.
— Tom Lehrer, singer-songwriter and mathematician (b. 9 Apr 1928)

Bones of Bashan

Third in the PoMoSco series. The source is Psalm 22, as rendered in the New Zealand Prayer Book.

The guidelines were to select words and phrases by a means of rolling dice. I had done a similar poem using the I Ching. The editor-in-chief of the PoMoSco project gave me permission to use the I Ching for this project as well.

The I Ching didn't give as much variety as I had hoped, and using a method similar to what I did for A Loveless Marriage (linked above) would have been too time-consuming, so I also applied an on-line dice rolling site — using six twelve sided dice. Each die would determine which line I would select; the line of the trigram would determine whether I would select the first half or second half of the line. I think the end product is rather interesting.

This poem also marks the third in my personal “Holy Week” series. The PoMoSco Handbook has a suggested calendar, but I respond to do this prompt out of order. “Roll the Dice” immediately made me think of a line from Ps 22: “they cast lots for my clothing”. “Casting lots” is similar to rolling dice. A connection!

In remembrance of her

A cut-up from the Gospel According to Mark, 2nd in the series for Poetry Month.

This picture demonstrates the process: I cut out a paragraph from the Passion according to Mark from my church bulletin. I sliced out words and phrases with the Exacto knife, put them in the glass bowl, and shook vigorously. Tiny slips of paper flew everywhere! Being a slow learner, I put them back in the glass bowl and shook more gently. Fewer slips of paper were lost. I painstakingly pulled them out of the bowl and stuck them on the blank page. This was hampered by the fact that just a sliver of Glue Stick was left, and it was almost dried out.

Yet, if you go to the PoMoSco site, you'll see a scan of that same page. Although cut-up is often associated with William S. Burroughs, the PoMoSco Handbook attributes the process to Dada poet Tristan Tzara. Gotta say, I ended up with something like word salad, so I've got to wonder how Burroughs made any sense.

The poem has received a positive comment: “It’s fascinating how the main character becomes female here and the voice of the teller fades into the background. I had to look up the verses to see what was shattered — this is that interesting!”

A Withered Hosanna

This linked poem is the first in the Poetry Month Scout Project, a special National Poetry Month effort . This is in response to the “Pick &” Mix prompt under the Remixing Badge. The goal was to write down words and phrases that caught my eye in the source text, then use them in any order I wished. MLA style citation appears below.

I chose the reading from Mark, assigned for Palm Sunday, because this project begins in the midst of Holy Week. Interestingly, the April 1 prompt coincides with Holy Wednesday, which many scholars call "silent", because there is no record of what Jesus did on this day.

The goal is to respond to at least 15 out of 30 prompts by the end of April, the cruelest month.

Thursday afternoon, 19.Mar.2015

Feeling earth respond to my step
energized by ion-rich mist
Bradford Pear blossoms

Idée d’jour

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.
T.S. Eliot

Idée d’jour

There is only one religion though there are a hundred versions of it.
— George Bernard Shaw

Idée d’jour

Music is a means of rapid transportation.
— John Cage

Idée d’jour

The beauty of the band was you never knew what was going to come out next.
— Jimmy Page

Idée d’jour

There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat.
Tay Hohoff

Idée d’jour

There is no enlightenment outside of daily life
— Thich Nhat Hanh

Idée d’jour

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
— Rumi

Idée d’jour

For one human being to love another...the work for which all other work is but preparation.
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Idée d’jour

‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion’. Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect.
— Salman Rushdie

Idée d’jour

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
– Zora Neale Hurston

When My Voice Was Born

The stars were still waking the hour my voice was born.
The archer stretched her bowstring to the shadows
the hour my voice was born.
The trees were shaking off their leaves
and gifting all their colors to my voice.
The caverns of the sea filled with haunts of my voice.
The waters of Jerusalem & the Sea of Tranquility;
the dark flowing river of mother's hair;
father's nicotine fingers on the guitar line:
weaving the journey of my voice
the day my voice was born.
O my voice is early twilight;
O my voice knows the backstreets;
O my voice knows the blue highways;
O my voice knows the way to your house.
My voice soared with windmills along the sacred hills,
The echoing hills the resounding plains,
The day my voice was born.
My voice aims true whether it soars above the clouds
or dives behind the secret waves.
My voice aims true, gathers the fire of the spirit,
aims true, gathers the heavens.
My voice gathers the seven winds;
gathers the twilight hours;
gathers the seventy joyful sorrows;
gathers the elders & their childhood dreams.
My voice aims for your heart.
My voice longs to speak soul to soul
My voice longs to strike sparks in your hair.
My voice lingers at your ear
gentle & bold in equal measure.
That is why my voice was born.
My voice embraces the 64 colors and
the infinite tones of the aurora borealis.
My voice rejoices every minute
for the hour it was born.

The Seven Voices of Your Name

It is your Name I would use in the ceremony. Before I am a vacancy. It is your Name I will teach to be a modern novel bout the wearisome uselessness of men and the casual fragility of women. Your Name, which you hide in your hand, shall become the Word. And the Word engenders a long list of words. These words will lead me back to your unspoken Name. The Name which I will be unable to speak until I am a vacancy.

Perhaps we met in a Garden, or a forest clearing. It was possibly Spring. Perhaps it was a dream. But I am convinced that we met, and you whispered your Name to a pond. But you would not tell me your Name. Because you knew I would use it in a ritual to invoke your Love.

Your Name will be an instrument of my peace. An instrument, like the pen with which I write. An instrument whose chords I cannot finger. The melody it plays is of the Word. I could teach your name to shame the Angels.

Your Name will force me into exile.

Because your Name has chosen not to love me. Because it would leave me as a vacancy. I know I am a stranger in the House of your Name. If I could find that House, I would humble myself before your Name.

The ritual was abandoned by the dreamers, but I proceed in a sense of futile nostalgia. This ritual teaches us to call upon the seven voices of your Name. This is why I must know your Name. This is why you must never tell me your Name: it should come to me of its own bidding. Then it will tell me its secret, and lead me to the sanctuary. There, I will be a priest in service to the mystery of your Name.

My face has grown old in the shadow of your Name. My face has grown too old to love. I should hide my face and cover my head in the House of your Name. I was a fool to think I could learn your Name. Because it is hidden.

I will continue this chant until it has conjured the mystery of your Name. I have faith in your Name. I have studied the rhythmic barks of trees for miracles. I have dissected the alphabet for your Name. I have called forth all the demons of Heaven to reveal your Name.

Your Name will punish me at last with its secret. In the end, your Name will teach me to be content as a vacancy. And once I am a vacancy, I shall know your Name.

19–21.Oct.1979 Revised

Idée d’jour

Where it is a duty to worship the sun, it is pretty sure to be a crime to examine the laws of heat.
— John Morley

Idée d’jour

It may sound trite, but using the weapons of the enemy, no matter how good one’s intentions, makes one the enemy.
— Charles de Lint