Katie's Blog

Today's task was a homophonic translation. This is just ridiculous. I "translated" Rilke. Die Mandelbäume in Blüte: alles, was wir leisten können, ist, sich ohne Rest zu erkennen in der irdischen Erscheinung. Unendlich staun ich euch an, ihr Seligen, euer Benehmen, wie ihr die schwindliche Zier traget in ewigem Sinn. Ach wers verstünde zu blühn: dem wär das Herz über alle schwachen Gefahren hinaus und in der großen getrost. The man delved in me, in blood, alas, was weird, kitten is six On the rest of the zoo, the archaic men in the kitchen piercing them Underneath the stone itch you’re on, it’s singing, ever been a man The early swindler fears chugging in a vegan sin. Awkward verses on Tuesday, you blew him: Denver was hers, all around She watched him get far and he listened in their grossness and got lost. Then, I fixed it up a bit, but it's still no less ridiculous: The man delved into me, into the blood, into the we

Something super short and simple for this busy day. I love it when air smells like rain and the earth moans with thunder. Dust kicks up with the wind and the first drops fall so hard they imprint the thirsty earth like the pocks of my skin beneath the impassioned tips of your fingers.

Today's prompt was to write something ala the New York School. I've never been to NYC, and to be honest, I'm not certain I'd like to go. So here's something completely different, inspired by a moment's glance at a fleabane blossom yesterday. There are times when I’m lulled Into believing that I’ve forgotten About you, but there you are, Appearing in the sweetest of spaces, The moments when my mind wanders. We were stopped at a red light On Pecan and 23 rd , across From the crumbling police station, When I looked out the passenger window And saw you on the side of the road And something took my breath away. You weren’t the wrinkled woman Inching towards the crosswalk, Nor the raspa stand, the chamoy-stained Lips of a child. You weren’t the tall weeds, The wild guinea grass, the drifting blossoms Of wild olives, so white and numerous You’d almost think they’re springtime snow. You were there, nestled in the dust, in t

This is really rough because I've been insanely busy today, but I think this is an interesting idea. Write in the voice of a family member. I chose my deceased grandma. The story goes that when she found out she was pregnant with my dad, she went to the bar and wept with her girlfriends. I didn't know my grandma very well, which makes this interesting to think about: Napowrimo 20 This is what the body’s made for – Love. For love and ripening, For cycles of life that take us In unexpected directions. I never would have guessed that I’d be here, with my elbows on the bar, weeping because my heart is broken and almost out of love.  I want to come back to this idea and explore a little further, but on a day when I don't have so many looming deadlines.  I had another idea for a poem, that maybe I'll explore tomorrow -- those tiny white flowers on the side of the road with their yellow centers, erect for the sun.

Today, I didn't follow instructions again, but I certainly think I COULD incorporate some shell names into this poem, maybe particularly when describing what goddess-skin looks like. Anyway, I really like the opening of this poem, but I need to work on the transitions and, most especially, the second half. What I'm TRYING to do here is show the paradox of power/beauty/femininity through a contemporary retelling of the Diane/Actaeon myth. Hmm... I'm also thinking about those ridiculous Venus razor commercials. The Myth of the Goddess, When She Wakes Above all myths you must uphold this one: the beauty of a goddess comes with ease, that you're reborn each morning from the ocean of your sheets in all your goddess splendor, full-formed, complete with slightly wind-blown locks, with skin that smells perpetually of lilac, legs without a trace of hair that beg to be caressed with just a hint of shine. Make your expression always painted smug, a smile that shows yo

I didn't listen to the napo prompt today and kind of went off on my own. This "poem" or err.. shitty draft of a poem, was inspired by this poem by Karr and walking in the garden with Brubru. The Grapevine In spring, it's green, life-giving green and wide with leaves the size of outstretched hands that give. Its limbs are shelter for the ladybugs that come like weary hobos, always hungry and the vines are refuge for the persecuted fireflies that need a little respite for the day until the Texas sun goes down and night will cover up their faces, set them free. But somehow, you know that autumn will come and as the cold front blows in, life will river from leaves like blood from the dying as the ground grows cold. Instead of mourning at the loss of fruit, of sweetness on the tongue, you'll nod your head and patiently explain to me that's how the story has to go -- that every season's hard-earned growth will need your hands to sheer it a

Today's instructions were to describe something using multiple senses. What an easy prompt. At first I wasn't sure what I should write, but with a little thought, this came: Morning Commute I taste the bitter coffee on my tongue. It fills my throat with lukewarm hope of waking, that somehow this will bring me back to life. Each morning smells like gasoline, like fumes. The sea's of pavement, reaching past the point of vanishing. Horns cry. Engines hum. They drown the cooing of a mourning dove that perches on a power line, her song foretells the sun, its resurrection over the horizon, its warmth against my face like breath, its rays that flood my eyes. I pull the shade down, slip sunglasses on. 

Today I have Vagina Monologue dress rehearsals, so I guess my monologue is on my mind :) Yes. At first it tastes a little bitter on the tongue, but soon it learns to curl around them and like black coffee, it's taste is acquired. The word is yes. You'll use it as your daily bread. Yes, my space is yours, come closer. Yes, this is the smell of me, cherry petals, lavender in spring. Yes, my hair's its natural hue, a wheat field in the sun, and yes, they're real, the golden grapefruits blushing red when peeled. Yes, I feel sexy when I listen to the clicks my heels make against the pavement. Yes, the blisters make me feel alive.  Yes, it's homemade. Yes, I feel the right amount of shame, and yes, I do it for you and you alone. Yes, you taste like rain and yes, I like the scent of musk at sunrise. Yes, I always look like this, and yes, my skin's a smooth as sky. Yes, you always leave me satisfied. 

Today's NAPO is super rough, because, well, I only had a few moments for poetry, unfortunately. The Body's Prophecies Like blood moons, they come in terads: rage you swallowed down and kept hidden deep within the tabernacle of your throat that only shows in the ruddy hue your cheeks wear when you clench your teeth, the aftermath of kisses on the neck, the sudden rush of shame that fills your downturned face, and finally, the moment when the body lets go of this month's faithful prophecy and leaves a mark the color of the moon. Here, what I want to do, is incorporate the fantastical and biblical language surrounding the blood moon to describe the body. Eh. Maybe I'll come back to it later.

Today's prompt was to write a poem in the form of questions. Here's mine: Ten Questions Why forgive when you can hold a grudge, like Adam with his arms across his chest, a chunk of apple stuck inside his throat? And how can my mesquite tree keep faith in such a violent gust of wind, release the bean pods to the storm that took her limbs? Did Noah's wife protest, doubt for a moment, second guess and call his prophecies the murmurings of madness? How does crow taste? Is it sweet like dove? Did Hera ever really think that Zeus would learn to keep it in his pants? Why don't lantanas just close up their petals when they're done, why keeping on feeding thirsty hummingbirds? And why should I forgive your numerous mistakes? A toilet seat left up, machete taken to my favorite prickly pear, the way you always listen to the wind? Because like Adam needed Eve, I need you more than just an empty paradise.

Today's assignment was to write something that included a kenning, a kind of Norse metaphor. The kenning I decided to modify was "destroyer of brambles" which means, well, wind. What Dolly Did to my Palm She was a lover of the loose, could make a skirt fall to the ground with just a whisper. It began as just a gentle sway, like two awkward teens a slow dance at prom, unsure of who should lead and who should follow. It wasn't until the wind kicked up, a fast-paced cumbia, a finger ran through loose and tangled hair, a gasp of gusts, a whistling of wind, an arm around the waist that she let go. I couldn't watch for fear that I would too become a willing victim to the wind, take flight and sing the song of hurricanes. In the few calm moments as the eye passed over I peered out my window, saw the discarded skirts along the garden's bed, and there my palm tree stood, naked, breathless, ready for another dance with Dolly.

Today's prompt was to think of a tangible and intangible noun, and then find sentences, and swap them out. I used "loneliness" and "boat" and came across an interesting find: Did humans colonize the world by boat? Swapped out loneliness for boat, and began musing. Here's my freewrite: The Boat Did humans colonize the world by loneliness and loneliness alone? The search to see our faces smiling back at us across generations of water, continents of bodies, glaciers of tears and rivers of pain? Was it loneliness that made us search horizons, shield our eyes from the sun, seek out one another? Was it loneliness that blew against our sails like the wind takes twirling oak seeds from the tree? Was it loneliness that taught our tongues to speak, to mingle, intertwine and kiss? Was it loneliness that made us see our faces in the moon, our stories in the stars our goddess in the sun's heavy rays? Was it loneliness that brought my parents tog

I want to come back to this poem later on. Today's prompt was to write a wine love poem, and I decided to write it in the voice of a Meanad. Advice from a Thirsty Maenad Because we're not immortal and life is far too short, you have to learn to savor every moment. Uncork this evening with laughter, slide off your shoes and raise a glass to everything. Learn to swallow discretion and let your lips touch every glass you find. Leave your mark in scarlet kisses of the past. Send back what doesn't bring you pleasure with a wave of the back of your hand. Savor tartness on the lips, honey on the tongue. Taste earth. Taste sweat. Taste raindrops. Kiss strangers. Don't look back. Bite lips. Dance to the pulses. Wake with fog in your head with mauve on your lips, a parched throat, an aftertaste of doubt always on your tongue.

Today's task is to write an adverstisement: Afterwards Forget sex. Sex sells itself. Sell this instead: the quiet moment afterwards when time begins to flow again, the opening of eyes, the paniced realization that the world is still the same: the moonlight, cold and silver though the opened window, the television's buzz, the emptiness of wine glasses on the nightstand, just a ring of mauve at the bottom, a smudge of lipstick on the rim. Find beauty in the body as the goosebumps fade, in the slow curl back into itself as it redraws the boundaries of yours and mine, the drifting down from Olympus, the slow walk out of Eden, head hung low, the picking up of pieces from the ground like windblown catkins after a storm. The cicadas cease their singing. Stop and listen to the sound of breath between the numbness of your lips.  

Today's prompt was to get your playlist and write a poem that included the titles of 5 random song titles. A few months back, a student of mine gave me some of his hipstery folk music, and actually, sometimes I like to listen to it while I'm working. My "heavy lifting" music is classical/instrumental, but this music is kind of nice for more freewrites and such. So anyway, it's become a part of my writing playlist on pandora. I digress. Here's my "poem" -- song titles in bold. Who was that teenage girl with moons For eyes, who thought that she could pack Her things inside a beat-up baby blue Sedan and leave her self behind: A magazine of CDs, backpack filled with Kerouac and tattered love poems to some abstraction (that day, a boyfriend’s midnight spikes of hair) black nail polish, glass bottles filled with cherry coke? You had your life before you to screw up – It was too precious to waste on good behavior , All the righ