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.