Today I will be developing further one of the memory exercises that we worked on on Thursday. By the way, I am really enjoying Fugitive Pieces, but how do you know when there is too much imagery as opposed to not enough plot?
Today I will be developing a piece on my favorite season, autumn. I really love the beauty in death and the stillness and decline autumn brings. This is why I enjoy writing about autumn.
Here's the peice I wrote for Test 1 about "the color red" I turned it into a short poem, which I have yet to work on more. :)
(story)
I remember our canoe. The color of a robin’s breast. My father, the skin of his shoulders burnt crimson in the summer sun, paddled my Mother around the lake. He’d stop to fish, the bellies of the lake trout rubbed raw to pink in the early spring. That oblong shape slicing through the water, as I stood on the end of the dock watching them float away. When the sky melted away, ruby red in the distance, back around the island they would come.
(Poem)
The loon cries to the morning Her long, slow, moan A marker at daybreak The whistle blow at the beginning A bowl of glass Rimmed by trees, placed Points and nooks by a skilled potter The lake exhales Breathing it’s steamy breath I can see it floating Meeting and entwining with the Morning chill
My father, a great mound of muscle Canoe paddle in his hands His back burnt red From high-noon’s blinding Sun Rod’s in the back of the boat Strong and thin The tiny bones in the wings The inner workings of his afternoon I watch him cast Back and fourth My mother watching from the back Of the boat The boat The belly touching the water Burnt red Red The rubbed pink of the lake trout Bellies burnt in the early spring Through the glare of the sun Hazy over the water Hazy An early summer day
I remember my Nana’s traditional way of cooking. Everything she made had to be made from scratch. She refused to buy ready-made things at the store for her dinners and breakfasts. As she aged though, kits and pre-made food became her best friend.
I remember falling from the mountain bike I had gotten for my 7th birthday, the crimson blood flowing abundantly from my knee. It shocked me, seeing the fire colored liquid pouring from the scratch.
I sat on the stairs, silently hearing the raised voices and forbidden words. Words I wasn’t even familiar with rang out as pots and pans clattered to the ground. Listening harder, I crept further down the stairs, then the door slammed and the house became silent. That night, no sound ever broke the silence.
Her orange hair sparked my attention as she walked into the class, a smile painted on her face. She wore a jumper, and a plain white blouse beneath it. An adult version of Mary Jane’s graced her feet. As she laid her things down on the desk, the smile never left her face. The whole class’ eyes following her every move , she wrote her name on the board “Ms. Stouffer”.
As the waiter set down the bowl in front of me, my face lit up. The chastising happening between my mom and brother meant nothing to me, when I saw my food. The events of the previous morning, or the frosty weather outside no longer had my attention as I dug into the 1st bite of my food. The shrimp Fettucine Alfredo graced my lips and warmed my stomach.
The rain was soft at first, gently falling on my head and his. We played in it, kissing and flirting. Throwing the basketball thru the hoop and flipping in the grass. When it started pouring down we ran for shelter, under the doorway of the back staircase. Our faces drenched and smiling he pulled me 2 him , and kissed me. It seemed like the rest of the world must have stopped for that duration of that kiss. As my lips pulled away from his, the rain was stopping.
I wrote a poem using the line "if i can't rise then let me fall," from Fugitive Pieces and after writing the poem I want to kind of use it as a story lay out for my 5 page story. But there will be a change in character and a lot more detail and it will basically be more of a story in poem form and not just a poem.
I would like to continue to develop one of the short exercizes we wrote last class. I will probably work on the one about my grandmother.
ReplyDeleteI am composing a poem using the line from Fugitive Pieces, "Walk at night. In the morning, dig up my bed. Eat anything."
ReplyDeleteToday I will be developing further one of the memory exercises that we worked on on Thursday. By the way, I am really enjoying Fugitive Pieces, but how do you know when there is too much imagery as opposed to not enough plot?
ReplyDeleteToday I will be developing a piece on my favorite season, autumn. I really love the beauty in death and the stillness and decline autumn brings. This is why I enjoy writing about autumn.
ReplyDeleteI am stealing a line and using it to finally start a story that's been piling up in my head all summer.
ReplyDelete-Miller
I'm writing further about one of my memories.
ReplyDeleteI am planning on combining the prompts: I chose a line from Fugitive Pieces and I am trying to work it into a prose account from my own memory.
ReplyDeleteZachary lohouse
ReplyDeleteDraping slugs splash like tar across the ferns, black icicles of flesh.
Tar black splatters,
Listlessly placed
Ignorant to all turmoil
No problems to be faced
Like little cameras
Observing as we die
Incapable of caring
They care not if we cry
Surgically placed
To watch as we wage war
While most of us are dead
The alive still walk out sore
The slugs that watch us
From their homes they are not torn
But at the moment of his ending
A soldier’s baby was just born
I am writing a poem based on the first line of Fugitive Pieces: "Time is a blind guide."
ReplyDeleteHere's the peice I wrote for Test 1 about "the color red"
ReplyDeleteI turned it into a short poem, which I have yet to work on more. :)
(story)
I remember our canoe. The color of a robin’s breast. My father, the skin of his shoulders burnt crimson in the summer sun, paddled my Mother around the lake. He’d stop to fish, the bellies of the lake trout rubbed raw to pink in the early spring. That oblong shape slicing through the water, as I stood on the end of the dock watching them float away. When the sky melted away, ruby red in the distance, back around the island they would come.
(Poem)
The loon cries to the morning
Her long, slow, moan
A marker at daybreak
The whistle blow at the beginning
A bowl of glass
Rimmed by trees, placed
Points and nooks by a skilled potter
The lake exhales
Breathing it’s steamy breath
I can see it floating
Meeting and entwining with the
Morning chill
My father, a great mound of muscle
Canoe paddle in his hands
His back burnt red
From high-noon’s blinding
Sun
Rod’s in the back of the boat
Strong and thin
The tiny bones in the wings
The inner workings of his afternoon
I watch him cast
Back and fourth
My mother watching from the back
Of the boat
The boat
The belly touching the water
Burnt red
Red
The rubbed pink of the lake trout
Bellies burnt in the early spring
Through the glare of the sun
Hazy over the water
Hazy
An early summer day
I am using the memory exercise remembering my grandmother to create a short story.
ReplyDeleteP.S. Molly has a very good point.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeletei am taking a line from the writing exercise and making it into a short story.
ReplyDeleteWriting a poem based on a line from the book...yea
ReplyDelete-Jonathan
I am writing a poem using a line from Fugitive Pieces. I am also trying to use my own lines more in the style of the book as well.
ReplyDeleteI am taking a line from both the writing exercise and Fugitive Pieces and turning it into a short story
ReplyDeleteTime is a blind guide.
ReplyDeleteLost alone, from distance
From night to light hidden from sight
Rays from the sun seem to find the trapped
Invisible air
Suffocating every solid stroke of breath
Time is a blind guide
Surrounded by trees
Running in circles, little breadcrumbs follow behind
Thirst for sweat and saliva.
Diet of leaves and nuts
Camouflaged to my new home
Time is a blind guide
Forgotten of simple things
Days and days traveling to survive
Longing for a better tomorrow
Hoping for a new day
Waiting to speak to one
Time is a blind guide
Sorrow cries in my soul
Running wild with danger
Becoming a hunter
The taste of blood once sickening sense all I crave
Life changes beyond the eyes
By Alicia Green
I am debating to add new peices as i think about the poem more
i am making a poem of the memory of my father
ReplyDelete-Shana
I am beginning a short story based on a lie from fugitive pieces.
ReplyDelete~nautica
I am writing a poem about a ladybug I saved in hopes that it would bring some good luck.
ReplyDeleteI remember my Nana’s traditional way of cooking. Everything she made had to be made from scratch. She refused to buy ready-made things at the store for her dinners and breakfasts. As she aged though, kits and pre-made food became her best friend.
ReplyDeleteI remember falling from the mountain bike I had gotten for my 7th birthday, the crimson blood flowing abundantly from my knee. It shocked me, seeing the fire colored liquid pouring from the scratch.
I sat on the stairs, silently hearing the raised voices and forbidden words. Words I wasn’t even familiar with rang out as pots and pans clattered to the ground. Listening harder, I crept further down the stairs, then the door slammed and the house became silent. That night, no sound ever broke the silence.
Her orange hair sparked my attention as she walked into the class, a smile painted on her face. She wore a jumper, and a plain white blouse beneath it. An adult version of Mary Jane’s graced her feet. As she laid her things down on the desk, the smile never left her face. The whole class’ eyes following her every move , she wrote her name on the board “Ms. Stouffer”.
As the waiter set down the bowl in front of me, my face lit up. The chastising happening between my mom and brother meant nothing to me, when I saw my food. The events of the previous morning, or the frosty weather outside no longer had my attention as I dug into the 1st bite of my food. The shrimp Fettucine Alfredo graced my lips and warmed my stomach.
The rain was soft at first, gently falling on my head and his. We played in it, kissing and flirting. Throwing the basketball thru the hoop and flipping in the grass. When it started pouring down we ran for shelter, under the doorway of the back staircase. Our faces drenched and smiling he pulled me 2 him , and kissed me. It seemed like the rest of the world must have stopped for that duration of that kiss. As my lips pulled away from his, the rain was stopping.
I wrote a poem using the line "if i can't rise then let me fall," from Fugitive Pieces and after writing the poem I want to kind of use it as a story lay out for my 5 page story. But there will be a change in character and a lot more detail and it will basically be more of a story in poem form and not just a poem.
ReplyDelete