Conner Bassett

How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #15: Veering

An update from our fifteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 2, plus some of the output published below For today’s Writing Workshop, Conner decided to tweak an old lecture on veering and give it a new spin. To begin, Conner had us choose an object—any object—from the room we were in to write about later. The core concept with which we began the workshop was that “veering” should be seen as a break in the pattern, as any sort of change in direction, a thing we understood to be aesthetically pleasing. To enforce this concept of veering, we looked at a few examples, the first of which being the “I am your father” plot twist from Star Wars and the second being Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. We also looked at examples of narrative veering in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Harry Potter, and The Sword and the Stone. Then, for an example in visual art, we looked at Goya’s The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. From there, we reinforced the idea that “veering” represents the moment in which a story or poem breaks its most characteristic habit through a reading of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets whose final line completely changed its trajectory. We also looked at the poem “I Know a Man” by Robert Creeley, two haikus by Basho, and examples from Ovid’s Metamorphosis.  The Challenge: Write a poem or story that veers off its intended path. Change direction. Change your mind. And use the object that you chose at the beginning of class. The Participants: Clara, Josh, Emma, Lina, Ellie, Simran, Ethan, Alice, Audrey, Shilla, Olivia, Nova, Svitra Emma Hoff, 9(Bronx, NY) Or Rather, the Shape Emma Hoff, 9 Or rather, it was the shape that interested me the most, spin like a top, no, trap it, the base is on the other side. You must understand, dear reader, that there was something that curved (that curved!) in unnatural ways. The black was only a shield, a protector of the young and old, the little. The big were never protected. They had feet. We look inside and we wonder, how do we eat out of this? How do we put food in this and stain it and put it in the dishwasher and torture it, when it was truly meant to be held, not breaking the shield, but held nonetheless, and the patterns and colors make you want to touch cool. I think it is rather beautiful. You touch, you are hot, and it makes a sound. Ring is the sound. But this does not interest me. There is something else that interests me. Or rather, the shape. Ethan Zhang, 9 (McLean, VA) Two Poems Ethan Zhang, 9 The Sound of the Wind I was holding it, An ocarina, An ancient Chinese Instrument. Suddenly It was gone Vanished Replaced magically With a French Horn. Unreal Unrealistic Yet I believed the magic Until The waking Sound of the wind. A Rosy Carpet Outside my window A rosy carpet hovered. It was unreal Absurd And even insane Was what I told Myself. Yet I was convinced It was anything But a fantasy. Carefully I stepped on it Into the misty clouds I rose. The wind brushed my face And I flew, high, high Up and over The steely house The buzzing town

How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #14: Translation

An update from our fourteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday September 25, plus some of the output published below For this workshop on translation, we decided to switch things up a bit. Rather than teach the class towards one prompt and thus one finished piece of writing, the workshop was geared towards teaching three separate mini prompts, leaving the students with three finished works. To begin, we looked at two paintings depicting translation by way of angels moving from one place to another: The Translation of the Holy House of Loreto by Saturnino Gatti and The Miraculous Translation of the Body of Saint Catherine Alexandria to Sinai by Karl von Blaas. Next, we read four different translations—Clive James, Robert Pinsky, Mary Jo Bang, & John Ciardi—of the first nine lines from Dante’s Inferno in order to show how stylistically different translations can be, especially noting that of Mary Jo Bang. We then looked at two different translations—Jane Hirshfield & Robert Haas—of Basho’s haiku “Kyoto,” noting how the word “even” in Haas’ translation dramatizes the situation of the poem. Lastly, we looked at an english to english translation of Hamlet’s famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy and compared it to the original, noting how the original was definitively more beautiful. All of these examples were intended to formulate an answer to the question, “What matters most in translation?” Before writing, we considered that what is most important may be transferring literally one word into another language, conveying emotional accuracy, or capturing the tone, mood, or psychology of a piece. The Participants: Emma, Clara, Sinan, Lina, Ellie, Josh, Simran, Alice, Svitra, Ethan, Shilla, Olivia, Nova The Challenge: A challenge in three parts: Homolinguistic translation: In 10-12 minutes translate the poem “Ships” by Tomaz Salamun “english to english” by substituting word for word, phrase for phrase, line for line, or as a “free” translation as response to each phrase or sentence. Or translate the poem into another literary style or a different diction. Homophonic translation: In 10-12 minutes, take a poem that you can pronounce but not necessarily understand—in this case “70” by Catullus, written in Latin—and translate the sounds of the poem into english. Nonlinguistic translation: In 10-12 minutes, listen to several sounds (click below) and translate them into words. https://stonesoup.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/Sound-file-from-How-Stories-Work—Writing-Workshop-14-Translation_09252021.mp4   Svitra Rajkumar, 13(Fremont, CA) Bubbling Brook Svitra Rajkumar, 13 The warbling brook bubbled loud and clear In rhythm with the other whimsical sounds Alluring noises attract squirrels Dancing through the air Inaudible voices swirl Whispering into your ears and clouding your brain Manipulating your mind Until nothing lies but the intoxicating calls Of the bubbling brook Two Poems: Freeway & Frog Land Ethan Zhang, 9 Freeway Cars jostled by, Creating and messing with wind, Creating and messing with sounds. A crescendo, A diminuendo. My hair wavers in the wind, As if lemongrass dancing to a rhythm. Frog Land Frogs jump about, Enlarging their mouths, And croaking. A strange language, In a strange land, Of frogs, Of nature, Of sounds.

How Stories Work-Writing Workshop #13: Ekphrasis

An update from our thirteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday September 18, plus some of the output published below For today’s workshop, Conner chose to focus on “ekphrasis,” meaning a creative interpretation, response, or translation of another work of art. Because ekphrasis has historically referred specifically to the transformation of visual art into poetry, we began class with this concept. First, we looked at Peter Bruegel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus followed by William Carlos Williams’ poem written in response, “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.” Next, we turned to Keats’ classic poem “Ode to a Grecian Urn” in order to see clearer the benefits of ekphrasis. Then, having seen two examples of visual art being transformed into poetry, we looked at an example of the opposite in Charles Demuth’s painting of William Carlos Williams’ poem “The Great Figure,” and William Holman Hunt’s painted rendition of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s lyrical ballad “The Lady of Shalott.” To further illustrate ekphrasis’ power to transform and translate, we looked at painted examples of famous creation myths, one of biblical origin and the other of Japanese. Our final example was Michelangelo’s rendition of God giving life to Adam on the Sistene Chapel. By workshop’s end, we came to the conclusion that, in the words of student Olivia Rhee, ekphrasis “paints words into something new that lets the eyes see instead of imagine.” The Participants: Nova, Audrey, Simran, Emma, Josh, Clara, Penelope, Lina, Alice, Ethan, Ellie, Svitra, Sinan, Shilla, and Olivia The Challenge: Write a story or a poem based on Peter Bruegel’s painting The Fall of the Rebel Angels. Emma Hoff, 9(Bronx, NY) The Price of Free Will Emma Hoff, 9 People are foolish. While fighting, those great grey things climbed onto our heads and begged for air. Eyed from above, clouds were meaningless, wings that had sprouted from spines of swords. A magical thing went limp and floated. Eyed from above, claustrophobic screams and gasps and chokings, wide open mouths, slit open mouths, eyes appearing inside. Little soldiers, clockwork hearts that wish for nothing but blood, blood for new stained wood uniforms. Mussels find hiding in their own kind, they are the moth wings of fishtails. All the instrument plays is a march by Shostakovich or any kind of Tchaikovsky. I hope these composers did not mean to be programmed to the minds of battle, they only dreamed of battles like this one, a woman of candy, climbing up a tower of others. The court jester thought this would be a good place to try out his jokes, but all that is left of him is his hat, his precious hat. Baskets of fish and rice and things, and baby chicks are squishing people (and the baby chicks). The clouds released penguins or puffins, nobody’s sure, the sun has burned them too quickly. People that die look up, they see their last visions of a sunny day, and even that is clouded by fog and red and people blocking other people, and when you are lying on your back while people are stepping on your chest and ignoring you, it is hard to see anything but twisted feet, jumping women in dresses, aprons, you think you saw an apron, but it could have just been your warped point of view showing you the sky that lifts itself higher. You thought you also saw the sky puff its chest, but it was just a shape, like an egg, with eyes where the eyes of a hammer-head shark would be, with teeth and a grin, snatching wings, fairies were here, too. Audrey Tzeng, 12 (Rocklin, CA) The Box Opened Audrey Tzeng, 12 The Box Opened The box must have opened. What else could produce such things? Yes, there’s no better word for them, Some man and some animal. Some half-and-half And some neither at all. They cannot be ordered, cannot be named. Angels stabbing and hacking As man, that fiendish beast, serenely plays on. Who fights for who? They eat each other And yet they are each other. Now my head spins. For we may not even be sure of the supposed “moon” in the background. This painting turns day to night And night to day.