An update from our twentieth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 6, plus some of the output published below After receiving feedback about what students would like to focus on, this week we held workshop on the anatomy of a poem, asking ourselves “What exactly is a poem?”. To begin, Conner reinforced the importance of exciting the senses over making sense, defining a poem as something that prioritizes the mode of writing over the written content, that is more concerned with how it sounds than what it says, and whose language is sonic and aesthetic, not narrative. Over the course of the workshop, we read works such as “Pope John” by Bernadette Mayer, “The Snowman” by Wallace Stevens, “My hat” by Henry Parland, “Poem” by Ron Padgett, and, of course, “Mown Lawn” by Lydia Davis. We also briefly discussed Starry Night as a visual representation of the logic of poetry. The Challenge: Try and imitate the poem “Mown Lawn” by Lydia Davis. That is, take a phrase, any coupling of words, and do to it what Lydia Davis did to the phrase “mown lawn,” turning these words into new words via sound. The Participants: Emma, Penelope, Josh, Clara, Simran, Olivia, Shilla, Sinan, Alice, Audrey, Ellie, Ethan, Svitra, Lina, Nova Svitra Rajkumar, 13(Fremont, CA) The Earl Bear Svitra Rajkumar, 14 Just big enough to sit in your palm The Earl Bear whimpers It is warm, so warm that it is cold Pale and gray Or was it a rich amber? A shade that you know you’ve seen before But can’t seem to remember It smells of cedar and earl gray tea A mellow scent that races through the quarries Quarries that hold crippled carp Gorgeous fish full of imperfections Sparkling tails and glistening scales Prey to the Earl Bear and Predators to the Poppy Kelp Scarlet as fresh blood, the Poppy Kelp sways Under the current of the quarry. Ethan Zhang, 9 (Mclean, VA) The Armpit Monkey Ethan Zhang, 9 I owned an armpit monkey, For some reason I hated it. Maybe because it sounded like Harm-wit donkey. Everyone knows I hate harm. Harm-wit donkey sounds ominous, Even though harm-wit has no meaning. Also, an armpit monkey sounds like A chicken, literally. It shrieks mad, Shrieking the word yeet, Which sounds like yeast, Something that I also hate. Yeet also means throwing things, Something related to harm. I hate life. The armpit monkey ruined it.
how stories work
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #19: Objects
An update from our nineteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 30, plus some of the output published below Continuing our run of workshops focused on concrete concepts instead of standardized elements of writing, this week we focused on objects because, simply, objects are weird! In order to illustrate this point, we began by looking at a shovel—yes, a shovel, because as it turns out Marcel Duchamp considered the shovel odd enough that he put one up in a museum. Next, we looked at some of the artworks from an exhibit by Katarina Kamprani, wherein she slightly transformed ordinary household objects—a hammer, a knife, for example—into unusable things, the idea being that the exhibit invites us to consider how strange objects are. We then discussed a few paintings—Still Life with Skull by Cezanne, Violin and Candlestick by Georges Braque, and Sunflowers by Van Gogh, to name a few, all of which presented objects in a distorted, alienating light. From our discussion of paintings we moved into a discussion of poetry, beginning with Wallace Stevens’ strange poem “Anecdote of the Jar,” in which the central object, a jar, seemed to transform itself and its surroundings with its strangeness. We also read “Perception of an Object Costs” by Emily Dickinson, which suggested that by perceiving an object, the object somehow eludes us and escapes our perception, two poems by Gertrude Stein—”A Box” and “Mildred’s Umbrella”—and “The Crystal” by Clark Coolidge. The Challenge: Three short exercises done in ten minutes each. First, choose an object either near you or imagined. Then, one: write a funny poem/story about your object, two: write a scary poem/story about your object, and three: write a sad poem/story about your object. The Participants: Audrey, Simran, Josh, Emma, Lina, Ethan, Shilla, Ellie, Olivia, Svitra, Sinan, Alice B Svitra Rajkumar, 13(Fremont, CA) The Deadly Jasmine Svitra Rajkumar, 13 It was getting late and Xyian still hadn’t found the last ingredient for the crabapple concoction she was making. She had picked the juiciest blood colored crabapples, some wild hibiscus nectar, yellow poppy seeds, and indigo sugarcane sugar. All she had left were deadly jasmine petals. Unlike the frightening name, the petals of the flower had an exotic flavor that couldn’t be found elsewhere. The deadly parts were the stems. If you were to come in physical contact with a deadly jasmine stem, they would drag you underground with them. However, Xyian was prepared. Her mother, having specialized in potion making, knew a lot about dealing with dangerous ingredients, and gave her special gloves to deal with them. Xyian walked into the dark cave that stood in front of her, pushing aside the long vines that creeped along it’s opening. She shuddered as the chilly air hit her face, and tugged on her coat’s hood.
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #18: Monster Poetry
An update from our eighteenth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday October 23, plus some of the output published below In anticipation for Halloween next week, and in conjunction with last week’s partial focus on the “monstrous body,” this week we focused on the neglected art form of short poems about monsters. Thus, we looked at exclusively literary examples, beginning with “Monsters” by Dorothea Lasky, which offered a change in the typical point of view. We then read a host of other poems ranging from “A Boat” by Richard Brautigan to “A Monster Owl” by Lorine Niedecker to “Theme in Yellow” by Carl Sandberg to “All Hallows” by Louise Glück to “And the Ghosts” by Graham Foust—a haunting one line poem. We finished with a close reading of William Blake’s famous poem, “The Tyger”. The Challenge: Two Parts. Part one: in fifteen minutes, write a monster poem. Part two: change the poem line by line by writing each line’s exact opposite. The Participants: Emma, Clara, Josh, Simran, Nova, Lina, Ellie, Audrey, Alice, Olivia, Shilla, Svitra Emma Hoff, 9(Bronx, NY) Monsters (original) Emma Hoff, 9 Some things crawl, asking for the mirror, something to break, smiling at us, rosy pink cheeks. Little cherubs are us, winged creatures, flying through the air, we flap our wings and kiss the other wings. Other things are obstacles, they braided my hair, I braided theirs, walking and walking along, tiredly, as if we had just risen. Along the path are scissors, so many combs and brushes, they rip my hair like a rope, like a cord. I took a step away, eyes blank, never colored in a book. Little children haunt me always, little birds, flitting around with wings of steel and iron, we call them machines. Ten days later you wake, asking others where you were, they tell you that they were in Hawaii and did not creep into your space. I begin to get wet, other forces are getting together, drying themselves, while I, I am under a mushroom, bigger than myself (I am an ant) and I wished I was sleeping like you. I dream of deserts, you dream of snow, everyone has a rainbow entering through a special door. Nobody ever actually becomes an actor. They have to wait for others to come, to say their words, I talked to them and they invaded me. Monsters (flipped) Things don’t crawl, they don’t want the mirror, they do not shatter, do not smile, their faces are pale with no color. We know nothing about cherubs, falling, wingless creatures, we have no wings to flap, we do not find the other wings. No obstacles in our way, and we never braid each other’s hair, we are lazy, we never walk, we always sleep. No scissors along our path, no combs, no brushes, my hair remains pristine, never ripped or pulled. I never had to take a step away, eyes were always full, colored, perfectly colored. I love little children, birds are gigantic, they do not flit around on wings, they do not work mechanically. You never wake, you never ask where you have gone, the others never go anywhere either. I am dry, I am alone, and everything is normal, I was sleeping, wished I was running. We do not dream of anything, no light, no color, can enter through our special doors. Everyone can act. We do not have to wait, do not have to talk, or listen, I left unscathed and healthy.
