Incendiary Lit

That’s right, still updating the Firestarter exercises… check it out here to see today’s and past exercises, or here it is as well:

5/14/08- Frame Tale madness!

Write a piece of short fiction which is like a babushka . A story about telling a story which involves telling a story. Whether you want to use formatting devices to separate the tales (italics, indentations, right justified, center justified, parenthesis, brackets, whatever) it’s up to you, but have at least 4 little anecdotes attempted… a fun idea might be to start a story and get interrupted. Enjoy!

Yes, I’ve come up with a new method of posting the exercises, so hopefully it works, but yes. Here’s the Firestarter exercise for today, and yeah, not sure why I posted two prose/flash fic exercises today… guess it’s just one of those moods. If you haven’t yet, check out Capp Steet Incident for inspiration for the exercises, and check out this week, and the last 5 months worth of Firestarter exercises to browse for one that really strikes you: here.

5/13/08 - Flash Fiction Fun!

Your character’s name is your middle name. Place that character in a situation you’ve been in recently where something could have gone horribly wrong, and have the horribly wrong situation pan out. As the story closes (at under 1000 words) have the character imagine what it would’ve been like if the horrible (traumatic, whatever) thing didn’t happen. Think of something mundane you did soon after that near miss, and have your character imagine, longingly for that mundane thing. Have fun throwing your character to the sharks.

Write a short piece of fiction about trying to decide what card to buy someone (that you have some store up resentment for) for some occasion. Write 3 little greeting card-esque poems that you include in your piece. With each greeting card, think (in your piece) of a backhanded, passive-aggressive remark you could write in there. End the piece with you going up to the register with your card, explain what it says, and why you chose that. Be sure to include little flashbacks during your backhanded potential card remarks to add depth to the piece. Even just two lined flashbacks. Be sure to include at least three lines of dialog.

People write them as writing exercises, as little trials of their poetic ability before they return to their free verse (with, or without jigging lines and tumors of whitespace) and write their poems. I’ve been reading around in a couple dozen literary journals (scratch that, few dozen) and have seen more formal poetry than I expected. A good number of sonnets (here’s a refresher on the sonnet’s rules). I know some of you out there make a habit of writing formal poetry, in fact I’ve been turning to it fairly frequently lately in a chase after content matching form. I’ve got a paradelle on the backburner about two brothers in different stages of “Why are you hitting yourself?” amidst some fairly dire circumstances… which is all about the repetition having not only a purpose, but a need. Some poems almost need a specific form. Why? Well, in the rough blob of a first draft (despite how polished you feel your first drafts are, revision is important too.), sometimes there will be an echo of a form. Perhaps a curious repetition or the poem will be 14 lines with an accidental slant rhyme in three places already. You might see the vague form of a sestina, villanelle, sonnet, rondeau… and then there is an aesthetic goal. And to reach that goal you have to weight every line, every foot, syllable, for its importance (looking that close at any poem is a good idea) in order to meet that self-set goal, to reorder a scene, rephrase, to stretch your mind for the best result. And, you know, sometimes the poem just doesn’t fit a form. But sometimes it does, and the only thing that will come from attempting to adapt a free verse piece into a formal poem is that you will know your poem inside and out, and will have a very good head start on the next draft of your poem. So try it yourself:

The Cremation of Shelley
by Lawrence Raab

August 15, 1822

All around was scenery–
the ocean and its islands, watchtowers
along the coast, mountains
glittering like marble. Trelawny imagined
the spirit of his friend soaring above him.

And he thought, We’re no better
than a pack of dogs
dragging him back into the light.
Three white wands
marked the place where he’d been buried,

lime thrown over him, the yellow sand
shovelled in. And now
they had to dig him out. Who could speak?
Even Byron was silent.
When they heard the hollow sound

of iron on bone, Byron asked
if Trelawny would save the skull for him,
but remembering that he had formerly
used one as a drinking-cup, I was determined
Shelley’s should not be so profaned.

After the fire was lit they poured
wine over the body, causing the flames
to glisten and quiver. Then the corpse
fell open, and the heart
was laid bare. Byron turned away,

walked back to the beach,
swam out to his boat. Leigh Hunt
stayed inside his carriage. Everything
turned to ash, but what surprised us all
was that the heart remained entire.

The poet’s heart! Of course
it should resist the tire.
But why? As fitting that it burn,
if brighter than the rest.
Trelawny reached in and snatched it out.

No one saw him do it,
though his hand was badly hurt.
Every detail, he would write,
of the life of a man of genius
is interesting. But no more

about the heart–how much
he wanted it. I collected
the human ashes and placed them in a box.
Buried in Rome
with the appropriate ceremonies.

–
I really liked this poem from his awesome book The Probable World (under $1 used at amazon), and kept trying to remember where I knew the story from, years after first reading it. Then I kept mixing it up with Galway Kinnell’s wonderful poem “Shelley” which deals with Shelley’s life detached a bit from his work.

Writing exercise: Find a good biography of a favorite writer. Or check wikipedia. There’s a ton of authors with interesting biographical information available. Write a poem about that interesting fact. Poems that teach the reader something interesting that they didn’t already know are always more resonant.

I know a lot of people had gotten used to the Firestarter challenges being posted everyday in the main posts, but they are still being updated every day over there in the column on the right (and also right here). Everything from formal exercises, word lists, scenarios, exercises inspired by poems. There’s over 200 exercises right there for you in that one page. So check it out. Try them out. Hopefully we’ll be able to renew the Firestarter Challenge, if we can get anyone interested in a one month contest maybe…

Capp Street Incident
by Jon Boilard
(Caution, adult subject matter)

She stands under the 101 overpass on Capp Street. When I pull up she sticks her head through the window, parting my legs with her hand. I ask her how much. She tells me and then gets in. We pull around the corner to a spot she likes. She looks vaguely familiar but I don’t say anything. She puts the condom on me with her mouth. After a few minutes she says, Baby, you got to hurry; I got to get back out there on the stroll. I tell her not to worry about finishing me. She is relieved. She cleans her mess and puts everything–the money, the limp rubber, the soiled tissues–in her little black purse. Then I remember. Her name is Del and I recognize her from high school. We had Spanish together. She had a crush on me and I never gave her the time of day. When I mention this she laughs and says, Boy the tables are turned now. I laugh, too, and then she gets out. She says, Baby you shouldn’t drive in that condition. I smile and ease away from the curb. I smell her from ten blocks away. Cigarettes and sweat and dirty feet. Then I get sick some more in the Office Depot parking lot. With an old newspaper I clean what ends up on me. I try to picture the girl she used to be and I cannot. It is difficult enough to remember what I was like back then.

—

“Capp Street Incident” was originally published in the Summer-Fall 2006 issue of Fugue, literary magazine from the University of Idaho. The prose poem/flash fiction is very resonant. Everyone imagines what people they once knew are doing now, at least once in awhile. And the juxtaposition of the girl having a crush on him, and him paying her for sex is terribly ironic. Also, it’s about sex,in a way at least, but it never gets gross or very graphic, which is nice. I’ve read my share of bad, bad poetry sex while working on different literary journals, and this was a nice, understated example. And the end feels so right for the situation… so human.

Now try a ‘reminiscent’ poem of your own with a dramatic twist. Like in “Capp Street Incident” see someone that seems familiar, realize where you know them from (at least eight years before) and remember a little anecdote between the narrator and character. Have the anecdote be ironic considering the present, somewhat drastic situation (be it during a robbery, a traffic accident, jail, whatever).

Accident
by Todd Davis

They tell the son, who tells his friends
at school, that the father’s death was
an accident, that the rifle went off
while he was cleaning it. I’m not sure
why he couldn’t wait. We understand
the ones who decide to leave us in February,
even as late as March. Snows swell.
Sun disappears. Hunting season ends.
With two deer in the freezer and family
can survive. I know sometimes
it feels like you’ve come to the end
of something. Sometimes you just want
to sit down beneath a hemlock and never go
back. But this late in the year, when plum
trees have opened their blossoms?
Yesterday it was so warm we slept
with the windows open. Smell of forsythia
right there in the room. I swear
you could hear the last few flowers open,
silk petals come undone, a soft sound
like a pad sliding through a gun’s battle,
white cloth soaked in bore cleaner,
removing the leas, the copper, the carbon
that fouls everything. My son knows
you don’t die cleaning your rifle:
the chamber’s always open.
I told him to nod his head anyway
when his friend tells the story,
to say yes as many times as it takes,
to never forget the smell of smoke
and concrete, the little bit of light
one bulb gives off in a basement
with no windows.

This originally appeared in the Indiana Review Vol. 29 No. 1. I thoroughly enjoyed this poem, perhaps partly due to the fact I was raised in a deer hunting home in a deer hunting region, where occasionally a hunter had a ‘cleaning accident’ which could be possible if said hunter was a complete drunk, but… the imagery is great, and I especially loved the listing of suicide reasons, “Snows swell. / Sun disappears. / Hunting season ends” the plainspoken, staccato sentences really work well. The last image is a haunting one that I can just imagine the son’s poor friend stumbling upon after the ‘accident’ and it makes me muy triste.

Use this poem as a springboard for a poem of your own, now. Think of a lie that people just ‘nod along’ with. This is especially true when dealing with children (Santa, dog ran away etc) but also guys brag about things they’ve never done, people lie about their jobs when they run into people from high school ten years later, there’re plenty of major, and not so major lies that happen all the time. Pick one, and come up with a short narrative about it. Why you (or your character) just go along with something they/you know isn’t true. And end your poem with an image.

1) Eyes are always described when it comes to people, so you need to come up with a unique description of this eye using a description from childhood, involving playing/coloring/painting etc. Base your poem around that description. Come up with a short narrative to get to that dish. Write the poem in the first person.

2) Write a poem using the science of eyes. About Optical Nerves, perhaps ophthalmologists.

Synesthesia is when a sense is described with a description usually applied to another sense. As in, saying something smells black. Looks cold or smells hot. It is a sort of confusion/melding of senses that can make for a very poignant turn of phrase. In Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale” we get a sound made by a color “In some melodious plot / Of beechen green”

So give it a shot. Perhaps use the idea of a black rose to focus your thoughts. It is a color of flower invented for its symbolism, as black roses don’t exist in nature. Merely very, very deep reds. Yet it has become a prevalent, concept, at very least. Here’s a little more information about the idea of a black rose.

Here’re a couple of writing exercises, or, poetry exercises involving Joshua Trees.

1) Write a short narrative about waking up just before dawn while camping in the desert. Let us know if you’re alone, and why, or who you’re with, and one odd little thing they do. Here’s a picture of Joshua Trees just before dawn to help you visualize.

2) Write a prose poem/flash fiction about someone imagining a field of gigantic Joshua trees. Only dropping small hints, interspersed in the imagination, let the reader know that the person fantasizing is driving through the desert, either just after, during, or just before something very tumultuous.

I’m posting mine, but please, anyone writing a Poem a Day with Poetic Asides, the Writer’s Digest blog, or just on your own, please post into the comments, we’d love to read what everyone else is writing for this festive holiday month.

1) Write a poem in which someone (be it little kid, fleeing refugee, whatever you want them to be) eats their first ever peach, not knowing what it is, or what it will taste like. Have that moment stick out, though around the person something fairly dramatic stuff is happening.

2) Save Peach from Bowser! Tell us your plan of attack, being a master of the game (or novice) and how you’d do it better than Mario.

3) The peach is the state flower of Delaware, the state fruit of South Carolina, and Georgia is called the Peach State. Consider why this may be, why the peach is so loved, and come up with a theory. Frame the poem as you discovering these facts, and trying to think/figure out why the peach is so loved.

And finally,

4) Walk through a peach orchard at blossom time, thinking about some very heavy stuff that’s going on in your life. In line 5 pick up a fallen blossom that’s starting to turn brown on the side that was on the ground. Ponder this. Also consider the peaches that will be plumping on the branches soon.

Poetic Asides. Check it out. Right now he’s posting a prompt/exercise each day and people write to it. Like the Firestarter Challenge, but there are over a hundred poems posted to his prompts, and he picks the ones he thinks are the best. The website’s really cool in general though. Word it up.

Yep, the Contemporary Verse 2 2-day poem contest is here, and it’s half over. The ten words are Vessel, filament, proof, article, thorax, wrench, buckle, sienna, rattle, and nervous. The real wrench in the gears is thorax. Filament is a cool word, and easy to use because it sounds so cool. They have a clock on the guidelines site here.
So far, I’ve written 3 different versions. A sestina, a double abecedarian, and a white space happy free verse poem. All with different narratives (the 2xABCDian is loosely a narrative).

I planned on writing a more standard for me “kind of quirky and ironic free verse” poem, and maybe try something even more crazy, like a paradelle. That would be pretty sweet, but I make no promises.

After the contest is closed, I hope to post some participant’s alternate poems as well as my own in a little permanent link page by the Firestarter Challenges. You know the address: zebulonhuset (a - t) gmail (dot) com.

Yes. To be redundant, CV2, Contemporary Verse 2 is running a 2-day poetry contest. You get a list of ten words, and have 2 days from the receipt of the words to write a 48 line or less poem. Here’s where you enter. Pay through paypal. Enter today though! How fun is that? I’ll post alternate versions of contest poems that people submit, because I don’t know about you, but I’m not just writing one poem and sticking with it, I’ll probably toss around upwards of 3 or 4 different versions.

Based on a sestina, only written in tercets (So I guess a more accurate hybrid titled would be the terctina, but hey, I didn’t come up with it first). The pattern of end words and stanzas is:

ABC, CAB, BCA, then a floating line using ABC in that order… so, coming up with words that work very well together is a must. Give it a shot. Here’s an Australian website that has a few tritinas, and sonnetinas (shortened sonnets) and their rules.

It’s actually really cool. At the Donald Maass Literary Agency website there’s a list of possible books that each agent would like to read. They’re big on sci-fi, Donald Maass, for instance, wants the next Dune… they go into somewhat decent detail about what they’re looking for also, which is awesome, because it’s almost like a writing exercise on a very large scale, if you’re trying to figure out what your new novel about. Every month they update the list of novels they want to read, I believe. YA, fantasy, sci-fi, political thrillers,

OK, I’ve been wanting to set up something like this for a long time. Contemporary Verse 2, or CV2 is running a two day contest. You pre-register by March 28th. OnApril 5th all entrants are given a list of ten words, and have 48 hours to write a poem using those  ten words. How awesome is that? Tell your friends! It’s a great thing. No more than 48 lines, also, so for those of us who typically write shorter poems, ahem, we don’t have to worry about losing due to sheer volume (or lack thereof).

It’s a $10 fee, first prize is $350, Second $175, Third gets $90 (but not publication).

So many amazing things are said daily. Usually, amazing in a bad way. But amazing’s still amazing.

For instance, in a class the other day, to prove a point about cave paintings, the professor said that in the 18th century the world was only around 7000 years old, but now, we know it’s billions of years old. And he even went on to say that because of the scientific research we’ve gone from the religious tenet that these paintings couldn’t possibly be 10,000, or even a million years old, and must be more recent– therefore not such a dramatic discovery. A girl a couple rows behind me said “That doesn’t add up. If it was only seven thousand years old before, how can it be so old now?”

Now, it’d be hard to get to the line of dialog in the same way, about cave paintings, but there are plenty of other reasons to explain the difference in ‘creation’ dates between cultures, and if you have a character you want to showcase as not the smartest peanut in the turd, merely by paying slight attention to those around you, you’ve got a ready-made scenario. Give it a shot.