Cento (collage poem)
Source Text: The Midnight, by Susan Howe
The Midnight
—
Who are they that fly as a cloud
from wilds and mountains?
Fair maiden of cloudlight,
You are wild,
indifferent as twilight.
She retreats into the woodland
her laurels still fresh–
wildeyed–
conversing with an invisible spirit–
in danger of being promoted
to the witch category.
Cento (collage poem)
Source Text: The Outdoor Life of Children
O, student of Society and History,
we were all meant to be naturalists,
each in his degree.
It is inexcusable to live in a world
so full of marvels,
of plant and animal life,
and to care for none of these.
Consider the lilies of the field
the fowls of the air.
Things worth observing —
to be watched from day to day:
— the departure and return of the birds with the season
— the portly form and spotted breast of the thrush
— a jay flying across a field
— the graceful flight of the swallow
— the yellow bill of the blackbird
— the gush of song which the skylark pours from above
while perching in a tree.
Make the acquaintance of a wild flower —
every common miracle
in all its fairy beauty.
Observe the wood and pith in the hazel twig
— the downy catkins of the willow
— the flower comes, each shut up in the dainty casket we call a bud
— the little ruby-eyed pistil late-flowers of the hazel
— leaves, branches, bark, trunk of trees.
Every plant bears fruit,
fruit and seed after his kind.
Nature —
the Divine thought
the mystery of beauty
Now. What do we mean this is now? Then was now. But now, then is not now. Because now it’s then, and not now. My head’s now spinning. Or then my head was spinning. Or is it still spinning? Is it spinning now? Was it spinning then?
Stop! Let’s talk about new.
New. New compared to what? Antiques? Old-fashioned? Retro is old. Mid-century Mad Men décor, architecture, fashions, colors. Retro is new, too. Hip and cool now. Hip and cool then. But in between?
Ugly. Oh my god, was it ugly.
Mad Men. Grandpa and Dad’s era. Bourbon on the lunch hour. Wives with overly sprayed hair-do’s. Were there hair “don’ts”? When mom cut my hair, that was a hair don’t.
Bangs. Never cut them straight across.
Green. Then, it was a color. Now, it’s a way of life. Then, we shopped thrift stores because we were poor. Now, we shop thrift stores to be cool.
Recycling. Even what’s cool is recycled.
Science. Then, we thought it would save us. Now, science tells us the planet’s dying.
Senseless. Now, some deny science.
Then. There was life.
Now, too.
Cento (collage poem)
Source Text: The Outdoor Life of Children
Wonder and admire —
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow,
from the ploughing of the land
to the getting of the crops.
By-and-by there is fruit.
Meadow and pasture,
clover, turnip, and corn field.
Some lovely flower or gracious tree,
the movement of branches,
shadows of boughs making patterns
on the white tablecloth.
Hum of bees.
Shines forth the blushing flower
to blossom —
to germinate —
to bear fruit —
Milkwort, eyebright, rest-harrow, lady’s bedstraw,
willow-herb, every wild flower.
Break off an elder twig in the spring
— describe the leaf
— the manner of flowering
— the dangling catkins
— rough or smooth leaves
— rough or smooth bark
Stare up into a tree or down into a flower
to see
the sublime
tender and living sculpture.
Cento (collage poem)
Source Text: The Outdoor Life of Children
a day in the country
off to lonely places
a dream of possible delights
the hot hours of the day
the vastness
the complexity
the mystery of Nature
a wild scamper
divested of garments
a spring shower is a sort of electric bath
nestling in the heather
Earth has a warm bed to offer
bodily vigour
clutches the grass
animal heat
deliciously soothed
by the cool touch of the air
the sights and sounds of the country
every one shall be delightful
I’ve been playing around quite a bit lately with erasure and found poetry. Today I constructed a cento (a collage poem) made from words/phrases found in The Outdoor Life of Children by Charlotte Mason (a British educator from the last century).
The Outdoor Life of Children
A child has a natural interest in living things
Some children are born naturalists
A very prophet of nature
Communing with the larger Mother
Unbounded interest and delight
Capers about in endless ecstasy.
Drop seeds of truth into the open soul of the child
Make full use of opportunities
Watching the ways of sparrows
Infuse into them
A seed of sympathy
A love of investigation.
The sense of beauty comes from early contact with nature
A boudoir full of shells and fossils
Flowers and seaweeds
The movements of the bird, cloud, lamb, child
Unspeakable awe and delight
He is in bliss
The sad child-life from which bees and birds and flowers are shut out.
Let him work with things
Not with signs
The things of Nature in their own places
Meadow and hedgerow
Woods and shore.
Cherish in each child
Their capacity of being pleased
Children are storing up memories of a happy childhood
Every hour spent in the open air is clear gain
he requires you to be irrational
for if it isn’t you
then who could it be
he’s unable to chance
being out of his mind
blame is easier
than self-reflection
or personal implications
even while ceaselessly
contemplating his own reflection
you’d expect he’d perceive
the reality and truth
but the warped glass
allows only distorted forms
accessible to countless
understandings
and misinterpretations
I’ve been playing around a bit with erasure and found poetry lately. Today I decided to grab a random book off my shelf (specifically not poetry) and construct a poem of sorts from words/phrases in the first few pages/chapters.
The book I chose to play with today was Habits by Charlotte Mason (a British educator from the last century).
Habits
We are all mere creatures of habit
we think our accustomed thoughts
make our usual small talk
the trivial round
the common task
The mother’s thoughts run on her children
the painter’s on pictures
the poet’s on poems
The philospher—
a thinker of high thoughts—
apt to forget that the thought that defiles
behaves precisely as the thought that purifies
The child—
born with the future in his hands—
the habits of the child
produce the character of the man
an act of faith resting on experience
The effort of decision is the greatest effort of life
not the doing of the thing
but the making up of one’s mind
which thing to do first
N + 0 thru N + 13
A Bell, that is not music.
A Bench, that is not mystery.
A Benefit, that is not myth.
A Bias, that is not nail.
A Bible, that is not name.
A Bid, that is not nation.
A Bike, that is not nationalism.
A Bile, that is not nationalist.
A Bill, that is not nationality.
A Billion, that is not nature.
A Bin, that is not navy.
A Biography, that is not necessity.
Snowball Constraint
I
Am
Hip
Olde
Hippy
Rocker
Grandma
N + 7 – “But soft!” Monologue
But soft! What link through yonder wish breezes?
It is the Edge, and Juliet is the supper!
Arise, fair supper, and kill the envious mosaic
Who is already sick and pale with guarantee
That thou her majority assembly far more fair than she.
Anagrams of my name: Debi Taylor-Hough
abide thoroughly
beadily thorough
bloodier haughty
bloody haughtier
doughboy lathier
hidable yoghurt
holiday rebought
Antonyms – “But soft!” Monologue
But stonelike! What duskiness through nearby doorway restores?
It is the West, and Juliet is the moon!
Lie down, mediocre moon, and enliven the undesiring star.
Who is not healthy and dark with joy
That thou her gentleman isn’t less ugly than she.
UNDONE
Undone.
Undoing.
Unwooing, unwon.
Under.
Underwear, under where? Under there.
Over there.
Over and out.
Out and about.
‘Bout time.
Time heals.
All wounds?
Wounded warrior.
Warrior woman.
Women, woe men, no men.
A man.
Amen.
And amen.
And anon.
An anonymous hippopotamus and rhinocerous are preposterous.
Disasterous.
Diatomaceaous earth.
Earthling.
Unearthing.
Unnerving.
Unending.
Undoing.
Undone.
Debi Taylor-Hough 