Short poem in response to Ali Smith’s book, Artful.
Artful
We lived together, her and I
Our bookshelves melded, too.
The scholar and the arborist,
Introduction days were through.
A world of sorrow at her loss.
Moving chairs to better see
My books, my rugs, my furniture.
Time heals, but not for me.
BELL
by Debi
A Bell, that is not music.
A silent tiny dull and quiet song
No chiming in its singing
nor loudness in its noiselessness
Wooden handled graceful lines
Brassy music shining under tarnish
The silence is ringing.
A Communication “Experience”
by Debi
Let us dwell for a moment,
living in recognition
of the absence of “experience.”
There is no experience,
only communication
in variations of intention.
Eventually,
being weaned of structure,
or the empirical eventuality
of pure essence,
we shall extend this law to all.
To permit its recognition,
and repetition.
We have seen the simple negativity,
the labor of the negative,
required to structure
these production variations.
We have marked from its origin,
an utterance does not modify in the slightest.
A possibility easy enough admitted today.
The “word bank” for this was Page Ten from Jacques Derrida’s essay, “Signature Event Context.” The assignment given in class tonight was to compose a poem or a piece of writing using nothing but words and phrases found on a single page (of our choice) from Derrida’s essay. We had ten minutes to write something.
If this poem makes no sense to you, well, welcome to my world of trying to read Derrida for the first time. Even when it’s not randomly selected words and phrases, his writing is more than a little bit dense.
by Debi
This quarter in the MFA program, we’re investigating more unusual writing styles and methods. Each week in our Writing Workshop, we’ll need to bring in an “experiment” we wrote or created during the week. These experiments are truly experimental. We have to write in a style or format that we’re not comfortable with and have never used before. This should prove interesting.
The following is an experimental free-form prose poem I wrote after reading Gertrude Stein’s book of poetry, Tender Buttons, and re-reading Sir Walter Raleigh’s classic poem, “The Lie.” My apologies to both. 😉
THE LIE
LYING, a hateful experience. And not.
I like lyres. I dislike liars. I don’t not dislike lying.
Quaint seaside bungalows lie along the coast. The lie of the golf ball makes an easy shot. The plain lies stretched out before us. We sprinkle lye upon the dead. Lying abed, lying down, lying low, lying with. Lying, a need in illness. A help with rest. A pseudonym for copulation.
Take it lying down. The decision lies with him.
Horizontal. Recumbent. Prostrate. Flat. Deception. Falsification. Imposture. Fib. Fibbing, flitting, flirting, fighting, lighting, lighten, lion, lie on. I think she’s lying through her teeth instead of flossing. Lying in ambush. Lying in state. Lying in later so morning can wait.
Debi Taylor-Hough 