Prose Poetry
Between Stillness and Movement
In the heat of the day, two kids, a brother and a sister, lay on an expanse of grass, still as death, until two black crows, thinking they found a dead thing, circle above. Lying on the grass, the sister absorbs the sting of the blades, the smell of the hot summer sun, the faint scent of pesticide, and, the tickle of an insect on her arm. Somewhere in the distance, she hears her grandmother picking summer okra and shooing away mosquitoes. Watching the crows circle, she feels full of life and fights the urge to turn and look at her older brother. “Don’t move,” he whispers under his breath, "they'll know we ain't dead and go away." Suddenly the sister startles and wakes in her own bed. Heart racing, her life flashes forward at supersonic speed, searching for her current identity: daughter, sister, graduate, wife, mom, and, just recently, only child. Dropping her heavy head back onto her pillow, she places her hand on her pounding heart and curses her inability to remain still and let death circle.
Speaking Pictures
The old man found an old photograph of his aunt. Thinking his cousin would like a copy, he had an enlargement made at a local drug store. In the larger picture he saw a small dark figure behind the aunt. Curiosity struck him, and while a young clerk stood impatiently by, he enlarged it again; then again, and again. Until the tiny figure evolved into a picture of his younger self, riding a bike, and grinning at the camera as he rode by. The younger self appeared to be frozen in action with cheeks hurting, silently maintaining his boyish grin for seventy plus years, waiting for this very day. Staring at the camera, the younger self seemed to want to break free of his frozen grin and send the old man a silent message. But the old man just stood there, leaning his frail figure against the counter, staring back at his younger self in his hand. Grinning, he tried to remember the day the photo was snapped. Suddenly, the old man turns to clerk and asks “What was this young man thinking that day?” “I don’t know sir,” the clerk replied, clicking his pen in agitation, “I don’t even know who that is.” Suddenly the old man hears a voice coming from the photo. Looking down at the photo in his hand, he sees his younger self look straight at him and shout, “Who are you?”
How to Write a Poem about Graduate School. Inspired by Gary Young
Inspired by Gary YoungBe sure to include frizzy, brittle hair, blood-shot eye balls, rigid fingernails, short tempers, massive weight gain and over stimulation by café lattes. Do not include stories about kittens, birds in the air, beautiful and serene moments, soft, caramelized liquidly goodness sliding down your throat, your cheek against feather pillows, or Barry Manilow’s “Looks like we made it.” Instead, mention mountains of debt, looks from professors you don't know how to interpret, feelings of paranoia, paper deadlines, missing books—important books!—in the library, working through fevers, and the constant desire to avoid what you should be doing. Include the anxious and aging mom you can’t visit; include the neglectful dad who’s dangerously ill. Mention your kids growing up in a day; the disapproval of your church friends. But don’t include family game night, clean kitchens, quiet moments with God, the cool wind through your hair, soft touches of kindness, and the sound of your own breathing. Make sure you add an irritating quote. My favorite? “So, aren’t you done with school yet?” When you are done, post it on your blog along with your mug shot and arrest report for assault.
The ComputerIn the style of Ponge
In the style of PongeTo turn on a computer in the quiet confines of a private space is a rare treat.
Between the side-cushion of the thumb and the square-rounded flat black keys, a writer communes with her self—only her self is more intelligent. This other side the self—this electro-doppelganger—is faster, smarter, neater. Its brain’s spatial capacity is agile, space can be moved, opened up, expanded.
In the stillness of the dark and quiet, the screen’s glow provides security and the click, click, clicking reassures the writer that work is getting done, ideas are being conveyed, and information is being stored. The glow and the click, the glow and the click, the glow and the click hypnotize the writer; the writer is in the zone. The writer doesn’t have to worry: the computer records, remembers, repeats, adds, subtracts, organizes, and communes with other computers. Most importantly, the computer keeps the writer’s secrets with a special password. The computer is the writer’s friend, and the writer protects the computer, often telling it, “I couldn’t get along without you.” The computer submits to the writer. It regurgitates upon command, and reading her own thoughts on the screen, the writer understands more about herself.
Yet the computer can betray the writer. Upon invasion by an outside force, a computernapper, it can develop Stockholm syndrome. And quick as a stroke, the computer is compelled to submit to a new master. The computer will testify against the writer, confess all the writer’s private thoughts, reveal the writer's hyperspace trail, divulge secret files, tell the writer’s story, anything to make the invader happy. It regurgitates upon command. And reading the writer’s thoughts on the screen, the invader understands more about the writer, perhaps more than the writer herself knows.
Do Not AssumeIn the style of Ponge
In the style of PongeDo not assume we live only in our bodies. We shed pieces of ourselves everywhere we go. Walking between two cars we might rest our hand for a moment on a car’s glass window; days later that car travels 1,500 miles to the north where some stranger in a Butte Montana service station offers “Here, let me wipe that window for you,” and with one wipe, our trip has ended. Or maybe in a salon, a manicurist trims our nails and tosses our DNA into the trash. Somewhere in a dump our genetic make-up will rest eternally among banana peels and chicken bones. In the movie theatre, we may rise up from the seat, but leave a strand of hair behind, resting on soft purple upholstery, coated with butter and dandruff. But perhaps later that strand of our hair will catch hold of some young man’s coat, experiencing an adventure never afforded it when it lived on our own head. Perhaps the young man is murdered and some criminologist extracts one long strand of our hair from his jacket, thinking Ah, what have we here? and enters our DNA in a multimillion dollar database with pedophiles and serial killers.
Between Sleeping and Waking You Live In the style of Edson
In the style of EdsonThe nun from the church next door snuck into our house while we slept and turned on the angry, rusty attic fan. I woke when I heard it creak on, whine and scream out loud. Then it bellowed out its rage, and I smelt the musk and must of history escape through its blades and creep down the hall. I pulled the covers over my nose, but my nose saw it creep and dance and my ears tasted its anger. The big black fog of secret heritage stretched and groaned and morphed into a snake slithering up my leg. I screamed silence and shook your shoulder for help, but you turned to dust and what remained of you entered my being through my nose, my ears, my eyeballs, and even the holes left from my plucked eyebrows. With an eerie foreboding, I held up my hand and it became a mirror. I saw my reflection; I was you and you cried.
Re-writing the ScriptIn the style of Edson
In the style of EdsonThe sexy, hot model on the television set looked at me and slapped my face. The slap shattered the tube, and she climbed out of the box and proceeded to invade my closet. She snatched my old wedding dress and put it on. And she began to grow. The dress stretched until the threads cut into her skin, and then she began to bleed and cry. Amazed and shocked, I handed her a Diet Coke and a Baby Ruth. She gobbled up the candy and downed the diet soda, and then she began to shrink. Once she was the size of a Barbie Doll, I picked her up and put her back in the television. I grabbed my dress and shoved it in the television too. I repaired the screen with silver duct tape, and wrapped my Wedding Ring to the antenna with aluminum foil so that I could get a clearer picture. I rewound the video, and watched it with hyper sensation. I saw myself growing up, getting married, and giving birth. I heard every thought I had and saw every dream I ever dreamed in a single frame. I saw my self grow larger and larger, but my picture became smaller and smaller. I fast-forwarded it, passing the present and stopping to watch the future. I screamed and pulled the tape out. Grabbing the movie Alien I ran to the kitchen. I have just enough time, I thought. I put both videos in a casserole dish with Tuna, dumped Cream of Mushroom soup on top, and baked it in the oven. When my husband came home, I served it up with red wine and candles. He told me that was the best meal he ever had, and I smiled when he complained of indigestion.
Romance
I love storms. I love the omen the cool breeze in summer brings. I love the newscaster’s dire warnings to take cover, the radar flashing in the background, the needle circling the map, searching for the enemy. I love the first sounds of rain hitting the tin porch cover, steadily hitting stronger. I love running outside with my family, laughing, screaming, dodging hail, rolling up windows, moving cars to safety, covering those left outside with cardboard and blankets. I love it when the satellite goes out and the electricity goes out. I love hunting through the house for candles and matches, the smell of sulfur, the glow of gold flames. I love the excited look on my kids’ faces as they light their candles and move about the house. I love sitting around the table with them, eating, laughing, and watching for tornados. I love it when it lasts all night, and we all go to bed not knowing if tomorrow we’ll still be alive.
Family footsteps
Soaking in the tub, I look at my feet and think of my brother. We had the same feet, momma’s feet, except his were slightly pigeon toed. I smile and remember him as a boy, tripping over his new cowboy boots; he was so bruised my mom worried the police would arrest her for child abuse. My brother fascinates my son Matt. He drove a Harley, wore a wife-beater, sported a skull and crossbones tattoo, owned guns, knives, and swords, cussed profusely, raised hell, and yet he offered jobs to the jobless and a home for the homeless. “Tell me again how Uncle Mack got arrested,” my son would ask, always anxious for more “Mack stories.” I then remember earlier days—the drugs, the long disappearances, the money he stole, my mother scraping for bail money. How do you dispel the legend of a dead saint? I look at my feet poking out from the bubbles and with reluctance I admit, Matt has our feet, too.
Note: All poetry on this page is the sole creation of Lynda J. Davis; therefore, poetry from this site cannot be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission by the author--LJD.
Department of English
Texas Christian University
TCU Box 297270
Fort Worth, TX 76129
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"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, "A Defense of Poetry"
"Poets are the legislators of the unacknowledged world."
- George Oppen, American Poet
