Experimental Writing

 

I. I Remember Us.

 

I remember when you taught me how to eat an ice cream cone. Because with you, there

                was always a proper way how to do everything. Even a proper way to eat an

                ice cream cone.

I remember how I was supposed to lick the edges first.

I remember because you showed me how. How to wrap my tongue around each scoop

                of chocolate bliss. To catch each drop before it fell, racing down a pointed,

                waffle- textured slide onto the collar of my white soccer jersey.

I remember the stains that wouldn’t come out, searing brown deliciousness on my chest.

I remember licking my sticky fingers, and the way you held my hand anyway.

I remember walking as we licked. And talking as we walked. Because according to you,

                people should walk while eating ice cream.

I remember other things you taught me, too.

I remember Saturday mornings at Pine Street Park. I wore a helmet, kneepads, and wrist

                guards. You wore your grey Cape Cod sweatshirt.

I remember training wheels. And how I made you hold onto the back of my seat as I peddled.

I remember the first time you let go.

I remember falling, scraped knees, and bloody palms.

I remember the Barbie Band-Aids I made you buy, and every boo-boo you were able to mend.

I remember the broken hearts you couldn’t fix, and I remember the way you tried anyway.

I remember when you held my hand when my goldfish died in the second grade, and how you
               held my hair back the first time I got drunk and threw up.

I remember your wide rimmed glasses. Tortoise ovals framing your eyes.

I remember how one day I wanted to get frozen yogurt, not ice cream.

I remember how we ate out of white, plastic cups. Not cones.

I remember how you asked for a green spoon, not a pink one. Because with you, there was
               always a proper way to eat frozen yogurt, and a proper color spoon to use.

I remember how I still spilled on my tee shirt. And I still made a mess.

And I remember how you held my sticky fingers. Because with you, there was always a proper
             way to do everything. And that’s how we were supposed to be.

Together.

I remember. And I won’t let us go.

 

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II. Multiple Choice

 

1. Live without ______

                 a. Regret                                 c. Enemies

                 b. Carbohydrates                   d. Risk

 

2. Remember _______

           a. To smile                             c. Your toothbrush

                   b. Where you came from     d. The Alamo

 

3. Don’t lose ________

                  a. Your cool                            c. Your lunch money

                  b. Your integrity                    d. Your faith

 

4. Take ______

                  a. Nothing for granted            c. The wheel

                  b. Back the night                     d. Turns

 

5. Follow ________

                  a. The stars                                c. Your heart

                  b. The instructions                  d. No, lead.

 

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III. Instruction Manual

Catch the 9:24 train out to Douglaston.

Walk thirty paces north from the station,

past Gino’s Pizzeria, where you only order

burgers anyway, and make a left

at the corner. Proceed another twenty paces

or so, until you come to a gravel parking lot.

The one where your sister Julianne first

learned to parallel park the blue Jeep Cherokee.

That car you had your last kiss with Michael in

before he moved to Virginia; with the radio

blasting that A Rocket to the Moon song you

never really liked.

Turn right at the parking lot, and keep walking

to Oak Tree Park. Open the latch to the gate,

or hop the fence if you want to feel like you

are back in high school. Go for it,

no one’s watching.

At the rear corner of the park, a cluster of parents

will be twirling their children on the tire swing,

unaware that their neighbor’s kids meet there

every night and pass a joint around the circle. A

tight-knit oval sewn with grass, vibrating as the tire

spins and each quivering lip inhales. You’ll

remember when you see it. Walk directly past the

jungle gym, on the woodchip path, to the blacktop.

Grab the chalk, and draw.

It is supposed to rain this afternoon, and the

red-eyed sixteen year old puffers will probably

leave a trail of crushed Tostito chips and

cheese balls on it anyway. But maybe not.

That girl with the pink mittens on the tube slide

might see it. It might mean something. Go for it,

Draw.

No one’s watching.

 

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IV. Advertisement: Lysol Wipes

Wipe, wash, wisp away

Your disarray,

The mess you’ve made!

Soak up the floods

of filth and ache

Swab, sponge, and mop

grime left astray!

The clutter and clobber

that burden your load

can now be erased

with one nimble flow.

A flick of the wrist, and

a stick of the cloth,

as it clings to the dust

and swipes to and froth!

Schwizzle schwazzle

across the floor

your hand to guide her,

as she glides and soars

and washes and cleans

to collect crumbs and grime,

each molecule sticks to her

bodice and gallantly climbs,

up, upon her porous chest, as she

wisps and wasps away the mess.

O’ you’d better believe

the rumors, the lure,

and of course all the hype,

O’ you’d better leave today

to pick up your

Lysol Wipes!

 

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V. Synchronicity

 

Here and There

You are like a stack of newspapers. The Business Section

of the Wall Street Journal, perhaps, in your suede forest

green suite and your thick, square-rimmed glasses. A pile of

razor-thin pages, hunched and threatening to topple over into

the tomato soup you dip your ham and mustard sandwich

so casually into. I steal glances at you in between bites

of my biscotti and each clue on the crossword puzzle. Lyla sits

3-Across from me, and I can hear Dave Matthews leaking from

her headphones, mixing with the radio commercials playing in

the background in that cozy café across the street. Outside, she

is racing past 34th. His cheeks are rosy from the crisp air, and

he reaches for his gloves as he races past Bobby’s Delicatessen.

(Like in that airport terminal, where she reaches for his hands

before he jets off to Phoenix.) Jodi is late, still curled beneath

lilac covers somewhere on 41st, shutting out painful sunlight

and nauseating memories of two tequila shots too many. Or

was it the Dry Martinis? Three toothpicks line the bottom of her

purse. She never really liked olives anyway. (You do, though,

as you pick them out of her salad and dunk them into your soup).

There are four pairs of headphones now. And two biscotti

left. Perhaps you are 17-Across, in your suede forest green

suite. “Lisbon” that’s the capital of Norway, Lyla points and

spits. “No, it’s Oslo,” I correct her, and stare at the pits on your plate.

 

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Commentary:

                   My favorite poem I read this week was Joe Brainard’s “I Remember.” I felt that repeating the same first two words in every line helped to link very different memories together and made the piece more fluid and cohesive. I also found the poem’s sense of nostalgia fairly comforting, which led me to write of my own childhood memories in two of the poems I completed. In my first poem, I mimic Brainard’s format and begin each line with the phrase “I remember.” Lately, I find myself thinking of memories shared with my father, so I decided to incorporate these into the poem. I tried to include casual, almost mundane memories, in order to convey how much of an influence he had on me even during ordinary moments. At the end, I break my constraint, and begin the final lines with words other than “I Remember.” I feel that my final lines are more intriguing than they would have been if I had maintained my pattern. Like Pierre Joris explained during his visit, “Only do something as long as it is interesting.”

                 My second poem is in the form of an examination. I feel this is my least successful poem, since I feel all multiple-choice tests are a bit boring and mechanical. I therefore tried to incorporate a bit of humor, and provided some comical answer choices, such as “Live without… carbohydrates.” I also tried to mock the whole notion of taking a multiple-choice test by providing answers that were not necessarily mutually exclusive. Why shouldn’t one both to smile, and their toothbrush?

               My third poem takes the form of an instruction manual. This is the other poem that includes details from my own childhood—I selected some locations that I knew, and included a few of my own high school memories. I felt this made my poem more personal, since I did not want to create a strict set of instructions. I again also wanted to mock the type of format I was using a little bit. For example, I use the line “Go on, no one’s watching” twice in order to emphasize that sometimes, it is better to disobey instructions, or at least not to follow them robotically. I find this is the case both in writing poetry, and in many other aspects of my own life.

             My advertisement poem for Lysol Wipes was definitely the most enjoyable for me to write. I again wanted to write about the ordinary, and to try to make this mundane object sound alluring. I also used free-flowing verse rather than the common format used for advertisements, experimenting to see if this style made the product seem more attractive. I ended up giving the wipes a life of their own, describing them with human features and genders. I also used a lot of alliteration, since I find it aesthetically appealing, which many advertisements are.

            In the final poem I completed, “Here and There,” all of the events occur at once. I wanted to include events occurring both within and outside of the narrator’s immediate vicinity. I also included events that affected her on a personal level, as well as events she had no idea were occurring at the time (like the couple parting at the airport). Even though this poem did not necessarily have to be geared towards the theme of “memory,” I ended up including aspects of myself in it. For example, I love crosswords, and some of the events could have easily occurred on Penn’s campus. I purposely did not mention Penn, as I wanted to give the effect that these occurrences could be happening anywhere around the world at the same time.