Author Topic: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)  (Read 913 times)

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« on: May 07, 2019, 04:07:57 PM »
[attached is pdf with formatting, below is unformatted text]

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

For all my profs who hibernate
in the English Building
(my home away from home
away from home away from home)
and some who dwell elsewhere.

It is opposite day
the folks in semi-formal ensembles
have taken over all
four corner class rooms
with the squared round tables
while the poets in jeans
fading out blue
with the help of the other
creative writing staff
take the rest of the rooms
with mini podiums yellowed
and paperclipped desks
in the building with
missing ceiling tiles and
holed walls and
maybe even the ghost of a girl
who died drowning
in the basement pool.
Well the pool’s gone,
but her legacy lives on
among the blue teal couches shaped in waves
even today
on opposite day.


Some of the poets walk in
with a body bag of food,
mostly the sweet stuff…
something about feed-them-while-you-can
or the starving artist mentality…
as they announce to us
to call them anything but
“professor.”
Then they fade out
into a memory
with the occasional swear word
for flavor
that doesn’t seem to have much to do
with today’s class,
but it’s fun to hear.
Somehow they find their way back
towards the topicless topic following bread crumbs
they left along the way.
They read something out loud and lead a discussion on its mushiness.
Then they read a poem like one of Wallace Stevens’
referring to its ancestor poems written long before
and its descendants bridging the unfamiliar places and times
while quoting what other poets had to say on things like memory,
as they get most of the class to jump into the dialogue.
I feel like I can give a speech for this class using my own strangled voice
instead of the synthetic voice from my computer.
There are wrong answers in this class though.  I find out the hard way by saying what I think the poem is trying to do.
But at the end of class, everyone gets an A for showing up and turning something in. 
The poet in charge assigns a 30 page literary criticism explication on a piece of toilet paper due whenever.  But the students still walk out happy having discussed everything from their sex lives to getting high and they know that 30 pages are not “30 pages.”  Some of these students will go wait in line for office hours to talk about life problems, hang out, or maybe even talk about class.  I go sit in a hallway upstairs with wooden floors that creak whenever someone passes in the misshapen line for an hour and 11 minutes to get a metaphor in answer to my questions. 

The corner classes open without the same instruction, but the implication is that we should call them “Professors.”  Today, they are not obligated to respond to email.  But if they make an exception for me with my speech (or lack of it), they should write poetic replies.  It is my day to workshop my poem:
I wrote a poem about Dorothy, after her awakening and how she marries Hunk, Scarecrow’s double, with the Cowardly Lion’s and Tin Man’s doubles as the best men in the black and white wedding where her uncle gave her away as the Lullaby League/Lollipop Guild (the parents of the overly plump Oompa Loompas and the grandparents of Mini-Me) sing a wedding march lullaby and the Wizard of Oz became a traveling preacher giving them their wedding vows to repeat.  It ends with everyone living happily ever after. 


After reading the poem out loud, the professor asks the class if anyone has read the book.  None of us answer silently acknowledging Rhetoric majors like writing over reading…we all say we have seen the movie looking for the man who hung himself behind one of the trees in the forest; but we do not escape a lecture on the importance of reading.  Then we discuss Dorothy’s agency and the lack of intent on my part in the poem.  After class I get a copy of my poem back from the professor submerged in green. 
Not Leaves of Grass green or American Beauty rose bush green.
Not the bottles of insect repellant that used to have DDT until Silent Spring stopped the blackwhite photos of children running behind trucks farting a thick cloudy cream residue green.
Not the colorful scales of butterfly wings that children’s chubby oily fingers rub off ending their flower floating days, or the luna moths pinned pining away in glass boxes light green.
Not the Hills are still alive green, or the green scenic route that Heidi and Peter run through to see the Lady of the Mountain maybe dragging Clara along behind them in the book I actually finished in fifth grade green. 
Not Great Gaspy’s night light he yearns for, almost touching the light’s reflection in the sea green.
Not the green in the powerful Black rainbow green.
Not the hanging drapes in the emperor’s room that fell to the floor after hiding his hero’s broken sword green.
Not new life in broken spring branches cast in the version of The Secret Garden with Mother Superior from Sister Act who became the feisty older woman on an air tank mixing a rupee in Sandra Bullock’s drink to knock her on her ass green. 
   Not the same tree branch green the leaders tell the people it’s good to eat while they probably throw parties of feasts in North Korea green. 
Not Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles meets Sir Gawain over some slices of pizza, “kawabunga” green. 
Not forest green—I’m not sure how a forest can be defined in one shade of green, but somehow Crayola and GMC found a way green.
Not dehydrated pee in white toilet water green. 
Not Kermit The Frog making out with Miss Piggy on a lily pad or the other way around green. 
Not the Starbucks straws with the lady on the sign who looks like Ms. Liberty that you can get sweeter at the gas station green. 
Not neon stoplight green or those highway signs that can be seen no matter how dark it is green. 
Not apple scented Palmolive “tough on grease, soft on hands” dish soap green. 
Not “Good Riddance” by you guessed it, Green Day green. 
Not the vegetables in my mom’s garden green (like the cucumbers and the picture of my dad feeding an infant me a whole cucumber) green. 
Not the sleek cool color of my broken in wheelchair with the “Jesus loves you” fake license plate on the back that is slowly dying but I still like better than my new batmobile chair that didn’t come in any shade of green green.
Not peeled kiwi green that I think my gomo taught us how to eat with a spoon making furry hollowed miniature bowls green. 
Not the alarm clock light I want to smash into pieces for 15 more minutes of sleep green. 
Not salted seaweed (hold your comments to yourself please) that looks black until held in the light to reveal a stain glass kaleidoscope green. 
Not the 3 bottles of Garnier Fructis Style: with fruit micro-waxes on my bathroom shelf that I’m not really sure what they do, but they do smell nice green.
Not washabi causing sensations up the nose as strong as Tiger Balm green. 
Not 7up that seems to be replaced by Sprite and Mountain Dew; nothing like an unpaid product placement, how unpoetic of me green.
Not the herbal drinks we drink as he talks of Asian parents while we eat breakfast together and plot making our own drinks from the weeds outside and selling them on the black market green.
Not my moving forest image on instant messenger that does its thing during our late night conversations on boys becoming men and poetry, but mostly boys, dancing til 2am green.
Not Happy’s faded collar that I hold realizing death as I stare at its roundness with a few strands of his fur embedded into the seams making me remember how he used to get sad when we took it off as he nudged us to put his collar back on, or the light tennis balls we used to throw for him as he just laid in the shade telling us to fetch it ourselves and occasionally catching it—running away from us with the ball in his mouth telling us to “come and get it” in our now empty backyard green. 
And definitely NOT emerald green. 
Just pen green.

A B-, which is basically a nice F
on this side of the rainbow, stings my eyes as I
start reading the pen green comments—
something about how I should pick out my message first and everything else should fall into place…
and that it’s too simple with my happy ending and how it makes Dorothy lack agency and how the poem needs more agency.  Then it goes on to say that there is so much room to play around within the context of the text within my text. 
Like a feminist reading: Why is the all powerful Oz a man?  What is going on with her red shoes?  Does the original text put the women into “Mad Woman in the Attic” roles?  Why does the text put the Wicked Witch and the Good Witch in seemingly opposing roles and where does Dorothy fit in?  Asking what if I changed this. 
Or a post colonial interpretation: Why are all the flying monkeys serving the Wicked Witch?  Could it be a form of colonization or slavery?  What are the monkeys really saying? 
Even queer theory: The rainbow, hello? 
Most importantly, where is good ol’ Freud?  He has to be here somewhere.  Do some psycho psychoanalysis…
and I trailed off from there.  It went on off about Derrida’s deconstruction, post modernism, formalism, Lévi-Strauss’ structuralism, and other stuff I got a headache in lit theory class that I still don’t really get.  A poet once said in class that he doesn’t give back our poems with written comments on them because he still remembers how his heart sank when he got back his English papers.  I could feel my heart sink skimming these comments in between classes in the dark hallway with collages of colored paper taped stapled to the walls.
I quickly came up with a revision:  Dorothy sings “If I only had a dick” and the four kill Oz to do some Dr. Frankenstein operation to turn him into a woman who knows what she’s talking about.

Only one prof took the day
off.  The man with a Ph.D.
who says “ain’t”
to keep it real with the people,
who are not his people.
The man who looks like Santa Claus with his white beard and full sized belly and in whose world there is no God, except Langston Hughes, who he would gladly leave his wife for if Langston was still alive and would take him.
I suppose he tries.  Preaching on how the grad students are over worked and under paid.  He even wrote a book on the exploitation of grad students, driving the manuscript in his pimped out SUV. 
He sat mid-winter in his Hawaiian shirt
hands on his balding scalp saying
“Poets are hard to live with.”
As if literary critics are not hard to live with.

His absence was not noticed by the walls of paper that leads to a ramp where shriveled up remnants of tan phallic symbols sunbathe making their own yellow brick road outside of the English Building where none of the sides match.  Very fitting the English/Rhetoric major thrift store retro don’t give a flying shit (unless you’re a Secondary Ed major or a law school sell out) dress code, if you ask me.  The side on Wright Street looks like a factory with a squared circle driveway to a garage door for loading and unloading fermenting books that once were worth more than their weight in gold; if you do not believe me just ask Mrs. Bath and the Korean man who left his family his books to sell should he not return.  The window above the garage door is arched, grand, and tall looking like it belongs to a classy house on a movie set as it hovers over the rest of the windows that look like my suburban home white crosses making squares on the windows while grey striped vents pass as windows on the bottom.  On either end of the wall’s peak rests a sun with rays inside a circled window, Lemony Smicket’s two eyes peering down on people passing the thin tall lamp post standing all alone.
The bike path leads to more white windows on a blackred brick wall where Dracula must have crawled face down a half a zillion times landing on the cement sand gravel water formed cream molding, beginning his prowl to give glorified hickeys.  This wall, unlike the others, has a bed of binder rings sticking out of the soft concrete, rusticated penny copper pipes, and faded green roof shingles where chim chim cheree chimney sweepers dance on angled windows.  By day, Dracula doppelganges as an English professor dressed in a baby blue suit and NY Yankees baseball cap, living in his quad side office, complete with his mattress bed and empty Coke cans that he smuggles blood in with. 
A tree waves the way to the roman pillars, Shakespeare’s balconies, a 1950’s Hollywood epic rejecting Norma Desmond, and to more trees hiding fake stone flower pots holding up the two mini grand staircases with circled diamond black rails that point up to the gothic blackwhite lanterns that guard these entrances.  These off lights point to the two sandy brown ribbons with acorn ends that marks the path to the twin towers with planetarium domes—a sun talking to its moon glancing down at the block x’s with rollers and walkers Xinging. 
A few rollers roll through the curvy sideway past the secret underground passage where the girl’s ghost might come out of for some night air.  Maybe she walks to the glass office doorway on the southern style porch lined with wooden white fenced railings that climb to the second story porch where a faded American flag is hung against the air conditioner boxes peeping out of window cells.  Perhaps she sits on the porch looking past the blue chalked words on the yellowed peeling white painted posts, down the stairs and beyond the tree walkways towards Lincoln until she has had enough time to think and heads back by taking the bikeway to one of the marbleized stairs by the squared circle driveway to the garage door for loading and unloading the fermenting books.

She passeS
me with her
bloated bare
feet fad-
ing
out red
as I take one
last look towards
the home of the poor
proletariats and their
never ending argument
in the rubrics
cube of
a building.

Revised 6/10/05, 9/7/13, 5/21/16
-e

Offline nosuchmember

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 1067
    • Heartsong's Poetry  Diary
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #1 on: May 07, 2019, 06:58:47 PM »
[attached is pdf with formatting, below is unformatted text]


I saw/see no attachment.  I had a problem understanding what I was reading. So. I changed the format. Hope you don't mind. I think it's very well written.     jt


Somewhere Over the Rainbow

For all my profs who hibernate in the English Building (my home away from home away from home away from home)and some who dwell elsewhere.

It is opposite day the folks in semi-formal ensembles have taken over all four corner class rooms with the squared round tables while the poets in jeans fading out blue with the help of the other creative writing staff take the rest of the rooms with mini podiums yellowed and paperclipped desks in the building with missing ceiling tiles and holed walls and maybe even the ghost of a girl who died drowning in the basement pool.

Well the pool’s gone,but her legacy lives on
among the blue teal couches shaped in waves
even today on opposite day.


Some of the poets walk in with a body bag of food,
mostly the sweet stuff… something about feed-them-while-you-can or the starving artist mentality… as they announce to us to call them anything but “professor.”

Then they fade out into a memory with the occasional swear word  for flavor that doesn’t seem to have much to do with today’s class,
but it’s fun to hear.

Somehow they find their way back towards the topicless topic following bread crumbs they left along the way.

They read something out loud and lead a discussion on its mushiness.

Then they read a poem like one of Wallace Stevens’
referring to its ancestor poems written long before and its descendants bridging the unfamiliar places and times while quoting what other poets had to say on things like memory, as they get most of the class to jump into the dialogue.

I feel like I can give a speech for this class using my own strangled voice instead of the synthetic voice from my computer.

There are wrong answers in this class though.

I find out the hard way by saying what I think the poem is trying to do.

But at the end of class, everyone gets an A for showing up and turning something in.
 
The poet in charge assigns a 30 page literary criticism explication on a piece of toilet paper due whenever. 

But the students still walk out happy having discussed everything from their sex lives to getting high and they know that 30 pages are not “30 pages.” 

Some of these students will go wait in line for office hours to talk about life problems, hang out, or maybe even talk about class. 

I go sit in a hallway upstairs with wooden floors that creak whenever someone passes in the misshapen line for an hour and 11 minutes to get a metaphor in answer to my questions. 

The corner classes open without the same instruction, but the implication is that we should call them “Professors.” 

Today, they are not obligated to respond to email.

But if they make an exception for me with my speech (or lack of it), they should write poetic replies. 

It is my day to workshop my poem:

I wrote a poem about Dorothy, after her awakening and how she marries Hunk, Scarecrow’s double, with the Cowardly Lion’s and Tin Man’s doubles as the best men in the black and white wedding where her uncle gave her away as the Lullaby League/Lollipop Guild (the parents of the overly plump Oompa Loompas and the grandparents of Mini-Me) sing a wedding march lullaby and the Wizard of Oz became a traveling preacher giving them their wedding vows to repeat. 

It ends with everyone living happily ever after. 


After reading the poem out loud, the professor asks the class if anyone has read the book. 

None of us answer silently acknowledging Rhetoric majors like writing over reading…we all say we have seen the movie looking for the man who hung himself behind one of the trees in the forest; but we do not escape a lecture on the importance of reading. 

Then we discuss Dorothy’s agency and the lack of intent on my part in the poem. 

After class I get a copy of my poem back from the professor submerged in green. 

Not Leaves of Grass green or American Beauty rose bush green.

Not the bottles of insect repellant that used to have DDT until Silent Spring stopped the blackwhite photos of children running behind trucks farting a thick cloudy cream residue green.

Not the colorful scales of butterfly wings that children’s chubby oily fingers rub off ending their flower floating days, or the luna moths pinned pining away in glass boxes light green.

Not the Hills are still alive green, or the green scenic route that Heidi and Peter run through to see the Lady of the Mountain maybe dragging Clara along behind them in the book I actually finished in fifth grade green. 

Not Great Gaspy’s night light he yearns for, almost touching the light’s reflection in the sea green.

Not the green in the powerful Black rainbow green.

Not the hanging drapes in the emperor’s room that fell to the floor after hiding his hero’s broken sword green.

Not new life in broken spring branches cast in the version of The Secret Garden with Mother Superior from Sister Act who became the feisty older woman on an air tank mixing a rupee in Sandra Bullock’s drink to knock her on her ass green.
 
Not the same tree branch green the leaders tell the people it’s good to eat while they probably throw parties of feasts in North Korea green.
 
Not Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles meets Sir Gawain over some slices of pizza, “kawabunga” green.
 
Not forest green—I’m not sure how a forest can be defined in one shade of green, but somehow Crayola and GMC found a way green.

Not dehydrated pee in white toilet water green.
 
Not Kermit The Frog making out with Miss Piggy on a lily pad or the other way around green.
 
Not the Starbucks straws with the lady on the sign who looks like Ms. Liberty that you can get sweeter at the gas station green.
 
Not neon stoplight green or those highway signs that can be seen no matter how dark it is green.
 
Not apple scented Palmolive “tough on grease, soft on hands” dish soap green.
 
Not “Good Riddance” by you guessed it, Green Day green. 

Not the vegetables in my mom’s garden green (like the cucumbers and the picture of my dad feeding an infant me a whole cucumber) green.
 
Not the sleek cool color of my broken in wheelchair with the “Jesus loves you” fake license plate on the back that is slowly dying but I still like better than my new batmobile chair that didn’t come in any shade of green green.

Not peeled kiwi green that I think my gomo taught us how to eat with a spoon making furry hollowed miniature bowls green.
 
Not the alarm clock light I want to smash into pieces for 15 more minutes of sleep green.
 
Not salted seaweed (hold your comments to yourself please) that looks black until held in the light to reveal a stain glass kaleidoscope green.
 
Not the 3 bottles of Garnier Fructis Style: with fruit micro-waxes on my bathroom shelf that I’m not really sure what they do, but they do smell nice green.

Not washabi causing sensations up the nose as strong as Tiger Balm green. 

Not 7up that seems to be replaced by Sprite and Mountain Dew; nothing like an unpaid product placement, how unpoetic of me green.

Not the herbal drinks we drink as he talks of Asian parents while we eat breakfast together and plot making our own drinks from the weeds outside and selling them on the black market green.

Not my moving forest image on instant messenger that does its thing during our late night conversations on boys becoming men and poetry, but mostly boys, dancing til 2am green.

Not Happy’s faded collar that I hold realizing death as I stare at its roundness with a few strands of his fur embedded into the seams making me remember how he used to get sad when we took it off as he nudged us to put his collar back on, or the light tennis balls we used to throw for him as he just laid in the shade telling us to fetch it ourselves and occasionally catching it—running away from us with the ball in his mouth telling us to “come and get it” in our now empty backyard green.
 
And definitely NOT emerald green. 

Just pen green.

A B-, which is basically a nice F on this side of the rainbow, stings my eyes as I start reading the pen green comments— something about how I should pick out my message first and everything else should fall into place… and that it’s too simple with my happy ending and how it makes Dorothy lack agency and how the poem needs more agency. 

Then it goes on to say that there is so much room to play around within the context of the text within my text. 

Like a feminist reading: Why is the all powerful Oz a man?
 
What is going on with her red shoes?
 
Does the original text put the women into “Mad Woman in the Attic” roles?   

Why does the text put the Wicked Witch and the Good Witch in seemingly opposing roles and where does Dorothy fit in? 

Asking what if I changed this. 

Or a post colonial interpretation:

Why are all the flying monkeys serving the Wicked Witch? 

Could it be a form of colonization or slavery?

What are the monkeys really saying?
 
Even queer theory:

The rainbow, hello? 

Most importantly, where is good ol’ Freud? 

He has to be here somewhere. 

Do some psycho psychoanalysis… and I trailed off from there. 

It went on off about Derrida’s deconstruction, post modernism, formalism, Lévi-Strauss’ structuralism, and other stuff I got a headache in lit theory class that I still don’t really get. 

A poet once said in class that he doesn’t give back our poems with written comments on them because he still remembers how his heart sank when he got back his English papers. 

I could feel my heart sink skimming these comments in between classes in the dark hallway with collages of colored paper taped stapled to the walls.

I quickly came up with a revision:

Dorothy sings “If I only had a dick” and the four kill Oz to do some Dr. Frankenstein operation to turn him into a woman who knows what she’s talking about.

Only one prof took the day off.  The man with a Ph.D.  who says “ain’t” to keep it real with the people, who are not his people.

The man who looks like Santa Claus with his white beard and full sized belly and in whose world there is no God, except Langston Hughes, who he would gladly leave his wife for if Langston was still alive and would take him.

I suppose he tries. 

Preaching on how the grad students are over worked and under paid. 

He even wrote a book on the exploitation of grad students, driving the manuscript in his pimped out SUV.
 
He sat mid-winter in his Hawaiian shirt hands on his balding scalp saying “Poets are hard to live with.”

As if literary critics are not hard to live with.

His absence was not noticed by the walls of paper that leads to a ramp where shriveled up remnants of tan phallic symbols sunbathe making their own yellow brick road outside of the English Building where none of the sides match. 

Very fitting the English/Rhetoric major thrift store retro don’t give a flying shit (unless you’re a Secondary Ed major or a law school sell out) dress code, if you ask me. 

The side on Wright Street looks like a factory with a squared circle driveway to a garage door for loading and unloading fermenting books that once were worth more than their weight in gold; if you do not believe me just ask Mrs. Bath and the Korean man who left his family his books to sell should he not return. 

The window above the garage door is arched, grand, and tall looking like it belongs to a classy house on a movie set as it hovers over the rest of the windows that look like my suburban home white crosses making squares on the windows while grey striped vents pass as windows on the bottom. 

On either end of the wall’s peak rests a sun with rays inside a circled window, Lemony Smicket’s two eyes peering down on people passing the thin tall lamp post standing all alone.

The bike path leads to more white windows on a blackred brick wall where Dracula must have crawled face down a half a zillion times landing on the cement sand gravel water formed cream molding, beginning his prowl to give glorified hickeys. 

This wall, unlike the others, has a bed of binder rings sticking out of the soft concrete, rusticated penny copper pipes, and faded green roof shingles where chim chim cheree chimney sweepers dance on angled windows. 

By day, Dracula doppelganges as an English professor dressed in a baby blue suit and NY Yankees baseball cap, living in his quad side office, complete with his mattress bed and empty Coke cans that he smuggles blood in with.
 
A tree waves the way to the roman pillars, Shakespeare’s balconies, a 1950’s Hollywood epic rejecting Norma Desmond, and to more trees hiding fake stone flower pots holding up the two mini grand staircases with circled diamond black rails that point up to the gothic blackwhite lanterns that guard these entrances. 

These off lights point to the two sandy brown ribbons with acorn ends that marks the path to the twin towers with planetarium domes—a sun talking to its moon glancing down at the block x’s with rollers and walkers Xinging.
 
A few rollers roll through the curvy sideway past the secret underground passage where the girl’s ghost might come out of for some night air. 

Maybe she walks to the glass office doorway on the southern style porch lined with wooden white fenced railings that climb to the second story porch where a faded American flag is hung against the air conditioner boxes peeping out of window cells. 

Perhaps she sits on the porch looking past the blue chalked words on the yellowed peeling white painted posts, down the stairs and beyond the tree walkways towards Lincoln until she has had enough time to think and heads back by taking the bikeway to one of the marbleized stairs by the squared circle driveway to the garage door for loading and unloading the fermenting books.

She passeS me with her bloated bare feet fad-
ing out red as I take one last look towards
the home of the poor proletariats and their
never ending argument in the rubrics cube of
a building.

Revised 6/10/05, 9/7/13, 5/21/16
-e

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #2 on: May 07, 2019, 07:08:47 PM »
Thanks!  Attached file was at the very bottom of 1st post.

Did it need any work besides line break/format?

Offline nosuchmember

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 1067
    • Heartsong's Poetry  Diary
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #3 on: May 07, 2019, 07:24:10 PM »
Thanks!  Attached file was at the very bottom of 1st post.

Did it need any work besides line break/format?

You welcome   -e. There are others here  more qualified to judge your work/writing. I will read it again and take note of  any mistake I see.
« Last Edit: May 07, 2019, 07:27:34 PM by heartsongjt »

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #4 on: May 07, 2019, 07:38:39 PM »
Don't be modest!  Everyone's qualified! 

I really appreciate ur feedback, which seems scarce, even on MWC!?

Offline indar

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 3828
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #5 on: May 07, 2019, 10:45:03 PM »
I scanned this very lightly and found myself smiling like crazy---love love love the Oz references. It's a wild ride I can tell already. I am packing for a get-out-of-Dodge 3 day roady. I will certainly settle down to a good hard read of this one later. Do you consider this a performance piece?

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #6 on: May 07, 2019, 10:50:45 PM »
Thanks in advance!

Unsure abt performance/performing....

Offline indar

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 3828
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #7 on: May 11, 2019, 02:33:33 PM »
Hello again,

On further reading I see you have posted this as "unformatted". I assume the line breaks in the beginning and toward the end of this post are carried throughout the parts that appear as block prose. Was that your intention? My undergad was in the visual arts but I can relate only too well to the goings-on in your poem and yes, I laughed out loud.

Also:

I am old enough to have run in the DDT fog and still remember the taste

Love Wallace Stevens

Found out that there are right and wrong answers to "what is art?"

Love the analysis of "Oz" etc.

and I love your poem to death. I will revisit it many times. I hope to see it formatted as you intended. Is there a reason you didn't post it as such?

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #8 on: May 11, 2019, 07:59:23 PM »
I tried to also attach it.  Here it is again in PDF; click on the "Somewhere over the Rainbow13" link.

I love experimenting with poetry.  I'd like your thoughts on the visual components of the PDF with your background!  Couldn't paste format with HTML.

Offline indar

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 3828
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #9 on: May 12, 2019, 10:58:14 AM »
There is so much going on in this poem its hard to know where to start. You ask about the imagery: to my reading most of it is spot on. The wry humor, the critique of the academic world is engaging. The many shades of green set me off on my own excursion into green (you forgot Scarlett's green drapery dress and Ann's gables). I got that there is a world of green outside that unimaginative, conventional green-pen green. I notice the 3 time use of "faded" imagery that contrasts with the oh-so-wonderful greens of life experience.


I looked at the formatted version and liked the way the poem shifted formatting. The length of the piece and the line-length in some sections are puzzling at first and things like the justified right section helped lead me into the reading (as well as the visual play with opposite day). If I may make a suggestion: perhaps a bit more organization would invite the reader. Maybe subtitles like

prologue

leaving Kansas

color by technocolor



Don't know if that would interrupt the flow or not--and flow it does. I have been to a few poetry open mics where there were readings and performances. I can't exactly tell you what the difference is. Performance poetry is not necessarily meant to be read but heard. The poet has to be "on". I can plainly hear your poem performed but now that I see it I understand it depends on the visual presentation as well.


I'd be interested to hear if other readers felt like this poem expresses their life experience the way it did mine. (I lost track of the number of times I read Heidi. I too never read Baum's book but saw the movie :)). I've been Ozed half to death both in art school at the dawn of Jungian archetypal imagery consciousness in the visual arts and grad degree in theology "the hero's journey etc. etc.


What a shock to find out Baum was writing about the gold-backed dollar.

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #10 on: May 12, 2019, 02:34:01 PM »
Wow, great insights @indar!!

What does DDT taste like, btw?

Offline indar

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 3828
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #11 on: May 12, 2019, 03:34:03 PM »

What does DDT taste like, btw?


Insecticide. The flavor is so distinct that in the early 60s I opened a can of Butternut coffee, the brand I always used, and detected a taste of DDT. I never bought it again. Butternut is no longer in business.

Offline Mark T

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 4076
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #12 on: May 12, 2019, 04:51:31 PM »

I found it too long to read as poetry. The bits I did read seemed overwritten, in a stream-of-consciousness purple prose run-on sentence kind of way. A richly experimental writing exercise but too detached from contemporary poetry styles.   

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #13 on: May 12, 2019, 06:25:06 PM »

What does DDT taste like, btw?


Insecticide. The flavor is so distinct that in the early 60s I opened a can of Butternut coffee, the brand I always used, and detected a taste of DDT. I never bought it again. Butternut is no longer in business.

Glad I never had/heard of Butternut!

Offline poet-e

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 92
Re: Somewhere Over the Rainbow (long one)
« Reply #14 on: May 12, 2019, 06:30:01 PM »
I found it too long to read as poetry. The bits I did read seemed overwritten, in a stream-of-consciousness purple prose run-on sentence kind of way. A richly experimental writing exercise but too detached from contemporary poetry styles.

What are contemporary poetry styles?

Some of my poems are very long.  Do you think Howl is too long?