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Chelsea's Chamber \

pen stretching



pen stretching
By ChelseaLou on 01/12/2009
Viewed: 809
Reviews: 10
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Today I am going to be brave, and do my morning writing exercises here instead of in my notebook. This is a little exercise I made up myself, when I was feeling uninspired:

- Grab the nearest book of poetry or whatever, and keep it handy.
- Write down a bunch of one-digit numbers in quick succession. (It helps me when I just type them out randomly in a row.)
- Split them into sets of three digits each.
- Get your book out. The first two digits are the page number, the last one is for the line on the page.
- Take the line and use it as a title, punctuation and capitalization and all, it doesn''t have to make sense.
- Start writing a poem. Don''t think just write, use the title as a reference, some image in it, or the way the words don''t quite make sense out of context, just start putting down whatever slips out your fingertips.
- NO EDITING! JUST TYPE!
- You have to do at least one, but sometimes I''ll just type out a whole row of 40 or 50 numbers and go through them. I always wind up with something worth keeping out of a batch of these improv poems.



pale, the recent snow

sticks soft on
stillgreen grass
blades too warm

to hold.

it melts
in a filigree instant.

so wet, small.

slip down
the thin shaft,

to warmer earth
and sink
in its deep,

deep brown.



locks; they said

no.
and i hang rusty
against your fence,

past use and scrawled
in this oxidized
neglect.

shaking is not
the key.

you keep
shaking

me.


leathery, unlikely

breakthrough, black wings
beneath rippled shoulder
blades; breathe
blue burnt air, a
singe of smoke
in the twilight and you
unfurl. flap unfettered.

pull with pleading
his pliant frame, pull him
from the graveyard growth
of the grey ground and
wheel a wended way to

these broad branches;
i can be a better bough,
tall, taut and green.
so long i have groped
bare into night sky,
trauma trembled
in looseleaf, in
all the leaving.



you are free, the river films with lilies

you, sun,
encourage them.

they hide each
whirl and eddy.

they hide your
bright gold face,

no longer drawn
by the cobalt reflection
of pooled mirrors.

fool, forget;

sprawl your
coronal arcs
over true cyan,
you could unveil
their holes,
each pomp of
cloud.

but, oh,
we see.

you see,

narcissus
loved the river,
too.

© By ChelseaLou On 1/12/2009 12:01:06 AM
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