Team 3 Questions For Brian Clements

MC: I'm the (self-proclaimed) world's biggest Kurt Vonnegut fan and he is a constant inspiration for my work. In fact I find most of my writing, poetic and not, is influenced by my reading. I was wondering who you read and how they affect your writing. Furthermore my poems tend to be fairly allusive. How important do you find allusions to be in poetry and how much concern do you have about the accessability of your poetry?

Team 2 Questions for Brian

Greetings from team 2!!!! Also known as Sophie, John, Anthony, Sean, Megan & Daisy

We have all come up with questions to ask you and hope they don't trouble you in any way!

JV: Here's my revised question:

In "And How to End it," Voyager I and II have a unique presentation and a very original format. Do you have a special place that you go to write something like Voyager? Do you have a specific ritual that eases you into writing?

SO:
I am most interested in the section Elegy and Fugue on Voyagers 1 & 2 and how you correlate history and lying. One of the poems that I really enjoy is


I have heard that history is like an onion:

it will sprout up anywhere you let it.

Did you use Voyagers 1 & 2 not only as a time frame for a certain period in history but also as a perspective, since there are so many ways to look at the past and what we know as history is merely what was thought important enough by some people to be recorded?
Furthering that question, what is your perspective on history,how much of what we are taught or what we know of "history" do you believe is a lie, partial or whole and how did this influence this section of the book?

I hope these questions aren't too confusing and thank you.

S.B.: In your book and your poetry, you ask many questions. I wonder if you have found any answers to these questions, or if you even look and just ask them to inspire thought. Also, I wonder if you really want to know the answers to such questions.

MS: my question is:

I loved how you were able to weave many different poems together. For instance, in Fog, every page seemed to represent a different poem, yet they were all strung together to create one stream of consciousness. When writing these poems, were they revised to fit together or were they written intentionally like this?

my other question is:

I know as a poetry writer, I am never fully convinced that my poetry is speaking in the volume I'd like it to. How long does it take you to revise your poetry so that it truly becomes what you want it to be? Were you satisfied with each poem in your book, believing that every poem gets your voice/message across?

AB: Reading :21 I noticed that he has an unusual stream of metaphors. I wonder if these are thought out beforehand or if it streams together as he goes. Do the poems have a direction when he starts out? because in this one it seems like he let it take him.

DM: When writing a poem, how do you know your poem is finished? I noticed that we tend to rewrite poems over and over to see if we actually found the ending to our poem, so how do you know when you finally composed "the poem?"

I also wanted to know when you write a poem, do you get the message you want to convey in your poetry, or do you use certain hidden messages that you want the readers to try to analyze and figure out on their own?

Thanks again for taking the time to read our questions!!!!

Team 2 :-)

Poetic Formation & Brian Clements as a Kid

PG:I started writing poems before I learned how to ride a bike (in fact I still don't really know how to) but ever since I've started college I've experienced, what seems to be, a long term writer's block. Has there ever been a time in your life where you felt creatively drained and if so how did you overcome it?

Imitiation Poem

This is what I did with Gilberts poem. I really liked how i felt God in his writing and that is why I chose this poem. This is one of my favorite ones that I did. I like the semi- restriction that gets put on by having to follow such a pattern


The Lord Sits with me Out in Front.
The Lord Sits with me out in front watching
A sweet darkness begin in the fields.We try to decide if I am lonely.
I tell him about waking at four a.m. and thinking
of what the man did to the daughter of Louise.
And there being no moon when I went outside.
He says maybe I'm getting old.
That being poor is taking too much out of me.
I say I am fine. He asks for the Brahms.
We watch the sea fade. The tape finishes again
and we sit on. Unable to find words.


My father walks with me up the stairs.

My father walks with me up the stairsdown the hall to my bedroom.
He asks me why I am not happy.
I tell him of the nights spent alone wondering
of what she is doing and who she is with.
And there never being a sun in my sky.
He says maybe I am getting tired.
That being vulnerable is destroying me inside.
I say that I'll live. He nods his head.
We sit on my bed. Music is playing
and we listen. Silence

Hallelujah Revision

Hey everybody. I just revised the poem we workshopped last night becuase I was left with TONS of ideas and I figured I'd post it on here. Anyone that has any comments please let me know. I love feedback. It's more allusive now so may take a bit more googling but I got into my rewriting frenzy when I found out a group of sheep isn't only known as a flock, but also a "mob." No pressure to read or comment but I figured I might as well put it up. Thanks for all the comments in class. P.S. Hallelujah means "Praise God." I looked it up to be sure.

Hallelujah


“It is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”
-Oscar Wilde

The most spectacular politician
is he who we call God.
His slogan:“I work in mysterious ways”
explains every flaw,
and when logic rears its ugly head
it’s all trumped by faith.
Blindness is rewarded
and that devil known as thought
meets harsh reprimand.

In our very first instance
we were punished
for seeking ideas in apple form.
And perhaps Adam thought of God’s rib:
“It is better to live outside the Garden
with her than inside it without her.”
But first love aside the ever wise leader
cast out his first constituents.

History tells us the Romans
adored Augustus and
Napoleon was the pride of France.
Loved by all, from the senators and aristocrats
to the eyeless beggars and toothless whores.
Two mighty shepherds leading less than
inquisitive mobs.
From the start our own wise
and omnipotent emperor
wanted us as his livestock,
simply there to shout “Hallelujah!”
Told how to think and how to feel
never leaving our dark coal mines
to head towards the light.

So, like miners, mankind digs forward
proud that they can’t see ahead,
and no one seems to notice
that the canary is long dead.

Poem revision <3

I revised the poem Crooked Lines. Thank you to Professor Graham for all of your help and to the class for all of your comments and suggestions. It looks completely different but I think its so much better. Let me know what you guys think!

This was the original poem:

Crooked lines

Sitting on the train,
Riding backwards,
I hear tiny but vehement
Droplets of rain,
Make boisterous tip-tapping chatter
Against the outer skirts of the window pane.

I look at myself against the glass
Noticing all the little knick-knacks
About myself that I would love to change
Its sad,
when a girl can still point out her flaws,
when her face is muddied, into a mosaic,
by Mother Nature’s tears and Industry’s mighty mane.

It is 8:03 and I begin to fall into a daze.
My meandering mind wanders, exploring
The dusty depths of the golden days.

Where daddy thought I was beautiful
Even though I wore a pirate’s eye patch
over my left eye.
When in my apartment, it became too damp, too cold
my mommy would warm me by singing to me Spanish lullabies.

As I get of,f I see an elderly couple helping each other
Get off of a bench.
It was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen
And in that moment I realized that beauty
Isn’t defined by straight lines but by the crookedness
That lies in between.

This is my revision:

Routine Journey

Riding backwards.

My back sinks into the smooth comfort

Of my seat.

Like a tired head into a pillow

I retreat

A sigh of relief,

I let out.

The train is moving.

The vibrations

Trickle their way up

My backside.

They feel

Like the legs of hungry spiders.

Readjust? No.

I let them feast.

Rain has christened the glass.

I look to my left

I see a distorted me..

I don’t mind.

I examine myself

Intently, analyzing my miss-shapen

Face. The reflection and I

Seem to both agree. I am distorted,

Muddied by insecurities.

The way my frizzled locks

Wrestle with the frazzled comb

In an intent match. The way

My right eye sways crookedly,

Lazily. forcing the 4 year old me

To where, daily, an eye patch.

It eats away at me.

I shake my head in disapproval and readjust

My focus to a cascade of bald, white businessmen

In black or blue suits. They’re each accompanied,

by an inanimate partner; a brown paper bag

Carrying beer, their makeshift happy juice.

Their laptop screens intrigue me.

Emanating from them not excel

Or PowerPoint-seeds of the elite

But a game of Solitaire,

a game that with me

Resonates with a familiar beat.

nights in high school

spent pacifically in front of the 19 inch

computer screen. Dazed and marred I stared

at the different suits that suit those

who hazed, the crazed who would disregard me.

He wins with a black 8 of hearts.

Oh, how ironic.

Oh, my heart, tarnished

Blackened by whimsical whispers heard

From afar.

“Pamela the bisexual....”

They whispered

As their lockers unlocked.

Unleashing the secret

That tore my heart from my head

My head from my heart.

I longed in those days

To revert back to when daddy

Showed me I was beautiful by

Kissing my forehead

And calling me

La Mas Preciousa Princesa en el Mundo.

Those days are gone though.

Kept away in the attic like a dusty diary.

The lock is broken. Secrets and memories

Meant to be, never reopened.

The announcer announces 42^nd street

And with me, the business men depart.

My beige messenger bag, flared, gets stuck,

Intertwined in their Armani carrying cases.

A man releases mine, I turn and smile

With a “Thank You”. Noticing

The mundane face, traces of youth

Erased in his withered, wrinkled smile.

We go our separate ways. Damp with rain

I inhale a breath filled with microcosms of

curled insecurities, inebriated escapes and

acceptance, hoped to have attained with age.

Just like that I go on my way

I become a microcosm of wandering pedestrians in the

Business of 42^nd street; insecurities unbeknownst to

The passing face.

It might be a little long but it felt right to me. Hope you guys liked it!

Journal Review of Elixir

Elixir #2 2002

Submissions of both poetry and fiction are read from May 15 until September 1.

I could not find more information about subscriptions beyond the above.

Elixir is published by Elixir Press, a non-profit literary organization. It features both poetry and short works of fiction. Many poems and short stories are missing capital letters throughout the journal:

Memoir of an Unnamed Shore

Somewhere Near the Lost Island of Utopia

the door cracks in so many different directions. all back-slaps & gummy smiles;…

The poems differ in format throughout. There are some poems that I just didn’t like because they seemed quite vague and almost seemed to be missing word:

“What is kindness for?

Veronica washing his feet

Mary’s arms

The erotics of absence…” from Hello Beloved by Claudia Keelan

Many poems seem to be missing an overall idea. While using concrete images, the language and overall idea is quite abstract.

“Ode to a Cheerleader” by E. Schwerer

Around here fear is a thing you put in your mouth backwards

then rip off the filter of as if there was nothing wrong with you.

This is something she is not used to.

The weeping willow across the street is half dead,

its new leaves clustered into sets of sorrow

the way fireworks cheaply spread at a county fair.

This is all anything green can sometimes muster.

At times, however, it can do more. Make changes, modify behavior,

flower for a moment up into the frame the sky has given it,

flash

and so manage

some meager profit from that slight, crippled glory.

This poem continues on for two and a half more pages. I really like the description of the willow and the comparison to the fireworks. The imagery is beautiful. I feel that this poem is easy to identify with for anyone who has participated in any sort of sport. I like the idea of overcoming fear when one is not used to such a challenge. This poem conveys a sense of empowerment in overcoming our fears. The poem is broken up into six different sections. The next section talks about surrender. Next is grief; the poet talks about the death of the cheerleader’s grandfather and the tears that she wept. The poem has referenced dogwood from the beginning. It ends by saying that the dogwood is full grown and beautiful but the girl is not. She has given in to fear.

This poem seems like it could be quite predictable but it has a surprising twist. I appreciate that it isn’t a happy ending and the comparison to fear and growth. There is no saving the girl because she has given in to disease. The dogwood will grow but eventually die. This poem sends an interesting message.