Imitating other poets

The assignment asked that the class write work "in the style of" particular poets. Here are the results. In the style of Kirk Robertson

Under the Bridge:

cold and lifeless

dead white and red

sleeping in another world

eternally

and when I saw him

he smiled

he was happy

...Baxter Boeh-Sobon

Denise Levertov Style Sitting on the couch, she observes her roommates scuttle about, always coming, always going. Still, she remains. She tries to fill her days to make it seem like she is ok, so they won't notice. Won't notice the sadness in her eyes the way she jumps at any chance to talk, any form of interaction. But they know; know that she regrets, know that she is scared, know that she is stuck. Stuck sitting on the couch with her roommates scuttling about, They come, they go. And she stays. Laurence Ferlinghetti style. Always putting on a show He wears many masks, has different personalities. And I don't know which one is real. Most people only see once mask. But me, I'm special. I was lucky enough to be his daughter. And I always wondered which one is real. To some he is kind. A peaceful scholar here to share his knowledge. His thoughts on life seem amazing and sincere. To others he is unmemorable. Just a passerby with no emotion. Seemingly floating through life. I see the scholar in public. When he has an image to uphold. The passerby comes out in transit and then as we reach a "safe" place all hell brakes loose. The masks fall off, and I see the real man. The one he hides from everyone but me. Because I am special. The angry man tromps through the house, picking apart everything he sees. He lets his rage take over and the scholar uses his wisdom and words to destroy every piece of his family. And then, the man of many masks will go on to choose yet another mask. ....Holly Spier Denise Lavertov Style Sitting on the couch, she observes her roommates scuttle about, always coming, always going. Still, she remains. She tries to fill her days to make it seem like she is ok, so they won't notice. Won't notice the sadness in her eyes the way she jumps at any chance to talk, any form of interaction. But they know; know that she regrets, know that she is scared, know that she is stuck. Stuck sitting on the couch with her roommates scuttling about, They come, they go. And she stays. Laurence Ferlinghetti style. Always putting on a show He wears many masks, has different personalities. And I don't know which one is real. Most people only see once mask. But me, I'm special. I was lucky enough to be his daughter. And I always wondered which one is real. To some he is kind. A peaceful scholar here to share his knowledge. His thoughts on life seem amazing and sincere. To others he is unmemorable. Just a passerby with no emotion. Seemingly floating through life. I see the scholar in public. When he has an image to uphold. The passerby comes out in transit and then as we reach a "safe" place all hell brakes loose. The masks fall off, and I see the real man. The one he hides from everyone but me. Because I am special. The angry man tromps through the house, picking apart everything he sees. He lets his rage take over and the scholar uses his wisdom and words to destroy every piece of his family. And then, the man of many masks will go on to choose yet another man Inspired by Robert Creeley The Morning Waking in the sheets warm but fresh your arm around me from behind Lying awake with eyes closed are you not sleeping simply breathing heavily and thinking as I am? We lay here, content enjoying the pale sunshine of the morning but seeing the imminent darkness seeping into it But we stay in the sheets pretending the end will not come come to ruin our morning Inspired by Marianne Moore Running You are not alone in your contempt for the motion The force on the joints, feels as if they’re grinding at first But after time the motion feels more natural The exhalation begins to match the steps of feet The inhalation begins to match the exhalation The force on the joints becomes less rigid The path becomes more circular Unwinding circles of my thoughts, stretching For miles, never doubling back Unwinding like the smoke of my breath in the cold Daybreak, end from the motionless night to the freedom Of the grass and road, freedom in the form of muscles relaxing Sweat forming in droplets, one running down the back of my neck Trying to catch up to me Lungs expanding, I won’t let it catch me Begging my supports not to fail me, to execute without pain Concentrating only on the sounds in my ears, my own breathing, My own steps Until I reach the turn and the sounds of the world are upon me again There is no end No end, just time to turn back ...Catherine Broderick KATHERINE ANDERSON Here is my d.a. levy poem Wake up to a buzzing sound, the lights are on outside Sounds like the lights when their on in this place Sounds like lights that are old and broken Lights that light apathy that is old And worn, The old have worn, have many rags While the young, well the young Are here. Apathetic. Mainstream America. Can’t you see? It’s not the where it’s the how you Got where. On apath is how you got where And… no you can’t run on it, it won’t get you anywhere fast You’ll get nowhere fast. Give me the answer, well we really don’t know-- Can’t tell you, could you please stop asking Who said you knew the answer anyway? For heaven’s sake! can’t we just let it be? The answer will make you money, Give me the answer. Money is fake. What you feel is real Time is made by man, like fake leather shoes It’ll make you’re feet sweat. So, why worry about the time, why worry about hydrogen or This water we breathe? Someone wants to know, How we got here. Here is my Ann Menebroker, I actually did 2 of them (1) I knew he would call in February. I knew when she was coming. 4 months of silence, but I knew what was coming. Driving down the five, half asleep, exhausted In the cold, clear, crisp sunshine that looks Nothing like the day I met him. Everything gets darker until Khole is the color of the world. The day, we should have known, Summer doesn’t last It only lives in photographs and Flashbulb memories. That single photograph, Where do I look when The picture becomes out of focus? (2) The rain on the umbrella Splish-drip-Splashing, drumming Sounds like the noises we used to make With our hands, as we sat in dark and sang, as waves crashed upon the rocky beach below; To linger just a little longer here with you. Here With you With me The echoes splash and ripple in the mind. --Katie John Giorno-style Poem What do we call the memory stains of a day wafting between night and day I say they're black toxins or black poisons I say they will not choke the dreams out of my head lingering lingering like a disease permanently sprawled on a living room couch as an unwanted houseguest that rises and rises and rises only to drag its its sooty feet through my head Douglas Blazek-style Poem Your love is not holy it is greed crying like an insolent child for a second, a third helping, splitting its stomach while scraping the inside of yours Your love is not holy it is domination collaring a docile beast needlessly chaining devotion to its neck like an iron noose Your love is not holy it is sex sanitized by the grace of gods reeling passions choked of realism in the stained sheets of a priest's bed Is any love holy? When it is all cowardice grasping a cliff's edge fearing the gamble of actions and of being swallowed by the ground ...Kelley Paugh I Was Told They tell me that I have your eyes, your laugh, even your walk. They tell me that you used to love mango juice boxes, too. They show me pictures of you and picture of me and are delighted when I lie and say that I can’t see the difference. Then why is it that whenever you come to visit, I hide under my bed? If we are essentially the same person like they tell me we are, why do I have to hide with the dust that was swept away for your arrival? Why do I have to watch you step through the doorway from my perch on the stairs? Why do you let me wait for you on the stairs? Why can’t you greet me with the same quiet hug that you give to everyone else? You would think, seeing that I am your only child, you would give me more than a glance as you entered my house. You come in all your glory, banners flying, gifts spilling from your American suitcases, tilting my fragile balance. You get everyone’s immediate respect and approval, and while you’re here I am no one. I have to work to live up to the legacy you leave behind. Star student, exemplary child, gone off to seek his fortune in the land of opportunity. Who am I to fill your place? Why do you interfere with everything I do? You’re not even here, but your presence remains long after you board the plane. I can’t even smile, can’t walk across the room, can’t even enjoy my favorite drink without a comment on how alike we are. When you are here, I watch you. Watch for some similarity, a glimpse of what is so clear to everyone else. But I see nothing. You are everything everyone hopes for, and there is none of me in there. Mom tells me that I should be proud. I have a father who was able to get out of the same cycle that everyone in small towns is doomed to repeat. I have a father who is going to make something for himself and for his family. I have a father who is bold and daring, braving the harshness of America for me. But all I see is a foreigner. I don’t know you. All I know are the men that have raised me. The hardworking men who had the time to be there when I took my first steps, said my first word, walked me to my first day of school. The men who helped me to learn the alphabet and the men who are always available. The men that I see at the temple. The men who know when my birthday is. And you are not those men. You are the advertisement on the new color TV. Pale and clean shaven, selling something that people don’t need but will buy because you tell them what they want to hear. You are a small window on the airplanes that I watch fly by. I don’t know you. All I know is me. ...Mandeep Chahal Anne Waldman Imitation Awake in the giant day Is where I am There is glass where my eyes, Dull and glossed over, struggle to see. An hour of immense possibility flies by And I do nothing but sit in the present Which keeps changing moment to moment How can I tell you my heart is a stone? It is a melancholy story you won’t believe And a gray sky Where something is always doing in a room Especially in winter Staying under blankets! By March the sun in lingering and the land is green. Birds grow loud The drainage ditch is full Squirrels lift their heads to say hello Soon it is good to be sneezing By then the gardens are overflowing With dogwood, rebud, hickory, red and white oaks, Hazelnut bushes, violets, jacks-in-the-pulpit, Skunk cabbages, pawpaws and May apples Whose names depress you because you must know them. There are frogs and crickets too – but I go on too long. Like the animal, I must stop by the water’s edge To have a drink and think things over. * That was good. The drink I mean I feel refreshed and ready for anything Though I’m not in Vermont or Kentucky unfortunately But in San Francisco, the foggiest place in the world. And it’s December Here someone is always losing, including me Though I tend to lose like a spoiled child Throwing the game pieces on the Floor! Look out If you aren’t paying attention you’ll be sorry And hurt too. * This season’s cruelty hurts me And others, I’m sure, who’d rather be elsewhere but can’t Because of their jobs, families, friends, money It’s rough anyway you look at it But what can you do? It’s worse elsewhere, I’m sure Take Iraq No thanks I think about Iraq a lot, however And wonder if I’ll ever “see” it The way I’ve seen Asia, I mean Those stylish Chinese girls! They all wear IPODs. In Taiwan you travel by moped or subway The MTR and the MRT register like the names in connection with them: Shenzhen, Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui What does it all mean? I never ask that, being foreign In this apartment in which I dwell these thoughts pass by I hope you won’t mind the mess when you do too William Carpenter Imitation: I think of private school kids How easy it is for them. They have bottomless pockets They drive BMWs and live anywhere They drift from vacation home to vacation home On streets with collegiate sounding names And there is money in the vacation homes That wants to be spent freely For on the east coast there is no guilt nor shame Nor hunger, life is as a dream, Fish jump into boats to be caught, They shoot deer and salt them in their mountain vacation homes. There are season on the east coast. You follow the seasons, you drift between Fall, winter, summer, and spring To follow the rules of nature. If you want June or October or some cross-country skiing, You fly to that vacation hotspot And the season is there always. It is good climate for gossip, since it is full Of people. You pluck them from the streets at random Or search specifically in one of the defined neighborhoods. It is good also for religion, as old churches Still stand from pilgrim days, Structured and rigid, no emotions, Creeds that make sinful your underground desires, Your daily habits and the parts of your body. In California we wander aimlessly day to day, Pick fruit off neighbor’s trees, Have no religion at all, spill over borders, Wear swimsuits, skip work, have sex And gossip, as we do, on the way to the next party. I spent some time in the Midwest, where they Were neither wholly free nor wholly tragic. They lived, screwed, married, divorced and died Like regular folk. They grew corn and fed it to Their pigs, then shipped them east and west For slaughter. It made sense. When I am finished with this beach-ridden state, Lack of seasons or weather, I will become a farmer’s wife outside Madison, Rise early and drive out to the barn To feed the chickens. I will have friends and keep Them close, with no gossip, for gossip, California or Maine, drives you crazy. ...Amy Martin