Week 4

§ Acrostic chance: Pick a book at random and use title as acrostic key phrase. For each letter of key phrase go to page number in book that corresponds (a=1, z=26) and copy as first line of poem from the first word that begins with that letter to end of line or sentence. Continue through all key letters, leaving stanza breaks to mark each new key word.

 

 

 

that the political overtones of the pastoral

his enthusiasm for the instruments to the principles

even to locate because it is an expression less of that than of

 

minutiae of nature, and now and

all possible laud; for it is in such little retired…valleys…that population, manners

change in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved

has had a history as encouraging to the illusion that its material well-being

is the implication that mankind would be happier if our complex, technical order

now it is the time for him to leave

example is the current “flight from the city.”

 

is that such attitudes are the product of profound, long-standing discontent

notices a cloud moving across the sun

 

the background of the first eclogue, sometimes called “The Dispossessed,” there

his industrial Naturmensch bears a striking resemblance to many Americans

environment have upon the lives men lead in an intricately organized, urban society.

 

Gasset, among others, began calling attention years ago

are little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream

reactions–as if inherited attitudes, forms, and conventions

describe and evaluate the uses of the pastoral ideal in the

environment enters into the contemptuous attitude that many Americans adopt

“narrow, scanty and meagre”

 

 

 

§ General cut-ups: Write a poem composed entirely of phrases lifted from other sources. Use one source for a poem and then many; try different types of sources: literary, historical, magazines, advertisements, manuals, dictionaries, instructions, travelogues, etc.

 

 

**Cut-up of Pearl S. Buck’s“The Good Earth”

 

this earth of theirs


this earth which formed their home and fed

their bodies and made their gods,

something better than a farmer’s lad

could not live with any fullness.

pondered this way and that,

land is one’s flesh and blood,

has given us birth,

especially of such as are poor;

hunger makes a thief of any man.

i must die—sometime anyway. but the land is there after me.

he rejoiced in it,

had done all that he said he would in his life

and more than he ever dreamed he could.

i have the land still, and it is mine.


if you sell the land, it is the end.

 

 

 

**Cut up of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”

 

 

as i once was not a beast, about which i mourn, the me i saw then, dull with soothing accents, and maternal in my enchanting appearance, tranquil, sprung future feelings. they allowed me my rage and misery; man will not suffer with defects. my form, fashioned to be susceptible to hatred, it did not endure.

 

be men, to your purposes stiff, as your hearts may not.

 

. . . a wish, nothing contributes so much, to seek for knowledge and wisdom, your wishes you, as mine in me first broke through, and gazed on my eagerness. rain pattered dismally against the window in front of the half-extinguished light, nature itself begged i weep for wisdom.

 

i am alone me; but even so not correct.

 

my heart was sympathetic to the violence of the more than men, though some survived to exhibit a miserable spectacle. the human mind, as a steady force, did; and it ardently stung me. i thought of the ideal light in my dark world.

 

how ignorant you are of nature; the past was begot by joy.

 

and breathless was already one candle, nearly burnt out, orange eye whispered, cried. the agony of my life and misery could not have the same of love and vice as others, and those such as they cannot know, even and firm as such be. if that, my soul was as the moon, to pull, be pulled, and revolve.

 

the gratification of the life and death has been great.

 

i pride myself over what was blotted from my memory, hope and anticipations of which were fed heartily. as one as deformed and horrible, being you, it was only when wrenched out of misery that my life was without torture. this is not and cannot withstand you, wrecked humanity, pitiful to always possess hardly any.

 

then i was no more “man.”

 

 

 

**Cut-up of “A Haunted House” by Virginia Woolf

(Language is a Virus Cut-up Machine)

 

 

she beat joy.

Safe, pulse that Yet, sealing that rain.

the apples eyes stars East, garden,

Safe, was softly sought but we stopped proudly. the lips. Stooping, only them.

But they crossed look Wandering of treasure?

the as North, and long joy. Here oneself, Safe, garden their stopped

The rooms safe! of might safe!

surface buried it lady opening lantern.

left upon then? after, curtain,

It’s where burns And its windows, or deeply.

and moment search no. want pendant

it, us; sealing that Sound deeply.

had left steps say, the above of silver cross reflected

or book of candle search a sealing the so rooms oneself, asleep.

the My to the sure–they one stars on house left beam

Sound machine us; see of My for the in faces pause.

the Now Downs. they morning–wildly with ‘n she he of pencil

Safe! later sleepers the moonlight from beats “Look,”

one Oh, of the was pulse shadow

And through you the of the morning–

they their and stopped wind their wells in rolling

Waking, from the walls, hour we wildly Not slept, whispered.

in he Yet, doors it, the Waking book page cry hand in sun.

if on Yet, stars floor, seek found me.

the hands the book Treasure rain the

they’re Long Yet, straightly; In .

Moonbeams the cry opening Trees he ever cry first,

the between between all wandering

Silver treasure slightly. she go bubbling

Yet, rooms apple from

Silver to reflected threshing silver falls, in into loft.

slept, them. But seek we long treasure with certain, glass.

meeting, its see the glass; making room oneself,

In hands here empty. splash

Oh, only treasure?

the between the Treasure to “Oh, Silver only “

sleeping; to His door they were the that.

they there, they and in the faces content murmured. wildly.

only floor, they lamp buried see silver might shutting tool

leaves Moonbeams they’re first,

What glass; reading, us, the no house one summer coming she the Death for?

found cease sure–a faces the East,

I empty, sought shall in still. above candle room.

were if cry the safe

the all apple ghostly hand its the garden–

woke she woke ceiling–what?

whispering laughing, pause.

And upon rain then?

that trees floor sounding farm. it came–

The your roses; rooms was glass.

pulse us, candle lifting of they the softly.

The it go beat ever my window.

whispering room through rise they heart.

Nearer a whispered. hand, hung was cease beside North,

house, the rooms for?

 

 

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