Thursday, May 1, 2008


I will now move O Sweet Flowery Roses into a new phase of cosmic being: the site will begin to feature new games of poetic constraint for you and yours to try. Don't think of them like jail. Think of them like rolling the marble through the wooden box maze. These games of constraint are games that I love and that I hope you will love and experiment with as well. To begin the first game, I need to explain where it came from. First of all, it is broken into fragments, and you can try any of them in any order. In my workshop class, the professor asked us to bring in an old photo. First, we had 5 minutes to bang out a poem where we removed ourselves from our personal connection to the photo. Who are these people? What are they doing? What is the scene? Next, we banged out a 5 minute poem where we were ourselves; our dripping, personal, confessional selves, explaining, elaborating, lighting up the dark corners of the photo. Now we have two small poems. The fun begins: Take one poem, fold it in half, and place it over the second poem. Now, match up the words and phrases as best you can: you can have language layering upon language, nonsensical overladed statements, but what I personally did was pepper in some articles and connecting words just to make the flow a bit more cohesive. This is not to ruin the game; I just thought I wanted to go in a more direct, traditionally "poetically-phrased" piece. Here come the bonus sprinkles. The instructor gave us old copies of magazines --poetry, verse, Best American Poetry-- and we folded those pages over, too, found new phrases we liked, and inserted them into our own poems. What a game! Wait a minute, reader. You didn't think I would just introduce the game and leave you alone, did you? FOOL! I have included some examples, with the author's permission, of a few of the poets from my class. Alright, you aren't a fool. But please, keep playing, reading, submitting, et al. This first one is by yours truly. This is what I know, Dad I'm here because my father picked me up, looking aloof, and put me here. It's the last time I ever knew I would see him. I don't recall it. I wanted, being so yellow, my Dad. I, the Spanish in the woods, bearded now, if he's been lifted, I wonder who my really long time fuck-the-work-week-revelry bowler was. If she was about girls. I think a lot about if I didn't know or ever met anyone in TV shows. Think about something, about talking to something. The hair of that kid, read-- is he the child of reading, father? Did he mother you herself, creeping in, or in myself? The human in the photo shows. What's more, I don't know dinosaur. That man is my father, an organ. He was tied to an iron stake, a wedge. I'm 13. He may be: he has the look of somebody going somewhere in his eyes. Huge pupils pump blood. Victory over poetry is Western art. As physicist Richard Feynman said, "it does not silky-airy to the mystery to know a little from the other poems." O limbic skull! His mother, to be fair, slit throats of slaughtered calves and sustained mistrust in the world. note: Kenyatta, the next poet, is an ass-kicking poetry machine from the mean streets of Cleveland, OH. I sincerely hope he reads this and, with enough pressure from the Flowery Roselitts who read this site, submits more poetry to the site. Untitled, by Kenyatta Rogers Of history, where my father moves ahead. Did you know that that would be the last time you two go out together. He has his arms around her + is drunk dressed up really nice. He drove there, drove back. We don't ask him drifting over blasted. How late was it? 11 p.m., 4 a.m. Sometimes you know, I won't leave the house until then. We've conked out our arm linked, I remember being woken up it was dark. It looks like a prom, colors are solid, silver, white, black. How was the food? For needing a coat although, their black marrow. Gray speckled floors. Shine shoes int he living room, boulder hat. I don't remember any arguement or fight after you came back + you came back that night. note: What I can say about Thomas Mowe is that he likes this poem, he has been published in Black Clock and Columbia Poetry Review, and what else? Oh, I live with him, also. Another emerging poet of his generation, Tom submitted this: Untitled, by Thomas Mowe Daniel's girl left. He invented that. I forgot Robert's, and these deposits in the neighborhood. Also, I forgot the unit on Shanghaii. I'm ashamed, Portland underground. I spend Tuesday standing straight. Standing, and I forgot every present, and fired. A matter of faith, believer unfurled. Take the lump out, or in trees, and fired, dead, mute, sleeping w/ his eyes, the DVDs you bought, the army his wife had. I too give nothing, could debate, taught debate, but I know so much, not a word, the word, one more prize. I kept move, or I'll move you, and spells, and saved. In words he didn't know, starving to fight off, drone out, or quit. The poor armadillo. By retake day, the slightly learned to do that, taken hold. The moment after the not your body, yours comes to rest, and before mules, and sneaks to complain with a stranger. Untitled, by Meg Riley

In whispers I am of a body

brushing a new life

chest to chest

outcome language

maybe sixty years

special treatment for that girl

    goof captor

    New Year’s Eve

feet & cities

a blue rink

the choice to enter

even beetles would speed

the silvery rip of leaf

straw and dipper-sip

the tartness & years

relief to hear her on the couch

fumble raw

in passing cried herself