Response to Kelsey's Improv 3, Week 5:
Curiously the whole poem seems to teeter on the word "snap" to me. It's an interesting verb, incredibly charged with brief, monosyllabic potential. It brings a strange multiplicity that I wouldn't say doesn't show up in the beginning, but appears so strongly by this point that it almost affects my reread, double-so with the word "snap" functioning as an enjambment so that I'm seeing images of breakdown both physically and mentally--coupled with the word "cracking" in line three that sort of hints at this gradual and then abrupt undoing, like the finding of eggs in a hunt. I think what that line creates is a really successful opening for an off-ramp--a release from your Easter Egg Hunt trigger into the slowly shattering unravel of the mind and its faltering mental functions.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Improv 2, Week 5
Improv of Two Lorries by Seamus Heaney
line: "the conceit of a coalman..."
Even conventions, with their loud crowds
and synonymous sound are
a metaphor for the mundane.
Here too, we dress our best for eyes
and the pull of their admiration, their soft look
working over our prim curls and pressed
hemlines--we gather for the grind
and shuffle of our feet in formation,
pushing to our next meeting, our next panel,
wondering if this is the place
that will finally accept me.
line: "the conceit of a coalman..."
Even conventions, with their loud crowds
and synonymous sound are
a metaphor for the mundane.
Here too, we dress our best for eyes
and the pull of their admiration, their soft look
working over our prim curls and pressed
hemlines--we gather for the grind
and shuffle of our feet in formation,
pushing to our next meeting, our next panel,
wondering if this is the place
that will finally accept me.
Improv 1, Week 5
Improv of Williams's Red Wheel Barrow
the quick hit
nails
the jaw's bone
hammers
hollow sound out
yesterday
her face less
full
the quick hit
nails
the jaw's bone
hammers
hollow sound out
yesterday
her face less
full
Junkyard Quotes 1-2, Week 5
1. Because then I'm like: if it's not about me, it's about everyone else. I have to make this a good experience for everyone else. But I can't juggle it all for everyone, you know. Being self-centered is so much easier.
2. Love me a little less please.
2. Love me a little less please.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Improv 5, Week 4
Pastoral improv
A blister of blue patched by clouds.
The hazy heat of summer rippling waves
off the beach--thick and white, like ash
or dust, spinning around rapid feet
in a spin of sand. Powdered, an underbelly
rich and dark and packed, leaping up
to meet the splay of toes against its back.
A blister of blue patched by clouds.
The hazy heat of summer rippling waves
off the beach--thick and white, like ash
or dust, spinning around rapid feet
in a spin of sand. Powdered, an underbelly
rich and dark and packed, leaping up
to meet the splay of toes against its back.
Improv 4, Week 4
Improv of Thom Gunn's "The J Car"
I tried "rhyming" by number of letters in a word.
I was standing outside of myself when my head blew off,
watched as both body and mind scattered out
under the watchful eye of some third consciousness,
vaguely aware of splintered sensibilities.
Cut scene, split by smoke and ghostly awareness
head nestled in a bascart, ready to reanimate,
perhaps to tell just what it is it sees
when its blank brown eye grabs us and eats?
I tried "rhyming" by number of letters in a word.
I was standing outside of myself when my head blew off,
watched as both body and mind scattered out
under the watchful eye of some third consciousness,
vaguely aware of splintered sensibilities.
Cut scene, split by smoke and ghostly awareness
head nestled in a bascart, ready to reanimate,
perhaps to tell just what it is it sees
when its blank brown eye grabs us and eats?
Improv 3, Week 4
Improv of Bishop's One Art, "Accept the fluster / of lost door keys"
Enjoy the blunder of missing mind. The thought
abandoned somewhere from bedroom
to kitchen door, not old age or stress
but the elusive art of long-term
conception and all it's brain jogging
work, like some skill that always rests
on the tongue's tip--a vaguely familiar taste,
no different than rosemary or
the sweet heat of cinammon, even
the bitter taste of adolescent anger--
some child feud forgotten half-way
through playtime, recalled now,
wrist-deep in soap suds, scrubbing
the residue of smothered porkchops--
what once was part of some pig's belly,
now a piece missing and forgotten.
Enjoy the blunder of missing mind. The thought
abandoned somewhere from bedroom
to kitchen door, not old age or stress
but the elusive art of long-term
conception and all it's brain jogging
work, like some skill that always rests
on the tongue's tip--a vaguely familiar taste,
no different than rosemary or
the sweet heat of cinammon, even
the bitter taste of adolescent anger--
some child feud forgotten half-way
through playtime, recalled now,
wrist-deep in soap suds, scrubbing
the residue of smothered porkchops--
what once was part of some pig's belly,
now a piece missing and forgotten.
Improv 2, Week 4
Improv of Theodore Roethke's "The Waking"
It was me who drank the juice box clean.
It's cherry-sweet cajoled my teeth,
forgive me, love, but I had to drink.
Perhaps it was the condensation's gleam
that drew me to it's refreshing wreath?
Ah, it was me who drank the juice box clean.
Sweet tang, caused my taste buds' spring
to launch, frenzied: a lover's tease,
forgive me, darling, but I had to drink.
....
It was me who drank the juice box clean.
It's cherry-sweet cajoled my teeth,
forgive me, love, but I had to drink.
Perhaps it was the condensation's gleam
that drew me to it's refreshing wreath?
Ah, it was me who drank the juice box clean.
Sweet tang, caused my taste buds' spring
to launch, frenzied: a lover's tease,
forgive me, darling, but I had to drink.
....
Improv 1, Week 4
Weird Gwendolyn Brooks improv:
He was here. He
lived near. He
sung songs. He
lied long. He
shined shoes. He
knew brews. He
fought fate. He
met gates.
He was here. He
lived near. He
sung songs. He
lied long. He
shined shoes. He
knew brews. He
fought fate. He
met gates.
Critical Commentary 1, Week 4
Response to Daniel's Improv 3, Week 4:
I think I'll tackle this one line at a time. First line, I think the verb fails to present something new to me. The sun, after all, "rises" and falls, though I will say I like the idea of the sun "surging," which is definitely something different though I'm not sure how I feel about the phoenix/flowers enjambment. I understand the "phoenix" in the second line is supposed to imply the mythical bird but the strange lack of article, "a phoenix," hints to me that there will be something more than just "phoenix". "Wind kisses" seem to be a bit much, kind poesy against the flowers and petals that jut and shudder. I like the idea of (what I assume to be the flowers) dying, but immediately after we have a return to the word "sun," which at least this time, creeps. Another appearance of the word "kisses". I'm not convinced what the word "yet" is contradicting in the tenth line. Looking at the piece overall, it seems odd that the speaker doesn't come in until the end, and that the draft would benefit from some expansion, an explanation of the smoke, which I could see peeking its way into the draft with the sun crept behind water, and the idea of fire and ash with the phoenix. I'd like to see more with this.
I think I'll tackle this one line at a time. First line, I think the verb fails to present something new to me. The sun, after all, "rises" and falls, though I will say I like the idea of the sun "surging," which is definitely something different though I'm not sure how I feel about the phoenix/flowers enjambment. I understand the "phoenix" in the second line is supposed to imply the mythical bird but the strange lack of article, "a phoenix," hints to me that there will be something more than just "phoenix". "Wind kisses" seem to be a bit much, kind poesy against the flowers and petals that jut and shudder. I like the idea of (what I assume to be the flowers) dying, but immediately after we have a return to the word "sun," which at least this time, creeps. Another appearance of the word "kisses". I'm not convinced what the word "yet" is contradicting in the tenth line. Looking at the piece overall, it seems odd that the speaker doesn't come in until the end, and that the draft would benefit from some expansion, an explanation of the smoke, which I could see peeking its way into the draft with the sun crept behind water, and the idea of fire and ash with the phoenix. I'd like to see more with this.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 4
"Greens, blues, reds and lewds. All in my head! Like a bread basket of contraband... you hide in your veins."
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 3
I never noticed how close fiends and friends were to one another until you said that.
Improv 5, Week 3
A return to improv 1, week 2, improving Bishop. Working on another stanza.
At night, sometimes, I reach up
to the velvet night that streams
like something soundless, a voice split
through the silky texture of dark
I feel until my hand succumbs to sleep,
can no longer sense my blood's course.
At night, sometimes, I reach up
to the velvet night that streams
like something soundless, a voice split
through the silky texture of dark
I feel until my hand succumbs to sleep,
can no longer sense my blood's course.
Improv 4, Week 3
Improv of Carol Ann Duffy's "Warming Her Pearls"
It must have been weeks, the scratching. Her fur
careens to a somersault, past nails, in evening's
hungriest hour, when sleep gnaws sunlight
and launches her fleas to feeding. I lift her
to the tub again, her nails seize, dreading
faucets or honey-milk shampoo. She shudders,
I work impatiently, my finger's knead
coaxes her spine's jewels. She digs me
under nail's curve, hangs me up
with pain not even fleas feel. Dead,
I flick their flattened thorax from the suds
and scrub her, drown them with the mug's
wet heat. I twist her and every spin her nails
spiral the enamel until her wild nose knocks
the mug and smash and she crashes
to the open weight of my waiting arms.
It must have been weeks, the scratching. Her fur
careens to a somersault, past nails, in evening's
hungriest hour, when sleep gnaws sunlight
and launches her fleas to feeding. I lift her
to the tub again, her nails seize, dreading
faucets or honey-milk shampoo. She shudders,
I work impatiently, my finger's knead
coaxes her spine's jewels. She digs me
under nail's curve, hangs me up
with pain not even fleas feel. Dead,
I flick their flattened thorax from the suds
and scrub her, drown them with the mug's
wet heat. I twist her and every spin her nails
spiral the enamel until her wild nose knocks
the mug and smash and she crashes
to the open weight of my waiting arms.
Critical Response 1, Week 3
Response to Trey's fifth improv (Tornadoes), week 2:
I like it when I can read a draft and immediately seize my teeth into a line, in this case, lines. Right there, smack dab in the middle of a story about tornadoes and we have this mini-story of the grandfather, fashioning a door from scrap lumber--wonderful. Richard Hugo told us to launch away from out triggering subject and I think you did just that here, quite beautifully actually. In those two brief lines I get an idea of an innovative father-figure who is successfully protecting his family in a very subtle way, it's really great. That said, give me more. Allow this to branch off to the grandfather completely. Complicate him. Or commemorate him. Your choice.
Now, looking more closely at the work itself--the opening with the more is indeed interesting and could also be built upon. The idea of the home being the mother's childhood and the grandfather fastens parts to it or fixes it up, functions pretty well as an overall conceit. Because of this, I am not convinced of the neighbors' presence and I find the last line trite. I understand the urge to write about a caring community when these days it becomes less and less existent, but it seems done before. I am much more interested in this mother, pawpaw relationship.
I like it when I can read a draft and immediately seize my teeth into a line, in this case, lines. Right there, smack dab in the middle of a story about tornadoes and we have this mini-story of the grandfather, fashioning a door from scrap lumber--wonderful. Richard Hugo told us to launch away from out triggering subject and I think you did just that here, quite beautifully actually. In those two brief lines I get an idea of an innovative father-figure who is successfully protecting his family in a very subtle way, it's really great. That said, give me more. Allow this to branch off to the grandfather completely. Complicate him. Or commemorate him. Your choice.
Now, looking more closely at the work itself--the opening with the more is indeed interesting and could also be built upon. The idea of the home being the mother's childhood and the grandfather fastens parts to it or fixes it up, functions pretty well as an overall conceit. Because of this, I am not convinced of the neighbors' presence and I find the last line trite. I understand the urge to write about a caring community when these days it becomes less and less existent, but it seems done before. I am much more interested in this mother, pawpaw relationship.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Improv 3, Week 3
Muddled end. Improv Tiara, Mark Doty:
Gnarled veins work through hands that wrap
the handle, fat, like bloated worms or
babies diapered in blue-striped cloth.
An unexpected tenderness, he pushes her chair
with grace not found in his finger's warp,
and each wheel glides like autumn wind.
She sits, erect, the full-bloom of blue
eyes seizing everything. He takes
a corner and she emerges, stiff and wild
though silent, her mouth recumbent
to her head's upended blondeness,
parallel to her red suede shoulders.
We're almost done, he tells her
and her head tilts to meet his words,
slow, like the drain of green from leaves
and he smiles, and she smiles too,
a slow grin that seems to stretch
her face like years, her blue to streaks--
a false speed. The only blur
to flare in her gradient unfurl, watered
by every minute between them.
Gnarled veins work through hands that wrap
the handle, fat, like bloated worms or
babies diapered in blue-striped cloth.
An unexpected tenderness, he pushes her chair
with grace not found in his finger's warp,
and each wheel glides like autumn wind.
She sits, erect, the full-bloom of blue
eyes seizing everything. He takes
a corner and she emerges, stiff and wild
though silent, her mouth recumbent
to her head's upended blondeness,
parallel to her red suede shoulders.
We're almost done, he tells her
and her head tilts to meet his words,
slow, like the drain of green from leaves
and he smiles, and she smiles too,
a slow grin that seems to stretch
her face like years, her blue to streaks--
a false speed. The only blur
to flare in her gradient unfurl, watered
by every minute between them.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Improv 2, Week 3
This needs a lot of work and will probably change before the week is done so excuse the fact that it's so few lines.
We snag a seat in patio dark.
A citronella gleans your face.
Wine bottles push silence.
Nursing every dreg of corked-up booze
you slosh, trembling,
tell me you don't miss her and
I'm leaping eyes across your goatee's
trampoline, recalling its tarp-like feel
that night you kissed my cheek goodbye
with eyes that never pulled from her.
Forgive me
...
We snag a seat in patio dark.
A citronella gleans your face.
Wine bottles push silence.
Nursing every dreg of corked-up booze
you slosh, trembling,
tell me you don't miss her and
I'm leaping eyes across your goatee's
trampoline, recalling its tarp-like feel
that night you kissed my cheek goodbye
with eyes that never pulled from her.
Forgive me
...
Improv 1, Week 3
Elegy improv attempt in parts.
Blunt knife pares the peachy hirsute
and, somehow, I remember you,
though your hands never dusted in nutmeg red,
nor taught me the taste of battered fruit
thought finds you now , hollow and treasured
in some back-hill plot in the Carolinas, gone.
….
Some flavor unadded—vanilla or heaven’s
soluble condition—that fragrant taste of you that, like
life,
has quickly been consumed.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Improv 4, Week 2
Blank Verse
The zing of bitter cinnamon on hand
so sweet this glaze of peachy juice, I want
to lick until I taste the fingered meat,
invite the swollen vision, fragrant fruit
that ages sharp like dust into the mouth.
The zing of bitter cinnamon on hand
so sweet this glaze of peachy juice, I want
to lick until I taste the fingered meat,
invite the swollen vision, fragrant fruit
that ages sharp like dust into the mouth.
Critical Response 1, Week 2
Response to Taylor's Improv 3, Week 2:
So hey, I enjoyed this. What I liked most is this negating movement you handled, in my opinion, rather subtly in "We can wonder about everything and nothing..." and again in "something unlike stars." It's a movement I'm trying to work on myself so I like to see other successful attempts at it in order to see what works. Of course, there are moments where the form muddies the work. In places like "as I was vermin" and earlier in "except about winter" could be easily condensed in later drafts for powerful, sonic precision. I think what's central here is this idea of permanence and the attempt to blanket one's self in something permanent, which the speaker admits is "not of you, of me, of we." I also wonder what "we" is and how that lends to the fragility of the relationship? My guess is that the breaking lies mostly within the speaker who views his/herself as "vermin" but is ultimately a meaningless guess until further information is supplied in a future draft.
So hey, I enjoyed this. What I liked most is this negating movement you handled, in my opinion, rather subtly in "We can wonder about everything and nothing..." and again in "something unlike stars." It's a movement I'm trying to work on myself so I like to see other successful attempts at it in order to see what works. Of course, there are moments where the form muddies the work. In places like "as I was vermin" and earlier in "except about winter" could be easily condensed in later drafts for powerful, sonic precision. I think what's central here is this idea of permanence and the attempt to blanket one's self in something permanent, which the speaker admits is "not of you, of me, of we." I also wonder what "we" is and how that lends to the fragility of the relationship? My guess is that the breaking lies mostly within the speaker who views his/herself as "vermin" but is ultimately a meaningless guess until further information is supplied in a future draft.
Improv 3, Week 2
Trochaic pentameter
Faded, cropped to knee. The jeans are buckled.
Wait until the hands remove the belted
strain then close those shameless eyes out to the
horror. Tops unravel like mountains loose,
concrete to the iridescent eye--.
Improv 2, Week 2
Iambic pentameter(ish)
The crash of feet upon the cobbled steps
that slicks the wall with sound under the wet
and porous stones, the spiral tapered down
to loose waves who grind and lick the shine off coins
and gives the whirl a green, metallic sheen.
The crash of feet upon the cobbled steps
that slicks the wall with sound under the wet
and porous stones, the spiral tapered down
to loose waves who grind and lick the shine off coins
and gives the whirl a green, metallic sheen.
Improv 1, Week 2
Improv "A Miracle for Breakfast," Elizabeth Bishop
Improving sestina format (unfinished, "..." = missing stanzas)
Improving sestina format (unfinished, "..." = missing stanzas)
In the dark, I waited for the weight of sleep
to press my eyes. Sleep to be split
by an alarm’s scream or the sun’s lithe stream,
whichever came first.
But of course,
sleep never showed up. Sleep never showed up
and I was left dreading the dark.
Why, when my eyes feel nothing but dark
do I forget that stuttered rhythm of sleep?
My mind calls for it. Eyes glance up
to search the inky ceiling for some sign of it split
amongst speckled plaster’s course,
but still no trace amongst its stippled stream.
I dread the anticipated sun’s stream
which combusts the potential of my dark.
I deny, to no one, the run of this night’s course
in fear of every minute passed without sleep
until even my words hum like insomnia split
amongst the rafters, but never reaching up.
...
Once, stuck in an astronomy course
I learned the benefits of looking up,
to see the stars I miss in sleep
that spark, the orbit the zenith’s stream,
so full of dots, only the greatest light shows dark
when the clouds have finally split.
...
...
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Improv 5, Week 1
The Roman Bath at Nimes, Henri Cole
Improving list method followed by sudden end-stop plea.
Nibbling your grilled cheese you told me
"write a poem" and as if your pan-fried
bread charred thought you told me
call it "Sex in your Mouth". Forgive me.
This poem is not about sex or the way
your drunk touch felt on the veranda,
but the pity I felt when your eyes pooled
over the expanse of tumbling green beyond us,
looking for a woman that wasn't me.
Improving list method followed by sudden end-stop plea.
Nibbling your grilled cheese you told me
"write a poem" and as if your pan-fried
bread charred thought you told me
call it "Sex in your Mouth". Forgive me.
This poem is not about sex or the way
your drunk touch felt on the veranda,
but the pity I felt when your eyes pooled
over the expanse of tumbling green beyond us,
looking for a woman that wasn't me.
Improv 4, Week 1
Heat, Denis Johnson
"August, / you're just an erotic hallucination"
At dinner, we gut Spanish over green beans.
This is campamento español and we spend
10 minutes trying to translate the texture
of pizza cheese (frío? elástico?)
First night our counselor calls us
"gringos" and her laugh chases me
down the soccer field and in salsa
and merengue, while molding churros
in the deep fryer.
July, you are an exultation of sun.
You are the fervor of porch tea
and homegrown tradition. You are firework.
You are liberty. I have known you since childhood,
pricking my finger on your blackberry brush.
You are blue as fruit, red rubber boots,
you are white, white, white
like the hydrogen awakening of a star's core,
like gringos.
July, I was born in you
and still I thought if I kicked enough
soccer balls or if I split enough
Spanish verbs, I could be born
someone else for a weekend.
"August, / you're just an erotic hallucination"
At dinner, we gut Spanish over green beans.
This is campamento español and we spend
10 minutes trying to translate the texture
of pizza cheese (frío? elástico?)
First night our counselor calls us
"gringos" and her laugh chases me
down the soccer field and in salsa
and merengue, while molding churros
in the deep fryer.
July, you are an exultation of sun.
You are the fervor of porch tea
and homegrown tradition. You are firework.
You are liberty. I have known you since childhood,
pricking my finger on your blackberry brush.
You are blue as fruit, red rubber boots,
you are white, white, white
like the hydrogen awakening of a star's core,
like gringos.
July, I was born in you
and still I thought if I kicked enough
soccer balls or if I split enough
Spanish verbs, I could be born
someone else for a weekend.
Improv 3, Week 1
E.E. Cummings "Tulips and Chimneys"
Improv on rhyme scheme (ABCDDCBA)
When we're alone, she says, and threads the straw between her teeth,
we dance like crazy people (here the drum beat ends).
Her lips punctuate the taste of fizz; a new song starts.
I watched, amused. The straw takes up her dance
then fingers lift and twitter out romance
with her cheek's curve, an echo of the hips that dart
against the chair back--and I'm thinking of an Italian well, deep bends
that call the insane to circles and a mythic pedigree.
Improv on rhyme scheme (ABCDDCBA)
When we're alone, she says, and threads the straw between her teeth,
we dance like crazy people (here the drum beat ends).
Her lips punctuate the taste of fizz; a new song starts.
I watched, amused. The straw takes up her dance
then fingers lift and twitter out romance
with her cheek's curve, an echo of the hips that dart
against the chair back--and I'm thinking of an Italian well, deep bends
that call the insane to circles and a mythic pedigree.
Improv 2, Week 1
Ozymandias, Percy Bysshe Shelley
"stamped on these lifeless things"
Hot and guarded these people pack
the metro car, lenient on muffled
bags and elbows stamped to backs.
We launch forward and the unanimous sway
of shoulders jostles the siding.
This is what it feels like to be a body--
a jittery fragment of nerves and stretching
muscles caught in movement.
And like a quick jerk of a leg split
backwards, this is a fracture--the crash
and splatter of a male face to glass,
where the guy whose hand drills
deeper in his cheek, lips pop
hard words and the jagged syllables carve
through the high hum of propulsion.
What is opposite of apparition?
What describes my need to suddenly undo
the press of my presence inches his concave face?
What happens when the boughs weigh
so heavy with the push of petals that the black
cracks, reveals the sinewed light inside?
"stamped on these lifeless things"
Hot and guarded these people pack
the metro car, lenient on muffled
bags and elbows stamped to backs.
We launch forward and the unanimous sway
of shoulders jostles the siding.
This is what it feels like to be a body--
a jittery fragment of nerves and stretching
muscles caught in movement.
And like a quick jerk of a leg split
backwards, this is a fracture--the crash
and splatter of a male face to glass,
where the guy whose hand drills
deeper in his cheek, lips pop
hard words and the jagged syllables carve
through the high hum of propulsion.
What is opposite of apparition?
What describes my need to suddenly undo
the press of my presence inches his concave face?
What happens when the boughs weigh
so heavy with the push of petals that the black
cracks, reveals the sinewed light inside?
Improv 1, Week 1
Explaining an Affinity for Bats, A.E. Stallings:
Improv-ing rhyme scheme (ABBA).
I thought I'd die there on those steps
forever refracted in the glossy gleam
and break of change that cast a green
shade to the walls of St. Patrick's well.
Improv-ing rhyme scheme (ABBA).
I thought I'd die there on those steps
forever refracted in the glossy gleam
and break of change that cast a green
shade to the walls of St. Patrick's well.
Critical Response 1, Week 1
Response to Sydney Bolding's Improv 2, Week 1:
There's a great deal to admire here sonically, imagistically,like "who found the last of your breaths" or the clever play on your last name "bolding". This also seems to be doing a lot of work with juggling and interconnective tissue--the grandfather's hestiation to write his name coupled with, by end, the speaker's own inability to seize the pen, "paper and pen, unbound". There's also a great sensuality and depth to the grandfather that I would like to see further fleshed out (answer why--why flea markets and women? Why the hesitation?)On another note, in terms of juggling the "you" of the coffin in the beginning, it seems to curiously disappear and, as it stands, function more as a vehicle towards the discovered subject--the grandfather--as opposed to functioning as an additional plate for the poem to perform.
There's a great deal to admire here sonically, imagistically,like "who found the last of your breaths" or the clever play on your last name "bolding". This also seems to be doing a lot of work with juggling and interconnective tissue--the grandfather's hestiation to write his name coupled with, by end, the speaker's own inability to seize the pen, "paper and pen, unbound". There's also a great sensuality and depth to the grandfather that I would like to see further fleshed out (answer why--why flea markets and women? Why the hesitation?)On another note, in terms of juggling the "you" of the coffin in the beginning, it seems to curiously disappear and, as it stands, function more as a vehicle towards the discovered subject--the grandfather--as opposed to functioning as an additional plate for the poem to perform.
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