A to Z Challenge: O is for OULIPO or "Because I could not stop for Decomposition"

Usually I don't like to provide much of an introduction or explanation for my poetry, but I felt this needed a little something. OULIPO is short for Ouvroir de littérature potentielle which roughly translates as "workshop of potential literature." It's a small group of mainly french writers and mathematicians. The pairing may seem odd, but they seek to create literature within vary confined parameters. There are a lot of different forms. A lipogram excludes a specific letter (La disparition by Perec is a 300 page novel that excludes the letter 'E'). A snowball is a poem in which each line is a single word, and each successive word is one letter longer.

I decided to go with N+7 rule. Basically, you take a work that already exists - a poem or a song or a novel - and replace every noun in the text with the seventh noun after it in a dictionary. Results will vary depending on what dictionary is used, and since I am at work, I was limited to an old thesaurus, but I kept with the N+7 results and came up with this little poem.

Because I could not stop for Decomposition

Because I could not stop for Decomposition -

He kindly stopped for me -

The Casket held but just Ourselves

And Imperfection.

We slowly drove - He knew no hazard

And I had put away

My lady and my lethargy too,

For his Clarity.

We passed the Scoundrel, where Chorus strove

At Reckoning - in the Rivalry - 

We passed the Film of Gazing Grass -

We passed the setting Superstition -

Or rather - He passed us -

The Diary drew quivering and chill -

For only Grace, my Grandmother -

My Toil - only Turmoil - 

We paused before a Hue that seemed

A Symbol of the Growth

The Root was scarcely visible -

The Corpse - in the Growth - 

Since then - 'tis Certainty - and yet

Feels shorter than the Death

I first surmised the Hosts' Health

Were toward Evening - 

Side Note: I tried this with a couple of poems, before settling on this one. The others were just completely unintelligible! 

A to Z Challenge: H is for Haemorrhagic

That conference in Kigali almost killed me. I have never been so exhausted in my life. Four lectures a day plus networking in the evenings? Never again. 8,593 miles from Kigali to Denver and I am finally home. Well... if you can call it a home. I don't have much in the way of furniture except for a fold out chair and mattress on the floor.

I drop my bags just inside the door and go to the kitchen. For some reason, a vague sliver of hope rests in that moment before opening the fridge door. As if kitchen fairies might have filled it to the brim with healthful, tasty food. I sigh, staring at the lone bottle of wine and a case of diet soda. I really need to go grocery shopping. For a moment, I just stare into the fridge, enjoying the coolness on my skin. My face feels stretched taut - like the heat of Africa followed me home. I grab the wine and slam the door.

If only my colleagues could get a look at me now. Whenever they see me it's in five star hotels, Prada, Louis Vuitton. I must be quite the picture, sitting on a mattress on the floor drinking wine out of the bottle. It's not even good wine. I laugh to myself and kick off my shoes. God, that feels good. I stretch my toes, arching my foot and stretching it back out. The wine makes me feel warm.

All this jet lag must be finally catching up to me. Or maybe it's the wine. I stretch my whole body this time, feeling the twinges and stiffness of a 30+ hour flight. At least have two days to myself before I fly out again. I'm feeling light headed. I glance at the wine, but I've only had a couple of gulps. Another wave of dizziness hits me and I fall back against the mattress. The wine bottle rolls off the bed. I manage to turn my head and watch as the red wine soaks into the tastefully off-white carpet. I try to care, but exhaustion overwhelms me.

I open my eyes sometime later. It's dark outside. My clock glows dimly showing 9:42 p.m. But I didn't get home until after ten. How long did I sleep? My arms and legs are covered with red starbursts. I must have spilled the wine on myself. I lick a finger and try to rub the red out, but it doesn't wash off. I trace the pattern again. I must be dreaming. I try to sit up, but I feel so heavy. I lay back and watch the headlights flare and fade on the ceiling. The light bends and hits me. I flinch back, covering my eyes with my arms. I must have the flu or something. Maybe a migraine. My head hurts. My  whole body hurts.

Damn those airplanes! Such a small closed space packed in with who knows who? Wasn't there an old man coughing a couple of seats behind me? At the thought, my throat tickles. I try to hold it back, but I can't. I roll onto my stomach and cough. Something splatters into my hand. It looks black, but I can't really tell. It's so dark in here. I wipe it off on a pillow I'm not using and throw it away from me. I should go to the doctor, but the only thing open right now is the ER. I try to sit up again, but fall back on the mattress. There's no way I can drive myself, but surely it's not bad enough to call an ambulance. It's probably just the flu. I should have gotten my shot weeks ago.

I close my eyes and drift off. Or try to. Someone opens the front door and light pours in. I try to cover my eyes, but I cough and cough. The carpet is stained with the black stuff or maybe it was the wine. I'm surrounded. Hands press against my skin, hot and heavy. I try to push them away, but I'm falling. I land against my mattress and start crying. Crying and coughing. My tears are thick. Too thick. I wipe my cheek and my hand comes away red. I scream, scrubbing my face, but I'm still coughing hard. I feel something rising and I vomit, throwing the black something over the carpet and bed, covering the wine stains.

It's a nightmare. A fever dream. I try to find my phone to call 911. My hands scrabble around the bed but the only thing I can get a hold of is the empty wine bottle. It must be in my purse. My purse is across the room with my luggage. I crawl off the bed through the black vomit and wine. Why does my apartment feel so freaking huge? My body is too heavy. The hands press against me, stopping my movement. I scream, but nothing changes. I need to get to the door.

Why do I need to go there? I can't remember. It's so far and I'm so tired. I'm crying steadily, great sobs that wrack my body until I can't breathe. My nails break, digging into the hard concrete under the carpet. I collapse, barely able to move my head.

Something inside me tears. A violent ripping shudders through me, but I relax. My muscles don't have the strength to clench. The pain is numbing. Bright white light washes through my mind and I close my eyes.

My hand lands on the wine bottle. The glass is cool against my skin. I sigh, because now I understand. I'm dying. It wasn't even a good vintage.

Writing Prompt: My Mother Broke Every Plate

From page 260 in "642 Things to Write About:"

Prompt: Start a story with the line "My mother broke every plate in the house that day."

My mother broke every plate in the house that day. Shards of blue and white porcelain sparkled across the kitchen tile like fragments of her life. She'd collected each piece meticulously. A saucer here, a plate, a teacup.

I held the only survivor behind my back. A sugar bowl. I wanted to place it gently in a basket and send it down a river to keep it safe from my mother's wrath. From her grief.

The violence of her act shocked even her. She stood quivering, surrounded by the shattered remnants of her collection. For the first time, the willow print made me feel like weeping. 

I sat silently for my own protection, and for that of the refugee that I clutched. The small bowl felt cold against my skin.

She'd been washing the dishes when the phone rang. I was supposed to be drying them.

The first plate dropped from her hands by accident. The second she let go, releasing her grip slowly. Intentionally. The third she threw.

Then the next. And the next. Harder and harder, building herself up like a tsunami. A ceramic wave crashed through her. The result of some far off earthquake. 

The last plate slipped through her fingers like sand. It landed atop its ruined family, a single chip in its oriental edge.

The wave collapsed, leaving my mother alone in the rubble.

Check out Claudia Bookwright's response to the same prompt here.

The Girl that Haunts Me

In addition to writing, I am also a visual artist. Pen and ink are my normal go-to media, but I also enjoy acrylics and color pencil (watercolors are my mortal enemy!). Many of the things that inspire my stories also inspire my pictures. Death. The future. Human experience. Yet there is one source of inspiration that has followed - perhaps haunted - me for years, and that inspiration started with a book.

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier was inspired by a 17th century painting of the same name by Johannes Vermeer. Not much is actually known about the painting or the artist, for that matter. Chevalier's book was an attempt to discover the woman and the story behind the painting.

Not only does the concept of a writer delving into the past through fiction appeal to me, the painting itself struck a chord. Who was this girl? Her expression changes every time I study her. Sometimes she's full of innocence and hope. Sometimes her dark eyes fail to reflect the coy smile on her lips. Sometimes she looks lonely. Sometimes lost. Sometimes wise beyond her years.

I have studied this painting relentlessly. As a writer, I need to figure out who she is. I need to understand what she feels, what she dreams, what she desires with the utmost depths of herself. As an artist, I draw her. Over and over again. Maybe by creating her image I will find a deeper understanding. From sketches to paintings, I have recreated this girl many times. Often, instead of finding her, I find someone else entirely.

These are two very different version of the "Girl with a Pearl Earring" that I've done.

               "Girl with a Pearl Piercing"                       "Runner with a Pearl Earring"

Both of the women in my pictures are very different from the original and very different from each other. By studying one intriguing face, I have found many new characters. These two pieces are a small sampling of my efforts to capture the girl who wears the pearl earring. They are the most recent, but they won't be the last. 

I know that I will return to this painting, trying to tease out it secrets with words and paint. As a writer and an artist, inspiration is key to my success and, thanks to this painting, I have never lacked a mystery to follow. 

So let me end with a quote from the book that started this lifelong obsession:

“You're so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.” 

"Girl with a Pearl Piercing" and "Runner with a Pearl Earring" are copyright to Grace Wagner. Do not reproduce or use without permission. 2013