So,
I was tapped for the next etude, and I totally forgot until... well, now. Since it is Monday afternoon and we meet in two days and I don't know about you but I certainly don't have time to churn out anything interesting by the time class meets, I propose that this etude be due next class period.
As for the etude, Dr. Jenkins requested that it be related to the discussion we had before Spring Break about trauma. I have deep concerns about the practice of writing about trauma on command. It seems too removed and artificial to simply decide to write from the headspace/ wordpsace of trauma. That said, to write directly from trauma is to experience it, something at best unpleasant and at worst triggering of past trauma. So we're going to approach this side-on.
1. Choose a fairytale. Old, authentic ones (Grimm, Andersen) are best, as these often involve lots of toes being chopped off and people turning into stone and such. Read it if you don't already know it by heart.
2. Pick a scene or character that appeals to you or is particularly striking. Since this is a trauma poem, do not choose the part where the prince triumphantly kills the dragon - unless you choose to write the dragon. Ex: How the first stepsister must have felt when she cut off her big toe in order to fit into Cinderella's glass slipper.
3. Write a poem not necessarily retelling the story, but from the general atmosphere of the bit you picked.
I hope that was clear. And if you want to do something similar to this but not exactly the same, go for it.
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Sweet etude!
ReplyDeleteThanks! I was worried it was too open-ended, but I figure we're all pretty into our own stuff right now and it would be better for everyone if we didn't have structure restrictions, just a prompt.
ReplyDeleteI am SO doing Rapunzel.
ReplyDeletehere is my myth:
ReplyDeleteI have not read a fairytale since before I can remember, blending together. Rabbits and wolves, cats and clowns. Every story has a moral, but where does the importance lie? A man is man who can. Who can separate these threads in my head. They intertwine and intersect. A boy cried Wolf, wanted to taste Red, hidden in straw. I am thirteen, eleven, seven. Reading, have read, will read. The rabbit lowest on the chain, sleeping, went home hungry. I am twenty one, struggling. Things are passing through, and through my mind there does exist a kind of tale. I can only be penned, not thought. The moral: