From a message sent around where I work:
The three-time Hugo award SF writer Vernor Vinge just gave an intriguing talk at AAAI-2010. He believes that by 2030 human history likely will reach a singularity in which four computing technologies […] will create intelligent agencies that will surpass humans in every conceivable creative task. What fun!
Regardless of whether such a technological singularity may come to pass, my gut disagrees with the gushing interpretation.
creative tasks go cross-eyed
when the spring leaf falls.
Spawned off of Dana’s wonderful, fantastic American sentence:
Everything else can be new while the self spins in still epicycles.
Epicycles: illusory motions keep ideas fixed in their spheres.
Spheres are the dreams of circles, circles of lines, lines of mere points like eyes.
Two points define a line, horizontal, a horizon of yearning.
Horizons tease but never come, keeping ahead like a true idea.
Kinda feel like these want more form to connect them and lead them forward.
it starts with the beans
dried tight in their skin
shaken shaken shaken sluffed
wire mesh grates worked by hand
then the beans are packed
big bags breath potential
poured packed tied tossed
rough burlap grows tall beside
now see the settling that
may occur during shipping
pushed rolled swelled lifted
deep ocean coursing beneath
into hopper shaking beans
down before dreary eyes
filled ground tamped brewed
thin crema rising above
and out the door with a cup
no care taken en route
gulped stopped honked sighed
people all squeezing past
settling in to shake numbers
measuring desired growth
computed cranked graphed paid
soft mesh seats below
flowing back where the leaves
rustle with flowers and breeze
opened buzzed touched caressed
a pregnant season ahead
This was written in a hustle to submit to the Hustle issue of 48hr Magazine. Didn’t make it in. Not too surprising considering some of the names I recognize in the contributor list, but it just kinda happened while I was sitting at Octane working.
Edit: Hey! I have a box! Well, a shipping container. Implicitly. Good enough for me to post this to We Write Poems, right? Write? Wight?
I doubt if I’ll keep up with all the great prompts at all the great sites (Big Tent Poetry, We Write Poems, Poetic Asides, Writer’s Island, POW, and others), but all the talk of Ren Faire lately made the Big Tent’s resonate.
calling out with a slightly off mystique
wallowing in the seedy sensual
exhibiting only the bizarre freak
challenging reason’s illusory dual
to run away, chase possibilities,
to dive deeply within that core of wants
to fly far above the hope and the tease
to pick your own craziness, mirrored taunt
is nothing but a cloud of dust raised up
being left behind the traveling sideshow
was only passed fancy filling this cup
am I left here with empty hopes in tow
next time around, again, I’ll follow chance
before I’m left with dreamed lusty romance
I do have to admit that my first, knee-jerk response was a tad shorter.
on running away
my calling litters the road:
Often posted to the 17 or haiku groups on identi.ca:
Standing by the track, hoping to catch the earliest passing cool breeze.
And there it goes away on the breeze, my fried brain.
often bring out those feelings
undeserved but true.
Where some see lines, others feel sight pulled taught across imagination.
get out of the way
let words sing and shine.
I want naught but love
though less physical than that
A nearly full moon
wearing a fast cloak of cloud
calls forth a fresh Spring.
And yes, I know some people roll their eyes at short forms. “The short forms aren’t enough work to be poetry.” The other side is that they’re accessible to all. Anyone can add a little form to an observation. That renders it special simply by intent. And poetic, by intent to be formed and special. I have no illusions about speaking deep truths or grand images. I just speak. That’s all I can do.
One last quip / tanka for NaPoWriMo 2010:
closing out this month
by thanking those who always
give their words to air
never expecting return
but feeling the sky open
(Time zones do rather remove the drama.)
I started being silly and clichéd to loosen up for another idea I have, but this stumbled out.
it’s the final night
and still i must write
palm thwacked against face
words laugh at my chase
quicker than my wit
they do confound it
left in swirling dust
ideas turn to rust
falling apart they
never find their way
except slowly down
into the deep ground
from each separate burr
that ground against sky
as words said good-bye
and were buried deep
feeling sky’s tears seep
through the hard kernel
’till after vernal
up sprout words their own
that words’ scorn had sown
stretching out their leaves
unfurl to perceive
the light breath of wind
and feel the sun’s grin
Thanks again and again to the contributors at ReadWritePoem and at Poetic Asides for prompts, poems, and feedback. You could say I used the “free prompt” at RWP, but it feels more like it used me. Left me with smile, though, so I can’t complain.
(Oops. And I can’t count. Fixed a line. Except that I really do pronounce “separate” with two syllables. Sorry.)
Something that returns as front page news again and again. Not quite the RWP prompt, but this is something I still can’t quite face.
The Earth is bleeding
they say, but it’s not quite true.
Blood doesn’t poison.
They always forget the Earth
wears her life on the outside.
And the reason for being short:
take crucial time away from
projects in progress
For some reason, my head kept twisting today’s RWP prompt from intuition to inspiration, perhaps because I need some. Quickly written during lunch before diving back into proposals and project reviews:
facets of light
falling all over
splashes of warmth
tinged with chill
run curved paths
engage the senses
trigger tiny thoughts
flowing into ideas
then dry off
trying to remember
before they’re drained
And a bonus senryū that ultimately is related to the Poetic Asides prompt:
darkly crowd narrow paths to
And, really, related to the mountainous deadlines keeping me from reading, commenting, and thanking people. I do appreciate all the wonderful comments and encouragement.
Trying to remember the fun part with today’s RWP prompt:
Just a quick note
another in a long line
sometimes stretching clear ’round the block
outside, waiting, drizzled upon, fading, but
never once butting ahead.
Well, um, fun in the sense that I just wrote it quickly without endless frittering. Now off to my mountain of technical writing.