camp poetry.

I went camping with a bunch of friends this weekend and, dorks that we are, we spent hours playing the 'poetry game'. Each player gets a page to start a poem and then passes it to the person next to them. As the poems get passed around, each player folds over the lines above the one they just wrote so you only get to see the line right before yours. Then when the papers are full, you read aloud. It was pretty much the funniest, most inspiring, bizarre, wonderful time ever. Although a lot of the poems were super ridiculous and silly, we impressed ourselves by collectively writing some genuinely beautiful stuff. Here are a few extra-solid examples of what we did. Keep in mind, these were written by eight people who had been drinking since 10:30 am.

Writing by Summer, Laurie, Kelly, Patrick, Gabriella, Bryan, Thomas, and Mandy, otherwise known as 'River Krause' :

-

She was under the music’s spell
She closed her eyes and dropped her guard
dropped her shirt and shoes.
Before she fell to the floor in a crumpled mess they all laughed and pointed.
She meant to fall down.
Scraped knees are dirty dignified badges.
Distinguished bruises, I cruise my memory for thoughts of you, morning pancake days.
Coffee, smokes. Pictures of you – every day.
A fresh start
But how many “fresh starts” do we each get?
Zero. Nothing is really new, is it?
But what did you really want to know?
I could tell you everything in five minutes but the truth would lose it’s luster.

-

Even when we yelled,
It tasted like a whisper
And then I heard silence coming back in from the cold wind.
And it was fascinating to hear silence.
The echo of empty it embraced
Like a rock tossed in a well.
Dark, cold, alone.
In a dungeon of doubt.
Handing on the cliff of a memory
holding on because letting go would mean something ended. You hate endings.
There’s a possibility that this won’t stop being painful, but what the hell.
It’s not always healthy to feel good.
Sometimes, it is necessary to die.
To be re-born…

-

Her eyes were tired.
Dark circles made her seem older, more experienced, sexy.
She was tired. Possibly.
Possibly because she was on some awesome drugs.
Or just seeing clearly for the last time.
The last time she opened her eyes, it hurt.
And she wished she were blind.
So she wouldn't see his...
It's not scary, not scary, not scary.
It's cinematic.
And profoundly monochromatic.
Meditated upon like Rothko.

-

Otis had it rough
and tumble
down down down until there was only me.
Well me, and that guy, and this girl make three.
Changing who I thought I could be.
You know, something kind of new. Maybe pink.
Maybe blue. For boys and sky -- two things I hate most of all.
"I'll break myself of it once and for all."
He said for the fourth time.
She watched the progress of her cigarette,
to be interpreted as the shortening of her patience.
He left without words, he wanted to hit her.
He ran to his car and punched the window.
Fuck!
You!

-

Hills ran for miles through the window of the train
the rain raced rivers on her cheeks,
cutting through the beauty shell.
I wash my face and stare at the mirror.
And hope they have forgotten my bad-luck incidents with their ancestors.
The ancient dead have no reason to forgive our bullshit.
But it doesn't matter, we leave them flowers.
Posies for rememberance, it feels like it's been hours.
Hours, or days -- it's easy to lose track.
Lose time, lost mind. Missing hours spent with an ex-boyfriend,
taking Zanax and talking on the phone.
Was that my phone going off? Hold on.
As per usual,
everything is always the same.

-

This is a great first line
It came from the record player, scratchy and proud
like a goddamn lullaby in the middle of the day
sung with conviction -- enough to believe.
They had stars like firecrackers in their eyes and then they stopped.
She reached out her hand like a ghost
and stuck it right through him.
"Oh," he said, "that feels nice."
But really, it felt awful.
...like a thousand tiny submarines of grief.
like a bathtub full of blood or money -- what's the difference?
Different strokes, different folks.
"That's the way," people say, "the game is played."
Cheaters win, and love becomes suspect.
Sluts win! Sluts win! Sluts win!
But we let them.