"Drinking Song" by Guest Poet #1: Andrew Demcak

Guest Poet #1 is Andrew Demcak, and he has selected words provided by Justin Evans.


Drinking Song

the bits of wet paper
salamander within a Chinese screen
minding their labeled sides in a blown sky
I shouldn’t exist, stopped,
I fight humor my shot glass
my strength divorcing emptiness
my bitter pail
the surprise of my half-corpse
I scratched and didn’t sleep
I was careful, I bragged ahead
my waiting mouth covered with hope
the way I was complaint-filled
supported by alcoholic forgetting
entirely resentful
shaped by a chilled rasp
the superior body
poured in two pale versions
absolutely white
not to upset time regretfully
distilling
I might make a living
inescapable but not whimpering


Justin's Words:
salamander, fight, rasp, pale, pail

"As A Child I Wanted To Be Reba McEntire" ~ Dustin

OK. I created Quarrel and its rules, and I am typically a rule following kind of guy; however, I am going against my norm. I've had a nasty case of writer's block that caused me to go almost two months without writing a poem, which is a crazy-long time for me. Two weeks is the longest period of time I've had to deal with writer's block. So, yes, I'm using writer's block as my excuse as to why I'm posting a poem that doesn't use five words supplied by readers. I feel like a cheat, so no bad-mouthing a rule breaker. My writer's block broke after I watched a Youtube video a week or two ago. This is the first draft of what came from the break of the block:


As A Child I Wanted To Be Reba McEntire

for my Grandmother

Because my grandmother loved to hear Reba sing,
to watch her in music videos, Fancy her favorite.

Because we watched the videos together
and thought her a fiery redhead who could do anything.

Because I wanted to be able to do anything
and everything and my grandmother told me I could.

Because Reba sang Fancy like it was her own story,
and it gave me hope that happy endings do exist.

Because after a song ended, my grandmother would tell me
stories about my mother's childhood, leaving in the dirt.

Because I sang Fancy to my grandmother so she would smile
when she was too sick to get out of bed.

Because when I think of Reba, I think of my grandmother,
and remember I can do can anything.

Time Again for "John McCain's Dementia" by Kate

At first, I wasn't thrilled when Kate gave the news you're about to read because I'm often a stickler for the rules; however, I do find it often makes for a good show when the rules are broken.



From the fingertips of Kate:

I'm already breaking the rules and not revising my poem. I'm not claiming it's perfect, but it is pretty tight. Sometimes poems come out that way (rarely for me because I'm usually a huge reviser). That can be a gift, or in the case of this poem, maybe that's a problem. It feels tight partly because it's written in rhymed couplets--and partly because it's a political poem. It's already dated since the election is over. I guess that means in a way it's a stagnant poem, and perhaps you can only revise a poem that's in motion.

The best thing I got out of writing this poem is "Change one letter and womb is bomb." It's the best way for me to express that my vagina disagrees with Palin's vagina. I just hope 4 years from now I won't have to have another vagina fight with her.

If anyone out there strongly disagrees with me and thinks the poem needs some work in a particular area, please comment, and I certainly will take your ideas into consideration.

I hope you are all thrilling on the Obama win. Perhaps my next poem will be about that.

Revision! ~ "Autopsy" by Christopher

AUTOPSY

My slippery virgin heart is ripe,
ta-tumming in the circular gape
I carve. Up to elbow in tripe,

I grip my guts’ tentacles, bare-
handed, wrestle them from a mire
of the living, wavy hairs

that stick to my sides. In tears, I plumb
deeper, desperate to thumb
out the bleating organ (that damn

ta-tumming!), set it on a platter
surrounded by the seeds of cancer
a burlesque of eggs, boiled and bitter.

As the white of the worm
that eats through my sternum.
How empty the body’s become.

How hollowed by a flame.
I worship the flicker that lights the shame.
Hallowed be your name.

There is no heart in a pumpkin-
shaped boy who eats out his in-
sides only to suck on his sin.



Click here to read Christopher's first draft of "Autopsy"

"The Instruction Aubade" ~ Charles Jensen

Charles selected words provided by Joy. Thanks Joy!

The Instruction Aubade

Wake slowly. The light through your bedroom windows
Has a vertigo slant—your body alone in the bed
Has not a limb to cling to.

Bathe, prepare breakfast. Pull a shirt and trousers
Like loose teeth from the dark yawn of the closet.
Put them on.

Descend the stairway like a cloud—

Attend your job. Make things, move things.
Cradle and uncradle the phone if it speaks.
Place paper in envelopes, discuss television with colleagues.

Reduce your walking speed to a stroll:
You have no where urgent to be
And there's no one to anger with tardiness.

At sunset, draw the blinds. Your body, streaked with night,
Will be weary. Examine the television to prepare tomorrow's small talk.
Straighten the stack of magazines in their nest atop the coffee table.

If you plan to eat dinner,
Be sensible. Order salad. Skip dessert. There's no harm in looking good

Even if no one's looking.

Joy's Words:
salad, sunset, streaked, stroll, stairway

Exciting News ~ Kate Evans

This week, Kate Evans was one of the keynote speakers at the Atlanta Queer Lit Festival. Kate started off her speech by sharing "John McCain's Dementia," which is poem created because of her involvement with Quarrel.

"John McCain's Dementia" ~ Kate ~ First Draft

Kate selected words provided by Dana. Thanks Dana!


John McCain’s Dementia

He experiences crimson catatonic
blips, tiny fiery confusions, sonic

gongs. The women at each elbow
know. Many, many others know.

Everyone’s holding their infamous breath,
dry in the mind, moist in the flesh.

No pharmacological brew can stop
the cameras, ominous, from capturing

my fellow prisoners substituted
for Americans. As if we haven’t prostituted

ourselves enough. As if any old blubber
can shove its belly into our heads and blabber.

As if any beauty contestant is to fawn
upon. Change one letter and womb is bomb.



Dana's Words:
blubber, catatonic, moist, pharmacology, womb