Four Illustrations of Rose (Stein Poems)
The following four poems all came from the same instance of Gnoetry 0.2, worked through repeatedly and saved as several variations. I kept certain words or parts of each line as I worked down through the poem each time, later abandoning them if they ceased to work for the emerging poems. I hope to continue making these for a while longer.
1 | An Illustration, as in Rose on the surface
Rose was not flashy.
So she went on instinct.
The grass did not say so, anyway.
And when you lose touch with them?
Was I awake or not?
The grass looks like weakness.
The more we all know the body.
Illustration: the heart, a line.
These are the unfaithful.
So throw out your bearings.
And later, the empties.
No good will come of it.
Those who live on the surface.
It is not any comfort to sing.
These boys are brittle and gloomy.
The grass because grass is over.
Flies are infectious;
And no one here can sing.
2 | An Illustration, as in Rose the master
Rose was a master.
So Rose went on instinct.
The grass did not notice the bodies.
Love was not about themselves.
Why should we air our bodies?
The masters must know.
The more we all like something.
Here is a microscope.
These are the songs they bring.
So she began to sing.
And there was a big room.
How do we know to sing?
And when you go into the room.
Will you ever see anyone else?
Like some city to some animal.
The grass because grass is easy.
Names are for ourselves;
And the green plants, too.
3 | An Illustration, as in Rose in flames
Rose was not enough.
And she did not have more.
The grass did not have to dream or hurt.
It made her clutch the surface.
Why is life like that to you?
A good place in ruins.
The more we all learn about stuff.
Here it is best for you.
Those who dare to listen.
So Rose had a headache.
And that was one end.
The hay came down with it.
And when you are all there is.
Will you ever fall into the flame.
People learn to do things their way.
The grass because grass is better.
These are the edges;
And the others burn.
4 | An Illustration, as in Rose of the fragile heart
Rose began to smoke.
She never did like the clouds.
The grass does not care if people know.
Little specks of compassion.
Why do they do the right thing?
Just let them be broken.
The more you can make it better.
Is it any good for others?
They do not want to break.
So Rose would have enough.
And then just try to be.
But Rose knew how to hide.
This is a heart made of salt.
Every morning it is the same.
Get rid of values and tactics.
The grass because the grass is broken.
Rose is grown hard now;
And all their hearts as well.
Composed with Gnoetry 0.2 and the following texts:
Woods Hutchinson, The Child’s Day
Gertrude Stein, The World Is Round
Howard R. Garis, The Curlytops at Uncle Franks Farm