Submissions for This Week's Meeting (11.19.2009)

Hey all, so we have three submissions for this week's meeting, one poem from Jennifer, a spec script for the tv show Parks and Recreation from Neil, and a poem from me. If everyone could print out their own copy of the script, that would be great. I can provide copies for everything else. Also, if you are unfamiliar with Parks and Recreation, you can watch a couple episodes on hulu.com. Just think, it is like The Office, but instead of a paper company, it is the government. And Amy Poehler = Steve Carrell.

In other news--I know, news!--this meeting will be the last OFFICIAL Riot Ink meeting of the semester. Next Thursday, as you all probably know, is Thanksgiving, and the Thursday after is during the last week of school--which sadly, is when our room reservation expires. However, I invite everyone to join me and other fellow writers at Drungos (it is a bar/lounge place near Vulcan Video and Toy Joy off Guadalupe) on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving (11.24). I will also have unofficial meetings during December for whoever is able, which will be fun writing days at all of your favorite Austin coffee shops--like Quack's and Flightpath and not Epoch and JP Java and maybe Spiderhouse! We can talk about it more at the meeting.

I need to talk to the people who will be here next semester so I can get the group re-registered and we can still use fancy UT rooms. If all goes according to plan, next semester should be the same, if not eerily similar to this semester. And I will probably advertise the group more.

And last but not muthafucking least: I know many moons ago I mentioned that Riot Ink releases little chapbooks that showcase work from the writers. The chapbooks are pretty awesome, consisting of finely crafted white cardstock, colored paper, ink, and neat icons. I can bring in a couple for people to see so you get an idea. After going through a rolling roster of different writers for the first month and finally settling into a consistent group of people, I think a chapbook would be cool to release. I know most everyone has submitted something--and all of the submissions are great for a book. I will talk about this in more detail at the meeting as well.

Anyway, I just want everyone to know that it has been a great run. I know the news that this week is the last meeting is kind of abrupt, but if keep in touch during December and it won't have to be! Anways, you all have been mega-awesome.

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A poem by Jennifer


A spec script of the tv show "Parks and Recreation" by Neil


A poem by godzilla

Submissions For This Week's Meeting (11/12/2009)

Hey all, I hope everyone had a good weekend! I feel like I saw most of you in one way or another, which is pretty awesome. We have three submissions this week, a poem from Annie, a short story by Rachel, and a poem by me. Pretty normal procedure. I think we may hear a selection from David Sedaris, as promised a month ago. He is a funny guy, and writes funny stuff, which makes me happy. Plus they sell his books at Fry's Electronics in Atlanta, GA. Also, one of these meetings in the near future (probably the last) will be a bar/hang out meeting, so definitely be around for that. We will probably hit up this place called Drungo's over near Vulcan Video and Conan's Pizza. It is a pretty cool place, and we are pretty cool people. Meeting time is same old 5:30pm - 7:00pm at room 3.108 in the Communications Building at UT. Drinks after? Why not.

A poem by Annie - 1 pg

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A short story by Rachel - 13 pgs

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A poem by Ryan - 1 pg

Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning

I

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

IV

She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophesy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

V

She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss."
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

VI

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Submissions for this week's meeting (11/5/2009)

Hey all, we have three submissions for this week, two poems from Jennifer and a rough start to a short story by Rachel. Rachel said she cannot attend the meeting due to a chemistry test (AHHH!) but please still write comments. You can either email them to her, or give them to me and I will give them to her at the next meeting. There are no special themes this week, other than being awesome, which you all are every meeting! But if anyone wants to talk about a specific anything at a meeting, just shoot me an email, and you can have a go at lecturing on a topic. I am going to bring in a couple poems this time around and we can talk about them. I hope Halloween was amazing. Yeah. YEAH!

A rough start to a short story by Rachel

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Mouth of the Itza Well and Mill Town by Jennifer