52 PICK-UP


more scenes from fast week.

One of my all-time favorite poems, and one of the all-time great examples of how a small collection of seemingly simple words can pack enough thought and power and music and might to keep you thinking and talking and puzzling for hours, is Randall Jarrell's now iconic The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner. My MBA FlexModers took to it with gusto, then took to their follow-up assignment -- to write a little piece of flash fiction, or flash non-fiction, with the same paltry number of words (52) that Jarrell packed into his poem -- with even greater gusto and good humor. I enjoyed them all and was duly, truly impressed with the efforts. Four of the finished products charmed and pleased me enough to post them here, for your late Wednesday night, still-pissed-that-Chris-Daughtry-went-home-so-you-need-something-to-cheer-you-up pleasure...

First, the dull death of a long grass cutter:

The grass is long.
I know this. My dog whines about this.
The machine is ready: fueled and lubricated.
Two-thirds the height is the goal.
Pull the cord, push the lever, begin to walk.
Through the yard, back and forth, over and over,
With nothing but Johnny Cash to keep me company.

Then the famous death of a long tall leader:

The remaining glass of Bordeaux,
Adorning a stained tablecloth, scattered with broken glass,
Sat completely ignored by the bustling crowd.
Excitement mixed with surprise and sorrow,
The preceding silence demolished by the crash.
A mournful moment, historically hallowed,
Punctuated by crimson liquid spilling about.
Few noticed Mr. Booth making his way out.

Then the slow death of a great big drinker:

Sitting in class. Not again.
It is a never ending cycle.
Quenching the dryness
Fresh, crisp, sweet taste
Bubbles, liquid, and sugar
Rushing down, down, down
Filling, peaking, reaching a limit.
Not again.
Don’t be rude, be patient.
Think of a desert, not a storm.
Too late now, I have to go...

And, finally, the sudden death of a solo student flyer:

My mentor, my friend, opened the door and got out of the plane.
It was my time now.
I taxied to the end of the runway, glanced at the windsock and took a big breath.
Throttle forward, the bird began to breathe.
Quickly, sooner than I expected, she leapt into the air.

These students, like that plane, have taken to the sometimes thin and often demanding air of these assignments sooner and more splendidly than I could have hoped. That they trust me enough to follow these sudden, foolish flight paths, that they will, left-brain pilots all, enter so freely and happily into right-brain air-space, honors them and humbles me. And, I hope, entertains you.

Posted: Wed - May 10, 2006 at 10:06 AM          

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