#the rain party disaster society

The writing prompts in our newsletter are some of our most-loved content. We wanted to show you that we don’t just write the prompts - we also utilize them in our own works. Below, all of our staffers have tackled a different writing prompt featured in one of our newsletters. We hope you enjoy our future prompts and use them to help inspire work you’ll submit to RPD in the future!

Jen: Write about the person you think you would be if you had made a different choice at a critical juncture in your life.

Who would you be if you’d said no? Who would you be if you’d stayed where you are, if you continued down one path? Would you still be wondering what-if? Would you be a hero? Where would you call home? At 28 years old, I am going back to a time when I was much younger and trying to make up for lost time. If I hadn’t missed out on my mid-twenties, if I hadn’t gone home to take care of my mother, I don’t know who I would be. My character would be a more exaggerated version of who I was four years ago, and I’m not sure if I would want to be that person. I walked the path that I did. I made the choices I had to make. I can’t go back and undo my mother’s illness or my parents dependence on me. But I can start over now. I can be young a little while longer. I can say that I don’t know who I am yet - but I’m working on it.

- Jordan Rizzieri, Editor-in-Chief

~ * ~

Bee: The Irish and the Portuguese have a shared cultural identity around the concept of SAUDADE, an untranslatable word that refers to a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Write free prose for a minute about something you know you’ll never get back whether it be a time or a place or an idea.

When I was in college, all my friends lived together in the dorms, and later in on-campus apartment buildings that were clustered together, the farthest one no more than a minute from door to door. Seeing a friend was as easy as walking down the hall and could be done at almost any time of the day or night. People would drop in, drop out, stop by on their way from or to somewhere else, parties would swell and shrink and swell again as people came and went. One of my friends used to talk about buying a big house after college where we could all live together, but with our own rooms. Five years out of college, it’s obvious that’s never going to happen. I don’t even want it to anymore. My relationships with most of them have changed, some in subtle ways, others glaringly obvious. Still, sometimes I wish I could go back to the time before those cracks formed; to living so close together that we were connected not just by friendship but by hallways and doors; when we were close in more ways than one; when the hardest part of visiting them was braving the Buffalo cold for 30 seconds, whereas now the hardest thing is deciding which friend I can visit this year because I only have enough money for one plane ticket.

- Jen Lombardo, Non-Fiction Editor

~ * ~

Jordan: Take a moment to recall how many years removed from your high school graduation you are. Imagine a reunion was being held soon and that you (and all of your classmates) were forced to bring your 17- or 18-year_old self to the event as your date. What would you talk about? What events over the course of the life you’ve lived since you were them would you  warn your younger self about? What would you keep from them? Write the scene, with dialogue, as a script. Adam: (Literature) Write a letter to a novel protagonist who has meant a great deal to you. Talk to them casually as if you’ve been friends for a while, because, in a way, you probably have. Don’t postmark, don’t send. Don’t wait for a response.

I am taking my sixteen year old self

as my date to our ten-year high school reunion.

I am on my way to pick her up.

She didn’t recognize me

when I asked her out.

I wanted to tell her

that she needed to stop agreeing to go out

with people so much older than her.

I wanted to tell her to make friends her own age.

Instead, I told her I’d pick her up at 7:00 pm.

I’m having a bad influence on myself,

but I need her to hear me.

I brought her a copy of Tom Robbin’s

Still Life with Woodpecker,

because she shouldn’t have to wait

five more years to learn about

blood and the moon.

I need her to know about 2011.

I need her to hear about our mother.

The reunion is in the same ballroom

where our prom was, balanced on the edge

of the sea. Ten years ago, I wrote a spell

on a napkin for a tidal wave, an act of

god, or something to come up from

the depths of the ocean to kill us all.

Instead, my date danced with everyone

but me and here I am now

with myself, introducing her to

people who dont rememebr

either of us.

“What shall we do, all of us?  Us

passionate girls who fear

crushing the boys we love

with our mouths like caverns

of teeth, our mushrooming brains,

our watermelon hearts?”

She passed me a napkin

with a spell to turn us into

glitter and blow us out the window.

We both thought it would work.

We took each other out the back door.

She ran into the ocean

arms out like the Virgin Mary

of Reckless Abandonment.

- Bee Walsh, Poetry Editor

~ * ~

Adam: Write a letter to a novel protagonist who has meant a great deal to you. Talk to them casually as if you’ve been friends for a while, because, in a way, you probably have. Don’t postmark, don’t send. Don’t wait for a response.

Dear Fyodor,

It’s been some time since I’ve written you. It’s been some time since I’ve thought much on you or your words, despite the fact that I have the hopeful ones imprinted on my forearm. Admittedly, I sometimes forget they are there. I sometimes forget quite a bit, and then I remember before losing it again. I think that’s a blessing, and I think it is one I have given myself.

The days are different now. They are busy and complacent. There are minor pangs of it still, twinges, that surface only when time goes too long unoccupied. And unoccupied time is less the case now than in years prior when I wrote to you more frequently.

So for all intents and purposes, I am mostly content.

Yours in the silence we’ve shared,

Adam Robinson, Fiction Editor

~ * ~

Bee: I’ve been trading emails with poet Jeremy Radin the past few weeks, all loosely centered around the theme of our Ideal Winter. Write a letter, long or short, to anyone (or no one) about your Ideal Winter.

Sis -

I wonder sometimes if my vision of winter - the winter in my daydreams - is the result of being left out. You and Mom and Dad have all experienced Proper Winters; I’m the only one among us who’s never lived in Alaska. Those things that are heritage for our family are only footnotes for me.

I have never seen the Northern Lights. I have never seen starlight at noon.

My ideal winter is dark. Stars, streetlights, and sparkling snow - have you ever been awake at 4 a.m.? I’m sure you have; you work too hard to escape it. There’s an isolation at that pre-dawn hour, a stubborn quiet that assures us that we are the only ones awake. The unbroken quiet - the promise of both solitude and possibility - that’s what I think of when I close my eyes and think of the cold.

I never thought that cold and loneliness - lifelessness and lightlessness - would ever feel so much like belonging.

- Wilson Josephson, Assistant Poetry Editor

~ * ~

Jordan: Keep track of all the Facebook statuses, Tumblr posts and Tweets you don’t send or end up deleting. Splice them together into a poem.

this city is full of ghosts

i saw him again

it was / it wasn’t

it is / it couldn’t be

another deep breath for the lone road

my fingers aren’t long enough to reach you

just long enough to draw thin lines

in all the places i shouldn’t

another deep breath for the long road

my arms are wrapped around myself

just long enough to offer a bit of seclusion

in all the places i shouldn’t

“thinking of you, but not often”

thinking of you, but too often

there’s a whole story we could have written

several months skewed,

several counties through

what’s the cost for a line in another song?

channeling a simple

(simple?)

(simple)

thought

into as many formats as we can

an escalation / too taut again / a longing / too fraught within / a conversation / too in the dark to break light

this could have been something, something, something

in any other city, scene, time

see you on the other side.

- Kaity Davie, Social Media Manager

Rosie McFarland sent us a story she was told by a 23-year-old Haitian man named Calos: a powerful memory of losing his most prized possessions forever when he was four years old. We were curious about what happened after the story ended, so when Rosie suggested we interview Calos for a feature, we jumped at the chance. Below you will find Rosie’s story of how she met Calos, our questions for him regarding his tale and his current life in Haiti, and photos of him and other Haitians that Rosie met during her time there.

- Jen Lombardo, Non-Fiction Editor

Calos is all muscle and smiles. The muscles create an intimidating first impression, which is why he is great as security for Haiti Bible Mission, but when you start talking to him, he smiles. His huge smile lights up, crinkling his eyes and warming your heart, and the intimidation quickly melts away. He is the sweetest guy, and loves going to school. While I was there he was doing math problems that surpassed me long ago. He teaches himself English by listening to audiobooks, and loves stories.

I interviewed and collected stories from 30 people in Haiti, including Calos, for the book Seeds in a Dark Fruit Sky. Calos has many amazing stories to tell, and he would find time to sit and talk to me even with his busy schedule. Near the end of my time there I started reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe out loud for the group, which he loved. I enjoyed talking with him, as his English is actually very good. He is quite modest though, and will smile, waving a dismissive hand saying, “No, not that good.”

I got the idea for Seeds in a Dark Fruit Sky because many of the people that I got to know there, including Calos, have wonderful stories to tell but no platform on which to share them. Whether it is because of stereotypes or a lack of fluency in written language, the voice of this small country is often overlooked or unacknowledged by the wider world. The English manuscript for this book is currently being written, and will be verified by each storyteller with a translator before being translated in Creole. It will be published as a bilingual book to help people like Calos. They will be able to teach themselves how to read in another language, which will show Haitians that they are not alone and that they have beautiful and complex stories to tell. This book is expanding the way we can share stories, and it is a way to keep these stories firmly connected to their roots.

Q: After you had to bury your marbles, did you and your friends find different games to play or did you have to sit around and watch everyone else keep playing?

A: I was really sad for a while watching other people play marbles.  Really, really sad.  But one of my friends had a soccer ball and we played soccer and basketball.

Q: Did you ever dig them up and play again?

A: No, I did not dig them up again.

Q: You taught yourself English partially by listening to audiobooks. How long did it take before you could carry on a conversation? What was your favorite audiobook?

A: After two years of studying with audiobooks in English, I was able to hold a conversation for thirty minutes with someone in English.  My favorite audiobook was “Learn How to Improve Your English.”

Q: When you were four, marbles was your game of choice; as a 23-year-old, what do you do for fun?

A: I play basketball and soccer, but I like soccer better. I also like watching TV for fun. I also hang out with my friends and play the piano.

Q: What do you do for work?

A: I am often the gatekeeper on the Haiti Bible Mission compound and provide security for the mission. I also play piano at the church.

Photo captions:
1: Calos (photo property of Haiti Bible Mission)
2: The author with several children from Te Wouj, Haiti
3: A group from the Haiti Bible Mission
4: Two girls in the Te Wouj school

There are overcast days - few and far between, thankfully - when poetry seems a futile pursuit. While the world strains & cracks, the belief that poetry cannot effect change hovers in my peripheries. This is, of course, the antithesis of our mission, and in the future, when I begin to doubt, I’ll be happy to have this feature bookmarked. Lydia Flores’ writing is a swift kick in the pants - a compelling reminder of the personal and political power of poetry. It’s Required Reading for any poet who has ever felt disillusionment trickling in!

-Wilson Josephson, Assistant Poetry Editor 

Where I found Power… in your wallet, in your heart or both….

My mother died on November 18th 2004 and unlike most things you would find in a dead person’s wallet– pictures of children, grandchildren, spouse, whatever, photo ID, credit cards, and cash– a poem was found.  I wrote a poem about where I saw myself in fifteen years, I was about 12 when I wrote it. And I suppose that poem held some type of truth or obscure significance because why else would my mother keep that poem in her wallet? That poem found its resting place in every wallet she had, in every purse she carried and went with her everywhere she went.  Some poetry brings you to the ocean and leaves you like the waves at the shore with a sweet memory, and some poetry brings you to the war and leaves you with wounds of truth and a change inside. 

I decided that if I was going to write poetry, I was going to write poems that people can keep in their wallets, in their pockets, in their hearts… I was / I’m going to write poems that people never forget, like a war wound. My mother has long been dead, I miss her terribly, but she’s not here to read my words and, because they mean something, do something with them…carry them. Other people are here to do it though.

I probably can’t say that I’ve become any or are doing/have done any of things I wrote in that poem. What I can say is that I failed and I am failing, I’m still trying, but most of all I’m writing and my poems are still scratchy in their throat. For so long all I could do was scream inside, inside the privacy of my own conscious and notebook pages, because nobody or if any, not many will hear them because It’s a, female, black mouth.

I had to and have to remind myself, when I feel like giving up on writing, that I planted one poem and that poem bloomed in my mother’s heart– that she kept with her, like a pressed flower–How many more can I plant even if I never get to see them bloom? Because they won’t always show me their garden hearts or I’ll be dead before I get to see them. Yet from time to time that reminder fades in and out because how can I be the black honest, passionate- whatever have you- gardener and not the angry black girl shouting with a garden rake in her hands, that the world sees? How can I write those beautiful poems that keep returning like the waves at the shore and be, female, black?  I’m still trying to figure it out. And not being white/ male/ or whatever else that’s not black or what America calls for, makes it seem impossible. It makes writing, writing poems, speaking, and/or just being, dangerous.

I believe poetry to be power and I will continue to write poems that intend to make a home in people’s wallets, pockets, in people’s hearts. But I can’t be Walt Whitman and a black female. I can’t be Sylvia Plath and black. Maya Angelou is dead, Gwendolyn Brooks is dead and it’s the same war, which has gotten more grittier. My body is like a gamble and no matter how many wallets my poems end up in, I’ll never get to take off this funeral dress so while I’m here, I might as well write well in it and die with have written well in it, praying that my poems are powerful enough to be remembered… even when they forget my name and black face.

I will always be what I am to the world, but my poetry is and will be more than what the world sees me as. The wallets, the pockets, even the rooms, and the hearts my poems may end up in will always be more important than me because poetry is more than just my pen to paper signed with my name.  Poetry is more than what this world sees the author as, more than stereotypes, metaphors, and beautiful language or whatever else. Poetry is a catalyst, it is rain, it is truth, it is hope, it is bigger than these little words. Poetry…it is power.

Today, we have the privilege of publishing poetry by Wiley Birkhofer. “Boots” is, sadly, being published posthumously. We are lucky that Wiley’s poetry continues to be shared by his friends; not only do their efforts preserve his work - they carry Wiley into the present.

Here is your chance to meet the poet. Here are impressions - anecdotes - descriptions - snapshots - of Wiley Birkhofer. Here are voices of the people who loved (and love) him.

-Wilson Josephson, Assistant Poetry Editor

Leigh Lucas

Wiley Birkhofer—dancer, lover, singer, poet—was a man as much of the body as of the mind. He lived poetry with his body and stuck parts of it to the page. Without his body, we look to his pages more keenly than before, see them more vividly. Wiley’s poetry is as gorgeous as he was—layered, unpredictable, striking, and wild. It’s the kind of poetry that startles you awake and leaves you gasping for air asking yourself, am I crying? No no, I’m laughing. His art lives. He left us with so much and so much wild poetry.

Matthew Rohrer

One of the things I loved about Wiley was how voracious he was with poetry. If I showed him something or suggested something, he’d be back in a day or two having read everything by that person. Having incorporated it like a white blood cell just swarming all over it and making it a part of him.

And he just kept growing and growing.

As an example of his industriousness and his focus, I’m thinking of a reading Joshua Beckman gave at the writer’s house. In typical Beckman style, rather than read from his new book, he unveiled an insanely complicated and unusual new form he’d just invented, and asked people from the audience to come up to the podium to read these new poems. Wiley volunteered right away, and then about halfway through the reading he raised his hand and asked Joshua if he could share one that he’d just written, during the reading.

Wiley brought this voraciousness and total commitment to any project, especially to his thesis, especially right at the end. He wrote poems that looked like upside down trees, or plant roots, or corporate flow charts. That was one poem.  You had to answer a question yes or no and go to the stanza that followed. His energy in person was infectious, and his energy on the page is still there, fresh as he was.

Holly Coddington

Wiley Birkhofer:
their penis manly
hanley ramirez
took a fastball to the cock
no longer shaves his forehead with a sponge
(8:18 AM)

Holly Coddington:
he shaves his sponge with a forehead picked off a penis tree
(8:19 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
NICE!
you know exactly what i want
turds marinated in corn
bleach from dad’s old shin squeegie
(8:20 AM)

Holly Coddington:
The moon is half-cocked on pubic rope
don’t call me dad
(8:21 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
moons
are always good
in poems
the ocean
birds
(8:25 AM)

Holly Coddington:
moons over my hammy
oceans are for drowning pianos in
birds are for flying into windows.
(8:28 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
moons are super
birds are basically oceans
okay i gotta go
(8:29 AM)

Holly Coddington:
bye bye
(8:29 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
you’re very funny
and imaginative
dirty nasty
(8:29 AM)

Holly Coddington:
haha and you are weird and sweet
and wearing an ego suit
(8:30 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
in workshop, rachel told me “you have a very interesting relationship to ego, wiley”
(8:30 AM)

Holly Coddington:
which you unzip and flash us
unzip your ego suit and put your dick on your forehead
(8:31 AM)

Wiley Birkhofer:
i think your analogy is spot on
(8:32 AM)

Friday, March 21, 2014 9:54 AM

Wiley Birkhofer:
i love you
you’re an amazing person
really funny
CGHAT 4 LIFE
(9:54 AM)

Ari King

Ari King: What are you not good at?

Wiley Birkhofer: I’m not good at - this is going to be very psychological - feeling good about myself because of who I am as opposed to which other people like me and things they tell me I’m good at. You know…like I know because my friends are laughing that I am funny not I know that I’m funny because I know that I am funny and I think that I am funny. (Snaps fingers) That’s a really good example!

AK: What are you good at?

WB: Well, I’m really funny. Maybe not in this interview but I’m very light-hearted, I’m very spontaneous, goofy-I hate to use that word-and I care a lot about my friends, I care a lot about the people I met in college, the people I met since. A lot of people are selfish and stuck in their head. I’m stuck in my head but I’m not selfish.