Monologues/Talking With

Exercise: The Monologue

ONE: Dealing with the Past

It is a common practice with monologues that a character relates a past story in order to illuminate something that is currently happening the plot of the play.

The problem with these types of monologues is when a character says, "I remember." "I remember" creates an insular experience; it's something that only happened to the character and it's difficult for the audience to share in the event. The audience doesn't remember.

Another problem with past monologues is the use of the past tense. When something has happened in the past, it's over, it's done. Using the present tense is much more alive and active.

EXERCISE

1. Write a monologue where the first line is 'I remember when...' and uses the past tense. Have a character talk about a childhood memory that has significant impact on how they are today.
2. Re-write the monologue, taking out all mentions of 'remembering.' Just tell the story.
3. Re-write the monologue in the present tense.
4. Read aloud the first version and then the third. Discuss the differences.

TWO: Making the Story Count

If a character tells a story in a monologue - "I went to the grocery store and THIS JUST HAPPENED," there has to be something besides the base story going on for the audience. There has to be more. The story has to show something: a character flaw, a plot point we didn't know, a lie, a romance, and so on.

EXERCISE

1. Write a monologue where the character tells a story about going to a parade.
2. Re-write the monologue so that by telling the story, the audience sees the character is a liar.
3. Re-write the monologue so that by telling the story, the audience sees the character is heartbroken.
4. Re-write the monologue so that by telling the story, the audience sees the character is in love.

THREE: The Need to Speak

In every monologue a character must 'need to speak.' Otherwise, why is the monologue there? In every monologue you write, you must determine the need for the character to speak. What drives the character? Is there anything that stands in the way of the character's need to speak? The character doesn't necessarily have to succeed with what they need. Maybe they're too afraid, or they change their mind, or there's something stopping them. Obstacles are good! But start with the need and then see what happens.

EXERCISE

Choose one of the following needs. What kind of character would have that need? Give them a name, an age, and a physical appearance. Who are they talking to? Who is the listener? What is the relationship? Decide if your character will succeed or fail with their need. Now write the monologue.

1. The character needs to reveal a secret to the listener.
2. The character needs to prove something to the listener.
3. The character needs to reveal they love the listener.
4. The character needs to reveal they hate the listener.
5. The character needs to stand up to the listener.

This is not poem

AGENDA:

Handout: This is not

ACTIVITY:  This is not drawing

Example:

A Singular Mind's Creation

This is not really an attempt to say what anything is

by trying to describe what it is not for it is not

a representation of a thing and yet it is a thing,

a drawing which IS a thing but a drawing

need not BE OF a thing.

It is not just a three dimensional object reduced to two dimensions-

lines, circling, slashing across a large piece of paper

blue ink spilling across a blank space,

some THING emerging out of NO-THING.

It is not a singular mind’s creation—abstract or concrete—

and while it was intended to be collaborative, it is not

a collaborative work of art.

It is not a flame, a game, or the name of anything.

It cannot be defined, cannot be explained, cannot be found

In our words.  Like the attempt to write a poem—

it is not solid and cannot be grasped in its entirety.

Piecemeal, partial, it invites us.

Pantoum

What is a pantoum?

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/pantoum-poetic-form

http://www.utmostchristianwriters.com/articles/article3020.php

Hotel Lautréamont 

BY JOHN ASHBERY

1.

Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society

working as a team. They didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.

The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.

We see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.”   

Working as a team, they didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.

The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds

we see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well,”

or, on a more modern note, in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.

The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds

the world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé,

or in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.

Not to worry, many hands are making work light again.

The world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé.

In any case the ruling was long overdue.

Not to worry, many hands are making work light again,

so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure.

   2.

In any case, the ruling was long overdue.

The people are beside themselves with rapture

so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure

and the solution problematic, at any rate far off in the future.

The people are beside themselves with rapture

yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria,

and the solution: problematic, at any rate far off in the future.

The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained.

Yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria.

In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.

The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained,

and night like black swansdown settles on the city.

In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.

Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward,

and night like black swansdown settles on the city.

If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?

   3.

Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward.

Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside.

If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?

And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?

Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside,

when all we think of is how much we can carry with us.

And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?

All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.

When all we think of is how much we can carry with us

small wonder that those at home sit, nervous, by the unlit grate.

All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.

It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality.

Small wonder that those at home sit nervous by the unlit grate.

It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.

It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality

and in so doing deprive time of further hostages.

   4.

It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.

Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open

and in so doing deprive time of further hostages,

to end the standoff that history long ago began.

Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open

but it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.

To end the standoff that history long ago began

must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?

But it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.

You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.

Must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?

Only night knows for sure; the secret is safe with her.

You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.

Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society;

only night knows for sure. The secret is safe with her:

The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.

John Ashbery, “Hotel Lautréamont” from Notes from the Air: Selected Later Poems. Copyright © 2007 by John Ashbery. Reprinted with the permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc. on behalf of the author.

Pantoum

The pantoum consists of a series of quatrains rhyming ABAB in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the first and third lines in the succeeding quatrain; each quatrain introduces a new second rhyme as BCBC, CDCD. The first line of the series recurs as the last line of the closing quatrain, and third line of the poem recurs as the second line of the closing quatrain, rhyming ZAZA.

The design is simple:

Line 1
Line 2
Line 3
Line 4

Line 5 (repeat of line 2)
Line 6
Line 7 (repeat of line 4)
Line 8

Continue with as many stanzas as you wish, but the ending stanzathen repeats the second and fourth lines of the previous stanza (as its first and third lines), and also repeats the third line of the first stanza, as its second line, and the first line of the first stanza as its fourth. So the first line of the poem is also the last.

Last stanza:

Line 2 of previous stanza
Line 3 of first stanza
Line 4 of previous stanza
Line 1 of first stanza

Example #1:

It All Started With A Packet of Seeds

It all started with a packet of seeds,
     To be planted with tenderness and care,
At the base of an Oak, free from all weeds.
     They will produce such beauty and flare.

To be planted with tenderness and care,
     A cacophony of colorful flowers,
They will produce such beauty and flare.
     With an aroma that can continue for hours.

A cacophony of colorful flowers,
     Bright oranges with yellows and reds,
With an aroma that can continue for hours,
     Delivered from their fresh flower beds.

Bright oranges with yellows and reds,
     At the base of an oak, free from all weeds,
Delivered from their fresh flower beds,
     At all started with a packet of seeds.

Copyright © 2001 Sally Ann Roberts

Example #2:

Celestial Dreams

Moonbeams creamy as pie
Racing across the night
On a journey into the sky
Dreams seeking celestial light

Racing across the night
Past Venus waking from sleep
Dreams seeking celestial light
Cast into the dark so deep

Past Venus waking from sleep
To Saturn's expanding rings
Cast into the dark so deep
Catching a ride on angel's wings

To Saturn's expanding rings
On a journey into the sky
Catching a ride on angel's wings
Moonbeams creamy as pie

Copyright © 2001 Marie Summers

Example #3:

Dance In The Rain

Come, dance in the rain with me
Let it wash our cares away
Drench us through and set us free
If only for today

Let it wash our cares away
Don't worry about tomorrow
If only for today
Along my path, please follow

Don't worry about tomorrow
This shower soon will end
Along my path, please follow
Cast worry to the wind

This shower soon will end
The memory, it will linger
Cast worry to the wind
Sate the primal hunger

The memory, it will linger
Drench us through and set us free
Sate the primal hunger
Come, dance in the rain with me...

Copyright © 2001 Chelle Wood

Example #4:

Osprey

O, sleek and beauteous hunter
Who deftly takes to wing
And tears her prey asunder,
A victory cry she sings.

Who deftly takes to wing
This chilly, salty morn?
A victory cry she sings
As this new day is born.

This chilly salty morn
A seahawk silently dives,
As this new day is born,
To feed three brand new lives.

A seahawk silently dives
And tears her prey asunder
To feed three brand new lives,
O, sleek and beauteous hunter.

Copyright © 2001 Dendrobia

Example #5:

Seasonal Whispers

Seasonal whispers, last farewells,
     Autumn’s beauty forever told
With paintbrushes and pastels,
    Leaf rubbings of pink and gold.

Autumn’s beauty forever told
     Through the eyes of a little girl.
Leaf rubbings of pink and gold,
     Among broad strokes, colors swirl.

Through the eyes of a little girl
    With paintbrushes and pastels,
Among broad strokes, colors swirl,
    Seasonal whispers, last farewells.

Copyright © 2005 Marie Summers

New Poetry Prompts

What can we say about our childhood memories?
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/teach-poem

or perhaps an abecedarian poem:

Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation

Related Poem Content Details

BY NATALIE DIAZ

Angels don’t come to the reservation.

Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.

Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—

death. And death

eats angels, I guess, because I haven’t seen an angel

fly through this valley ever.

Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named Gabe though—

he came through here one powwow and stayed, typical

Indian. Sure he had wings,

jailbird that he was. He flies around in stolen cars. Wherever he stops,

kids grow like gourds from women’s bellies.

Like I said, no Indian I’ve ever heard of has ever been or seen an angel.

Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something—

Nazarene church holds one every December,

organized by Pastor John’s wife. It’s no wonder

Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.

Quit bothering with angels, I say. They’re no good for Indians.

Remember what happened last time

some white god came floating across the ocean?

Truth is, there may be angels, but if there are angels

up there, living on clouds or sitting on thrones across the sea wearing

velvet robes and golden rings, drinking whiskey from silver cups,

we’re better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly and

’xactly where they are—in their own distant heavens.

You better hope you never see angels on the rez. If you do, they’ll be marching you off to 

Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they’ve mapped out for us.

Natalie Diaz, “Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation” from When My Brother Was an Aztec. Copyright © 2012 by Natalie Diaz. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.

or a pantoum:

My Brother At 3 AM

Natalie Diaz

He sat cross-legged, weeping on the steps
when Mom unlocked and opened the front door.
     O God, he said, O God.
           He wants to kill me, Mom.

When Mom unlocked and opened the front door
at 3 a.m., she was in her nightgown, Dad was asleep.
     He wants to kill me, he told her,
           looking over his shoulder.

3 a.m. and in her nightgown, Dad asleep,
What’s going on? she asked, Who wants to kill you?
     He looked over his shoulder.
           The devil does. Look at him, over there.

She asked, What are you on? Who wants to kill you?
The sky wasn’t black or blue but the green of a dying night.
     The devil, look at him, over there.
           He pointed to the corner house.

The sky wasn’t black or blue but the dying green of night.
Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
     My brother pointed to the corner house.
           His lips flickered with sores.

Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
O God, I can see the tail, he said, O God, look.
     Mom winced at the sores on his lips.
           It’s sticking out from behind the house.

O God, see the tail, he said, Look at the goddamned tail.
He sat cross-legged, weeping on the front steps.
     Mom finally saw it, a hellish vision, my brother.