Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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In real life, plot development moves in ways that would never create cinematic marvels.


Boulevard
by darkmaas ©

We sat along the boulevard
Laughed in tepid pools of light
That brittle little cocktail laugh
So erotic but polite
We would cock our heads and whisper
Funny stories dipped in spite
You were starlet in our cinema
Your skirt so black and tight
I was sure that I might have you
That the plot should turn out right
But our film was made of nitrate
It was grainy black and white
As the lamp got overheated
I watched us flicker then ignite


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[LeBroz]

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When love's no longer there, what can be more painful than reading old love letters?


Box of love
by tungtied2u ©

I’m returning the box
that holds the words
the love of many years
the days of tears cried
when we were side by side
day and night

many years of special days
terms of endearment
I no longer deserve
you gave so freely
when passion stirred strong
and our longing knew no equal

back into your hands
stored for safe keeping
for future use
when you find another
a lover worthy of the care
or your heart

and you feel the strength
to start again, until then
read the letters and cards,
those moments are passed
but not lost, the feelings
were real, warmed us,
existed if only as a candles flame
briefly but bright


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[LeBroz]

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A very dark somber read; it is suicide, after all.


Bracelets of Blackbirds
by Krenna Smart ©

On the horizon
A murder of blackbirds
Beckon me
With their Styxian eyes

They wait in the distance
As I slide off my body
Lift my arms
And slip into the grey mist
Of the overworld

This time it’s real
No silver thread binds me
I don’t look down
At the tortured thing
Which was my body

I’m free now to embrace the cosmos
It’s time to caste off earthly lesions

The ache from my empty womb
And tear shaped breasts is gone
Gone too, is the misery of loneliness
Of a long lost child
Grown to a woman
With a heart of stone
Having forsaken love for whimsy
And promises of magic
And happily ever after

The pain is gone of learning
That tomorrow will not be brighter
Rather, tomorrow is just another
Dull, bleak day like today

So I soar through the ether
Feeling freedom
From the wretched, everyday
The mist is golden
The cerulean earth below is nothing to me now
It can’t hold me
Though its pull is visceral

But it’s to be ignored
I’m off
Looking for one perfect spot
A place in the universe
Which is mine

Below there lies a body
Wearing bracelets of blackbirds
Sipping at blood
Which flows from her wrists
Into the sand


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[LeBroz]

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I was surprised when reading this to see how long it is; after all, Senna Jawa usually writes quite short, compact pieces.


bridges of Konigsberg
by Senna Jawa ©

............(1)

A local said I don't
know my old
me except
it has the same
electric charge

Old
me repels me when
I try to enter
a bridge for a second
time
I burn bridges behind me

Here is my city which I love
I imagine all possible paths
but only one belongs to me
my life. There is one

bridge
I don't know which
on which
I'll never set my foot


...........(2)

A vagrant answered me
walks but one path
thru forests and towns
me misses many bridges
but one bridge
never leaves me
the blue sky of my stomach
rain or shine​

Wlodzimierz Holsztynski
1991-08-10/12

 

[LeBroz]

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Those last five words say more in their brevity than a long-running list of his sins.


breaking
by catastrophe ©

"I can feel this ending,"
she said,
her wet eyes
avoiding his.

"Your arms aren't
home
anymore."

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[LeBroz]

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Another look at breaking up. While the preceding poem seems more emotional, this one has a darker feel about it.


Breakup
by smithpeter ©

Only slightly discordant,
Two single notes that drift,
Hovering together,
Like bruised butterflies,

Her walls wore African masks,
Matisse, Van Gough,
Bubbly bathroom nite light,
Next to my toothbrush,
A gift, like the robe,

You're a nice guy,
At least you didn't hurt me,
Physically,

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[LeBroz]

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Not being a spiritual person, I still found this to be a moving and spiritual piece.


Breath of God
by Syndra Lynn ©

In quiet contemplation
I am inhaled
by an ocean wave
of spiritual ecstasy

Earth and Wind drive my pulse

Suddenly I am grateful
for all my life
good, bad,
in between

Exhaled

Overlooked pieces
of my heart
tumble into view
precious beyond words

Goddess kissed breezes
make love
to yellow green
walnut leaves

infuse my spirit
with awestruck amazement
at the gift of breathing
and being breathed


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[LeBroz]

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With windows rattling today from that wind ~ that blessed down-sloping wind that brings warmth to a long frigid landscape ~ here's a piece I mentioned once before with powerful imagery.


Breathless Before 99 Steps
by neonurotic ©


From the view point above,
sun rays slice holes into
the thick gray clouds, shining
a warm spotlight on Pacific waves,
highlighting the cold white caps.

'Northwest beaches in the winter
are nothing less than spectacular.'

…and we see it is true.

Rainy weather intensifies
wildness of cliffs.
Waterfall down;
fog settles in misty veils, tucks
between rocky crags,
lacing evergreens and ferns.

“Beautiful!” She states the obvious
while we walk down 99 steps
that lead to the slate sand below.


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[LeBroz]

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Breathless Dream
by vella_ms ©

Breathless Dream
Edited by Liar without his guidance, this poem would not exist.

I lost my breath
to a dream last night

you enveloped me
my heart’s savior
in love
in arms
in you
and tore my fears asunder

Bodies entwined
we began to sway
led me into sensual abyss
Nature’s glory abound
abundant beauty
your kiss


your lips found mine
whispers uttered
on wings
frozen in time
hopeful reverie
we traveled
crossed nameless boundaries
floating
this night

and never will dreams
be dreamed enough nights
to rise
to the passion that you
and true love ignites

a vortex of emotions
that you arouse
every night
after night
after night


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[LeBroz]

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A little insight into this Celtic Goddess might help ~

Perhaps one of the most complex and contradictory Goddesses of the Celtic pantheon, Brigid can be seen as the most powerful religious figure in all of Irish history. Many layers of separate traditions have intertwined, making Her story and impact complicated but allowing Her to move so effortlessly down through the centuries. She has succeeded in traveling intact through generations, fulfilling different roles in divergent times.

She was, and continues to be, known by many names. She has also been referred to as Bride, Bridey, Brighid, Brigit, Briggidda, and Brigantia.

Brigid is the traditional patroness of healing, poetry and smithcraft, which are all practical and inspired wisdom. As a solar deity Her attributes are light, inspiration and all skills associated with fire. Although She might not be identified with the physical Sun, She is certainly the benefactress of inner healing and vital energy.​

Of course, there's always going to be a complication — witness the existence of Saint Brigid ~

Many believe that [Saint] Brigid was not an actual person, but rather a Christianization of the pagan goddess in order to convert Celtic pagans to Christianity. Given the struggle Christian missionaries faced in their efforts to preach the Gospel in Ireland, even though they Christianized some elements, the adoption of a pagan goddess into the Communion of Saints may have been an effort to Christianize one of the most enduring pagan goddesses.​

Now with this background, enjoy.


Brigid's Bed
by Du Lac ©

Wading through faded parchments,
Penned by men with dank souls,
Truth searing, falling off the horizon.

Blasphemy, liar, whore!
Head held high, spittle smeared face,
Shrouded hybrid tears, unfettered fears.

Riverbed erodes entrenched in worry,
Listen to the ancient heart:
All life is sacred, one race, one belief.

Fading Briget, ripened ashes,
Brigid embodied, three sisters of fire.
Whistling faith of an enkindled muse.

Keening forlorn human souls,
Christian blindfolds, political bridle,
Bloody fields littered with false beliefs.

Creeping hired mourners,
Waking the Devil’s dogs,
Brigid forges relic restraints.

Converted Saint, Corrupted Goddess?
Mute history, Bardic gospel,
Hearths filled with burning beds.

Haunting mystery, to whom all lay claim,
Swirling orange, red and white,
Tend the sacred flame.

Warrior and child embodied soul,
Naive voice breathes her truth,
Spirit winds, Goddess called.

Wearing a crown of gray hair,
Earned through struggles with denial,
Crone bows now to the maiden.

Ancient cycle, purifying Imbloc,
Terra, humans, civilization, world
Bride returns, Crone to Maiden.

dlt March 11 2005

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[LeBroz]

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Now here's a nice wake-up piece to get you going.


brewin'
by MistressJett ©

I wake
smoke a cigarette
stare at words
while the pot's brewin'
rich scent fills the air
like marking territory
Cuban beans
crushed to powder
when the nectar's ready
I'll take the first cup
strong and sweet
just like my favorite lovers​

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[LeBroz]

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It's a Friday — Happy Hour — as good a time as any to read about this good lady's fun visit to the dentist.


Bruise Theory
by KittenishJane ©

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[LeBroz]

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What can Brown do for you? Who would have thought to write a poem about the UPS delivery folk? Of course...


Brown
by smithpeter ©

Forty years ago the roads
around here were dust over dirt.
In two thousands two lanes are passable.
One for driving slow.
Another for ditching.

Front to back, east to westerly
winds flap the flags and drool.
Some small drops fall off brows,
down cans of Lager and dribble
long droppings to ground below
sport utility or flexi muscled vehicles
needed for life,
or some such thing.

A driver, no loyalist, skirts the meadows.
He is GPS enhanced and groomed for encounter
in ways his otherwise occupied bride
will never know.

If I had met him I would have asked what are
the convex dimples of your floor named?
(we'd stand in my yard, it is freshly mowed, his engine
continues to run}
Is it the Diamond Pattern?

The secret of transport is alive in his brownness, his shorts.
Another dot to dot matrix.
"in sleet and slush such no snooze nor sentiment will sustain this
delivery more than the smile that one may never witness."

All this for just a wrap of poems that
press face to face in the dark till liberated,
spread for reading and looking at each other.
A morsel of art in word. Simple thought,
soft affection from a friend up the dusty road.

Brown returns down his route unpaved
by thought.
What if words caught sight
of each other?

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[LeBroz]

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Given a choice between the villain in this piece and cold northern winters, I opt for the spider anytime.


Brown recluse
by duckiesmut ©

My silent predator eyes
his prize, lingers
in my closet as legs like whispers
feather their way past
an army of defenses- heels spiked
in quiet warning- and he lurks
behind last year’s cashmere.

He outwaits me, outwits
me, and more holes are cored
into my legs,
the sting and scent
of peroxide a memorial
of shared regret.

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[Angeline]

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What can Brown do for you? Who would have thought to write a poem about the UPS delivery folk? Of course...


Brown
by smithpeter ©

Forty years ago the roads
around here were dust over dirt.
In two thousands two lanes are passable.
One for driving slow.
Another for ditching.

Front to back, east to westerly
winds flap the flags and drool.
Some small drops fall off brows,
down cans of Lager and dribble
long droppings to ground below
sport utility or flexi muscled vehicles
needed for life,
or some such thing.

A driver, no loyalist, skirts the meadows.
He is GPS enhanced and groomed for encounter
in ways his otherwise occupied bride
will never know.

If I had met him I would have asked what are
the convex dimples of your floor named?
(we'd stand in my yard, it is freshly mowed, his engine
continues to run}
Is it the Diamond Pattern?

The secret of transport is alive in his brownness, his shorts.
Another dot to dot matrix.
"in sleet and slush such no snooze nor sentiment will sustain this
delivery more than the smile that one may never witness."

All this for just a wrap of poems that
press face to face in the dark till liberated,
spread for reading and looking at each other.
A morsel of art in word. Simple thought,
soft affection from a friend up the dusty road.

Brown returns down his route unpaved
by thought.
What if words caught sight
of each other?

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I'm so glad you posted this poem, LeBroz. It was one of Doug's favorites. He told me he thought it was one of his best poems. He was inspired to write it after a UPS truck delivered a package at his house.

I've always loved the last two lines.

 

[MyNecroticSnail]

I'm so glad you posted this poem, LeBroz. It was one of Doug's favorites. He told me he thought it was one of his best poems. He was inspired to write it after a UPS truck delivered a package at his house.

I've always loved the last two lines.

well you illustrate why you think it's good....

 

[Angeline]

well you illustrate why you think it's good....

Sure, but it's only my opinion. One thing I learned from knowing smithpeter was that I never had a handle on what he thought his poems were about or which he thought were the good ones. I'll never forget him telling me that Squirrels Playing Saxophones is a love poem. And he wasn't kidding, he was quite serious. He was a strange guy, a strangely nice guy.

I think the poem is good because it operates equally well on two levels. On one, I can literally see the series of events of the poem: the UPS man in his brown truck driving down the dirt road to Doug's farmhouse, the crappy quality of the dirt road, empty cans in the dirt leaking drops, a reference to kind of vehicles that drive down the road. I find the reference to rescue vehicles

"flexi muscled vehicles
needed for life,
or some such thing."

very effective because it hints at a whole world of things that could have happened on that road. I can picture the UPS man, very official (I think "dot to dot matrix" suggests that for me) skirting the meadow, parking, crossing the fresh-mowed lawn and making casual conversation with Doug to deliver a book of poems someone sent him.

The other way the poem speaks to me is through the strength of its metaphors. I know the series of events that I described not because Doug literally described them in the poem (and not because he told me that's what it means; we never had that much discussion about the poem), but because the metaphors are so clear. The word choice is precise, and I can "see" the story that unfolds from them.

And then there's the thematic suggestion that all this officialdom (to uh coin a phrase) is just for a little thing, the delivery of a book, but it's more than a little thing. It's words liberated when the book is opened, a "morsel of art." Brown is just a guy making a delivery. The narrator is just a guy accepting a delivery, but what if words caught sight of each other? What if Brown and the narrator have made a real human connection in this small act? It's a small and large question at the same time, beautifully expressed metaphorically.

And that's why I think it's good. Are there bits of it I don't understand? Sure. Could it use editing? Undoubtedly. I can't think of a poem that can't. But it's a good poem to me because it speaks to me without "telling" me what's going on, literally or thematically. It paints the picture.

Does that make sense to you?

(And thanks for the question. That was fun.)



PS And sorry LeBroz for the hijack. s to you for this thread.

 

[LeBroz]

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An interesting analysis — you've more patience than me for writing up such things. I know — doing that type of dissection of a poem improves a reader's and writer's skills — but it still seems too much like work to me.

On a lighter note, here's one that's relationship oriented. He keeps telling all he has to offer, except for love and finally she comes back that that's what she wants is love. Another tale of relationship disconnect.


But Love?
by irishcatsmeow ©

I’m not looking for love, you say,
and need for you to know.
I can give you comfort, warmth and pleasure.
But love?
Love is not my cup of tea.

I can tickle your funny bone
and make your belly ache with laughter.
I can bring a secret smile to your face.
But love?
Love is not part of my repertoire.

I can court you with whispers of sweet nothings
and sugary confections.
I can offer you champagne and flowers.
But love?
Love is not on my menu.

I can make you feel so very good
and release your inhibitions.
I can cause you to dream of me.
But love?
Love is not my pin-up fantasy.

I can worship your body
and compel you to scream my name.
I can make you soar to heights unknown.
But love?
Love is not my flight of fancy.

I can provide you with a safe haven
in which to fight your demons.
I can briefly suspend your fears.
But love?
Love is not my milieu.

You look at me expectantly.
Believing you’ve made a case for a modern relationship.
I answer slowly, steadily, surely…
No thank you.
Love is what I seek.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a piece with strong imagery of a suspension bridge with an East-West span over coastal waters.


Cable Stayed
by jthserra ©

Cable Stayed

It spreads in arched wings
balanced on the wind
stretching first east, then later west
harnessed on a tower spire
reaching, reaching, finally touching
its wingtips to earth.

A bright fluorescence
fans out from the spires
as thousand strand tendons
anchor it in the forever clasp
of a harsh gravity and man-made
concrete and steel.

Far below, brackish waters
wash past in cyclic tidal flows
the wake waves splashing
long thin legs. Stoic and silent
it echoes the low toned wail
of each passing ship.

From a distance the arced span
swoops over the channel
as each day it bears the continued
weight of commerce, yet it remains
still, but not motionless
it sometimes sways, longing more.
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While staunch and stubborn
in the harshest storms, it flutters
in light winds and rain bowing
against its restraints as if
to slip secretly away
into the gentle breeze.

In fog it disappears completely
flying into the clouds, finally free of
the eternal gravity. Later it sadly
returns with the clearing blue
prisoner again to the stayed cables
and the forever need for road.

In the sun it glares the waterway
daring the lesser creatures
to try and undermine its stance
as it bears its burden, tightly
stayed to an unforgiving earth
its mighty wings poised to fly.


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[LeBroz]

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A powerful look at a verbally abusive relationship. Give it a look and see what you think, but it seems the rhyme blurs the potential sharp edges.


Caged
by turtledove ©

Tightness surrounds my chest,
my heart rate quickens.
His yelling voice fills the room,
My nerves and stomach sicken.

He can’t help his rage,
A defect from birth.
But when his tirades start,
I want to leave this earth.

He hasn’t ever hit me,
seen temptation in his eyes.
If he ever really snaps,
I won’t have time for good byes.

For now, my love holds him in control,
barely keeps him in check.
I live in a gilded cage,
With a collar around my neck.

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[LeBroz]

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Such a simple piece yet it carries such powerful imagery.


Cages
by neonurotic ©


Rain hits the asphalt,
wet on wet
bubbles up,
trapping
them inside tiny cages.

Overflowing gutters
carry, swiftly
down.

Sodden leaves
yellow, brown
and red
........all dead
do not
stop
captured raindrops.

They fall,
slip through the grate
into the murky deep.

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[LeBroz]

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A haunting piece this; not sure if I'd rather read something about Sylvia Plath or something by her. In any case, I was struck that this poem had never been commented on until I read it in January.


Calling Crows
by jthserra ©

"Crow
Grinned
Crying: 'This is my creation.'
Flying the black flag of himself."

from Crow Blacker than Ever
by Ted Hughes​

The distant wings
The black coming of crows
A midnight of days
A dying sun
And suddenly, the birds line on power lines
Each silhouette pausing against the light
In wait, waiting
Patiently waiting…

Each year the headstone defaced
His name struck from the stone
His shame remembered
Now cast in bronze
To weather the blows
And she, still silent
So painfully silent.

The shadowed wings
Flap at the sound
His spilled voice
A bleeding song
As the crows, line on power lines
Each word a silhouette
In wait, waiting
Patiently waiting…

When the face in the mirror
Was no longer hers
Assisa too heard the hiss
Of Sylvia's blissful shrine
A breath in the kitchen
And she, still silent
So painfully silent.

The dying wings
A black growing inside
The falling feathers
A poet's ground
The crows calling, calling him
His name in silhouette
Is waiting, waiting
Patiently waiting...

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a piece that took me several readings this morning to really apprehend its expressions of a Mother's concerns. Even the comments and the notes on my list didn't help much — must have to do with this being a Monday morning.


Cameos
by Angeline ©

Your two faces
have not faded,
but rather are carved
like cameos, lockets
lain against my soul,
voices whispering

Mommy, Mommy.

My arms cannot stretch far enough.
My tears cannot float me back to you.
This distance swirls
between us like a river, always
moving to a destination
never reached.

Time is a river.

One hand over the other,
again, again. This is how
days pass over me,
swimming head above water,
swimming to live,
swimming past hopelessness
to your two faces,

which are my face,
my body, surviving
on a distant shore.


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[LeBroz]

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Okay, it's still Monday. Let's go with a fun and easy little piece. This lady's having trouble getting her engine running but with a little help, she manages to rev up just fine.


Car Trouble
by ~hellbaby~ ©

Thanks to the green chevy at the light last night


I was stuck in a rut on the side of the road,
and then you came along
and rescued me.

You stroked your pedal
and revved up your engine
My high beams lit up
and I flashed you a view
you grabbed your gear shift
and went into overdrive

I asked you to jump me,
and you obliged
when you clamped my terminal
my battery sparked
when we hit the gas together
my engine began to flood

your charge ran through me
until you were drained
we idled together
as we recharged

Then with me in your blind spot
we cruised on down the road.

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[LeBroz]

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A sad poem but smoothly done; the end's unexpected but not a cutesy surprise. Doesn't try any tricks, just lets the words flow their inevitable course.


Can't Say Goodbye
by JUDO ©

The sky's greyer today.
The Sun has phoned in.
The wind's forgotten where it's going,
But I can't wonder why.

Closure tries to desert me
Hidden behind my shades.
Voices speak Heaven's tongue,
But I can't hear what they say.

Not sleepy, nor wakeful
I sit when I'm told.
Not feeling or numb,
I can't escape this scene.

I'm choked at the edge.
Wondering, if it's true,
But the world goes on
In its trembling way.

Oceans and sands
We crossed and held fast
To a love everlasting -
Seems too small and tried.

Because I can't finish the moment
That I need to get past,
And say "Goodbye"
To my Dad who's died.

Bye, Pop. I love you.

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