Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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Here's a little piece where you can experience some fun wordplay. The words lead you bouncing and laughing through a warm summer day.


Cat's Paw
by champagne1982 ©

Dance a shimmer over glassine
shallows and shake the drops
away. Whisper your shivering
quiver and chuckle
where the brook comes to play
in the pebbles at the shore.
Invite day dreams into sunny
glades on a summer morn, hushed
as a kitten stalking her jittery
dandelion prey. Cat's paw, kiss
my cheeks as soft as a fey
wind blows a different way.

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[champagne1982]

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Here's a little piece where you can experience some fun wordplay. The words lead you bouncing and laughing through a warm summer day.


Cat's Paw
by champagne1982 ©

Dance a shimmer over glassine
shallows and shake the drops
away. Whisper your shivering
quiver and chuckle
where the brook comes to play
in the pebbles at the shore.
Invite day dreams into sunny
glades on a summer morn, hushed
as a kitten stalking her jittery
dandelion prey. Cat's paw, kiss
my cheeks as soft as a fey
wind blows a different way.

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I'm glad you enjoyed the playfulness of this poem. My source of inspiration came when I found a couple of pics of the cat's paw on water, I couldn't get the image of the kitten shaking its paw off out of my mind. Further digging, explained that a cat's paw can be felt on land, too, but usually in a sheltered glade, thus the jittery dandelion.

It was fun to write and pleasing in the result.

 

[LeBroz]

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Here's a sparse piece that's also very gender neutral. Go ahead and read it carefully. Also check the assumptions you make as you read it. The end result, in any case, still appears to be one of a relationship gone sour.


Carthage
by BlackShanglan ©

There was a time I loved you.
It was yesterday, about ten o’clock.
You called me from your office
And asked what I wanted for dinner.

Now it’s dark, and I’m waiting for you to be gone to bed
Long enough for me to slip past you into the spare room.


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[Tzara]

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Here's a sparse piece that's also very gender neutral. Go ahead and read it carefully. Also check the assumptions you make as you read it. The end result, in any case, still appears to be one of a relationship gone sour.


Carthage
by BlackShanglan ©

There was a time I loved you.
It was yesterday, about ten o’clock.
You called me from your office
And asked what I wanted for dinner.

Now it’s dark, and I’m waiting for you to be gone to bed
Long enough for me to slip past you into the spare room.


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Hey, Leon, I really like this one. Great example of where the title is essential to the poem.

The only problem is that I'm now feeling jealous and fussy.

 

[LeBroz]

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A rather stark piece, no matter how you look at it.


Cancer in America
by UBU ©

Cancer in America


Wears a knife on his belt
He cuts off one part of you
And then another

He licks out the marrow
While crawling inside
Of your bones

He sends you downstairs
And when you come back up
You’re covered with blood

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[LeBroz]

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Now this is a fun little piece. What woman wouldn't like to be in such a position that other boys imagine she's young enough to have a lover their age. I know, the fun's taken out of it to know it's just her son — but they don't know that.


Captive Youth
by Curiouswife ©

I heard them whispering
my supposed secret
I heard them giggling
at my naughty side
I smirked at the corners
of my mouth
the boys don’t have a chance
but they try
when they see me with him
my young “lover”
when they try to entice
my wild side
I can’t help but laugh
to myself
though I try to keep it all
hid inside
I like their version better
anyway
I like the seduction
as they play
It would only disappoint
to know the truth
The boy, he’s my son
not captive youth

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[LeBroz]

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Here's another piece that illustrates the importance of a well chosen title. It could have easily been, Cat House, and such an obvious cliché would have diminished the entire piece.


Cat Hotel
by 2rivers ©

she lusters where others prowl or skirt
near bodies of deep
chaise arm sprawled
svelte, olive
clad black

low nocturne whisper
from away down
narrow hall of doors
windows fog

tangled tossed sheets
fur rubbed all ways
lipstick, nails
charcoal gray
scratching

marred for passion
he begs more for more
gentle, clutch or rough
and tell
a rusty hinge,
a bent screw
at the Cat Hotel

Ruby purrs
she licks her own
paw, flicks her
long visible silvers
for his attention
her glint, her sheen
his swan

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[LeBroz]

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When you're twenty, you do what you do cause you're designed that way, to respond to carnal beauty with carnal lust. And when you're seventy, the specs change a bit — just don't look too closely when visiting a nursing home.


Carnal Beauty
by champagne1982 ©

For what effect do you strive
when you set your heart upon this path?
I have heard it said that beauty
Is only skin deep.

Where will all this time
spent in carnal pursuits lead,
when your skin has thinned
to brittle parchment,
that will crumble, if but looked upon
by the lover you have snared?

Now, in the wind,
you're blown against
the cruel cliffs of fortune.
Feel the tides of passion
pull you under,
to drown in a sea of lust,
where confusion is the foam
cresting on the waves.

Despair, adulterous lovers,
all who covet another's right.
The gentle shores of love and trust
are fading fast, behind.
You are but life's flotsam
dashed upon the rocks of time.

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[LeBroz]

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Here are some philosophical ruminations that don't overpower the morning, unless you get caught up in chasing your own tail.


Cartesian Crunch
by MinorMonster ©

By the time I've finished thinking
Cogito Ergo Sum,

I am not who I was
when I started.

So I thought,
therefore I was.

But am I?

And by the time I stop
chasing my own footsteps,

will I cease to be?

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one sure to move you — assuming you're not dead. A visit to the clinic that men avoid — they want the problem solved but don't want to get too close to the solution.


Casualty
by Willow Rain ©

We all sit, carefully placed apart,
coats like barbed wire.
I don’t want to know their stories.
They don’t want to know mine.
We are hostile countries
that avoid eye contact.

My sister says my name once,
and I realize how rarely I have heard her say it out loud.
Years between us, some how,
each others names have become trivial,
but not today.
I can hardly recognize her voice
in the frigid silence.
I fumble with my wallet and hand her
the things that are hers:
an I.D., her credit card and a neatly folded check.
I cannot bear to look at the check.
I fear his name is scrawled inside in a casual hand.

She disappears back beyond the door where all the others have gone.

The room is so full
I am uneasy
and try to be small
pulling all that I am tight and close into myself.
Emotions move in the air
like chemical warfare.

There are young boys who bring in their women
and drop them off like they are leaving them in a day spa,
as if pedicures and facials
awaited them beyond the white door.
Some of them do not return before
their pale girlfriends come wavering out,
torture victims with refugee eyes.
One fragile blond emerges lost, and dazed.
She goes in and out of the door looking for the boy who is not there.
She doesn’t even have her coat.
He took it with him.
She wanders out into the parking lot with a blue bathrobe with yellow ducks on it pulled around her bare arms.
wearing the uniform of a child,
that is not thick enough to keep a woman warm against
the cold
or loneliness.

The magazines on the tables are not old.
They are new.
They are not the magazines of mothers.
Vogue, Fashion, Elle, they scream out about glamour
and freedom.
The perfect suit, to flatter a slender figure.
Fashionable shoes to wear on a weekend getaway
with that new man.

Everyone here needs a new man.

On the wall there is a picture that I begin to hate,
a print of a sad young woman in charcoal.
Her face and sadness are well defined, but her body is all gestures of mist.
Insubstantial.
Unreal.
I resent every stroke of the image as I look at it.
I want to take it off the wall and turn it around so that it doesn’t face me.
My sister and her real body are beyond that wall
spitting out a baby into a suction tube.

I ask twice how she is doing.
They tell me she is in recovery and they will check,
chipper, bright eyed, cheery nurses that never give me answers.
I want to stab one with the dangling chained pen.
I want someone else to be a casualty.

Second to the last,
she comes out
looking surprisingly strong.
Her color is better now
than our trip here, when she was puking into plastic bags
one after another.
We talk in the car.
We look at the list.

In the pharmacy she tells me that she is going to sit down.
After a moment she asks for the keys, as I look for the recommended cold packs.
When I go out to the car I don’t see her.
I briefly panic and look back toward the store
as if I’ve lost her,
as if she is MIA.

Then I see her.
She is curled on her side in the back seat of my car.
Quiet.
The general brought low.
She does not cry,
but her body secretly does
bright red tears.


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[LeBroz]

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See what you think — I'm inclined to think this is a Father's thoughts of his daughter as she leaves home for good. On a darker note, it could be a boyfriend's thoughts after she outgrows him and leaves for the larger world.


Carol
by Scott N. Leavitt ©

Carol


Lips of warm smiling innocence
Girlish hips and breasts
Long legs, firmly rounded calves and thighs
Downy sun brown skin, scent of young girl
Wind teased hair of honeyed chestnut
Gentle spirit and tender hearted thoughts
Too young for love, yet old enough to care
Meanest hint of passion in your eyes
Mind, full of youthful dreams and virgin hope
Yes, hope
Determination to be you, to do what you could do,
With your man to share a life, raise his children,
be his wife

Young Joy rising in the pool of life

You took all this with you when you left
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[LeBroz]

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It would probably help here to know that scrimshaw is carved or engraved pieces of whalebone.


Carvings
by bluerains ©

Beyond the hour of darkness,
entering into eyes brimming
with artistic wonder, mind recalls
sterile eyes floating in backward lenses.

A piece of scrimshaw,
its segments, marred by time;
displays its penetrated scars
carved from a great white shark.

The slenderest thread
holds its form silently in
lullaby waves,
waiting for insight of
will to reveal
its silver earthen beauty.

Thus the artist
with a masters touch
could burnish the tracks
left by tears of trust
eclipsing my indigo ways;
who fancied an eagle of prey.

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[LeBroz]

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An interesting rhyming piece that really made my cut just for that one line that caught my eye {as well as YDD's}. I bet anyone could work with that line, "For I came fully clothed in lust," and create pieces that sizzle.


Catching Your Eye
by thegirlfriday11 ©

I caught your eye
as it travelled up my thigh.
And if my skirt were shorter
I'd catch you looking at my pie.

I know that I did spy
a hint of lust within your eye.
As I curled my legs beneath me
and my skirt rode up so high.

I can see you'd like to try,
and I know no reason why
you shouldn't fully indulge yourself
in a fantasy such as I.

It's a good seduction sly.
I'm so hot I'll never dry.
I want to have you right there in that place
and kiss to muffle our cry.

Let your passion fly
intense enough to light the sky.
Come make me your cherry bomb;
light me up like the fourth of July.

No need to deny
undressing with roving eye.
For I came fully clothed in lust
recommendations I defy!

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a piece with a bit of melancholy about it. Things just aren't the same any more; housekeeping's no longer a high priority and children are grown. That which is in the past is gone, not to be recaptured.


Catching up with the Dead
by annaswirls ©

"Baby it has been so long,
what do you want to talk about?"
You blurt, Spaghetti Sauce
skitter out the door sideways,
knuckles down.

At first I laugh but I see now,
you want me to tell you about
everything. How I still sometimes wait
until morning to clean up after,
noodles dried into hard orange curls,
wine evaporated into burgandy circles
at the bottom of the glass.

You want me to tell you how the children have grown,
how they haven't. How they will not let me wet the napkin
with my tongue to wipe their mouth anymore.
You want to hear the sound
of dishes clinking under water.

Do you remember the night
the baby woke up crying
for his lost balloon, how
the promise of more balloons
would not soothe him?
In your silence then, I could feel it,
your own tears wanting to spill over onto me
lonely bones wanting me to carry you up to bed,
soak your aches.

He has forgotten about the balloon.
It is our memory now, one
that will not rinse easily.

I still watch for you sometimes
up, up out of my sunroof
your ribbon cut too short.

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[MyNecroticSnail]

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.

Why apologise? very good, it is Poetry and Discussion

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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.

not regurgitated consumption.
Begs a question (direct) why are you here, why are you doing this? Isn't this a code phrase, "dissection of a poem"?
Much like this:
Verbosity and Pomposity
by LeBroz ©

Verbosity and Pomposity

I knew a man
an intelligent sort
who tried to impress
with utterances multi-syllabic
I asked him to
please spare us do,
verbosity and pomposity
when a simple phrase will really do, like,
"Your head's up your ass."

© Leon Brozyna 2005

Despite the glowing comments, how about illustrating the poetry in this, ok Leon.

I do get pissed off, when someone says they will get back to me and then runs off, like thay have something to hide. Makes me prone to write:

:like thunder.
by MyNecroticSnail ©

Ponder:
an audience of bobble-heads
applaud
back fromt zephyrs
: like thunder.


I wonder.


I've already detailed the abuses in the first part in a comment. Where is the poetry, It has an interesting image. It wobbles. The first word and the last word is an imperfect rhyme almost an eye rhyme (what I see), thunder gets very interesting, doesn't it? Are you getting it?
I don't claim it is great poetry, took me all of an hour to write, edit, etc. It is an invitation to think. As in I wonder what is the criteria to merit inclusion and exclusion in your wonderful little thread. Laughs.

A partial listing of the definations of the word review

1. a critical article or report, as in a periodical, on a book, play, recital, or the like; critique; evaluation.
2. the process of going over a subject again in study or recitation in order to fix it in the memory or summarize the facts.
3. an exercise designed or intended for study of this kind.
4. a general survey of something, esp. in words; a report or account of something.
5. an inspection or examination by viewing, esp. a formal inspection of any military or naval force, parade, or the like.
6. a periodical publication containing articles on current events or affairs, books, art, etc.: a literary review.
7. a judicial reexamination, as by a higher court, of the decision or proceedings in a case.
8. a second or repeated view of something.
9. a viewing of the past; contemplation or consideration of past events, circumstances, or facts.
10. Bridge. a recapitulation of the bids made by all players.
11. Theater. revue.
–verb (used with object)
12. to go over (lessons, studies, work, etc.) in review.
13. to view, look at, or look over again.
14. to inspect, esp. formally or officially: to review the troops.
15. to survey mentally; take a survey of: to review the situation.
16. to discuss (a book, play, etc.) in a critical review; write a critical report upon.
17. to look back upon; view retrospectively.
18. to present a survey of in speech or writing.
19. Law. to reexamine judicially: a decision to review the case.
20. Bridge. to repeat and summarize (all bids made by the players).
–verb (used without object)
21. to write reviews; review books, movies, etc., as for a newspaper or periodical: He reviews for some small-town newspaper.

I draw attention to the difference between #1 and #13.

A for RJ
for a group the H-bombs itself, they sure play enough Duck and Cover

 

[LeBroz]

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Here you go — catch the ephemeral feel of the music here in these words.


Catching music
by DS3ET1RC6 ©

Close my eyes as the music floats by
I want to catch it and keep it
But its just a failing
Grasp of my hand
And the notes
The chords
Words

Are gone

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[LeBroz]

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Perhaps these cave people might take offense here after the abuse they've suffered at the hands of GEICO. But then they are supposed to be getting their own TV series.


caveman and woman
by oxalis ©

bone home-

would kill one who
stacked three flat
pancake granites
the birth of religious bigotry
born before religion



collecting bones-

possessions slope up rock walls
no fire yet, cold dinner
same as leftovers, less flies
visitors BYO slump
scurrilous side glance
hunch



bone stone-

they won’t know
what
when it happens tomorrow
the round rock, the sparks
a hole of flint and sulfur
farts before progress



bone love-

she begs with a slap
he replies with the first
bone poem
far from onesies twosies
this milky way night, round hole
round peg

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[LeBroz]

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What I like here is the way a spiritual person or one who's not spiritual can take something from this. Consider what an explosive topic religion is and how everyone, even non-believers, can appreciate all that's said here. A fitting topic for this fine Sunday.


Celibate Diversity
by normal jean ©

In Medieval times
God was feared!

How long has it been
since then?

Since fire and brimstone
threats from some self-absorbed
pastor condemning your immortal
soul to hell
just

for

breathing

But, He is a loving God, isn't He?

He is a benevolent God,
isn't He?

Does He love us? I wonder
and marvel at creatures and swim
the depths
of beauty that He gave us.

He gave us

Life

to fight over whose God is real,
to kill one
and another in His name.

He is God, is He not?

It strikes me that war might be
avoided, if He had made us
all

the

same

but He did, didn't He?

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[LeBroz]

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Here is one the ladies would love; after soaring expressions to describe his love he ends on the simple note of his heart's chapel.


Cathedral
by poetboy824 ©

It seems I should build a cathedral
To properly express
My love to you

With flying buttresses
And vaulted ceilings
And stained glass windows
And a decor of silver and gold and gems
And exotic stones
And rare woods
With spires and statues and paintings
And gargoyles
(Because a cathedral is not a cathedral without gargoyles)

And hidden staircases leading to the sky
And elaborate rooms without entrance or exit
And catacombs
(Because a cathedral is not a cathedral without catacombs)

It would take centuries to build your cathedral
And it would last forever
And the world would marvel over it
But I’m getting carried away now
And I digress...

It seems I should build a cathedral
To properly express
My love to you

But I’m afraid
All I have to offer
Is the simple chapel
Of my heart

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[LeBroz]

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When I first saw the title for some reason I had a sense of foreboding that was never dark enough to prepare me for the actual image presented.


Cellar Door
by champagne1982 ©

I looked down into that hole
where dust motes roll
by in the air. That place
where fuel once filled
the ancient black-stained
bin of oak and coal dust
roiled through the space.
The hist'ry's enough
to make you choke
on a Cape Bretoner's grief.
Relief comes with death
when the miner's drawn
his shaky last breath
and the company store
sends his new widow
and orphans
a sympathy card.

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[LeBroz]

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A little poem about public monuments; so much said with so little. Just look at the history of public monuments — the Sphinx or the palace at Versailles — built through the generosity of enslaved and taxed masses all for the greater glory of society.


Celebration

by steve porter ©

Structures in the free world

designed to celebrate

these fleeting triumphs.


Frozen moments earned

in the history of freedoom.


To be a part of it,

to touch the trophy,

to be champions just once.

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[LeBroz]

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I didn't think Ange was so old she could remember scenes from at least 40 years ago! Unless NYC is in its own time-warp. This is just pure imagery — enjoy.


Chambers Street
by Angeline ©

Storky got busted,
nabbed right in front
of his variety store,
by the cigars and news,
sundries in dingy cases,
on splintery shelves.
In the back the boys sit,
drink grappa,
play the numbers.

Maybe you get ahead,
gliding past factory mornings
that unfold on gray streets.
Maybe no more cardboard cups
from the Kwik Coffee truck,
no more nickel-plate grind
through years, Taryton
or Camel packs rolled tight
in white t-shirt shoulders,
or dropped in starched
bowling shirt pockets,
anticipating Friday league night.

Daddy says Storky's alright.
He just tries, like Gino
from Naples, with his no speaka English
gold tooth smile,
or the gypsies who wear gold chains
and flash their eyes at me.
JP brings me Italian nougat candy,
and Andy the retired strong man,
the carny, has two yellow teeth,
and can tear a Manhattan phone book
in half, lift a kitchen chair
with two fingers.

Daddy says they're ok,
just poor slobs, working stiffs.
Sometimes they buy 20-dollar
gold pieces from us. Andy
lifts me up with one big hand,
the gypsy lady says I'll travel,
I'll be lucky in love.
Gino gives me a free slice,
Neopolitan style, and a Coke.

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[LeBroz]

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Now here's a bit of an odd piece — going from eating hair all the way to views on jazz; now that's quite a mix.


ceremonious
by 2rivers ©

shape and size
your hair falling across your mouth
eating it, not caring
a condiment for your feast,
roughage

sometimes laying for it
other times pulling, grabbing, throwing
masked affirmations against brick,
straw bale, rammed earth walls

physical answer
constantly missing things that would have changed my life
upset all the factors in my life, let them all know about the others
throw them all in the air and watch to see which ones scramble,
cling to my seeing eye stabbing cane
not in church with three tier pipes
foot pedals loaned out to local jazz ack ack blues junkies
making the worlds turn and flow and jig

notice the forever hum
best felt during completeness

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[LeBroz]

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Nicely descriptive of a crowd scene, leading up to surreptitious passing of information needed to arrange a rendezvous. Sounds like a cross between a spy novel and a romance novel.


Chance Meeting
by trendyredhead ©

cotton candy crowd
surrounds us
pushing, pulling,
waves of people surging,
the ebb and flow of human tide.

separated by years and miles,
still drawn together
yearning, needing,
floating towards each other
through time united.

casual glances
speak of meeting later
longing, wanting,
lifetimes in a moment.

brushing hands
pass crumpled paper,
location scribbled
secretly arranging
rendezvous of souls.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a rather whimsical little piece. Last night, when I was posting, I read this and it seemed too serious for my mood. A good night's sleep and it looks so different.


Chameleon
by Liar ©

I am
a candid mirror
seamless, askew,
slightly altered,
familiar view.

I make you think
you sense nexus,
perfect match,
pegs and holes,
a gemini union.

But no,
there is
no uplink,
not a twin
connection
only me;

your customised
reflection.

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