Double Blind Challenge

[HarryHill]

Last line of red rose: remember
Rose is mean

remember
Magnet Ron is mean

Ah hahahahaha, you are a rose

would smell the same by any other name?

sigh as usual I'm clueless

..
here's a clue for you

ETA: did you see where one of the bard's folios was found recently?

 

[Angeline]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Diary_of_Ellen_Rimbauer:_My_Life_at_Rose_Red



i've yet to post my own observations on this piece but the clues are in there
back later with my thoughts, a lot of which echo those already posted.

Thanks! I have a vague memory of hearing about this miniseries. So that's helpful to at least assume we aren't talking about James Joyce or Joyce from Three's Company.

It's good writing, really. There's subtle rhyme here and there and some great phrasing but it still doesn't make sense, even if I know it's the retelling of a tale. And if that is true, then what is the poem saying that hasn't already been said?

The problem for me is that, for all its strengths, the poem isn't communicating. I need to know there's a story being told: the poem needs to give me that, but it doesn't. And even when someone else who does know the story can point it out to me, I still don't know why I should know this story.

So lol I guess I am still

 

[butters]

So this is a reflection on the character of a character, Joyce – the paranormal investigator of the events and disappearances at the fictional Rimbauer manor. Maybe more wheels within wheels than the snake eating its own tail in this tale. And interesting that the author chose to focus on Joyce as subject matter over the fictional house. I've not watched the mini-series but have read the book. Does this piece relate more to the series?

Given the driven nature of her investigations to find proof and the psychotic atmosphere of the manor, I'd expect there be be a sense of desperation in this. I think there's an attempt at it, and there are parts I think work far better than others, but imo the whole thing needs decluttering to add emphasis where it's needed most. A shorter, more concise, 'less tell, more show' write would suit it better. Again, just my opinion. I kind of get how the whole rambling nature of the manor with its constant building/alterations might lend itself to a longer, labyrinthine write, but since this deals with Joyce first and foremost I would like to feel that as an implication – a background sensation.


Red Roses

Roses mean
remember

Do you remember Joyce?

Love the feel of this beginning, and it acts as a perfect frame with the end lines. Having said that, does it need 'Do you'?

Roses mean
remember

Remember Joyce?


We do

I'm assuming this denotes the 'we' of the psychic entities, the multi-voice of manifestations of those lost inside the ever-changing layout of the manor as referenced further into the write. BLOODY BIG EDIT: OOPS. JUST READ MAG'S POST BELOW THIS AND PERHAPS MY ASSUMPTION IS WELL OFF, LOLOL. I HONESTLY BEGAN READING THIS (AND CONTINUED) THINKING THE VOICE CAME FROM 'THE OTHER SIDE' CUE SPOOKY MOOSIC. AH WELL, THERE'S CONFUSION FOR YOU. OR ME. OR US. and therein lies another trap for a reader - their own assumptions. I LIKED the idea that the voice was that of the house's victims. Oh well.


how she was peerless
deliriously precocious
ever in a state of reversed psychology
a child occupying an adult sized body
playing house with human dolls

to be taken seriously
become relevant in society
her desperation likewise grown
way out of proportion
in the daily ritual of constantly building up
what wrecking balls of self doubt demolished
nightly

Straight away, as a reader, I'm being put off – too much tell, not enough suggestion in these 2 strophes. There's redundancy in using 'precocious' as well as 'a child occupying …'. 'Precocious' serves it up without the rest. I see how the author's drawn a sort of parallel between the state of Joyce's self-esteem and the house's penchant for adding/deleting rooms, or changing their dimensions, overnight but the phrasing simply isn't working here for me.

and beyond reach of her
angry fists clenching tightly
the compelling evidence that always
was and remains within grasp:

But whose grasp? This confuses the issue in a way that doesn't help the piece. Redundancy again, imo, with both 'angry fists' and 'clenching tightly' – angry fists says it all. Fists cannot grasp. Cutting it back as shown below might help but I honestly don't think the author should go on this whole circuitous route. Perhaps by keeping in the concepts of precociousness, self-doubt, anger, playing with people like dolls, and jettisoning all the extraneous wordage, this write would have more of a grasp on the reader's attention.

Angry fists cannot grasp
evidence of what was
and still remains:


spinning bicycle wheels
frozen water pipes
stones raining down from the sky

Like the images this listing throws at me but, once again, attention to specific wording might benefit the lines. Keep the sound inherent in 'spin' but (perhaps) 'the spin of upturned cycle's wheels'; 'frozen water pipes' – too baldly stated for me, and maybe 'stones that rain down from the sky'. Trim it wherever it can be trimmed, because the whole could use losing a good half of its padding.

readers of thoughts formed
left behind by you and I

So here there's more confusion for me as reader: 'you and I'? I was under the impression that this was being narrated a plurivoice (is that even a word?) - meaning a combination of more than one psychic entity's voice/thoughts OR the one voice speaking for a plethora. They/it is addressing someone other, or so I supposed. Is it that they/it are speaking to another supernatural? If not, how has that particular 'you' left behind thoughts to be captured on a psychic level?

psychically raptured from inanimate objects
trapped in rapped doorknockers
captured in cameras Kirlian photograph style

I get the picture – psychic trance and other means of 'capturing' the paranormal; having said that, I'm sorry to admit finding the presentation clumsy despite attempts with assonance/alliteration. Once again, too much tell over show for my taste.

reflections in eyes of more open minded children
who witness things that are there
but not there
not there

reflections in the eye of a child
things that are there
but not there
not there

^Just an example of cutting back. Doesn't matter if - in the tale – there were more than one child. For the purpose of the poem, go with what's strongest, most succinct.

Supposedly
The truth is out there

and yet
as you can see

Apparently
the goddam truth is everywhere ...

... with the exception of here

The poem wouldn't suffer if all of the above from 'Supposedly' to 'here' was canned.

Here only one thing is for certain -

Just use 'Here' all on its lonesome. Works well pulling against 'there' from the bit above the bit I'd can.

answers are nowhere to be found
and only lies are to be had
in bad bad houses
miniature or otherwise grand
framed upon insecure foundations
haunted by their architects

This could happily lose ''to be found' and 'miniature or otherwise grand/framed upon'. But once again there's confusion: the poem stated earlier that compelling evidence was easily within grasp – here it suggests more or less the reverse. I'm all for a bit of mulling and puzzling to get to the heart of a good poem, but here I'm simply left bemused, chasing my own tail!

Fearless
furiously ferocious
in tantrums tantamount to the religiously devout
insisting hers was the only true religion
willing to sacrifice any and everyone
just to prove it with an ill conceived
paranormal investigation
not fully thought out

This needs compressing; the wordplay comes across (to me) as a use of poetic tools over clarity of content.

We know what Joyce overlooked in her zealotry

Now you do as well

And no, I'm afraid I don't know what Joyce overlooked, so now I feel a bit excluded as a reader!

And should you disregard
what was said tonight
throwing our cautionary tales to the wind
by setting foot upon the grounds
where the old Rimbauer mansion once stood

And so, I remain confused: am I, the reader, one of 'them'? I started off an outsider, then thought perhaps I wasn't, now it looks as if I was all along....

remember
Rose is mean

And so back to the start. I loved the start, I love the ending, but what falls between needs oodles of cutting and rethinking for the sake of clarity or I suspect the poem will continue to lose as many readers in its strange configuration as Rose Red did occupants!

Thankyou, to the author for putting this out there for consideration. It made for an interesting exercise.

 

[Magnetron]

would smell the same by any other name?

sigh as usual I'm clueless

Poem #5
Red Roses

A group of people is explaining to an individual that Joyce though being interested in the paranormal was an angry close minded brat. She is a dichotomy. Or an oxymoron. A dichotomoxymoron .... ?

Said individual is being discouraged from going into what was once the Rimbauer estate with the same impaired logic that Joyce had.

Her beliefs made it difficult to grasp that she was already surrounded with a host of paranormal phenomena -
- psychics who could access thoughts embedded in inanimate objects
- child(?) psychics who could see things other people could not
- drastic temperature changes affecting water
- objects spontaneously moving
- a freak meteor strike????

Perhaps if she wasn't an angry close minded brat, she would have realized this and not gone on a specific paranormal investigation that went haywire ( which we can conclude resulted in her demise ).

There is mention of her being like a child playing house with human dolls. This insinuates she was manipulating people in her life for the purpose of selfish gain. We are not given clues to what happened to those people, except for the title being Red Roses and not Red Rose or A Red Rose.

The ending suggests that someone or something named Rose at the old Rimbauer estate is a nasty ass piece of work.

 

[HarryHill]

Next gm? (please?)

 

[Magnetron]

A shorter, more concise, 'less tell, more show' write would suit it better.

On the contrary, I think it would benefit if it was longer with additional information shoehorned in.

The author should make it much more magnificent and huge-ish.

 

[Magnetron]

Next gm? (please?)

48 hours.

You know the rules.

 

[HarryHill]

48 hours.

You know the rules.

..
Hey, I'm on a schedule here

 

[Magnetron]

..
Hey, I'm on a schedule here

Bran muffins kickin in?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I'm always arriving so late to the riot I have nothing original left to add except impressive poem - and even that's been done.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 5 posted for feedback

Life's Blood

A vengeance loosed upon me when it came,
it bludgeoned childhood out of its way.
Stained innocence with promises
of pleasures so sensual and torrid, it held sway
over all else.

Pain radiates from my font of womanhood,
my contribution to the human race,
a reminder, month after month, year after year,
of promise unfulfilled, a waste of possibility.

Instead I served that demanding mistress of my
ego; I thought I chose it, but it perhaps, chose me.

Each drop wells, swells, trickles, escapes down my thighs.
Still it comes, Luna's reminiscences of life, of power,
of motherhood and love, of lust returned, of gifts received
though often turned away.

When men cringed, slunk away from the
Sticky, fluid, life-giving force, I laughed;
wanted to spit in their face, to SCREAM!

Month after month, the blood still comes.
When it stops, panic strikes! Is now the time?
Should I give in? Should I wait?
It's never right; more demands placed.
It curses at me, night and day, that bitch Career.

Until, one day, "ENOUGH!"
My inner female takes its turn to share its love;
a third heartbeat incubates in the womb,
a quiet rhythm, too tentative.
Too weak.

The beat gives up, the soul not whole or
Wholly ready for the world outside, denies
Existence and retreats, a mass of congealed
Blood and pain, it spills, the rug drenched,
a clot of nothing, yet.

Another year.
Another plea.

Another seed bloomed.
This one is hardy with desire to live,
To beat the odds of eternity against it,
battles demons, battles sleep, the world.
Absorbs everything.

And so it goes, the rhythm of life I share.
A badge, a gift I gave.

When finally the spigot curbs its flow,
And nearly dries, should I now laugh or cry?
Dare I mourn the loss or celebrate?

Womanliness, first given with no manual
(a Porsche? Portia? a Penelope?)
freedom to be a princess or a whore.
Who tells us what it means to have the choice
that's wrenched away before I'm ready to let go?

 

[Magnetron]

Poem #6.00000000000000000000000000000
Life's Blood

My first pass began with confusion because the wording of stanza 1 and beginning of 2 left me with the impression that this was about a childhood sexual assault leaving our narrator traumatized for life.

Being in my forties and never having had the desire to have children of the two legged variety, the angst is not resonating with me.

I have to seriously put myself in her shoes to "feel" it during my third pass.

Like the last poem, this is also longish and barren of poetitude.

And that is the impression I am left with.

This woman's womb and household was barren of poetry for so long that when it finally arrived ...... she did not break out in joyful song.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

I'll have to respectfully disagree with Mags on this one. I think that this poem is a blockbuster, and for us menfolk it is sort of a confrontation with the intensity of those things which we will never experience.

I didn't get any impression of childhood abuse -- I thought that, in general, the poem was quite clear in terms of its meaning. The early stanzas are ambiguous to an extent, but the reference to Luna caused them to snap into focus for me.

I do have a few quibbles. In this line:

Instead I served that demanding mistress of my
ego; I thought I chose it, but it perhaps, chose me.

...I think that the italics are overdone, and the line would be fine without them. I had some qualms about the all-caps SCREAM, but after considering it, I think that it's appropriate. The author of the poem (this is another obvious one, I think) is telling it like it is. The same with ENOUGH.

I was somewhat puzzled by this stanza:

Another seed bloomed.
This one is hardy with desire to live,
To beat the odds of eternity against it,
battles demons, battles sleep, the world.
Absorbs everything.

...I couldn't quite figure out who the demons were, or why the little person must battle sleep. "Absorbs everything" I take to be the rapid learning curve that infants have, but perhaps the author could assist the reader a bit by sharpening this stanza.

In the final stanza:

Womanliness, first given with no manual
(a Porsche? Portia? a Penelope?)
freedom to be a princess or a whore.
Who tells us what it means to have the choice
that's wrenched away before I'm ready to let go?

...I wouldn't use the relative pronoun "who" to describe a manual. I get Portia and Penelope as feminine archetypes, but isn't Porsche a car? I think I get the joke, that a manual is something one gets with a car, not a gender, but it's sort of clumsy.

 

[Magnetron]

I'll have to respectfully disagree with Mags on this one. I think that this poem is a blockbuster, and for us menfolk it is sort of a confrontation with the intensity of those things which we will never experience.

Not saying that it is not good. It's very competently written. Quite intense.

The impression it gave me and what the poem is actually about are two entirely different things.

But it is the narrator's lack of joy expressed regarding the successful birth that is helping to fortify that impression - this chaotic biological process dropped into her lap has seemingly sucked the magic out of a moment that was planned for and pleaded for.

I honestly can't find anything to criticize other than the wording in the beginning, so that you get a more immediate understanding that it is fertility being thrust upon the narrator and not some creepy uncle.

Out of the 6 poems submitted thus far, this needs the least modification.

 

[HarryHill]

Some punctuation and pruning would enhance my reading pleasure of what seems to be a woman's rumination of what it means to be a woman

Life's Blood

A vengeance,
loosed upon me when it came,
bludgeoned childhood out of its way,
stained innocence with promises
of pleasures, so sensual and torrid,
holding sway over all else.

Pain radiates from my font of womanhood, deleted line
a reminder, month after month, year after year,
promises unfulfilled, wasted possibilities
.

I served that demanding mistress of ego,
thinking I chose but perhaps was chosen.

Each drop wells, swells, trickles, escapes down my thighs.
Still it comes, Luna's reminiscences of life, of power,
of motherhood, love, lust returned, gifts received,
though often turned away.

When men cringed, slunk away from
Sticky, fluid, life-giving force, I laughed;
wanting to spit in their face, SCREAM!

Month after month, the blood still comes.
When it stops, panic strikes! Is now the time?
Should I give in? Should I wait?
It's never right; more demands placed.
It curses at me, night and day, that bitch Career.

Until, one day, "ENOUGH!"
My inner female takes its turn to share its love;
a third heartbeat incubates in the womb,
a quiet rhythm, too tentative.
Too weak.

The beat gives up, the soul not whole or
wholly ready for the world outside, denies
existence and retreats, a mass of congealed
blood and pain, it spills, the rug drenched,
a clot of nothing, yet.

Another year.
Another plea.

Another seed bloomed.
This one is hardy with desire to live,
To beat the odds of eternity against it,
battles demons, battles sleep, the world.
Absorbs everything.

And so it goes, the rhythm of life I share.
A badge, a gift (I gave.) I'm thinking something else here

When finally the spigot ceases? itsdeluge/spill?
And nearly dries, should I laugh or cry?
mourn the loss or celebrate?

Womanliness, first given with no manual
(a Porsche? Portia? a Penelope?)I'd drop this
freedom to be a princess or a whore.
Who tells us what it means to have the choice
that's wrenched away before I'm ready to let go?

that's all I got

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Poem #5

What a powerful poem about subjects few feel comfortable with, menstruation, miscarriages, menopause and the unfulfilled promises of womanhood. I too would do away with italics and capitals, just let the poem speak quietly and potently. The final verse seems, to me, to dilute the powerful punch of the preceding lines, perhaps end on "Dare I mourn the loss or celebrate?" because the title mentions blood not womanliness. Also "spigot" jars for me but can't come up with improvement, perhaps re-jig the line?

Personally, and fortunately, I have not suffered through any of the stages this poets experienced but their effect and affect comes across completely. Well done.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Poem #5

Also "spigot" jars for me but can't come up with improvement, perhaps re-jig the line?

How about When finally the wellspring ebbs

Personally, and fortunately, I have not suffered through any of the stages this poets experienced

Me neither. This poem is the closest I will ever come to it, I suspect.

 

[Piscator]

A powerful poem, I'd very much like to hear reactions from women - so far only men have commented.

Spigot might be replaced by flow but I think the author meant to jar. I'm the last one to comment on punction.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

A powerful poem, I'd very much like to hear reactions from women - so far only men have commented.

Spigot might be replaced by flow but I think the author meant to jar. I'm the last one to comment on punction.

I'm a she. just never had bad cramps or a miscarriage.

 

[Piscator]

I'm a she. just never had bad cramps or a miscarriage.

Open mouth, change feet, my apologies.

 

[butters]

Life's Blood

Can't place my finger on exactly why, but something about the title sits just off-centre for me. Like a table with one leg a smidge shorter than the others – sturdy but not completely solid. Could be it makes me think, first and foremost, of arterial blood. That might be due to the kind of books I've been reading lately! Guess what I'm saying is it's more likely me as an individual reader that has the problem rather than the title overall.

Because I began with that image, the opening lines had me seeing something truly violent – more than the description of a first period to someone who was extremely fortunate in that regard. Like Magnetron, I was assaulted with the notion of a violent sexual attack on a young girl made all the more insidious because of the wording in L4. Reading on, that notion was swiftly eradicated and I got a grip on the nature of the beast.

So, we have the musings of a woman contemplating all her years of fertility, from first to the expectation of last, the choices made and losses endured. As someone who has experienced more than one miscarriage in first /early second trimester, the part dealing with the loss speaks with a truth, a delicacy and an unflinching clout all in a few lines. They work. Understated, they work - and for that very reason.

Life's Blood

A vengeance loosed upon me when it came,
it bludgeoned childhood out of its way.
Stained innocence with promises
of pleasures so sensual and torrid, it held sway
over all else.
If I had to suggest any changes to this introduction, it'd be a re-jigging something along these lines:
A vengeance loosed upon me when it came,
childhood bludgeoned out its way;
innocence stained with promises
of pleasures, so sensual and torrid
they held sway.

Pain radiates from my font of womanhood,
my contribution to the human race,
a reminder, month after month, year after year,
of promise unfulfilled, a waste of possibility.
Though this feels a bit overdone, with phrasing like 'font of womanhood', I think it serves to load the lines with the sense of 'so much/too much'. The sense a woman with heavy, painful periods must surely experience.

Instead I served that demanding mistress of my
ego; I thought I chose it, but it perhaps, chose me.
I'm being 'told', not 'shown'. Some small confusion with that wording of the its.

Each drop wells, swells, trickles, escapes down my thighs.
Still it comes, Luna's reminiscences of life, of power,
of motherhood and love, of lust returned, of gifts received
though often turned away.
The length of these lines made me toy with them in my head, but I can't find a better way to form them. Sound-play and imagery work together with the longer lines to create a play-off between the physical and meta.

When men cringed, slunk away from the
Sticky, fluid, life-giving force, I laughed;
wanted to spit in their face, to SCREAM!
Why capitalise 'Sticky'?
There's a bitterness in these lines but the swapping back and forth of tenses perhaps undermines that a little. Even if it is a retrospection, for the sake of the poem immediacy might work to its advantage:
When men cringe, slink from sticky fluids,
the force of life, I laugh in their faces
though I'd rather spit in them and SCREAM!

Month after month, the blood still comes.
When it stops, panic strikes! Is now the time?
Should I give in? Should I wait?
It's never right; more demands placed.
It curses at me, night and day, that bitch Career.
I think the author's been very clever with the pacing within these lines, using them to to good effect, bolstering by sensation what's actually happening in the written word. One question: does L4 there need 'placed'? Placed is a very deliberate word. Should I read into that the notion that the 'bitch Career' deliberately sabotaged the narrator's possible choices of when to start a family? Unless that is a very intentional use, I'd lose 'placed' and opt for 'always more demands' One other tiny thing – 'It' curses but career is portrayed as an embodiment, a name. Just nit-picking because my poetry-head needs the exercise

Until, one day, "ENOUGH!"
My inner female takes its turn to share its love;
a third heartbeat incubates in the womb,
a quiet rhythm, too tentative.
Too weak.

The beat gives up, the soul not whole or
Wholly ready for the world outside, denies
Existence and retreats, a mass of congealed
Blood and pain, it spills, the rug drenched,
a clot of nothing, yet.
Nothing to offer on these 2 areas; they work for me. Why, though, the capping of Wholly/Existence/ and Blood?

Another year.
Another plea.

Another seed bloomed.
This one is hardy with desire to live,
To beat the odds of eternity against it,
battles demons, battles sleep, the world.
Absorbs everything.
Love 'hardy with desire', and everything about the phrasing fights for life. 'Absorbs everything' – nourishment, love, hope? At least, this is how I read it.

And so it goes, the rhythm of life I share.
A badge, a gift I gave.

When finally the spigot curbs its flow,
And nearly dries, should I now laugh or cry?
Dare I mourn the loss or celebrate?
Like the use of 'spigot'; someone mentioned it as 'jarring' – I believe that's what works for it: there's an ingrained discomfort, an angularity in the word that lends itself remarkably well to the narrative. And then the question 'Dare I mourn the loss or celebrate?' Coming hard on the heels of other events to be mourned, followed by a cause to celebrate, I find that a clever little trick – tying things together that way even though it's addressing the newer, imminent situation. It's a pulling together of time-threads in a poem that's all about a journey through time.

Womanliness, first given with no manual
(a Porsche? Portia? a Penelope?)
freedom to be a princess or a whore.
Who tells us what it means to have the choice
that's wrenched away before I'm ready to let go?
That first line reads clunky to me, and the second has me contemplating if it serves any real purpose. Perhaps it's a lack on my part, not understanding the relevance of those specific names where they are there for good reason. Love the last line (though my own experiences meant I was more than happy to 'let go'). There's a surety and conviction of voice running right the way through this and all my thoughts are mere speculations on a mature write.
I'm looking forward to hearing from the author of this well-considered piece to fill in the gaps for me.

 

[Magnetron]

Womanliness, first given with no manual
(a Porsche? Portia? a Penelope?)

That first line reads clunky to me, and the second has me contemplating if it serves any real purpose. Perhaps it's a lack on my part, not understanding the relevance of those specific names where they are there for good reason.

New cars come with manuals, Porsche is a car, Portia is a girl's name that sounds like Porsche, Penelope is a girls name like Portia.

It would sound more relevant if worded like this cockamamie example.

Named after the sports car I was conceived in
I am Portia Penelope Puddlepants
and unlike womanhood
at least a new Porsche comes with a manual

 

[butters]

New cars come with manuals, Porsche is a car, Portia is a girl's name that sounds like Porsche, Penelope is a girls name like Portia.

It would sound more relevant if worded like this cockamamie example.

Named after the sports car I was conceived in
I am Portia Penelope Puddlepants
and unlike womanhood
at least a new Porsche comes with a manual

i get the thing about manuals, and went on a look around wiki on a bug hunt for meanings of names. i enjoyed the progressions i found.

porsche - to represent sleek beauty, speed - a 'fast and much desired woman'?

portia - frequent alternate spelling of porsche, but with connotations of though rich, intelligent, and beautiful, still at the mercy of having a man decide her fate

penelope - the epitome of the faithful wife, despite her husband's lengthy absence.


the whole poem has been put together with a deal of consideration.

 

[HarryHill]

i get the thing about manuals, and went on a look around wiki on a bug hunt for meanings of names. i enjoyed the progressions i found.

porsche - to represent sleek beauty, speed - a 'fast and much desired woman'?

portia - frequent alternate spelling of porsche, but with connotations of though rich, intelligent, and beautiful, still at the mercy of having a man decide her fate

penelope - the epitome of the faithful wife, despite her husband's lengthy absence.


the whole poem has been put together with a deal of consideration.

Porsche rings a bell but I cant dig past the car hits
Portia/the Merchant of Venice
Penelope seems to mean a predatory bird creature

 

[butters]

Porsche rings a bell but I cant dig past the car hits
Portia/the Merchant of Venice
Penelope seems to mean a predatory bird creature

when i looked up portia, it mentioned porsche as being a frequent, alternate spelling.

and looking more at penelope, given your post, i'm finding 'cunning weaver whose motivation is hard to decipher'... so a manipulative

seems with just those 2-3 names the author alludes to a host of character-traits