One a Day in May: Spring Cleaning

[champagne1982]

One a Day in May #3
Tangled Web
July 2003

The spider's legs curl inwards
to the centre
of a dark and poisonous carapace.
She hangs in shadowed gloom.

The web entangled
round empty husks
of happiness,
sucked dry through fangs
starving for a taste.

Hang now alone;
companion to the dust
that shrouds each sticky thread.
This is the house she's built

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted pane.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they crumble.

All that's left is the spider,
curled inwards,
empty of all but regret.
__________________________

This edit addresses thoughts given in the public comments on this poem. I'm still not sure I agree.

Tangled Web
May 2008

The spider's legs curl inwards
to the centre
of a dark and poisonous carapace.
She hangs in shadowed gloom.

The web entangled
round empty husks
of happiness,
sucked dry through fangs
starving for a taste.

Hang now alone;
companion to the dust
that shrouds each sticky thread.
This is the house she's built

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted window.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they tear away.

All that's left is the spider,
curled inwards,
empty of all but regret.

 

[CeriseNoire]

# 2 and 3

I was too tired last night, so two for today. I'm being daring and pulling one from the slums of my high school notebook, circa 1999 (I was still newish in learning English). I apologize for any resulting pain or blindness.

To an Angel

Wounded angel
With broken wings
In search of his lost feathers
Of white purity
In front of his eyes filled with crystal tears
They burn slowly in the fire of guilt
As a crazed imp watches
Drowning in remorse and sorrow
All along Love watches
Sadly frowning at the fallen creatures
And without warning passes them by
As their hearts stand still
Struck by a broken Cupid's arrow

Angel and I

Crushed, you stare
at the bonfire
of feathers,
your innocence
incinerated by guilt.

I stand, a crazed imp,
your back reflected in
the darkness
of my eyes,
in remorse and sorrow.

Our hearts stand frozen,
as we stare without sight.
Love passes by
indifferent.


For the second, a translation.

Paresseuse
by CeriseNoire©

Dans la nuit,
elle se plaint
d'un noir ennui,
sans réveiller
le corps allongé
à côté du sien.

Elle pourrait toucher
de ses lèvres
celles qui rêvent
du goût de ses seins

Mais elle se plaint
d'un ennui noir
dans la nuit.

In the night
she bemoans
black boredom,
without waking
he who sleeps
by her side.

She could
touch the lips
that dream
the taste
of her breasts.

Yet
she bemoans
black boredom
in the night.


---

Yeah you are here! The new version feels more smooth, put together, intentional. Keep it up!

Thanks. That poem gets shorter with every revision. It'll likely go through one or two more.

 

[CeriseNoire]

One a Day in May #3
Tangled Web
July 2003

The spider's legs curl inwards
to the centre
of a dark and poisonous carapace.
She hangs in shadowed gloom.

The web entangled
round empty husks
of happiness,
sucked dry through fangs
starving for a taste.

Hang now alone;
companion to the dust
that shrouds each sticky thread.
This is the house she's built

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted pane.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they crumble.

All that's left is the spider,
curled inwards,
empty of all but regret.
__________________________

This edit addresses thoughts given in the public comments on this poem. I'm still not sure I agree.

Tangled Web
May 2008

The spider's legs curl inwards
to the centre
of a dark and poisonous carapace.
She hangs in shadowed gloom.

The web entangled
round empty husks
of happiness,
sucked dry through fangs
starving for a taste.

Hang now alone;
companion to the dust
that shrouds each sticky thread.
This is the house she's built

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted window.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they tear away.

All that's left is the spider,
curled inwards,
empty of all but regret.

I have to say, I liked the original. To me, 'window' and 'tear away' have too many syllables for the rhythm.

 

[Guest]

...............

 

[champagne1982]

I do prefer pane since it's a homonym of pain but maybe I could rethink sack and twelveoone's preference of collapse over crumble...

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted pane.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they collapse.

 

[Angeline]

V2: 2008
World of our fathers,
Second Avenue stories, Delancey Street,
Rivington railroad flat with murky secrets
tossed down the airshaft. The wash
that fluttered brick to brick
like damp trapped birds undaunted
by shouts across sills or the mayhem
below of ragmen and pickle sellers.

Grandmother's world, life bargained
over cabbages, the rows of pike and smelt,
still life on melting ice, cold-eyed
but rapt in yesterday's news.

Chaotic klezmer riddles. Bribes,
pilpul and pennies in the pushke.
Dances in cardboard-soles, schtetls
remade in the concrete jungle
by landsleit who polished their hammered pride
with promises of goldeneh medina.

And then. Ut azoy!

The kinder move to the Bronx
to Queens, Short Hills, Far Rockaway.
Yenkees lose accents, drop syllables,
play the letters game: Cohen to Cohn
to Cone as the world spins new yarn,
knits glory and misery from faded memory,
but the garment is uncomfortable,
ill-worn with passing years, a costume
fit only for ceremony.

V1: 2006

World of my father, my grandfather:
Second Avenue, Delancey Street,
Rivington railroad flat, airshaft,
wash fluttering brick to brick
like damp trapped birds undaunted
by shouts across sills, the mayhem
below of ragmen and pickle sellers,

old women bargaining over cabbages,
rows of pike and smelts laid out
on melting ice, waiting cold-eyed
for yesterday's news.

Chaotic music is played in riddles
and bribes, pilpul and pennies
dropped in the pushke. Life
is danced in cardboard-soled shoes,
schtetls are rebuilt by landsleit
who polished their hammered pride
on the promise of goldeneh medina.

And then. Ut azoy

The kinder haul it into the Bronx
and Queens, misplace it in backyards
of Short Hills, Far Rockaway. Yenkees lose
accents, drop syllables from names.

The world spins new yarn for the future,
knits glory and misery with faded memory
to an uncomfortable garment, ill-worn
with passing years, a costume fit
only for ceremony.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

May #4

Before Damascus

The angels have struck a cheap road on you,
blind straw man, locked in distemper.
You are strong as glass and grit,
your teeth are hard against the cold,
but you have begun to notice
that your hands cannot be contained in one another.
There is no binding cure to stop the twisting
or the thorns, the way you stripe yourself
black with howls. Nothing can keep it
from burning down around you.
No thunder comes close to the silence.
Pray for rain now with the last
of your brittle bones, pray for the lash
of lightning, pray for the voice, however harsh.
Quickly, break your knees down, blind saint
and beg for the slap of salvation.

 

[CeriseNoire]

Spring Cleaning #4

From the 5 senses thread.

On a crisp winter day,
Northern Lights mesmerize me,
like you did once.
Then, we played the midnight owls,
sharing our make-believe wisdoms. I
giggled like a child
for each one of your peppermint cigarette
kisses on warm skin.
They tickled, you know,
like the smell of first snow
on a crisp winter day.

On a crisp winter day,
Northern Lights mesmerize
me
like you once did.

Then we played the midnight owls,
sharing
our make-believe wisdoms.
I giggled like a child
with each of your poison mint
kisses
on warm skin.

They tickled, you know,
like the smell of first snow
on a crisp winter day.

Meh, I think I'll revisit this one later.

 

[loststar]

day 3

I sought to understand
for the begginings of control
come in understanding
but as I begin to understand
that there is no understanding
and thus
no control

 

[loststar]

day 4

I have made love to you
a thousand times

in my mind

pretending my pleasure is
yours

finding satisfaction only at
the thought of
you

closing the door to the world

and

surrendering my body
to the memoery

of

you

 

[champagne1982]

poem edit #3

This is edit #4 regardless of the post title

A poem inspired by the Mayakovski week of the Sleeping on the Wing challenge

Rain For A Joshua Tree
April 6, 2008

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

A new fold in the calloused crust irritated
by man's constant picking. Layer upon layer
of rawhide dried by the dessicating desert
moans over sifted sand. Mourning brings tears
to dew the Joshua tree but not enough to drink.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart
remarked that I was to see the Master
of my fate immediately.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life
again.

No tormentor's torture would feel so naked,
a brand pressed to my skin--
its stink reminds ashes to ashes
and chances shake my roots
grown shallow in youth. I never thirsted
as the desert pine, the well was mine
until siphoned dry with your sucking
lips that deny how ill I feel.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

V2.0

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

A new fold in the calloused crust irritated
by constant picking. Layer upon layer
of rawhide dried by dessicating desert
moans over sifted sand. Mourning brings tears
to dew the Joshua tree but not enough to drink.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart,
remarked that it was time to relinquish control

again.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life

again.

No tormentor's torture would feel so hot,
a brand pressed to my skin--
its stink reminds ashes to ashes
and the odds shake my roots
grown shallow in youth.

I never thirsted as the desert
pine, the well was mine
until siphoned dry with sucking
lips that deny how ill I feel.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

 

[Angeline]

A poem inspired by the Mayakovski week of the Sleeping on the Wing challenge

Rain For A Joshua Tree
April 6, 2008

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

A new fold in the calloused crust irritated
by man's constant picking. Layer upon layer
of rawhide dried by the dessicating desert
moans over sifted sand. Mourning brings tears
to dew the Joshua tree but not enough to drink.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart
remarked that I was to see the Master
of my fate immediately.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life
again.

No tormentor's torture would feel so naked,
a brand pressed to my skin--
its stink reminds ashes to ashes
and chances shake my roots
grown shallow in youth. I never thirsted
as the desert pine, the well was mine
until siphoned dry with your sucking
lips that deny how ill I feel.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

V2.0

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

A new fold in the calloused crust irritated
by constant picking. Layer upon layer
of rawhide dried by dessicating desert
moans over sifted sand. Mourning brings tears
to dew the Joshua tree but not enough to drink.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart,
remarked that it was time to relinquish control

again.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life

again.

No tormentor's torture would feel so hot,
a brand pressed to my skin--
its stink reminds ashes to ashes
and the odds shake my roots
grown shallow in youth.

I never thirsted as the desert
pine, the well was mine
until siphoned dry with sucking
lips that deny how ill I feel.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

This is one of your best, I think. You need to submit it somewhere, and soon!

 

[champagne1982]

This is one of your best, I think. You need to submit it somewhere, and soon!

You don't think the repeated "again" is too much set on their own like this?

I wish I knew what I do to create my gems. It's like sometimes success with a poem is so obvious; the theme and intent are clear as a bell yet as the writer, I can't nail down how that happens. I think this is what keeps us writing, the elusive feeling that we invent good poetry but that we don't remember what we did to do it.

V2 goes on my list. Thank you.

 

[Angeline]

You don't think the repeated "again" is too much set on their own like this?

I wish I knew what I do to create my gems. It's like sometimes success with a poem is so obvious; the theme and intent are clear as a bell yet as the writer, I can't nail down how that happens. I think this is what keeps us writing, the elusive feeling that we invent good poetry but that we don't remember what we did to do it.

V2 goes on my list. Thank you.

I like the "again" set off like that because it cues me in to pause on it, which I'm pretty sure is the way you want it read. Ask another poet and you'll probably get another opinion though, it's all so subjective. It's such a good poem I can't imagine it being rejected because of the one word, but maybe some nutty poetry editor would want you to move it up a line. Maybe not. I've never had a publication editor suggest I change anything. They either take as is or reject outright. So far. It's an interesting question.

 

[Angeline]

V2: 2008

April 2004

I.
At the bottom of the first
the game was barely audible
over my headphones. Twelve strings
measured the afternoon. It was
a musical muse. The last thing
on my mind was unkindness
daddy, but leaving was inevitable.

Somebody had to strike out
or hit foul. The game progressed
for the times they were a changin.
No, I said. That's not my house.
Yes, I said. This is my home
where my man and his boy play
blackjack, smile at me
through cheers and chords.

II.
Come to me, he said.
Come to me.
He slapped down another card,
the pitcher knuckled. Somebody
hit a grounder, bumped straight
down that diamond, more prosaic
than the one I want off, just off
my finger sparkling up at me.
In the mall we lined up. We walked
in a trio like some kind of family.

III.
Nighttime and a funk groove
improved my kinesiology. I moved
bone deep. I slipped hips in and out
of time. Baby I know how to mind
my p's, my cues. I slid right
into a twang of blues. You know.
That basic instinctual beat,
that rhythm sparks flicker into flame,
a saxy fuse all tenor toney honey sweet.
We cruised to completion and I cut
a rug, the cards, the cord.
I took my chances. I still know
how to wag a few tailfeathers.

IV.
Willow's starting to bud.
The tree man always notices
every branch. Every leaf
is a baby step. Spring crept
in. Ice melted and mud season
deepened the slow ground warmth.
The students biked or jogged,
arms, legs pumping. We drove
together and I thought he sees
green everywhere, clarity
everywhere. Once the sash was stuck,
but now one window opens easily
to sun to life.


V1: 2004, Three Pages of Journal Scrawl

Bottom of the first
the announcer barely audible
over headphones twelve strings
measuring this afternoon
the last thing on my mind
was unkindness daddy but
leaving was inevitable
somebody had to strike out
or hit foul the progress
of our game was inievitable
for the times are a changin
not my house yes my house
where a man and his boy
play blackjack and smile
at me through the chords

Come to me he says
slaps down another card
the pitcher knuckles somebody
hits a grounder that bumps straight
down that diamond more prosaid
than the one I want off just off
my finger sparkling up at me
in the mall where we line up
walk in a trio like some kind of family

Funk groove
improve my kinesiology
move bone deep hip
to hip slip shift switch
in and out of time mind
my p's my cues slide right
into the twang of blues
that basic instinctual beat
that rhythm uses spark
to turn a flicker into flame
and blow a saxy fuse
all tenor toney hollow sweet
to cruise me to completion
cut my rug dance my feet
these dogs still learn
how to wag a few tailfeathers
melted off the ice twice neat

Willow's starting to bud
he says tree man always
notices changing branch
every leaf a baby step
spring creeps in here ice
melts and mud season
gives way to slow ground
warmth the students bike
jog arms pump legs flash
we drive or walk he sees
green I see him clearly glass
gives way once the sash
stuck but now one window
opens easily to sun to life

 

[CeriseNoire]

Srping Cleaning #5

Another from the five senses thread. I thought I'd take the advice and try it with punctuation.

He always told her to stop
and smell the roses
forgetting
about her acute allergies
to pink jeweled cellphones that would keep her
umbilically leashed to
the inner circle, she never said yes
nor did she want
smooth accessory dogs
with peppermint breath
meant to mask
the thud of integrity

He always told her
to stop
and smell the rose, forgetting
her acute allergies
to pink jeweled cellphones
that would keep her
leashed
to the inner circle. She never said yes,
nor did she want smooth
accessory dogs,
their peppermint breath
meant to mask
the thud of integrity
cast aside.

 

[TheRainMan]

may 5 - edit

. . . .

 

[annaswirls]

y'all are doing awesome! we are having sleeping issues. I will catch up!

 

[champagne1982]

A Day In May #5 (one behind, must catch up!)

Scrape
June 2004


Mom could fix it.
Wash the burning scour,
pink ovals of her nails,
hands pretty and so tender.
Then a Bandaid
softly and carefully laid.
Facecloth, warm and clean,
erasing the tearstains on my cheeks
followed by a kiss.

Smile refreshed
bounding out the door
to the walk where Daddy waits.
There's no sign of the scar
in the flower bed,
where the pedal gouged a canyon
and my elbow
deprived the grass
of some of its green.
____________________________________

Learning To Ride
2008

Mom always fixes it.
She washes the hot
abrasion, pink ovals
of her nails flash
on hands, pretty and so tender.
Then carefully lays
a Bandaid. The facecloth,
warm and clean, erases
the tearstains on my cheeks,
followed by a kiss.

Smile refreshed
bound out the door
to the walk where Daddy waits.
There's no sign of the scar
in the flower bed,
where the pedal gouged a canyon
and my elbow
deprived the grass
of some of its green.

 

[loststar]

day 5

Her hair is in my sink
yet your picture is on my wall
her hands are in my hair
and yours were never there

her love pushes me to the brink
yet I still wait for your call
her scent is in my bed
yet we were the ones that were wed

with her my mind can not think
yet you are still my down fall
I tuck all your things away
while I beg for her to stay

She and I have this link
while you and I stall
the enivitable
the unfathomable
truth

 

[champagne1982]

A Day In May #6

Morality In A War Zone
May 2004


If faced with defacing the home
Of citizens
In this mortar-shell-pocked
Shithole of a desert town
or not

Would I dare to say what I feel?
Would my morals rise up
And get in the way
Of everyone else's good time?

We're taught, in battle school,
"Dehumanize the enemy"
It makes them easier to kill.

Then some shit-in-a-suit,
Sitting in the UN
Quotes the Geneva Convention about
"The Rights of Prisoners of War"

Where was my sarge's right
When that dude used a hollowpoint bullet
To shoot him in the gut?

He got awful thirsty
before the medics
loaded him into the chopper.

I think I can

I wanna think I won't

Ah, fuck it

I likely will.

Morality In A War Zone
2008


If faced with defacing
the property of citizens
in this mortar-shell-pocked
shithole of a desert town
or not

would I dare to say what I feel?
would my morals rise up
and get in the way
of everyone's idea of a good time?

We're taught, in battle school,
dehumanize the enemy.
It makes them easier to kill.

Then some shit-in-a-suit,
sitting in the UN
quotes the Geneva Convention about
The Rights Of Prisoners Of War.

Where was my sarge's right
when that dude used a hollowpoint bullet
to shoot him in the gut?

He got awful thirsty
before the medics
loaded him into the chopper.

I think I can stand up

I wanna think I won't fall,

ah, fuck it.

I likely will.

 

[annaswirls]

May #5

.........

 

[Angeline]

Biograph

concentric circles
on the wall of the Biograph theater
plot post-nuclear strike coordinates
flash-death fallout radiation sickness
but you know it depends on how the wind blows
how the wind blows if you are out past
the last ring

but you and me baby
we are the lucky ones
stoned and watching the Brothers Quay
we don’t know we are in love
but that is okay
here in the middle of things
our shadows will not have time
to be etched on the wall
we are already vapor

we are vapor, you and me
inside the first circle down in D.C.
down in D.C. you hold my hand
and I wear your leather coat
just like the movies
become Nancy to your Sid

remember how her knickers
fell from her overnight bag
and he dropped to his knees
held them up to his face
and breathed them in and in

I did not understand why
until I tried it myself in your bathroom
tucked my head down
and breathed in my own cotton-soaked scent
until dizziness overtook me
and I wished someday someone
would want me so much
to carry me in his pocket
like a pack of mints

This is wonderful, J! I love the way it unfolds, and the last strophe expecially is just killer. I think I remember it by the way.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

It's true, there is some amazing work going on in here. I've got some catching up to do myself, but I must say first, just trying to get caught up:

Champie, Ange is right. That's an excellent piece.

Rainy, #5 was amazing. Really, really solid. You're really good at titles too, and I envy that. I have trouble in that area.

Cerise, I'm liking all your work so far but this last one was way excellent. Tight and vivid.

And loststar, that last one was your best yet.


And an unrelated side note, just because this is maybe a place where a lot of people will see it. The fact that vampiredust got Most Influential Poet this year means that obviously it's not just a popularity contest. Obviously, what he does is high-quality work, diligent and skilled, and he's not getting elected because he's in here humping legs and being an attention whore like some bijoux I know. Kinda gives one a bit of hope for Lit in general...

And let me just remind you that I nominated him. Can't help but feel good about that.

off now to find some edits and get caught up.
bj

 

[unpredictablebijou]

May edit #5

I have bashed on this for a while and I'm still not entirely happy with it. But one continues to try...

Oak and Ivy

these secret truths of our deliberate brother-rage
all purified in this dark charge of slick and thrust
can slowly turn your clean relinquished skin
to animal between us, one we fold and stretch
to make a braided bridge of flesh that joins us.

inside this heated mystery we'll ride you down
and watch these colored roots as they repeat each other
the rhythm that completes your tortured secret spaces
with gleeful plunge of hardened hunger into holes
this gleaming wet all straight into the yielding mouths.

we find the deepest measure and we aim ourselves
into you like two hammers, through your serpent spine.
We can see our mirrors deep within your center
you sweeten as you fit us into every corner
We work a single mind in fertile mystery

We plant the tree from lip to lip and touch the tips
of these two shafts to one another at the heart
belly and throat they slide, root and mouth they slide
inner sex and swollen tongue they slide again
over their hot twin tracks to meet inside you

Our growing braided shaft will split you like an apple
and all the tongues of you will swallow us and lick us clean.