pick one of your poems and tell me all about it

[twelveoone]

http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=412397

In this poem I was just trying to poke two mockers/poets. It's a hybrid of two poems I can't even remember the names of. One's by Wallace Stevens which I took the form from, the other is Billy Collins which I took some content from. I liked both of their poems, even though their mockery kinda rubbed me a little wrong. I think of it as a smart poem that isn't too...

A Quiet, Uneventful Life
by bflagsst©

Some spend their evenings
in supreme fiction, Madame,
composing paradelles
to and from the office,
like tawdry cisterns
pandering for heaven(s),
the go-betweens
for low-toned, pale,
insurance men.

I hate mockery
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=320981

I hate Wallace Stevens more

all those years in high school, Wallace Stevens this, Wallace Stevens that, why can't you be more like Wallace Stevens

 

[enrapturedmoon]

Joy I


Across what boundaries do we cross in our dreams O Master?

What fleeting joys cross body and mind?

Shall I flex my mind, my toes or affix my mind to said task?

Within my dreams I am fluid, made so for your use.

Knowing well that dreams are all to which we can seek replenishment

through.

Though the ache ebbs and flows, this body yearns more and more with

each passing hour, each caress of words, each flow of thought.

Touch me and I am yours.

Say my name and I whimper yours.

Caress my soul and I am enslaved to the pain you bring, the nerve you

twinge, the urge you sate again and again.

Whispering words of filth, of pain so pure and pleasure beyond the

depths known before.

Take my hands and hold them high, bite my body to leave trails of

red,

leave me writhing in need.


Sin II


From within he begins his explorations

From within he elicits passionate reponse

Hither her body rives to peak

Hither her body writhes complete

His hand raises

Her body questions

He gives, she takes

Sated, complete

Not sure what I what truly thinking here, this just flowed from me. Maybe I was just aroused and in need to live those moments. Smiles.

 

[PoetGuy]

one at a time, but not restricted to just the one. one per post, to be clear.

much as poems fascinate me in their own right, all too often i'm left wondering what was behind it all - the thinking processes, the inspirations, the choice of nuances, the whys and the wherefores ... . i'm aware that some poets prefer to leave the whole dirty business a mystery, with the intent of allowing the poem to stand on its own two feet (or more, depending on the form *grins*), but experience tells me there are many more who love talking about how the creative process works for them.

humour me, please, i've an itch needs scratching

Poet Guy has wanted to blab about one of his poems for some time, and perhaps this is the proper time, given that the comments on his poem "Yellow Peril" indicate that readers often seem confused as to what the poem is about.

"Yellow Peril" originated with the challenge posed by PandoraGlitters on her excellent Race Relations thread. The poem comments on a very current cultural theme/meme in the USA, based on the sudden prominence of a book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, who is a professor of law at Yale University, that is probably not in the current consciousness of those Literotica poets who do not live in the USA. The Wall Street Journal published an excerpt of Chua's book under the title "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" that set off considerable controversy, leading to the topic being featured on the cover of this week's Time magazine, which comments not only on the book, but on the increasing xenophobic fears of Americans that they (we, as Poet Guy is American) are getting their (our) clock cleaned economically and intellectually by the Chinese (and secondarily by India, Korea, Taiwan, etc.) and that things are only going to get worse because American parents coddle their kids instead of raising them like Marine DI's to be conversant in calculus and Mozart by puberty.

Whew. So on to the poem:

Yellow Peril

It used to be Myrna Loy with taped eyes
and a slit silk skirt,
her smoky look like opium
drawing the unwary male
into a close room brocaded with sin.
Now Fah Lo See has turned tiger
and her children eat our children,
snarling joyfully in Mandarin
the pure thoughts of geometry,
their slim, prim little fingers perfectly
typing Little White Donkey,
typing Little White Donkey,
typing Little White Donkey
over and over again.​

The title refers to what Wikipedia calls a color metaphor for race that reflected xenophobic concerns among several countries about job competition due to the importation of inexpensive laborers from Asian countries and, later, Japanese military expansionism. These concerns manifested themselves in pulp fiction (e.g., the sinister Dr. Fu Manchu, who seeks world domination) and exploitation movies about nefarious Asian characters sapping the powers of clean, well-bred American youth either through drugs or loose, sexually vampiric women. Myrna Loy, early in her film career, was typecast in roles where she played Asian femme fatales, usually with her eyes taped to emulate the epicanthic folds characteristic of Asian peoples. (Actually, Poet Guy assumes this makeup effect, which was commonly used with actors of European descent. He does not know if Ms. Loy's eyes actually were taped for the role in question, though he suspects they were.) Fah Lo See is the name of Loy's character who is Fu Manchu's daughter in The Mask of Fu Manchu (1932). The "slit silk skirt" is common to Asian seductresses of 20s-30s pulp fiction. The simile "smoky look like opium" is intended to evoke the opium dens, choked with smoke from the burning drug, also common to pulp fiction, hence as well, the "close room" (from all the smoke). The phrase "brocaded with sin" is intended to evoke both the richness of Chinese formal dress and the walls of the opium den, covered with overly rich and, to Western tastes, decadent fabric.

The second half of the poem triggers off of Chua's book and article. Whereas most Americans would now regard the imagery of the seductive Asian dragon lady of the 20s as racist, they have no problems regarding with horror the militaristic drill sergeant mother of the 21st century, who is prepping their children to kick ass and dominate the babied children of America. The seductress turns tiger (simple reference to the former sterotype and the new sterotype that Chua labels herself as representing) and her children (Poet Guy thought of using "cubs" here, but rejected that as too too) "eat" (outperform) American children, with their bilingualism (Mandarin and English), mathematical skills (geometry) and the drilling in musical performance (Little White Donkey is a short piano piece by Jacques Ibert that Chua describes in her book as something that led to a screaming match between her and one of her daughters over performing it over and over again until it could be played perfectly; "typing" is used instead of "playing" to suggest the rote nature of the learning and also to suggest the child is typing out what could be considered a racially charged slur against her white American child competitors, calling them "little white donkeys"). The overall intent of the poem is to make an ironic comparison between the 20s "Dragon Lady" image that is now widely considered racist and the contemporary "Tiger Mom" image that at least, in Poet Guy's opinion, verges on racist in its inherent xenophobia.

Poet Guy now feels rather embarrassed, as he probably should. As commentators have indicated, this poem is not well conceived, probably conceptually, and certainly in terms of cultural reference. But Poet Guy had rather a good time writing it, hopes he did not offend anyone with, and is ready, even willing, to let it rot away in Lit's archives at this point.

He chalks the whole thing up to experience and thanks his various commenters for their help in letting him see how the poem is perceived through other readers' eyes.

 

[Angeline]

Geez poetguy, call me crazy but I understood most of what you've just explained and (I thought) suggested that in my comment. I also thought Liar's comment was very instructive in that it's not necessary to understand everything in a poem to appreciate it. Not saying it's unhelpful to have an exhaustive explanation, but I think it's a good poem and my take on the comments was that people liked it even if they didn't know all the details.

This whole thing especially interests me in light of our recent discussion on misreading and also because my poem Jazzstory got some very favorable comments and yet I know of only one reader who got some of the subtle references in it.



PS I also commented on your Rilke poem. Let me know if you didn't see it as I've been having problems with comments I make disappearing. I thought it was resolved but maybe not.

 

[PoetGuy]

Geez poetguy, call me crazy but I understood most of what you've just explained and (I thought) suggested that in my comment.

Poet Guy did not mean to imply that Angeline had not correctly puzzled out his not all that obscure to an American who reads Time magazine references. Even if Angeline had not read the mag, which living in the backwoods of North Carolina, he would not be surprised that she had not. Read and understood stuff. Or something.

Poet Guy was simply trying to dump reference on those PF&D members who aren't graced with CNN and the Today Show and whose mornings are cheered (or not) by Declan Curry glumly reciting the decline of the FTSE.

I also thought Liar's comment was very instructive in that it's not necessary to understand everything in a poem to appreciate it. Not saying it's unhelpful to have an exhaustive explanation, but I think it's a good poem and my take on the comments was that people liked it even if they didn't know all the details.

Poet Guy agrees that Liar's comment was instructive and that poems can mean many things, not all of which make sense. Or need make sense, for that matter.

Poet Guy, as he said, has been hankering to drop his metaphorical drawers on chipbutty's thread and chose this as the perfect occasion to do so. He believes, based as he said on the comments received, that the allusions he makes in the poem are not shared by the community in general at the PF&D (because, he thinks, it is multinational, which he thinks is a very good thing). That Angeline knows these references is, in Poet Guy's eyes, a good thing. He does not wish to denigrate her knowledge of referents that others may not off-hand know.

He simply enjoyed exposing himself to the PF&D community, in all his epistemic glory.

This whole thing especially interests me in light of our recent discussion on misreading and also because my poem Jazzstory got some very favorable comments and yet I know of only one reader who got some of the subtle references in it.



PS I also commented on your Rilke poem. Let me know if you didn't see it as I've been having problems with comments I make disappearing. I thought it was resolved but maybe not.

Poet Guy did receive Angeline's gracious comment on his Rilke poem, for which he thanks her and would offer to buy her a Dr. Brown's Celery Soda, if that were her kind of thing.

One straw, of course, as he does not want to do anything to raise the green monster in A's bedmate.

Besides which, celery soda has no appeal for him.

Namaste.

 

[ClassyGirl]

We Good Girls

we good girls. we
dress whirls. we
don't fight. we
sunlight. we
homework. we
church lurk. we
meet lad. we
soon bad.

This was inspired by "We Old Dudes" by Joan Murray. It struck me as so funny, and the form was so cool, I decided to write a response poem of sorts. Mine is about a good girl, obviously. I draw on a lot of personal emotions in a lot of poems that I write... the entire meaning of the poem is in the last two lines. It's about losing your innocence, I suppose.

 

[Angeline]

We Good Girls

we good girls. we
dress whirls. we
don't fight. we
sunlight. we
homework. we
church lurk. we
meet lad. we
soon bad.

This was inspired by "We Old Dudes" by Joan Murray. It struck me as so funny, and the form was so cool, I decided to write a response poem of sorts. Mine is about a good girl, obviously. I draw on a lot of personal emotions in a lot of poems that I write... the entire meaning of the poem is in the last two lines. It's about losing your innocence, I suppose.

It also reminds me of Gwendolyn Brooks' poem We Real Cool.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

 

[vrosej10]

It also reminds me of Gwendolyn Brooks' poem We Real Cool.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

I actually thought it was that poem for a moment (I personal favourite of mine!). I am glad someone else here knows it and loves it.

 

[vrosej10]

The Perfecting Red Dress

I want a red dress, one covered in hearts;
One that tells my body that I love its shape and its art.

I want a red dress, one that clings to my curves;
One that will make people give my body the respect it deserves.

I want a red dress that causes gasps at my inner beauty;
One that stifles all spitefulness and stupidity.

I want a red dress that renders all my wishes fulfilled
I want one that makes people be less superficial;

I want the perfecting red dress.


I wrote this poem about a year ago in an attempt to work in rhyming couplets and come up with something that expressed my desire to be valued for who I am rather than judged by my looks. It's preachy, which is an issue for me when I move away from the imagistic, narrative style that I've been developing. I think the ladies here will relate to this sentiment even if the delivery is clumsy. I don't think the I'm much of a form poet 9other than haiku and tanka).

 

[ClassyGirl]

I actually thought it was that poem for a moment (I personal favourite of mine!). I am glad someone else here knows it and loves it.

yeah, i've read that one too! I just love both of those poems. they're so clever.

 

[ClassyGirl]

The Perfecting Red Dress

I want a red dress, one covered in hearts;
One that tells my body that I love its shape and its art.

I want a red dress, one that clings to my curves;
One that will make people give my body the respect it deserves.

I want a red dress that causes gasps at my inner beauty;
One that stifles all spitefulness and stupidity.

I want a red dress that renders all my wishes fulfilled
I want one that makes people be less superficial;

I want the perfecting red dress.


I wrote this poem about a year ago in an attempt to work in rhyming couplets and come up with something that expressed my desire to be valued for who I am rather than judged by my looks. It's preachy, which is an issue for me when I move away from the imagistic, narrative style that I've been developing. I think the ladies here will relate to this sentiment even if the delivery is clumsy. I don't think the I'm much of a form poet 9other than haiku and tanka).

I like this. I think every woman wants that dress. I have a red dress that always makes me feel better when I wear it. I have a poem sort of similar to this actually.

I want to be like

I want to be like
the girl from Impanema-
only tan, young and lovely
being so beautiful as to
not worry when I walk
at the front of a room-
making the crowd "ahh"
in a red dress-
classy, unattainable,
porcelain, pearl-wearing
fashionista-
commanding the room
like a movie girl
smiling, coy
Audrey Hepburn-
cause i'm vital
and i'm living
at the age of seventeen and three quarters-
forever

I forgot that i'd even mentioned a red dress in this one! haha. I obviously wrote this when I was a bit younger.

 

[butters]

Poet Guy has wanted to blab about one of his poems for some time, and perhaps this is the proper time, given that the comments on his poem "Yellow Peril" indicate that readers often seem confused as to what the poem is about.

"Yellow Peril" originated with the challenge posed by PandoraGlitters on her excellent Race Relations thread. The poem comments on a very current cultural theme/meme in the USA, based on the sudden prominence of a book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, who is a professor of law at Yale University, that is probably not in the current consciousness of those Literotica poets who do not live in the USA. The Wall Street Journal published an excerpt of Chua's book under the title "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" that set off considerable controversy, leading to the topic being featured on the cover of this week's Time magazine, which comments not only on the book, but on the increasing xenophobic fears of Americans that they (we, as Poet Guy is American) are getting their (our) clock cleaned economically and intellectually by the Chinese (and secondarily by India, Korea, Taiwan, etc.) and that things are only going to get worse because American parents coddle their kids instead of raising them like Marine DI's to be conversant in calculus and Mozart by puberty.

Whew. So on to the poem:

Yellow Peril

It used to be Myrna Loy with taped eyes
and a slit silk skirt,
her smoky look like opium
drawing the unwary male
into a close room brocaded with sin.
Now Fah Lo See has turned tiger
and her children eat our children,
snarling joyfully in Mandarin
the pure thoughts of geometry,
their slim, prim little fingers perfectly
typing Little White Donkey,
typing Little White Donkey,
typing Little White Donkey
over and over again.​

The title refers to what Wikipedia calls a color metaphor for race that reflected xenophobic concerns among several countries about job competition due to the importation of inexpensive laborers from Asian countries and, later, Japanese military expansionism. These concerns manifested themselves in pulp fiction (e.g., the sinister Dr. Fu Manchu, who seeks world domination) and exploitation movies about nefarious Asian characters sapping the powers of clean, well-bred American youth either through drugs or loose, sexually vampiric women. Myrna Loy, early in her film career, was typecast in roles where she played Asian femme fatales, usually with her eyes taped to emulate the epicanthic folds characteristic of Asian peoples. (Actually, Poet Guy assumes this makeup effect, which was commonly used with actors of European descent. He does not know if Ms. Loy's eyes actually were taped for the role in question, though he suspects they were.) Fah Lo See is the name of Loy's character who is Fu Manchu's daughter in The Mask of Fu Manchu (1932). The "slit silk skirt" is common to Asian seductresses of 20s-30s pulp fiction. The simile "smoky look like opium" is intended to evoke the opium dens, choked with smoke from the burning drug, also common to pulp fiction, hence as well, the "close room" (from all the smoke). The phrase "brocaded with sin" is intended to evoke both the richness of Chinese formal dress and the walls of the opium den, covered with overly rich and, to Western tastes, decadent fabric.

The second half of the poem triggers off of Chua's book and article. Whereas most Americans would now regard the imagery of the seductive Asian dragon lady of the 20s as racist, they have no problems regarding with horror the militaristic drill sergeant mother of the 21st century, who is prepping their children to kick ass and dominate the babied children of America. The seductress turns tiger (simple reference to the former sterotype and the new sterotype that Chua labels herself as representing) and her children (Poet Guy thought of using "cubs" here, but rejected that as too too) "eat" (outperform) American children, with their bilingualism (Mandarin and English), mathematical skills (geometry) and the drilling in musical performance (Little White Donkey is a short piano piece by Jacques Ibert that Chua describes in her book as something that led to a screaming match between her and one of her daughters over performing it over and over again until it could be played perfectly; "typing" is used instead of "playing" to suggest the rote nature of the learning and also to suggest the child is typing out what could be considered a racially charged slur against her white American child competitors, calling them "little white donkeys"). The overall intent of the poem is to make an ironic comparison between the 20s "Dragon Lady" image that is now widely considered racist and the contemporary "Tiger Mom" image that at least, in Poet Guy's opinion, verges on racist in its inherent xenophobia.

Poet Guy now feels rather embarrassed, as he probably should. As commentators have indicated, this poem is not well conceived, probably conceptually, and certainly in terms of cultural reference. But Poet Guy had rather a good time writing it, hopes he did not offend anyone with, and is ready, even willing, to let it rot away in Lit's archives at this point.

He chalks the whole thing up to experience and thanks his various commenters for their help in letting him see how the poem is perceived through other readers' eyes.

I am proper chuffed you took the time to show us what went into that poem - geography, time-lines and reading-choices all affect a reader's understanding of any work that is inspired by cultural knowledge (all that stuff). your poem was a good poem, and one i failed to fully understand - but, now that i do see all the allusions, how they played their parts, i see the piece in a whole new light of understanding and it works so damned well. sometimes we don't need to change a poem for the audience - sometimes an audience just needs to cotton on to what's being said. you saved me a whole lot of homework, which i appreciate

 

[vrosej10]

I like this. I think every woman wants that dress. I have a red dress that always makes me feel better when I wear it. I have a poem sort of similar to this actually.

I want to be like

I want to be like
the girl from Impanema-
only tan, young and lovely
being so beautiful as to
not worry when I walk
at the front of a room-
making the crowd "ahh"
in a red dress-
classy, unattainable,
porcelain, pearl-wearing
fashionista-
commanding the room
like a movie girl
smiling, coy
Audrey Hepburn-
cause i'm vital
and i'm living
at the age of seventeen and three quarters-
forever

I forgot that i'd even mentioned a red dress in this one! haha. I obviously wrote this when I was a bit younger.

It was kind of metaphor for the thing that makes everything better body image wise. I am actually a chronic wearer of black( I musta been a beatnik in a previous life). I'm a big fan of the little black dress.

 

[bronzeage]

Most of my poems come from personal experience. This may be due to a lack of imagination. It certainly limits productivity.

Some experiences have to age and mature. I wrote a short piece about the night described in this poem a few days later. This was just before the days of word processing computers, so mercifully, there is no digital copy. I found the type written copy several years later and it brought me back to that night. The second version flowed from my in one sitting. There was no need for poetic license. The details are accurate.

I have posted this on other forums and the comments are mixed. "It's just chopped up prose," was one. Maybe so.

Diana


Diana was a dancer, not a stripper,
she was quick to say.
She danced in a g-string, pasties
and dark glasses, for five drunk men and
four soon to be drunk men
and me, who was not to be drunk tonight.
Three dances an hour,
one in a shirt,
one in a bra,
one in a g-string and pasties,
dark glasses for all.
I creased singles into Japanese fans
for the dancers, one per dance.
Long red finger nails plucks the string off her hip
and I tuck in a bill.
A cold hand on my shoulder,
she bends down from
the stage for a tight lipped kiss.
You could do that in those days.
With my three bucks,
six dollars for an hour’s work.

Diana sits beside me, chairs touching,
while the other girls dance.
Cigarettes and lighter on the table.
I hold the lighter up.
Diana looks like she’s never seen it done.
“Buy the Lady a drink?”
She sits on her shirttail,
Green sparkle g-string,
Green lace bra with
Round bandaids stuck
to her nipples.
A five goes on the table.
Brandy Alexander, made with chocolate milk
and a spoon full of rum.
Diana just made two more dollars.
Diana smiles and sips
her five dollar chocolate milk.
“Thank you”

I take another sip of beer
and study my new girlfriend.
She woke up that morning
with tired on her face, wiped it off with a dry cloth,
leaving streaks of fatigue at the corners of her eyes.
Eyes too big for her cheek bones,
brown eyes and brown eye lids,
cheek bones painted red
to glow under the pink lights,
look hollow away from the light.
Long slender fingers wrap the glass
clicking red finger nails.
She licks chocolate milk from her lip
and smiles again.
“Why don’t you smile?”
Deep breath, sigh, sip.
Bottle on table beside her glass.
Another deep breath,
push it back, hold it tight.
My mother died this morning.
Words tumble in the bar noise
to reach her ear, out of order.
I watch her brown eyed brain
reassemble the message to
turn her pink cheeks white.
She pulls my face to hers, cheek pressed to cheek.
Sweet ginger perfume and cigarette smoke.
The pulse in my neck pumps against her cold fingers.
Whisper “I’m sorry,
Do you want me to leave you alone”
This raises an eyebrow.
I have to smile.
There is no more alone she could give me.
I have all there is.
Her glass is empty
“Buy the lady another drink”
Not this time. No more cash.
“Don’t worry.
I’m sitting with the best looking man
in this place.”
I smile again.
Why the sunglasses?
Diana puts the glasses on.
“I hate doing this.
I wear the glasses
so no one can see how much I hate it.”
Why do it?
The tired comes back to her face.
“Money, just money” The glasses come off.
How do you stand it?
“I write poetry every morning
when I get home. It helps.”
Angry stripper poetry
dances through my brain.
“I’m taking GED classes.
We had to write a poem
and read it to the class.”
I would like to read it.
I write too, a lot of bad stuff.
“Why do you think its bad”
I feel bad, so the poem is bad.
“But it’s your feelings”
I have bad feelings.
The brown eyes study me.

I want to say more.
I want to take her home.
I want to read her poems.
I want to write one for her.
I want to feed her breakfast.
I want to meet her mother.
I want to hold her and cry.
I want to know more,
but I don’t know what.
She wants to say more.
We don’t say anything.
“I have to go back to work.”

Diana brushes her hair.
Puts on her sunglasses
and steps into the light.
Slow smooth machine motion for nine silent
drunk men and me.
She is someplace else, writing a new poem
about hating men who think she is beautiful
and pay money just to watch her dance and
more money to sit and talk or sit and listen.
A good deal for them.

Wallet check, one single left.
I fold another fan and wait for song three.
Diana does a high leg lift and a slow sinking split
to slow stripper roll across the stage,
leaving talcum powder and
glitter on her ass and thighs.
She kneels and pushes the glasses over her forehead.
Tuck in my dollar, get my open eyed kiss.
Diana pulls down the shades
And goes back to work.

I step into the hot night air
Dust and diesel smoke,
music still grinding my ears
as I drive home.
My alarm goes off two hours later.
I reach for the clock and pick up my shirt
to smell sweet ginger and cigarettes.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

What are pasties? only ones I know of are pastry wrapped fillings

 

[PoetGuy]

What are pasties? only ones I know of are pastry wrapped fillings

pasties

 

[Angeline]

Dear PoetGuy:

Namaste back. No worries, just wanted to be understood and know the other comment was there.

And merci for the Dr. Brown's, but maybe black cherry diet instead. My dad loved Cel-Ray and always tricked me into trying it after his extolling how delicious it is. And I always tried (cause he always claimed my taste buds would mature or some silly such), and I always hated it. Celery soda, no no no!

 

[Angeline]

Most of my poems come from personal experience. This may be due to a lack of imagination. It certainly limits productivity.

Some experiences have to age and mature. I wrote a short piece about the night described in this poem a few days later. This was just before the days of word processing computers, so mercifully, there is no digital copy. I found the type written copy several years later and it brought me back to that night. The second version flowed from my in one sitting. There was no need for poetic license. The details are accurate.

I have posted this on other forums and the comments are mixed. "It's just chopped up prose," was one. Maybe so.

Diana


Diana was a dancer, not a stripper,
she was quick to say.
She danced in a g-string, pasties
and dark glasses, for five drunk men and
four soon to be drunk men
and me, who was not to be drunk tonight.
Three dances an hour,
one in a shirt,
one in a bra,
one in a g-string and pasties,
dark glasses for all.
I creased singles into Japanese fans
for the dancers, one per dance.
Long red finger nails plucks the string off her hip
and I tuck in a bill.
A cold hand on my shoulder,
she bends down from
the stage for a tight lipped kiss.
You could do that in those days.
With my three bucks,
six dollars for an hour’s work.

Diana sits beside me, chairs touching,
while the other girls dance.
Cigarettes and lighter on the table.
I hold the lighter up.
Diana looks like she’s never seen it done.
“Buy the Lady a drink?”
She sits on her shirttail,
Green sparkle g-string,
Green lace bra with
Round bandaids stuck
to her nipples.
A five goes on the table.
Brandy Alexander, made with chocolate milk
and a spoon full of rum.
Diana just made two more dollars.
Diana smiles and sips
her five dollar chocolate milk.
“Thank you”

I take another sip of beer
and study my new girlfriend.
She woke up that morning
with tired on her face, wiped it off with a dry cloth,
leaving streaks of fatigue at the corners of her eyes.
Eyes too big for her cheek bones,
brown eyes and brown eye lids,
cheek bones painted red
to glow under the pink lights,
look hollow away from the light.
Long slender fingers wrap the glass
clicking red finger nails.
She licks chocolate milk from her lip
and smiles again.
“Why don’t you smile?”
Deep breath, sigh, sip.
Bottle on table beside her glass.
Another deep breath,
push it back, hold it tight.
My mother died this morning.
Words tumble in the bar noise
to reach her ear, out of order.
I watch her brown eyed brain
reassemble the message to
turn her pink cheeks white.
She pulls my face to hers, cheek pressed to cheek.
Sweet ginger perfume and cigarette smoke.
The pulse in my neck pumps against her cold fingers.
Whisper “I’m sorry,
Do you want me to leave you alone”
This raises an eyebrow.
I have to smile.
There is no more alone she could give me.
I have all there is.
Her glass is empty
“Buy the lady another drink”
Not this time. No more cash.
“Don’t worry.
I’m sitting with the best looking man
in this place.”
I smile again.
Why the sunglasses?
Diana puts the glasses on.
“I hate doing this.
I wear the glasses
so no one can see how much I hate it.”
Why do it?
The tired comes back to her face.
“Money, just money” The glasses come off.
How do you stand it?
“I write poetry every morning
when I get home. It helps.”
Angry stripper poetry
dances through my brain.
“I’m taking GED classes.
We had to write a poem
and read it to the class.”
I would like to read it.
I write too, a lot of bad stuff.
“Why do you think its bad”
I feel bad, so the poem is bad.
“But it’s your feelings”
I have bad feelings.
The brown eyes study me.

I want to say more.
I want to take her home.
I want to read her poems.
I want to write one for her.
I want to feed her breakfast.
I want to meet her mother.
I want to hold her and cry.
I want to know more,
but I don’t know what.
She wants to say more.
We don’t say anything.
“I have to go back to work.”

Diana brushes her hair.
Puts on her sunglasses
and steps into the light.
Slow smooth machine motion for nine silent
drunk men and me.
She is someplace else, writing a new poem
about hating men who think she is beautiful
and pay money just to watch her dance and
more money to sit and talk or sit and listen.
A good deal for them.

Wallet check, one single left.
I fold another fan and wait for song three.
Diana does a high leg lift and a slow sinking split
to slow stripper roll across the stage,
leaving talcum powder and
glitter on her ass and thighs.
She kneels and pushes the glasses over her forehead.
Tuck in my dollar, get my open eyed kiss.
Diana pulls down the shades
And goes back to work.

I step into the hot night air
Dust and diesel smoke,
music still grinding my ears
as I drive home.
My alarm goes off two hours later.
I reach for the clock and pick up my shirt
to smell sweet ginger and cigarettes.

It is like chopped up prose, sort of, and there are things I'd change (I always want change I can believe in). It's also wonderful. Really.

 

[bogusagain]

I have posted this on other forums and the comments are mixed. "It's just chopped up prose," was one. Maybe so.

Diana


Diana was a dancer, not a stripper,
she was quick to say.
She danced in a g-string, pasties
and dark glasses, for five drunk men and
four soon to be drunk men
and me, who was not to be drunk tonight.
Three dances an hour,......
...............................etc etc.

Reminds me of the sort of poetry in the anthology The Outlaw Bible Of American Poetry. A rather curious mix of quality and styles of poetry, some critics wonder whether much of it was poetry at all. Some of the content had me infatuated for awhile and I tried to write like one or two of the writers before I realised it was pointless, I just wasn't American and went back to being European. But I do like this sort of man's man poetry but it ain't me.

 

[bogusagain]

This came all at once when I went down town Rotterdam to buy some music with my daughter and Che Guevara's image was all over the place and to my surprise my daughter knew of him (this was before the recent film). However, when I asked her about him I realised she just knew his image and that it was now just a cool fashion icon. Later that day I was talking to an old friend back in England on the phone and he mentioned he was going on holiday to Cuba before the place is opened up and changes into a Carribean tourist Mecca. It was a friend I used to go picketing with and on demonstrations when we were both miners back in our younger years. The figure in the Salvation Army hostel doorway is actually real.


Che

Che still stares out but no longer lives
capitalism has won, his emblematic image, a fashion icon
decorating the downtown boutiques
so pour me a rum and pass me a big cigar
rolled by a fat lady, coffee coloured
and wearing a flame red turban
in fact, take this poem to Cuba
and take me for a ride in a fifties Chevy

Das Kapital no longer threatens on the mantelpiece
revolution has been discarded with the trench coats
the coal mines have been closed, the slag heaps, landscaped
the skeletal remains of the steelworks, bulldozed
the promise of a brighter tomorrow
a gigantic shopping mall and a thousand low paid jobs
now we bring our children up to be good consumers
as we shuffle around, getting fat on our compliance

in the doorway of the local Sally Army hostel
a fierce snarl animated the shadows
a formless heap of rags, smelling of armpits, crotches and cheap wine
a mask mapped in hatchet scars and a beard of matted twists
I dropped a couple of coins and spotted
a Che Guevara button sported on his beret
I offered him five for the trophy
his face crumpled, his rotten teeth gnashed ‘Capitalist Pig!’

some people just can’t be bought
the Victorian brick was in need of graffiti
a declaration of my discontent
but I no longer fight and passively accept
my new electronic trinkets and new winter coat
Che’s portrait is ‘cool’ according to my daughter
a decorative wall hanging with Warhol depth
next year, you holiday in Cuba

 

[butters]

This came all at once when I went down town Rotterdam to buy some music with my daughter and Che Guevara's image was all over the place and to my surprise my daughter knew of him (this was before the recent film). However, when I asked her about him I realised she just knew his image and that it was now just a cool fashion icon. Later that day I was talking to an old friend back in England on the phone and he mentioned he was going on holiday to Cuba before the place is opened up and changes into a Carribean tourist Mecca. It was a friend I used to go picketing with and on demonstrations when we were both miners back in our younger years. The figure in the Salvation Army hostel doorway is actually real.


Che

Che still stares out but no longer lives
capitalism has won, his emblematic image, a fashion icon
decorating the downtown boutiques
...
but I no longer fight and passively accept
my new electronic trinkets and new winter coat
Che’s portrait is ‘cool’ according to my daughter
a decorative wall hanging with Warhol depth
next year, you holiday in Cuba

che-che-chenge, turn and face the ...




sorry back at the weekend to comment properly on this and the others people are revealing here

 

[UnderYourSpell]

pasties

Thankyou slightly different from the Pasties I had in mind! I've led a very quiet life the former have never crossed my path before!

 

[bronzeage]

What are pasties? only ones I know of are pastry wrapped fillings

Pasties are usually fancy sparkly covers for the nipples. These are seen in Las Vegas stage shows and burlesque houses. This is not the kind of place where this scene takes place. Topless dancing is technically illegal, so the question is, how much can be revealed before the law is broken. The solution is flesh tone round bandages, which cover the nipple and are almost invisible on stage.

It is like chopped up prose, sort of, and there are things I'd change (I always want change I can believe in). It's also wonderful. Really.

Thank you. When the poem is a narrative and intended to tell a coherent story, it has to have prose qualities. Like a lot of my poems, this one is intended more for reading aloud. The night was chopped up, so it reflects the time and the place. My mother had died that morning, after a long illness. I knew my girlfriend was staying with me, only because she felt bad about leaving at a time like that. It had been a very long day and I stopped at this club because I did not want to go home to my empty house.

Reminds me of the sort of poetry in the anthology The Outlaw Bible Of American Poetry. A rather curious mix of quality and styles of poetry, some critics wonder whether much of it was poetry at all. Some of the content had me infatuated for awhile and I tried to write like one or two of the writers before I realised it was pointless, I just wasn't American and went back to being European. But I do like this sort of man's man poetry but it ain't me.

Thank you. I am familiar with Outlaw Poetry. I have always been a Bukowski reader. I have some of his books which I read over and over. About every third page, I find myself asking, "How did he get paid for this stuff?"

 

[UnderYourSpell]

The adult version of Folies Bergere we saw in Las Vegas was definitely topless, so is that illegal?

 

[theognis]

The adult version of Folies Bergere we saw in Las Vegas was definitely topless, so is that illegal?

Not in Las Vegas. Each state and locality has its own laws and regulations on such matters.