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Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

twelveoone said:
fo
fo duh.........................................duh man

another day at the pop factory
splicing snippets from the hive mind
some..............................................random
random
some obvious plants
some strictly speaking
scripted
Veritas

done
I don't like it much
I don't like the new days
the buzzing getting louder and louder
till sleep shuts off the fuse

in dreams
we forget ourselves
in dreams
we take respite
from day's refuse
in a dream I saw you
by the holy well
spouting so............................................as if from the back of a garbage truck
carefully something
I heard before

fucking Veritas
tra la

in a dream I saw you
amazing
the half life
of a stage act
wa la.......................................................wa la

at least I know how to use a spell checker

Now if I could figure out how to get the formatting to work in submissions,
for my new fan pawnpuss arse muthafuckette
Click to expand...

a version of truth that has bite.

so you got a groupie? ha! la la la
 
I see a poem...
muthafuckette
and
pawnpuss

better than Ham & Rye...well if I could only find the mustard.
 
thoughts

Originally Posted by UnderYourSpell View Post
Choreographed expressions of gratitude
flicker across grey backdrops
stirring make believe platitudes
into life. Upgraded nonsense,
of seasonal siestas from sense
gravitate towards oblivion
taking meaningless obituaries,
dying charismatic platitudes
full in the face, expending
lavish trickery at the expense of all
who manipulate and cajole
the life force of others.

Interesting topic--the uninteresting way people speak.
You begin with rhyme then don't rhyme again--why?
"flicker" is a poetic word, so not poetic
do you think it good form to repeat a word within a few lines--platitude?
if the trickery is lavish is it so easily dismissed?
can "life force" be cajoled? sounds like one is cajoling electricity...
 
homunculus said:
Originally Posted by UnderYourSpell View Post
Choreographed expressions of gratitude
flicker across grey backdrops
stirring make believe platitudes
into life. Upgraded nonsense,
of seasonal siestas from sense
gravitate towards oblivion
taking meaningless obituaries,
dying charismatic platitudes
full in the face, expending
lavish trickery at the expense of all
who manipulate and cajole
the life force of others.

Interesting topic--the uninteresting way people speak.
You begin with rhyme then don't rhyme again--why?
"flicker" is a poetic word, so not poetic
do you think it good form to repeat a word within a few lines--platitude?
if the trickery is lavish is it so easily dismissed?
can "life force" be cajoled? sounds like one is cajoling electricity...
Click to expand...

As I said before it means nothing at all it was just a bit of drivel really :D I completely missed I had used platitudes twice so that's a boo boo on my part. I was going to hoist it upon the world and see what comments I got for something that means nothing but didn't quite dare!
 
UnderYourSpell said:
As I said before it means nothing at all it was just a bit of drivel really :D I completely missed I had used platitudes twice so that's a boo boo on my part. I was going to hoist it upon the world and see what comments I got for something that means nothing but didn't quite dare!
Click to expand...
If you say it three times you win a prize!

A one way ticket to Alice Springs

Where the platitudes are ripe this year.
 
Sunday Mourning


Deep blacklight purples and
forests of evaporating foxfire
teased stalwart darkness,
living without exhale.
Everywhere I turned, satin cold
air found my face.
It was a victorious Saturday night,
but neon faces revealed only
funeral procession angst.
-No smiles-
-No sounds-

You sat Indian style on
cobweb wooden stage planks,
tuning your guitar, picking
imaginary lint from its corners.
Your hands moved with ritual,
but your eyes—fetal cowards—
curled in the corner, taking kicks.

You stood there under a wave of onlook,
your protruding hips,
anchoring the crippled undertow;
You stood there as first syllables
poured through your bitten lips;
You stood there as lights molded
around your injured pigeon ears,
sifting through the haystack hairs.

You were a martyr.
Everyone held their breath as
you yelped lyrical tears,
a mayday for the coming shore.
They watched and wanted
to save you.
Melody-starved, you sink.
A great structure with no foundation,
bunkmates with your own execution.



*This is a very old piece of mine that i decided to give a go at revision. I liked a few of the phrasings i originally used, and thought it was worth seeing if it could become a respectable piece. It needs liposuction. And it's structure is heinous. Ideas welcomed.
 
Hey NeonSubtlety,
Sorry I am just reading this in the construction thread.

Just read this in the poem section-- very very good but I much prefer this version. It feels more genuine and gritty. Just my two cents. If you would like more feedback please let me know and I can tease out the differences.

Both versions are impressive, I love the language.

Makes me want to write better.

NeonSubtlety said:
Sunday Mourning


Deep blacklight purples and
forests of evaporating foxfire
teased stalwart darkness,
living without exhale.
Everywhere I turned, satin cold
air found my face.
It was a victorious Saturday night,
but neon faces revealed only
funeral procession angst.
-No smiles-
-No sounds-

You sat Indian style on
cobweb wooden stage planks,
tuning your guitar, picking
imaginary lint from its corners.
Your hands moved with ritual,
but your eyes—fetal cowards—
curled in the corner, taking kicks.

You stood there under a wave of onlook,
your protruding hips,
anchoring the crippled undertow;
You stood there as first syllables
poured through your bitten lips;
You stood there as lights molded
around your injured pigeon ears,
sifting through the haystack hairs.

You were a martyr.
Everyone held their breath as
you yelped lyrical tears,
a mayday for the coming shore.
They watched and wanted
to save you.
Melody-starved, you sink.
A great structure with no foundation,
bunkmates with your own execution.



*This is a very old piece of mine that i decided to give a go at revision. I liked a few of the phrasings i originally used, and thought it was worth seeing if it could become a respectable piece. It needs liposuction. And it's structure is heinous. Ideas welcomed.
Click to expand...
 
oh and come on, why would you want to make this a respectable piece?

There are enough respectable pieces. Keep it rough, it works better that way.

SeattleRain said:
Hey NeonSubtlety,
Sorry I am just reading this in the construction thread.

Just read this in the poem section-- very very good but I much prefer this version. It feels more genuine and gritty. Just my two cents. If you would like more feedback please let me know and I can tease out the differences.

Both versions are impressive, I love the language.

Makes me want to write better.
Click to expand...
 
No feedback yet, have been unable to work on this grrrrr

still more of a journal entry than a poem-- figured I would leave it here, see if anything comes up


Oliver suggests "Mama why don't you wear your
pink shirt" and pulls a necklace over
my mis-shapen brown sweater trying his best
to pretty me up.

They can sense it somehow,
when parents stop snuggling,
avoidance begins with
oversized layers, furry legs, unused
pigments and lip brushes.

"Remember Daddy brought you flowers?"
He is three and somehow he knows to
remind me why I once painted toes
said yes to red wine, remember
when love checked over resentment
when denial shaded guilt
when the actress who strayed came home
still dressed in free and easy
bringing the fantasy into his arms.


Where are my tigers? They used
to sneak from closets and
tease out meaning when even clothespins
could carry a tune.

It is gone like the scent of my other,
showered down it is all too real now
metaphors do not work every thing
is so damn literal.

What happened to fantasy
being enough? Triggering the
cascade like sophomore biochemistry.

Where are my tigers,
my red-eyed tree-frogs
pairs of wild boar
lone elk?

Where is my You on the other side
keeping me from falling into too real
to feel anything?
 
Last edited:
Unfinished and directionally challenged.............

By now I know my way through
this holy hospice but
a shrouded sister insists,
gliding silently ahead
and I am suddenly clumsy.

Rain rattles the tall,
ecclesiastical windows
above wind-wrenched trees
but it is welcoming, warm
and white in her room.

She appears to sleep,
arms above the blankets,
narrow hands resting
palms down like two parts
of a prayer ruptured by doubt.

I have returned to glean
her memories once more,
pick through her reclusive past,
and write her long life in shorthand.
Later it will be a book,
before her illness takes her I hope.

On the bed table, a photograph
beside water glass
and abandoned novel,
a radiant young woman.
Leaning closer, realize it’s her
ignorant of the heartache her future holds.

She was a beauty then,
men fought for her approval but now,
her stony Easter Island face
lies in repose, scanning
her remarkable life from behind
her blue veined eyelids.
The old eyes open
 
Noun

bass (plural basses)

but it looks a little ungainly. no other way to phrase it using the singular?
 
Tristesse2 said:
Unfinished and directionally challenged.............

By now I know my way through
this holy hospice but
a shrouded sister insists,
gliding silently ahead
and I am suddenly clumsy.

Rain rattles the tall,
ecclesiastical windows
above wind-wrenched trees
but it is welcoming, warm
and white in her room.

She appears to sleep,
arms above the blankets,
narrow hands resting
palms down like two parts
of a prayer ruptured by doubt.

I have returned to glean
her memories once more,
pick through her reclusive past,
and write her long life in shorthand.
Later it will be a book,
before her illness takes her I hope.

On the bed table, a photograph
beside water glass
and abandoned novel,
a radiant young woman.
Leaning closer, realize it’s her
ignorant of the heartache her future holds.

She was a beauty then,
men fought for her approval but now,
her stony Easter Island face
lies in repose, scanning
her remarkable life from behind
her blue veined eyelids.
The old eyes open
Click to expand...

there's so much in here worth keeping. some lovely imagery.
perhaps, on a word pad, try erasing certain words or phrases to see if they are absolutely necessary to the rest. from where i'm looking, but without my proper poetry head on, it feels like this can be shrunk by about a third and still retain all that's vital to the write.

for me, the one image that strikes me the most of many, is this:

narrow hands resting
palms down like two parts
of a prayer ruptured by doubt


that is really original to my eyes. it is a solid visual that works as much more.
 
chipbutty said:
there's so much in here worth keeping. some lovely imagery.perhaps, on a word pad, try erasing certain words or phrases to see if they are absolutely necessary to the rest. from where i'm looking, but without my proper poetry head on, it feels like this can be shrunk by about a third and still retain all that's vital to the write.

for me, the one image that strikes me the most of many, is this:

narrow hands resting
palms down like two parts
of a prayer ruptured by doubt


that is really original to my eyes. it is a solid visual that works as much more.
Click to expand...

Thanks chip, I toyed with making a series of poems along the same them - a bit like my Album series - I'll try your technique of thinning it out.

Ta again. :rose:
 
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