Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Angeline]

Originally posted by champagne1982
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I think it's a poem that needs direction. Gimme a nudge, please?

Ok, here's what I think. It's a keeper for sure. The last two verses are especially strong; the last one just grabs me as a reader, shakes me to attention. I think you didn't really decide where you were going with this piece until you got to the third verse though. There's not a total gap between stanzas 1 and 2 and 3 and 4, but I think you need to build more clearly to what I see as a piece on personal conflict about loss and moving on.

Never Brought To Mind

A young man of a certain age
is putty in my hands.
A look, a glance, a fluttering finger
wave leaves them stuttering
incomplete nonsense
off their tongues
when all that young Lothario
wants is to flutter his tongue
over my senses.

I'm confused here because there's a pronoun shift from "young man" to "them" to "their," then back again to "that young Lothario." I think line 3 refers to the narrator, but there's a disconnect because it's an implied subject and verb ("I give" a look...etc.), and "them" doesn't really refer to "young man" but "putty boys" in the following verse.

The streamers flew and the confetti
caught amongst my curls as the horns
were blown and champagne flowed.
The putty boys slowly melted away
and I was left with only three to kiss me.

This just needs punctuation, maybe a little judicious cutting. It's good

The wistful notes of Auld Lang Syne
went dancing out to friends
just newly gone from the living ether.
I sang it for those who passed
and who I'll long remember,
should auld acquaintance be forgot?
In my heart, they live forever.

now you're rolling--you've got to the heart of the piece and I love the rhythm. Last line is great.

After the glitter of a gala night
what's left but to sweep it away?
The foil that shone so bright,
the coloured cellophane -- a filter
on a too white light, all so much
dross in the hung over fog
of a new year's dawn.

This is beautiful, elegaic. It's moving and a fitting end to what precedes it. Just needs some light editing. You know what to do.

If you clean up the pronoun thing and connect the dots a little more between the insignificance of the putty boys compared to what you feel in your heart for those you've lost, you'll have a very strong poem.

 

[Tathagata]

edit # 15 fuckin billion

I am three years old...on a warm summer day

There is no pain in the taking
only in the loss,
or thoughts of the loss,
like swallowing knives
to kill the spider
it stays with you...

How does one comfort the internal scars?
They wait like jagged corners in a dark room
ready for the slightest mistake in judgment.

Mainline the barley water and dance,
following the magic footprints
stomped into the earth by seekers,
gratuitous greased grinding,
filling yourself with the sacrosanct smoke of forgetfulness
all to ease the ache of knowing,
knowledge is pain
let this be your mantra as you drag
your crippled body through each day.
A horse race for dead flowers
lathered and lame,
we reach the winners circle to stand alone.

three years old and my cousin has a green balloon...from a parade

You feel around
braille readings of soft imperfections,
tender spots ,
and find a warm embrace.
and as your hands join the trap is sprung
and letting go becomes death.
letting go is life...holding on is death
It colors your gift,
tarnished tainted tinsel,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
some consecrating crucible
that makes you righteous,
but eases your brain down
into fears' cooing bed...
like lying with a dying relative,
afraid to stay,
afraid to leave.

my cousin asks if I want the balloon, I say yes....and he lets it go

We chase pleasure afraid of catching it
because then we grow claws,
strangle and suffocate
I petted him too hard George
the hole within us becomes an abyss ,
a garbage dump,
we jettison all we can to satiate its hunger,
all the while admiring it's teeth
coated with specks of our well being.

Desire is a glutton,
and contentment comes bearing a blight,
a wasting withering of your confidence.
when you're crippled inside
Where once you were at home,
you find desolation,
and the house echoes all your private anxiety,
each wall a mirror,
surrounded by a thousand false idols.

I jump and miss the string...I watch it float away for what seems like hours...my father says it will get only so high before it pops, one of the only true things he ever told me

We capture the flag and turn to see
a thousand better flags,
cruel reminders of conquests untried, unrealized
markers of self loathing
o'er the home of the brave

I watch them fall .
where is the catcher in the rye?
My net is careworn and patched
with snippets of archaic tongues
that whither in daylight,
vampire recitations of faith,
bloodless and virginal,
and ultimately evil at the core.

3 years old ..and things float away

The world shifts to one side
and you lose your balance.
You grow holes in your hands and heart
everyone can feel the wind blow
you can't hold the sands of time,
can't keep out the killing frost,
draw a curtain over the window, a shawl over your shoulders
and a shroud over your heart.

These lessons learned burrow
waiting till the season of "you" changes,
and in the midst of your cold desolation
they flower,
lilies on the grave,
and bring you some measure
of peace.

even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber

 

[Guest]

Beginnings...

.....

 

[Angeline]

Re: Beginnings...

Welcome to the poetry forum.

Some of us have been around a while and helped each other with our writing, so there's an easygoing attitude here, but it's no closed society. Feel free to dive in and get involved with the threads. Ask Eve a question, enter one of the contests or start your own threads.

I'll send you some poem feedback later--I must go into errand mode now.


Angeline

 

[foehn]

son-a-bitch green balloon...

edit # 15 fuckin billion

Tath: I'm thinking 15 fuckin' billion and a half, plus a title, makes this poem ready to submit to something like oh, say, American Poetry Review, Poetry, New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, something like that.

The line, "gratuitous greased grinding" grates grievously on my sense of overdone and too-obvious alliteration, and doesn't move my understanding, but other than that, and typographical shit with punctuation that probably happens when you cut and paste ... good heavens, it's a meaty poem.

I won't pretend that I grasp the personal allusions and history, but in such sincerity, it doesn't seem so vital for that to occur. What I like best about this poem is, not knowing what I like best, and still loving it.

 

[Tathagata]

Re: son-a-bitch green balloon...

Tath: I'm thinking 15 fuckin' billion and a half, plus a title, makes this poem ready to submit to something like oh, say, American Poetry Review, Poetry, New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, something like that.

The line, "gratuitous greased grinding" grates grievously on my sense of overdone and too-obvious alliteration, and doesn't move my understanding, but other than that, and typographical shit with punctuation that probably happens when you cut and paste ... good heavens, it's a meaty poem.

I won't pretend that I grasp the personal allusions and history, but in such sincerity, it doesn't seem so vital for that to occur. What I like best about this poem is, not knowing what I like best, and still loving it.

Thank you
yes I'm still stumbling over a few word choices too
and the alliteration you speak of will probably be replaced


and I just had Ange do the punctuation smack down so I'm going to try again...

My question to ange and I'll ask you
the italicized lines within the verse..they are supposed to be like thoughts or phantom voices and i want them to be immune from inclusion in the punctuation scheme of thing
its sort of like a thought popping in
would it be better if i put them in parenthesis??

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

Searching for green balloons ( for now)

I am three years old...on a warm summer day.

There is no pain in the taking
only in the loss,
or fear of loss ,
like swallowing knives
(to kill the spider)
it stays with you.

How does one comfort the internal scars?
They wait like jagged corners in a dark room,
ready for the slightest mistake in judgment.

Mainline the barley water and dance,
following the magic footprints
stomped into the earth by seekers,
(patterns of piety)
fill yourself with the sacrosanct smoke of forgetfulness
all to ease the ache of knowing.
(knowledge is pain)
Let this be your mantra as you drag
your battered body through each day.
A horse race for dead flowers
lathered and lame,
we reach the winners' circle to stand alone.

I am three years old and my cousin has a green balloon...from a parade

You grope in darkness
braille readings of soft imperfections,
tender spots ,
and find a warm embrace.
As your hands join, the trap is sprung
and letting go becomes death.
(Letting go is life...holding on is death)
It colors your gift,
tarnished tainted tinsel,
covers it in flagellistic spikes,
some consecrating crucible
that renders you righteous,
but eases your brain down
into fears' cooing bed...
like lying with a dying relative,
afraid to stay,
afraid to leave.

My cousin asks if I want the balloon. I say yes....and he lets it go.

We chase pleasure, afraid of catching it
because then we grow claws,
strangle and suffocate.
(I petted it too hard George)
The hole within us becomes an abyss,
a garbage dump,
we jettison all we can to satiate its hunger,
all the while admiring its teeth
coated with specks of our well being.

Desire is a glutton,
and contentment comes bearing a blight,
a wasting withering of your confidence.
(When you're crippled inside)
Where once you made your bed
you find desolation,
and the house echoes your private anxieties,
each wall a mirror,
surrounded by a thousand false idols.

I jump and miss the string...I watch it float away for what seems like hours...my father says it will get only so high before it pops (one of the only true things he ever told me).

We capture the flag and turn to see
a thousand better flags,
cruel reminders of conquests untried, unrealized
markers of self loathing.
(o'er the home of the brave. )

I watch them fall.
(Where is the catcher in the rye? )
My net is careworn and patched
with snippets of archaic tongues
that whither in daylight,
vampire recitations of faith,
bloodless and virginal,
and ultimately evil at the core.

Three years old ..and things float away.

The world shifts to one side
and you lose your balance.
You grow holes in your hands and heart.
(everyone can feel the wind blow)
You can't hold the sands of time,
can't keep out the killing frost,
draw a curtain over the window,
a shawl over your shoulders,
and a shroud over your heart.

These lessons learned burrow,
waiting till the season of " you" changes
and in the midst of your cold desolation
they flower,
lilies on the grave,
and bring you some measure
of peace.

Even now 42 years later..I catch myself searching the ground..for a frayed length of string..tied to a green weather worn piece of faded rubber.

 

[Tathagata]

Re: the shadow of old stones

Tath - i may have your fifteen billion edits beat here. i have so many, this poem is clogging my hard drive.

snowing up there yet? and you guys are lucky the jets lost saturday.


The Shadow of Old Stones


Isn’t is so human to invent something
more fragile than yourself, to doubt
you could ever trust a light
that would desert you, leave you
to desperate seclusion, to the clawing
of unbalanced hands?

This is the night of falling.

Perhaps, the wasted grace we seek
is trembling in some corner,
calling down the saints
to ease its ashes back to a time
when a promise was enough,
when there was no distrust
to divide prophecies.

These 2 verses are powerful stuff
i can't take it all in
I'll have to read it a few more times but this section , to me, is perfect in its rhythm and wording

very little snow up this way...it is 21 degrees so no flip flops and shorts today
(pause for your gloating)

Jets?

J.E T.S?

Just Ended The Season??

 

[foehn]

italicised lines

(by Tathagata)
the italicized lines within the verse..they are supposed to be like thoughts or phantom voices and i want them to be immune from inclusion in the punctuation scheme of thing
its sort of like a thought popping in
would it be better if i put them in parenthesis??

How to format that sort of thing is always highly personal. All I can tell you is what I might do. And I say "might" because I might very well change my mind several times. I think I would probably indent the italicised lines and let each one stand on a line by itself, as though a separate stanza. Peter Klappert used to cross out whole lines, as though they had snuck into his poems somehow and he had to go back and scratch them out. You could also start each italicised line with an em dash... or a bullet. All sorts of possibilities, but I think the 2 main guidelines would be to make sure the reader notices the difference, and to be consistent.

I'll catch up with more reading here later, I need to get my butt to the job now.

cheers

 

[Tathagata]

Re: italicised lines

How to format that sort of thing is always highly personal. All I can tell you is what I might do. And I say "might" because I might very well change my mind several times. I think I would probably indent the italicised lines and let each one stand on a line by itself, as though a separate stanza. Peter Klappert used to cross out whole lines, as though they had snuck into his poems somehow and he had to go back and scratch them out. You could also start each italicised line with an em dash... or a bullet. All sorts of possibilities, but I think the 2 main guidelines would be to make sure the reader notices the difference, and to be consistent.

I'll catch up with more reading here later, I need to get my butt to the job now.

cheers

thank you
I'll chew on that and see what comes up

 

[champagne1982]

Never Brought To Mind (edit)

Young men of a certain age
are putty in my hands.
My look or glance or fluttering finger
wave leaves them stuttering
nonsense off their tongues,
when all those young Lotharios
likely want, is to flutter a tongue
over my senses.

Then, just next door to midnight,
the streamers flew and confetti
caught my curls.
By the time the horns blew
and champagne flowed
most of the putty boys
had slowly melted away
and I was left
with merely three to kiss me.

The wistful notes of Auld Lang Syne
went dancing out to friends
just newly gone from the living ether.
I sang it for those who passed
and who I'll long remember.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
In my heart, they live forever.

After the glitter of a gala night
what's left but to sweep it away?
The foil that shone so bright,
the coloured cellophane -- a filter
on a too-white light; all so much
dross in the hung-over fog
of a new year's dawn.

Thanks Ange. I feel better about it now, certainly. This is what happens when words fly from clumsy fingers rather than tripping off a lilting tongue... Suddenly, the poem that seemed so clear is nothing but a mud puddle on a clay beach. Eventually, the silt settles out but soon after, the water becomes clay, too, it rarely stays clear long. It's a good thing you came along with your pail and scooped it up for me when you did.

Just in time I'd say...

 

[Angeline]

Re: Never Brought To Mind (edit)

Young men of a certain age
are putty in my hands.
My look or glance or fluttering finger
wave leaves them stuttering
nonsense off their tongues,
when all those young Lotharios
likely want, is to flutter a tongue
over my senses.

Then, just next door to midnight,
the streamers flew and confetti
caught my curls.
By the time the horns blew
and champagne flowed
most of the putty boys
had slowly melted away
and I was left
with merely three to kiss me.

The wistful notes of Auld Lang Syne
went dancing out to friends
just newly gone from the living ether.
I sang it for those who passed
and who I'll long remember.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
In my heart, they live forever.

After the glitter of a gala night
what's left but to sweep it away?
The foil that shone so bright,
the coloured cellophane -- a filter
on a too-white light; all so much
dross in the hung-over fog
of a new year's dawn.

Thanks Ange. I feel better about it now, certainly. This is what happens when words fly from clumsy fingers rather than tripping off a lilting tongue... Suddenly, the poem that seemed so clear is nothing but a mud puddle on a clay beach. Eventually, the silt settles out but soon after, the water becomes clay, too, it rarely stays clear long. It's a good thing you came along with your pail and scooped it up for me when you did.

Just in time I'd say...

It was good the first time, now it's even better. It's all about editing usually, I'm convinced, and I'm equally convinced that no writer can adequately edit him- or herself.

It's why I'm here.

 

[Angeline]

Dear Mentor,
Remember when you said eventually
I would write important poems?
I am still waiting like Ferlinghetti
to understand what is important.

Is it the way hope crumbles,
as if my palms were filled
with the ashes of my ancestors?
I see generations in ghettos,
carrying stones or throwing
them at one another for name,
for skin, for god, for oil.

There is nothing more hopeless
than a child alone without bread.

There are people who will never understand
that love really is all you need.

There are people who will never understand
this is the only truth that matters,
all others can be clarified to this one truth.

What could be more important than that?

Mentor, maybe I need to paint
the urgency of my frustration
in sweeps of imagination, turn it
into a flock of restless birds
flying in a darkening sky,
flying beyond or in spite of
the chaos below.

Isn’t metaphor, my dear mentor,
the legacy of classicism? Life
chasing around urns or earlier
daubed on cave walls at Lascaux,
but now still as then:
greed, hunger, pride, lust,
and these representations
a sharing of spirit that may be
our collective soul, perhaps
our only redemption, art
turning random madness
into pockets of faith, civility,
and how exactly
do I say that with birds?

I’m cutting chaff like Rapunzel,
articles and pronouns falling
in sheaves, banalities beaten
away with sticks of quirk
or precision, or at least
I think I am in this attempt
to say some essential thing
about the meaning of human existence,
and all I have is this confused
flock of birds.

 

[foehn]

I'll chew on that and see what comes up

Are my thoughts that revolting?

*smirk*

(the edited looks very good, Tath)

Ange, my dear.... .... (those aren't periods, they're birds.... ... see? [implied praise] [more to come...])

[you people write too much, too fast, too often. too much good stuff here, also]

 

[foehn]

this is how Ange cuts in line...

Dear Mentor,
Remember when you said eventually
I would write important poems?
I am still waiting like Ferlinghetti
to understand what is important.

Is it the way hope crumbles,
as if my palms were filled
with the ashes of my ancestors?
I see generations in ghettos,
carrying stones or throwing
them at one another for name,
for skin, for god, for oil.

There is nothing more hopeless
than a child alone without bread.

There are people who will never understand
that love really is all you need.

There are people who will never understand
this is the only truth that matters,
all others can be clarified to this one truth.

What could be more important than that?

Mentor, maybe I need to paint
the urgency of my frustration
in sweeps of imagination, turn it
into a flock of restless birds
flying in a darkening sky,
flying beyond or in spite of
the chaos below.

Isn’t metaphor, my dear mentor,
the legacy of classicism? Life
chasing around urns or earlier
daubed on cave walls at Lascaux,
but now still as then:
greed, hunger, pride, lust,
and these representations
a sharing of spirit that may be
our collective soul, perhaps
our only redemption, art
turning random madness
into pockets of faith, civility,
and how exactly
do I say that with birds?

I’m cutting chaff like Rapunzel,
articles and pronouns falling
in sheaves, banalities beaten
away with sticks of quirk
or precision, or at least
I think I am in this attempt
to say some essential thing
about the meaning of human existence,
and all I have is this confused
flock of birds.

Could stanzas 4 and 5 be conjoined? I love the assonances in this poem, so subtle, so effective. Look at line 1 and line 28, please.

I feel the last three lines to be strong, yet weak, compared to the build-up. Does that make sense? I want nitroglycerin there... no place for the wordy "meaning of human existence" ... say it with one word... "all i have is this confused..." no, dig deeper please, you're throwing dirt back into the excavation... "flock of birds"... well yes, but you should have us by nose-rings now... ... ...
...

Superb.

 

[Angeline]

Re: this is how Ange cuts in line...

Could stanzas 4 and 5 be conjoined? I love the assonances in this poem, so subtle, so effective. Look at line 1 and line 28, please.

I feel the last three lines to be strong, yet weak, compared to the build-up. Does that make sense? I want nitroglycerin there... no place for the wordy "meaning of human existence" ... say it with one word... "all i have is this confused..." no, dig deeper please, you're throwing dirt back into the excavation... "flock of birds"... well yes, but you should have us by nose-rings now... ... ...
...

Superb.

Thank you. That is wonderful and insightful. I know exactly what you mean about the ending--the words aren't up to the idea of what I'm trying to say--which I guess is the point--or a point--of the poem, lol. I'm hoping to get a few more comments and then I'm revising.

They know who they are.

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: Re: this is how Ange cuts in line...

Thank you. That is wonderful and insightful. I know exactly what you mean about the ending--the words aren't up to the idea of what I'm trying to say--which I guess is the point--or a point--of the poem, lol. I'm hoping to get a few more comments and then I'm revising.

They know who they are.

not until you clean out your stuffed mailbox.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Re: this is how Ange cuts in line...

not until you clean out your stuffed mailbox.

well you knew I meant you.

<hustles off to empty it>

phew. it was full, wasn't it?

 

[champagne1982]

My thoughts are in red.

Dear Mentor,
Remember when you said eventually
I would write important poems?
I am still waiting like Ferlinghetti
to understand what is important.

Is it the way hope crumbles,
as if my palms were filled
with the ashes of my ancestors?
I see generations in ghettos,
carrying stones or throwing
them at one another for name,
for skin, for god, for oil.

There is nothing more hopeless
than a child alone without bread.

There are people who will never understand
that love really is all you need.

There are people who will never understand
this is the only truth that matters,
all others can be clarified to this one truth.

I think this section would pop a little better if you took away the first phrase and joined this and the verse prior to it together...

There are people who will never understand
that love really is all you need,
never understand
the only truth that matters,
never understand
all others clarify to this one
truth

or something like that, you'll make it your own, I'm sure.

What could be more important than that?

Mentor, maybe I need to paint
the urgency of my frustration
in sweeps of imagination, turn it
into a flock of restless birds
flying in a darkening sky,
flying beyond or in spite of

Try using the single word despite here. Two syllables seem to be better, rhythmically, than the three.

the chaos below.

Isn’t metaphor, my dear mentor,
the legacy of classicism? Life
chasing around urns or earlier
daubed on cave walls at Lascaux,

An interesting aside-- My mom's here, visiting, and the mention of the cave art here got us remembering a trip to the south of France to the River Ardeche and Le Pont d'Arc. In that river valley, you'll find the most recently discovered cave art site, le grotte Chauvet. What we find confusing is, we were there in 1991 and the cave, le grotte des Ours, was a tourist trap, but beautiful even so, at that time. The detail we find a little messed up is that the internet sites all say this cave system wasn't discovered until 1994... tres interesant.

but now still as then:
greed, hunger, pride, lust,
and these representations
a sharing of spirit that may be
our collective soul, perhaps
our only redemption, art
turning random madness
into pockets of faith, civility,
and how exactly
do I say that with birds?

I’m cutting chaff like Rapunzel,
articles and pronouns falling
in sheaves, banalities beaten
away with sticks of quirk
or precision, or at least
I think I am in this attempt
to say some essential thing
about the meaning of human existence,
and all I have is this confused
flock of birds.

I do find that your thoughts and the images you conjure, are a little jumbly in this poem, like a flock of birds, lifting from a lake or a plaza; so the metaphor is apt.

 

[Angeline]

Carrie, you are a blessing. I think this is a pretty decent poem but not where it should be yet. I especially like the way you suggest combining the part about love and truth, which I really want to say but it was sounding trite and you helped resolve that.

It is jumbly, especially the end--it's the jazz thing--I improv when I write and then I try to edit it into more sense, but I always feel the danger is making it too neat. Maybe a little jumbly is good.

And I would think the cave paintings--even in a tourist trap--would be amazing. One of my earlier memories is seeing Michelangelo's Pieta at the New York World's Fair. The ambiance was totally hokey, but the sculpture seemed to glow from within. You passed it on a very slowly moving "sidewalk." People would look at it and begin weeping. It's quite a memory.

 

[Tathagata]

waking up next to her
is waking up to scar tissue
inflexible and unfeeling
she is a wound
healed over but still..
you can see the hurt and pain and exhaustion in her eyes

when she goes out she wears a tight shirt
low cut
shes made up and pretends she's 30 again
there's a difference between 30 and 50 being 30
and in the dim light you don't see those lines on her face
and after a few drinks all you see is her chest
and you think about recapturing some part of you that you miss
or that you lost
you can fuck the prom queen, finally
hell a few more drinks and you can fuck her and make her pay for ignoring you
make sure she's facing a mirror so you can see the prom queen wince

but there always comes a point where you drink enough to see what's real
before you cross that line
and you see her
See Her
and you know what you're dealing with
the sadness/ madness in those eyes
the desperation
you know she'll put up with all your bullshit if you take her in
like a stray
she'll cower and cook
sew and suck
but it's never worth it
because she lives in fear
like a slapped dog
that you'll toss her out too
and the make up isn't working any more
and she's tired of fucking in cars
and you may be the one that drives that stake through her pink leather heart
and you couldnt live with that
and neither could she

so buy her a drink and excuse yourself
and by the time you come back someone else will be talking to her
and she'll look at you and you can flash her that smile
the one that says, politely, " Oh that's ok..i wasn't all that interested"
that's a kind cut
shes distracted
she'll forget
drop the dog off at the shelter
someone will take it
you just can't handle the responsibility of caring for anything right now

 

[Angeline]

*

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Lester leaps in.

Edit #3.584.623

 

[Angeline]

Edit #3.584.623

lol. bitch!

(like I said, after three years it's time to push it out of the nest.)