Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone
- Thread starter SeattleRain
- Start date
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
Re: i used to go...
I'm happy to ignite emotional moments when someone reads my poetry. To induce a smile, a sigh or a tear is the best we composers of verse can hope to achieve. Your mention of a memory is a great compliment. Thank you.foehn said:... to a poetry-reading coffee shop called the "Bete Noire"... somewhere ... somehow, you take me back there, with this. "dandelion prey..." Oh yes.
... never have meant to leave you out. Oh yes.
minsue
Gosling
- Joined
- Apr 27, 2002
- Posts
- 22,062
Help!
I can edit prose. I've no problem there. Poetry, however, is another matter entirely. Usually, I write and one of two things happens - I decide it's complete and utter crap and delete it or I decide it's only sort of crap and post it knowing it could be so much better.
I really need to stop doing that.
I know there's almost poem (or possibly two as it seems to wander from where it started) in here somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can get it out. Any suggestions will be more than appreciated, they'll leave me eternally in your debt.
shards of memory
scar the mind
unseen, but not
unnoticed
slivers
of past lives
working their
horror under
the skin
look closer
and you'll see
the anguish
in her smile
look closer
and you'll see
what the rest
look past
look within
and you'll see
why the world
looks away
I can edit prose. I've no problem there. Poetry, however, is another matter entirely. Usually, I write and one of two things happens - I decide it's complete and utter crap and delete it or I decide it's only sort of crap and post it knowing it could be so much better.
I really need to stop doing that.
I know there's almost poem (or possibly two as it seems to wander from where it started) in here somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can get it out. Any suggestions will be more than appreciated, they'll leave me eternally in your debt.
shards of memory
scar the mind
unseen, but not
unnoticed
slivers
of past lives
working their
horror under
the skin
look closer
and you'll see
the anguish
in her smile
look closer
and you'll see
what the rest
look past
look within
and you'll see
why the world
looks away
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,174
Revision 3
One window
set in dark-stained wood
demarcates my world
with a lavendar candle
and patchouli incense
on the sill.
Inside
everything is contained.
Words are saved on disks,
warmth preserved in walls.
Even the woman in a sweater
holds thoughts behind her skin,
wraps their threads around her bones,
tatting knots of memory~
A green bench, Saturday bike rides,
the funeral black heels picking
over icy sidewalks, stepping over cracks,
and how slowly the river ran
on her winter white wedding day.
Inside
everything is contained.
Life is constructed around details,
cans of soup, nested spoons,
a hairbrush an earring,
or is spun on filaments of thought,
where hope weights the fragile lines
of its own web.
Outside
nothing is contained by the sky.
Wind whips snowdrifts on my deck,
raises them like foggy specters
that dematerialize to ice dust.
Outside
nothing is consistent.
The table is unrecognizable
as anything but a cube, and one chair
extends a frozen arm, crooked at the elbow
in laissez faire stoicism.
This morning four crows
were wrought on pine branches
like sleek iron weathervanes.
I'm still here
on my side of the glass,
but when doves burst
from under the barn,
the crows came alive
and flew out of my frame
of reference.
One window
set in dark-stained wood
demarcates my world
with a lavendar candle
and patchouli incense
on the sill.
Inside
everything is contained.
Words are saved on disks,
warmth preserved in walls.
Even the woman in a sweater
holds thoughts behind her skin,
wraps their threads around her bones,
tatting knots of memory~
A green bench, Saturday bike rides,
the funeral black heels picking
over icy sidewalks, stepping over cracks,
and how slowly the river ran
on her winter white wedding day.
Inside
everything is contained.
Life is constructed around details,
cans of soup, nested spoons,
a hairbrush an earring,
or is spun on filaments of thought,
where hope weights the fragile lines
of its own web.
Outside
nothing is contained by the sky.
Wind whips snowdrifts on my deck,
raises them like foggy specters
that dematerialize to ice dust.
Outside
nothing is consistent.
The table is unrecognizable
as anything but a cube, and one chair
extends a frozen arm, crooked at the elbow
in laissez faire stoicism.
This morning four crows
were wrought on pine branches
like sleek iron weathervanes.
I'm still here
on my side of the glass,
but when doves burst
from under the barn,
the crows came alive
and flew out of my frame
of reference.
Last edited:
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
One word bothers me. Demarcates -- It's a harsh and plastic military-speak word. Is that where I'm supposed to be taken? If so, then a very successful use of language and I commend you. If not, maybe a softer word could be chosen, limits -- bounds -- binds -- even, outlines. And that's lavender
by the way. The bride in winter white, reminds me of the Exquisite Corpse poem I wrote...
Bride
precocious suede
pinched
the magenta breath,
slowly she drew another.
vivacious linen
cramping
her fuscia style,
achingly she felt again.
traipsing velvet
along a red
carpeted aisle.
well over a mile
in ill-fitting shoes,
tight corset,
and white satin.
for love.
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
Summer arrives,
with warm loins and slow
flowing sap,
bloom burst nipples
and snow melt eyes.
She turns my snow to dandelion fluff,
peels away the dark barren layers
to find me pink and waiting.
Her tongue is butterfly wings
testing and teasing,
giving life,
I grow and stretch to wards the sun
She smiles and settles
taking me in her afternoon hands,
a pleasant somnolent bath
of lustful attention.
Then she,
who has been neglected during winter,
draws life from me
with her mouth,
her fingers,
her fertile core.
Honeysuckle dwelling.
She hums like a heat bug,
shakes like lilies in the wind,
she takes my liquid offering
to sustain her through
another month of ice
and death and darkness.
I feel the languor leave in stages,
after hours of complacency,
my thighs are wet from sudden thunder
and I smell lavender in the room.
with warm loins and slow
flowing sap,
bloom burst nipples
and snow melt eyes.
She turns my snow to dandelion fluff,
peels away the dark barren layers
to find me pink and waiting.
Her tongue is butterfly wings
testing and teasing,
giving life,
I grow and stretch to wards the sun
She smiles and settles
taking me in her afternoon hands,
a pleasant somnolent bath
of lustful attention.
Then she,
who has been neglected during winter,
draws life from me
with her mouth,
her fingers,
her fertile core.
Honeysuckle dwelling.
She hums like a heat bug,
shakes like lilies in the wind,
she takes my liquid offering
to sustain her through
another month of ice
and death and darkness.
I feel the languor leave in stages,
after hours of complacency,
my thighs are wet from sudden thunder
and I smell lavender in the room.
Last edited:
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
We're doing the may pole crepe streamer sugar kool aid dance,
with cowlicks and pigtails,
short checkered knee pants,white socks,
and Buster Browns.
It is one of those boundless days,
before time, before school,
where each day is a lifetime , an adventure, a fresh slate
It is the mind I try and get back to
through meditation and drugs, music, sex, and finally
through writing.
Card tables bearing bowls of Frito's and Cheeto's
Wise Potato chips and split silver mushrooms of Jiffy Pop.
Dixie cups of Zarex,
(we call "bug juice")
The boys drink it and gag pretending to be poisoned.
We stagger around retching and laughing.
The girls are not amused.
Performing some pagan ritual in suburban back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
The sun was bright , people laughed
I was snug in the belief
the world would always be this way.
Welcoming spring with a sucrose powered mania
and noticing skirts for the first time.
Sonic booms and cigarettes ,
moms all sipped beer..or a cocktail,
(I think they were Tom Collins')
Tall frosted glasses that looked like tubes from the mad laboratory
sometimes truly a Jekyll and Hyde potion.
Grab bag of goodies and real fake tattoos,
made from blue food coloring that lingered for weeks,
only blue..just like uncle Chickys anchor,
he got while fighting Japs.
There are railroad tracks next to the house and a marsh with tadpoles,
but you cant really have any fun in dress clothes.
You can eat candy and cake and get wired,
watch the grown up drink and laugh,
you realize years later they were all hitting on each other
but mom was smiling so I guess it was ok.
The boys play army and the girls aren't allowed to climb trees in dresses
We stand in the middle of the street and play games.
It's a dead end
we can draw with chalk on the street,
bases and " goals",
hide and seek but don't go near Old Man Browns house.
I got in trouble once,
( already)
he said something to me out his front door,
I think I told him to mind his own business
( I was no older than 5..and it was probably something worse...something I heard around the house from my father)
I could have told him to go shit in his hat.
Now I'm not allowed near there.
He told my parents and I got spanked.
Asshole.
The streetlights come on and we know the day is over.
The Bat signal for boys to head home.
There will be a bath,
we have managed to get dirty after all,
and as your putting your pajamas on your mother says something about Mimi Roberts..
how cute she is...and how she seemed to like you.
Liked me?
the fear rises mixed with something else
don't tell anyone
liked me??
and later that night as your body winds down
you think about those skirts.
with cowlicks and pigtails,
short checkered knee pants,white socks,
and Buster Browns.
It is one of those boundless days,
before time, before school,
where each day is a lifetime , an adventure, a fresh slate
It is the mind I try and get back to
through meditation and drugs, music, sex, and finally
through writing.
Card tables bearing bowls of Frito's and Cheeto's
Wise Potato chips and split silver mushrooms of Jiffy Pop.
Dixie cups of Zarex,
(we call "bug juice")
The boys drink it and gag pretending to be poisoned.
We stagger around retching and laughing.
The girls are not amused.
Performing some pagan ritual in suburban back yards in the early 60's
I can't recall if it was before or after Dallas..
The sun was bright , people laughed
I was snug in the belief
the world would always be this way.
Welcoming spring with a sucrose powered mania
and noticing skirts for the first time.
Sonic booms and cigarettes ,
moms all sipped beer..or a cocktail,
(I think they were Tom Collins')
Tall frosted glasses that looked like tubes from the mad laboratory
sometimes truly a Jekyll and Hyde potion.
Grab bag of goodies and real fake tattoos,
made from blue food coloring that lingered for weeks,
only blue..just like uncle Chickys anchor,
he got while fighting Japs.
There are railroad tracks next to the house and a marsh with tadpoles,
but you cant really have any fun in dress clothes.
You can eat candy and cake and get wired,
watch the grown up drink and laugh,
you realize years later they were all hitting on each other
but mom was smiling so I guess it was ok.
The boys play army and the girls aren't allowed to climb trees in dresses
We stand in the middle of the street and play games.
It's a dead end
we can draw with chalk on the street,
bases and " goals",
hide and seek but don't go near Old Man Browns house.
I got in trouble once,
( already)
he said something to me out his front door,
I think I told him to mind his own business
( I was no older than 5..and it was probably something worse...something I heard around the house from my father)
I could have told him to go shit in his hat.
Now I'm not allowed near there.
He told my parents and I got spanked.
Asshole.
The streetlights come on and we know the day is over.
The Bat signal for boys to head home.
There will be a bath,
we have managed to get dirty after all,
and as your putting your pajamas on your mother says something about Mimi Roberts..
how cute she is...and how she seemed to like you.
Liked me?
the fear rises mixed with something else
don't tell anyone
liked me??
and later that night as your body winds down
you think about those skirts.
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
.....
Last edited:
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
anna, clean out your mailbox.
be the domestic queen and tidy up.
be the domestic queen and tidy up.
foehn
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 24, 2004
- Posts
- 237
Re: Passing Through Flint
This makes me want to hold the poem over a lightbulb to see what the 2nd line said...
Great poem, super-full of mood.
I keep seeing stuff in this thread, wondering why it's here, instead of posted, already... I could easily comment on other stuff here too, given infinite time. Tath astounds me with remeniscence... Champagne seduces me... Ange makes me see movies... flyguy slaps me on the back of the head...
Slowly, I'm getting a sense of what this community of poets is capable of, and it seems rather amazing. From WickedEve and her struggles with her Haddasah poem to me and my struggles with (everything)... "Breadloaf" loses meaning...
Meanwhile, I'd still like to see that invisible line...
PatCarrington said:
This makes me want to hold the poem over a lightbulb to see what the 2nd line said...
Great poem, super-full of mood.
I keep seeing stuff in this thread, wondering why it's here, instead of posted, already... I could easily comment on other stuff here too, given infinite time. Tath astounds me with remeniscence... Champagne seduces me... Ange makes me see movies... flyguy slaps me on the back of the head...
Slowly, I'm getting a sense of what this community of poets is capable of, and it seems rather amazing. From WickedEve and her struggles with her Haddasah poem to me and my struggles with (everything)... "Breadloaf" loses meaning...
Meanwhile, I'd still like to see that invisible line...
Eleanora Day
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2004
- Posts
- 127
Opinions?
It's a sestina.
I
Our truths are the axis of hope in your eyes
so I am spun to your arms, held as by trees,
strong but your fingers’ brush, whispering leaves
that lift me with you in a wind’s caress,
our human nature fallen in tears. You rain
on the open earth of me, and I sown with seeds
flower in time. Months grow from seeds
of moments submerged in our fallow eyes;
days that burned equatorial or nights of rain
forest at our window, where stoic willow trees
swayed fulsome then drooped thin. Caress
these days Amante, knowing when one leaves,
seasons have turned once, twice. When leaves
abandon branches we‘ll scatter like seeds
grown to wildflowers in each memory’s caress.
Tangled roots survive behind our sleeping eyes
for I will dream of you waiting in a stand of trees
and I will come to you pine-shadowed in rain.
II
It raineth every day, Amante, like Petruchio’s rain
before his shrew subscribed to his pleasure. Leaves
can’t comply with the Sun’s fading plea, trees
will bend or snap, lamed by ice, but still seeds
open beneath hard frost, so I thawed before your eyes,
their need and contrition, I subscribed to your caress
humbly as you submitted to mine, Yes. Caress
me dulce, cover my naked back with hands and rain
the secrets of your desire between us. Our watchful eyes
will tear pieces of memory for us to swallow. Who leaves
Amante, who stays? Where are the days of these seeds
planted but below the willow, among the restless pine trees?
III
Remember our seeds born in song and spoken word, the trees
that painted our landscape. Turn your eyes up to caress
the sky and pray for rain to heal in time when one leaves.
It's a sestina.
I
Our truths are the axis of hope in your eyes
so I am spun to your arms, held as by trees,
strong but your fingers’ brush, whispering leaves
that lift me with you in a wind’s caress,
our human nature fallen in tears. You rain
on the open earth of me, and I sown with seeds
flower in time. Months grow from seeds
of moments submerged in our fallow eyes;
days that burned equatorial or nights of rain
forest at our window, where stoic willow trees
swayed fulsome then drooped thin. Caress
these days Amante, knowing when one leaves,
seasons have turned once, twice. When leaves
abandon branches we‘ll scatter like seeds
grown to wildflowers in each memory’s caress.
Tangled roots survive behind our sleeping eyes
for I will dream of you waiting in a stand of trees
and I will come to you pine-shadowed in rain.
II
It raineth every day, Amante, like Petruchio’s rain
before his shrew subscribed to his pleasure. Leaves
can’t comply with the Sun’s fading plea, trees
will bend or snap, lamed by ice, but still seeds
open beneath hard frost, so I thawed before your eyes,
their need and contrition, I subscribed to your caress
humbly as you submitted to mine, Yes. Caress
me dulce, cover my naked back with hands and rain
the secrets of your desire between us. Our watchful eyes
will tear pieces of memory for us to swallow. Who leaves
Amante, who stays? Where are the days of these seeds
planted but below the willow, among the restless pine trees?
III
Remember our seeds born in song and spoken word, the trees
that painted our landscape. Turn your eyes up to caress
the sky and pray for rain to heal in time when one leaves.
Last edited:
Eleanora Day
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2004
- Posts
- 127
Another Try
I
Truth is the axis of hope in your eyes,
so I am spun to you, held as by trees,
strong. Your fingers’ whispering leaves
lift me with you like the wind’s caress.
Human nature falls in tears. You rain
the open earth of me. I sown with seeds
flower in time. Months grow from seeds
of moment submerged in fallow eyes;
days burning equatorial, nights of rain
forest at the window. Stoic willow trees
swayed fulsome, drooped thin. Caress
these days Amante. When one leaves
and seasons have turned twice, leaves
abandon branches, scatter like seeds.
Grow wildflowers in imagination's caress.
Tangled roots survive in sleeping eyes:
I will dream of you waiting in a stand of trees,
and I will come to you pine-shadowed in rain.
II
It raineth every day. Petruchio’s rain
fell; Kate subscribed to his pleasure. Leaves,
Amante, deny the Sun’s fading plea, trees
bend or snap, lamed by ice though seeds
open in hard frost. I did before your eyes'
need and contrition. I subscribed to your caress
humbly as you submitted to mine. Caress
mi dulce, cover my naked back again, rain
secret desire between us. Our watchful eyes
tear pieces of memory to swallow. Who leaves
Amante, who stays? These days are seeds
planted in the willow and the restless pine trees.
III
Remember the seeds born in song and spoken word, trees
that painted the landscape. Turn your eyes up to caress
the sky, and pray for rain to heal in time when one leaves.
I
Truth is the axis of hope in your eyes,
so I am spun to you, held as by trees,
strong. Your fingers’ whispering leaves
lift me with you like the wind’s caress.
Human nature falls in tears. You rain
the open earth of me. I sown with seeds
flower in time. Months grow from seeds
of moment submerged in fallow eyes;
days burning equatorial, nights of rain
forest at the window. Stoic willow trees
swayed fulsome, drooped thin. Caress
these days Amante. When one leaves
and seasons have turned twice, leaves
abandon branches, scatter like seeds.
Grow wildflowers in imagination's caress.
Tangled roots survive in sleeping eyes:
I will dream of you waiting in a stand of trees,
and I will come to you pine-shadowed in rain.
II
It raineth every day. Petruchio’s rain
fell; Kate subscribed to his pleasure. Leaves,
Amante, deny the Sun’s fading plea, trees
bend or snap, lamed by ice though seeds
open in hard frost. I did before your eyes'
need and contrition. I subscribed to your caress
humbly as you submitted to mine. Caress
mi dulce, cover my naked back again, rain
secret desire between us. Our watchful eyes
tear pieces of memory to swallow. Who leaves
Amante, who stays? These days are seeds
planted in the willow and the restless pine trees.
III
Remember the seeds born in song and spoken word, trees
that painted the landscape. Turn your eyes up to caress
the sky, and pray for rain to heal in time when one leaves.
Last edited:
WickedEve
save an apple, eat eve
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2001
- Posts
- 11,470
I have child distractions, so I've only read two lines. lol
"held as by trees," Hmmm... I keep reading it this way: held as if by trees. I know we don't like unnecessary words but I think you need an if. Don't you? Do you think it works without it? Let's discuss it!
"held as by trees," Hmmm... I keep reading it this way: held as if by trees. I know we don't like unnecessary words but I think you need an if. Don't you? Do you think it works without it? Let's discuss it!
WickedEve
save an apple, eat eve
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2001
- Posts
- 11,470
Okay, I'm only on line 3 and I'm thrown like a bad tomato, because of your fingers. "Your fingers’ whispering leaves." Are you sure you want that apostrophe? "Your fingers, whispering leaves," or "Your fingers' whispering leaves." Two entirely different things.
Eleanora Day
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2004
- Posts
- 127
WickedEve said:I have child distractions, so I've only read two lines. lol
"held as by trees," Hmmm... I keep reading it this way: held as if by trees. I know we don't like unnecessary words but I think you need an if. Don't you? Do you think it works without it? Let's discuss it!
I had "as if" the first time, um Senora. Or do you prefer Senorita?
Maybe I should put it back.
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