Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[flyguy69]

You could look for it you know. 17 pages isn't too bad.

He's to appear in an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants next week.

 

[WickedEve]

What? Hey, I don't need you! I don't need any of you! I have myself!

To myself:


Come on, Eve, let's get out of here and write poetry about you, you precious thing.

Hee hee, oh stop it. Really. Stop! You're such a flirt. I'm going to give you some later. Oh, yeah baby. When we're alone... well, we're always alone when we're with our... self.


I think we need to break up. No. Don't cry. Just walk away. Wait. That won't work...

 

[Tathagata]

eleanora

Opinions?
It's a sestina.

I can play an ocarina....sestina..Is that where you nap with your sombrero over your eyes??

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


I can feel the "if" that was or wants to be between 'as' and 'by'. whether that says more about my conditioning or your poem is a toss up

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

hard frost...i think there's something better than that in you..so to speak..cruel, suffocating, abusive...

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.

being ignorant of this form in general, but knowing you a little, I assume the repetition of words, trees leaves, seed, etc is part of the way it should be written. it is beautiful in it's message and imagery and some great wordplay " the secret of your desire between us". I miss the Spanish that popped up in the other...I think there is a level of sadness you can achieve but it seems almost as though you are holding back??
I would say dip into it, make it more than melancholy
make it, what I believe the Japanese call sabi
which is the autumnal sadness that permeates so many haiku etc.
this poem has it in a wispy way..I, personally, would like to see it brought out just a little more. sadness but acceptance.it's here
one more phrase one different word choice and it would turn the key it puts in the readers minds...and would unlock a truth. My opinions only querida. : ), a-dios

 

[Eleanora Day]

Muchas gracias, Tathagata. You are very kind to give such a critical review of my poem. I will consider your comments and work them into my revisions.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Angeline]

Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

I believe in ghosts. I have seen
their shadows shifting through
the blurry center of night. Squinting,
I know they are there, inside
the bands of moonbeams that softly
wrap their edges. And I have heard

darkness ache with their bad dreams.
I have listened, as if my arrogant ears
could share their song, my throat muster
the false courage to sing the everlasting
wounds that leave them so stricken
and white. I, in my safe bed, worried

by the tiny rages of daylight, its petty
holocausts, have reached to touch them.
Trespassing the thorns. Not understanding
that midnight is a deep, dark thing, or
that privacy bolts and braces their beacon.


Critique? Yoo hoo Ange, Tath, foehn.....anyone........

I just checked the weather. It's -6 degrees. sigh.

I have to go shower and put about 14 layers of clothes on but THEN, I'll look at your poem, Pat.

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

I just checked the weather. It's -6 degrees. sigh.

I have to go shower and put about 14 layers of clothes on but THEN, I'll look at your poem, Pat.

thanks, red.

get warm before you peek.

good morning, ange.

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

thanks, red.

get warm before you peek.

good morning, ange.

mornin.

see your poem soon.

 

[Tathagata]

Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

I believe in ghosts. I have seen
their shadows shifting through
the blurry center of night. Squinting,
I know they are there, inside
the bands of moonbeams that softly
wrap their edges. And I have heard

darkness ache with their bad dreams.
I have listened, as if my arrogant ears
could share their song, my throat muster
the false courage to sing the everlasting
wounds that leave them so stricken
and white. I, in my safe bed, worried

by the tiny rages of daylight, its petty
holocausts, have reached to touch them.
Trespassing the thorns. Not understanding
that midnight is a deep, dark thing, or
that privacy bolts and braces their beacon.


Critique? Yoo hoo Ange, Tath, foehn.....anyone........

The only part that isn't perfect, to my ear, is this

inside
the bands of moonbeams

the rest of it is breathtaking
" petty holocausts" jesus that's good

anyway
" moonbeams" is so......Buddy Holly...you can do a bit better me thinks.

just My Opinion

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

The only part that isn't perfect, to my ear, is this


the rest of it is breathtaking
" petty holocausts" jesus that's good

anyway
" moonbeams" is so......Buddy Holly...you can do a bit better me thinks.

just My Opinion

thanks, Tath.

........buddy holly....

 

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

thanks, Tath.

........buddy holly....

well..
me you and ange get it

 

[Angeline]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Misunderstanding Radiance - 2nd draft

well..
me you and ange get it

what's wrong with Buddy Holly?

Oh. I better read the poem.

 

[Angeline]

Dear Pat

Here's how I would do it. I especially think that first line needs to stand on its own. It's too powerful a statement to have another phrase hanging next to it.

And I don't like the title, lol. (Hey, you asked for me.)

Anyway see what you think--if any of it works for you...

I'm around if you have questions or arguments or anything.

I believe in ghosts.
I have seen their shadows shift
through the blurry center of night.
Squinting, I know them, see them
inside the ecto-bands that softly wrap
their edges. And I have heard

darkness ache with their nightmares.
I have listened, as if my arrogant ears
could share their keening song,
my throat muster courage to sing
of the everlasting wounds
that leave them stricken and white.
I, who lay in a safe bed, worried

by the false rages of daylight,
its petty holocausts, have reached
to touch them. Trespassed the thorns,
not understanding that their midnight
is a deep, dark thing, or that privacy
bolts and braces their beacon.

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: Dear Pat

Here's how I would do it. I especially think that first line needs to stand on its own. It's too powerful a statement to have another phrase hanging next to it.

And I don't like the title, lol. (Hey, you asked for me.)

Anyway see what you think--if any of it works for you...

I'm around if you have questions or arguments or anything.

I believe in ghosts.
I have seen their shadows shift
through the blurry center of night.
Squinting, I know them, see them
inside the ecto-bands that softly wrap
their edges. And I have heard

darkness ache with their nightmares.
I have listened, as if my arrogant ears
could share their keening song,
my throat muster courage to sing
of the everlasting wounds
that leave them stricken and white.
I, who lay in a safe bed, worried

by the false rages of daylight,
its petty holocausts, have reached
to touch them. Trespassed the thorns,
not understanding that their midnight
is a deep, dark thing, or that privacy
bolts and braces their beacon.

thanks, ange.

i totally agree about the first line.

and i like the linebreaks of the last stanza.

i'll pm you later with my arguments.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[katalynn]

An all the sudden poem.... Would like feedback / help on it. I've never really edited any of poems before, actually never really brought my poems into the world at all.....
but well... never know I suppose, first time for everything I guess. I love poetry, just not one of my strong point in life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What once was has returned.
Years have passed, days go on.
Still, memories and ghosts haunt
this soul.
What once was has returned.
Fears of the past have awakened.
Betrayal and lies linger in the air
waiting.
Scarred wounds of the heart bleed once more.
What once was has returned.
Emotions that were kept locked away
have been released.
Helpless fear rises with each passing day.
What once was has returned.

 

[katalynn]

Here's another one. hehe.. Wrote this one a long time ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the fire burns
As did this heart
Burned everything in it's path
Not caring who it hurt or burned
No feelings, not a care in the world
Until someone came to
control the flames

As the water flows
As does this blood
Flow freely through
the wounds of my heart
and soul
Like the river with no end,
flows the same as the blood
through this heart of pain.

As the air flows,
just as the river
Filling these lungs and takes some
of the paiin away with each breath.
The pain that was once so deep with
scars, no have have been cut deeper
than before
How shall these new wounds
heal this time?

As with the earth beneath my feet
This sound was once strong,
like the earth.
Like the earth,
people come and go as they please.
Leaving their marks
making the earth weak.
With this soul, people came
and destroyed.
So much has died,
it has lost it's strength,
unable to give much more.
Reasons unknown won't let go,
can't let go
of the pain and destruction.
The soul that once was,
is no longer here.

As with the moon
through her many pahses
she goes through
each night, like us,
each of us have phases
we pass each day.
Just like the moon,
some seem to reapeat the phases.
Where as other learn and break away.
Time has come for this soul to
break away from an endless cycle.

 

[Tathagata]

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,
repeat primeval footprints
stomped onto the earth by holy men,
(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 the twilight of hope,
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,
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 perish in daylight,
vampire recitations of faith,
bloodless and virginal,
ultimately evil at the core.

Three years old ..and things float away

The world shifts to one side,
balance an illusion.
You cultivate holes in your hands and character.
(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 devastation,
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.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[*Catbabe*]

Re: The Conceit of Long Nights - 3rd draft

The children always sleep
with faces peace-traced
by moons that make their mark
in tender yellow strokes.
There is a treaty between
the simple and true. Have you
forgotten you signed that truce?

Now, you collapse in stages,
without a child’s smooth ebb.

There is an awful precision to plastique,
one destructed corner at a time.
An awful explosion of candlelight,
lovesticks lit by leaking stars,
that ends with hurries toward hell
and a twitch. You wonder when

night had time to muscle,
to primp and powder, deck
its lady parts in light. Wonder why,

when the cloaked day falls,
evening slows to inspect itself,
to flaunt and strip. Flashing
lashes and leashes that lead to attics,
to display the familiar and its dust.
To transport time, to tax and burden.
Love letters, faces you know, the past
suddenly sheer as a veil. Dark

loves itself, its ripple, its jet-black
hair and menacing moon lips. Vain
as a razor adoring its edges,
the silver shine. It leaves you
waiting, sliced awake. Bleeding
for day. Pondering the night.

I think that's much stronger and smoother than the last draft.

 

[champagne1982]

*

 

[Tathagata]

Would you come with me
back over salt sewn miles
tears , sea water
to where
my blood is buried
beneath the mound
of Oghma?


Would you ply me with Uisce Beatha,
the water of life
as mine slips lower
and let me sing of old things
silly things
allow me to tell each red haired maiden
how lovely she is?

would you lay me down knowing
i'd never rise again
place my bones
on a Rowan branch
and keen me a love song
i could take with me
into the earth?

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

the bloody irish have taken over the thread
; )