Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[flyguy69]

untitled

That summer was warm mud,
a casual flow of weeks and cousins
that sunned and slid into swimming holes
and spaces in a young boy’s brain. The heat dripped
from earthen skin and caked
on plates of jam sandwiches
horsebacked to a shade tree. Under a distracted sun
we connived recipes for gooseberry wine
and twisted cigarettes of willow,
despite the gut-wrenching debt.
We peeled away boyhood
at a brown pool, plunged into adolescence
and pawed the slippery women
we knew awaited us. Titans posed
on greasy pedestals, proud of the stiffness
in our flexible bodies. Stretched
out to ripen we searched the blue future
for grains of truth in classmates’ claims;

“I bet he never touched a real
boobie; he probably squeezed
his mom’s bra!”​

Dirt flaked from our shaking
bellies at that one. Cicadas passed
Aunt Connie’s call along; we arrived
with clay masks at dinner
and marched
right
back
out to the hose.
In a paling stream mud sloughed
from my shoulders
and slipped
through my upturned hands.

 

[annaswirls]

'tis the season of youth, mud today or in the past...

my two are out there right now, covered with it!

I will be back to these poems, right now, washing hands for dinner

 

[WickedEve]

That summer was warm mud,
a casual flow of weeks and cousins
that sunned and slid into swimming holes
and spaces in a young boy’s brain. The heat dripped
from earthen skin and caked
on plates of jam sandwiches
horsebacked to a shade tree. Under a distracted sun

under a distracted sun isn't quite right. I'd change distracted to... I'll have to think.

we connived recipes for gooseberry wine
and twisted cigarettes of willow,
despite the gut-wrenching debt.

gut-wrenching is another one I'd rethink.

We peeled away boyhood
at a brown pool, plunged into adolescence
and pawed the slippery women
we knew awaited us. Titans posed
on greasy pedestals, proud of the stiffness
in our flexible bodies. Stretched
out to ripen we searched the blue future
for grains of truth in classmates’ claims;

“I bet he never touched a real
boobie; he probably squeezed
his mom’s bra!”​

Dirt flaked from our shaking
bellies at that one. Cicadas passed
Aunt Connie’s call along; we arrived
with clay masks at dinner
and marched
right
back
out to the hose.
In a paling stream mud sloughed
from my shoulders
and slipped
through my upturned hands.


You really have this one full of good stuff, fly. I just offered 2 quickie suggestions. I'd really have to spend some time with a poem like this to give you better feedback.

 

[flyguy69]

That summer was warm mud,
...
horsebacked to a shade tree. Under a distracted sun

under a distracted sun isn't quite right. I'd change distracted to... I'll have to think.

we connived recipes for gooseberry wine
and twisted cigarettes of willow,
despite the gut-wrenching debt.

gut-wrenching is another one I'd rethink.

We peeled away boyhood
...
You really have this one full of good stuff, fly. I just offered 2 quickie suggestions. I'd really have to spend some time with a poem like this to give you better feedback.

Thank you for your Wicked touch, Evie!

"Distracted" was chosen to evoke not only the manner in which heat dulls our focus, but also the lack of parental supervision-- we were boiling gooseberries with stolen whiskey for God's sake! And smoking rolled-up willow leaves. Which wrenched our guts. <-- pukie

I'll give both of those some thought.

I originally had "mud-brown" for "earthen" colored skin to establish those themes, but thought I was overusing "mud". I also do not use strophe breaks in order to give an oozing flow to the words. Does that work?

 

[Syndra Lynn]

It's been a while

since I visited this thread, but I have a new (first draft) poem here that needs help. Any takers?


playing hooky at Goat Rock Beach

I wanted sun, settled for fog, still it rocked!


at the water’s verge
I stood, arms lifted,
invocation
felt power surge
chemistry merge

and I began to dance...
an offering to God
no sound but percussion
on the shore and the music
in my heart

and I danced...
a sea lion parked
out a hundred yards
to watch, amazed, amused
intrigued by my earnest, spry oblation

and I danced...
I poured across the shores
of ancient times when we were one
lost in memories not my own
traversing cosmos, time, and ilk

and I danced...
spinning up and down the dunes
in and out of spirals
crossing shifting lines
of foam and brine

and I danced...
sinking into sand
pulse sounding out the rhythm
heart pounding with the surf
catching breath in ebbing waves

and I danced...
until breathless
legs heavy with effort
sea lion away searching for lunch
ancient cosmic thread
unwinding

and I stood...
grateful to the Gods
and the wind
and the waves
and the fog
and the sand
felt the power
of invisible sun

and breathing hard,
all the prayer of my soul
having been offered
I settled into sand
and meditation




Syn

 

[BooMerengue]

since I visited this thread, but I have a new (first draft) poem here that needs help. Any takers?


playing hooky at Goat Rock Beach

I wanted sun, settled for fog, still it rocked!


at the water’s verge
I stood, arms lifted,
invocation
felt power surge
chemistry merge

I began to dance...
an offering to the gods
no sound but percussion
on the shore and the music
in my heart

I danced...
a sea lion parked
out a hundred yards
to watch, amazed, amused
intrigued by my earnest, spry oblation

I danced...
I poured across the shores
of ancient times when we were one
lost in memories not my own
traversing cosmos, time, and ilk

I danced...
spinning up and down the dunes
in and out of spirals
crossing shifting lines
of foam and brine

I danced...
sinking into sand
pulse sounding out the rhythm
heart pounding with the surf
catching breath in ebbing waves

I danced...
until breathless
legs heavy with effort
sea lion away searching for lunch
ancient cosmic thread
unwinding

I stood...
grateful to the gods
the wind
the waves
the fog
the sand
I felt the power
of invisible sun

breathing hard,
all the prayer of my soul
having been offered
I settled into sand
and meditation




Syn

You know I love your words... Normally I wouldn't dare, but this so speaks to me I'm going to do with this as I do mine (and I have one somewhere thats so much like this!) So forgive me, ok? And ignore me if you want... we're sisters, after all...

I took out all the 'ands' and changed your God to gods... nothing personal; it just seemed such a lovely pagan dance God just didn't fit.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

You know I love your words... Normally I wouldn't dare, but this so speaks to me I'm going to do with this as I do mine (and I have one somewhere thats so much like this!) So forgive me, ok? And ignore me if you want... we're sisters, after all...

I took out all the 'ands' and changed your God to gods... nothing personal; it just seemed such a lovely pagan dance God just didn't fit.

Yes, your changes much improve the read. So grateful for friends like you who help me see what is right in front of me.

 

[BooMerengue]

Yes, your changes much improve the read. So grateful for friends like you who help me see what is right in front of me.

Whew!!!

*smiling

 

[flyguy69]

I don't know, Syn. Images like

felt power surge/
chemistry merge

and

sea lion away searching for lunch

don't do much for me.

I find myself wondering about this "power"; what is it, and what does it provide you? I think this poem could explore those themes a bit more.

I love the incorporation of the dance, and the elemental references to the environment.

 

[BooMerengue]

I don't know, Syn. Images like and don't do much for me.

I find myself wondering about this "power"; what is it, and what does it provide you? I think this poem could explore those themes a bit more.

I love the incorporation of the dance, and the elemental references to the environment.

The power is named by the word 'invocation'; it commonly refers to a Wiccan ritual of some kind. This is a decidedly pagan poem in my view.

The sea lion being away I think speaks to the amount of time she spent dancing... and maybe unknown even to her, praying.

just MHO!

 

[Syndra Lynn]

I don't know, Syn. Images like and don't do much for me.

I find myself wondering about this "power"; what is it, and what does it provide you? I think this poem could explore those themes a bit more.

I love the incorporation of the dance, and the elemental references to the environment.

Boo is right, fly. Power surge refers dually to the power I invoke, and the power of the waves percussion on the shore.

Chemistry merge, I thought was defined in the fourth stanza

I danced...
I poured across the shores
of ancient times when we were one
lost in memories not my own
traversing cosmos, time, and ilk

Maybe I can find a way to say it more simply.

I wondered about the rhymes in the first stanza? Distracting?

Syn

 

[Angeline]

Your poem is beautiful. I took some liberties to bring out what I saw as its strengths. If you find any of it helpful, good. If not, no worries.




At water’s verge
I stood, arms lifted,
invoking my power surge.
Chemistry merged,

and I began to dance
an offering to God
with no sound,
but percussion
of the shore
and my heart's music.

I danced
and a sea lion parked
a hundred yards out
watched amazed, intrigued
by my earnest, spry oblation.

I danced
pouring across the shores
of ancient times when we were one
and I, lost in memories not my own,
traversed the cosmos, time, and ilk.

I danced
spinning dunes in and out
of spirals, crossing shifting lines
of foam and brine,
sinking into sand,
pulsing the sound of rhythm
pounding with the surf.
My breath caught
in ebbing waves

as I danced
to breathlessness,
legs heavy with effort.
The sea lion left,
searching for lunch,
and an ancient cosmic thread
unwound.

I stood
grateful to the gods,
the wind and waves,
the fog and sand.
I felt the power
of an invisible Sun

while breathing hard,
all the prayer of my soul
offered, and I
settled into sand
and meditation.

 

[flyguy69]

Nice suggestions, Ange.

Lovely poem, Syn.

Good interpretation, Boo.

 

[Angeline]

Nice suggestions, Ange.

Lovely poem, Syn.

Good interpretation, Boo.

TY fly man.

I have a poem that has been "in progress" for three years. Dare I post it?

 

[flyguy69]

TY fly man.

I have a poem that has been "in progress" for three years. Dare I post it?

Hmmm... By age three they have developed little personalities all their own. They no longer stay where you put them, they hide your keys, and they announce to the world when their pants are full. You may want to be careful, Ange.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Your poem is beautiful. I took some liberties to bring out what I saw as its strengths. If you find any of it helpful, good. If not, no worries.




At water’s verge
I stood, arms lifted,
invoking my power surge.
Chemistry merged,

and I began to dance
an offering to God
with no sound,
but percussion
of the shore
and my heart's music.

I danced
and a sea lion parked
a hundred yards out
watched amazed, intrigued
by my earnest, spry oblation.

I danced
pouring across the shores
of ancient times when we were one
and I, lost in memories not my own,
traversed the cosmos, time, and ilk.

I danced
spinning dunes in and out
of spirals, crossing shifting lines
of foam and brine,
sinking into sand,
pulsing the sound of rhythm
pounding with the surf.
My breath caught
in ebbing waves

as I danced
to breathlessness,
legs heavy with effort.
The sea lion left,
searching for lunch,
and an ancient cosmic thread
unwound.

I stood
grateful to the gods,
the wind and waves,
the fog and sand.
I felt the power
of an invisible Sun

while breathing hard,
all the prayer of my soul
offered, and I
settled into sand
and meditation.

Brilliant suggestions! Thanks. Feel free to take liberties with me or my poems any ole time!

Hurries back to drawing board.

Syn

 

[Angeline]

Brilliant suggestions! Thanks. Feel free to take liberties with me or my poems any ole time!

Hurries back to drawing board.

Syn

You're welcome sweety. It's a gorgeous pieces of writing--so evocative. My pleasure.

 

[Angeline]

Help my three-year-old!

I wrote it in 2002. I love the idea of it and the images, but I'm not sure it works.

A Brief History of Poetry

First come letters.

Those silly squiggles elude
my grasp of understanding
until eventually they stop wiggling,
learn to behave themselves,
to meet others of their ilk,
marrying form to meaning

so one day when it rains
I see that
r
a
i
n
is what spills against the glass
of my bedroom window.

Years of words multiply
in my understanding,
one by one, then in groups
they board the ark
of my recognition,

unfurling across pages,
to parade in sentences,
stepping lively, dancing,
pouring into me
in multitudes of rainbow
rhythm, and I know

books are zoos
with cage doors left open
for words to clamor out
of singularity, racing
from the bars of margin,
drunk on freedom.

They leap from dictionaries
and storybooks, join those
who fled magazines,
billboards, and conversations
all to take residence in me,
to populate my imagination

where they whisper
Write us down.

Write

us

down.

And I do,
let them rain from me,
swirl, coalesce
into polyphonous patterns
painted in morphemes, syllables,
words and sentences, awakened
in the toll of my poems.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

A Brief History of Poetry

First come letters.

Those silly squiggles elude
my grasp of understanding
until eventually they stop wiggling,
learn to behave themselves,
to meet others of their ilk,
marrying form to meaning

so one day when it rains
I see that
r
a
i
n
is what spills against the glass
of my bedroom window.

Years of words multiply
in my understanding,
one by one, then in groups
they board the ark
of my recognition,

unfurling across pages,
to parade in sentences,
stepping lively, dancing,
pouring into me
in multitudes of rainbow
rhythm, and I know

books are zoos
with cage doors left open
for words to clamor out
of singularity, racing
from the bars of margin,
drunk on freedom.

They leap from dictionaries
and storybooks, join those
who fled magazines,
billboards, and conversations
all to take residence in me,
to populate my imagination

where they whisper
Write us down.

Write

us

down.

And I do,
let them rain from me,
swirl, coalesce
into polyphonous patterns
painted in morphemes, syllables,
words and sentences, awakened
in the toll of my poems.

This is FABULOUS!


My eyes only paused to let my brain catch up twice, that is to say, I stumbled on

they board the ark
of my recognition,

I am not sure why that phrase rubs me wrong, but how would it feel to simply cut it:

one by one, then in groups
unfurling across pages,
to parade in sentences,


That feels more like a parade than stopping for the awkward phrase.

And the word "toll" from the last line should be "ring" or "chime" or some other cheerful tone. Toll makes me think the poem died. And it didn't. It is a living, breathing thing of beauty.

Just like its writer.

Syn

 

[Angeline]

This is FABULOUS!


My eyes only paused to let my brain catch up twice, that is to say, I stumbled on




I am not sure why that phrase rubs me wrong, but how would it feel to simply cut it:

one by one, then in groups
unfurling across pages,
to parade in sentences,


That feels more like a parade than stopping for the awkward phrase.

And the word "toll" from the last line should be "ring" or "chime" or some other cheerful tone. Toll makes me think the poem died. And it didn't. It is a living, breathing thing of beauty.

Just like its writer.

Syn

Excellent suggestions. I kept trying to make that ark thing work because I like the visual, but I know what you mean. I like your suggestion--sometimes the simplest thing is just to cut. Food for thought, lol.

And yknow I had "ring" and changed it to "toll." I was afraid "ring" would sound trite but you're right--"toll" is more elegaic, too heavy for the whole parade feel of the poem.

Thank you my friend.

 

[Tathagata]

She.

It's always a she isn't it?
Who bids the world dance,
blades to rise, bards to write
and babes to smile
at words that have
no meaning.


She understood.
The profundity of that can't be captured
in a thousand words,
but it can almost be expressed
in two.

Ascending recklessly
you feel each platform a summit
and then...
higher still.

The journey
becomes
the joy.

To have it drawn away,
your marrow with it,
leaves you cavernous and arid.

You are a reed
through which life passes
and makes a hollow moan
at midnight.

I can live
with dreading midnights,
but I wish my heart deaf
to that fucking moan.

 

[BooMerengue]

She.

It's always a she isn't it?
Who bids the world dance,
blades to rise, bards to write
and babes to smile
at words that have
no meaning.


She understood.
The profundity of that can't be captured
in a thousand words,
but it can almost be expressed
in two.

Ascending recklessly
you feel each platform a summit
and then...
higher still.

The journey
becomes
the joy.

To have it drawn away,
your marrow with it,
leaves you cavernous and arid.

You are a reed
through which life passes
and makes a hollow moan
at midnight.

I can live
with dreading midnights,
but I wish my heart deaf
to that fucking moan.

Tath, whatever else you do to this, make sure you leave this...

"You are a reed
through which life passes
and makes a hollow moan
at midnight."

intact. It's awesome.

 

[BooMerengue]

I wrote it in 2002. I love the idea of it and the images, but I'm not sure it works.

A Brief History of Poetry

First come letters.

Those silly squiggles elude
my grasp of understanding
until eventually they stop wiggling,
learn to behave themselves,
to meet others of their ilk,
marrying form to meaning

so one day when it rains
I see that
r
a
i
n
is what spills against the glass
of my bedroom window.

Years of words multiply
in my understanding,
one by one, then in groups
they board the ark
of my recognition,

unfurling across pages,
to parade in sentences,
stepping lively, dancing,
pouring into me
in multitudes of rainbow
rhythm, and I know

books are zoos
with cage doors left open
for words to clamor out
of singularity, racing
from the bars of margin,
drunk on freedom.

They leap from dictionaries
and storybooks, join those
who fled magazines,
billboards, and conversations
all to take residence in me,
to populate my imagination

where they whisper
Write us down.

Write

us

down.

And I do,
let them rain from me,
swirl, coalesce
into polyphonous patterns
painted in morphemes, syllables,
words and sentences, awakened
in the toll of my poems.

I like the rain imagery best here, Ange. I like the ark reference, but it does feel a bit out of place. If you could replace that with more rain, I think it might feel better.

Just MHO, yano!

 

[Sibilaire]

exposure

EDITED IN A REPLY BELOW (ie ignore this one kept here for my historical purposes (ie sentimental fool throws nothing away)

a place to keep my polished passion


for what reason, this obsession, this weakness?
for love
what else is there?


love scolds my angst

baby if you walk naked
do not weep for the sunburn, frostbite



You made a choice:
expose every nerve
feel every thing
leaves show their undersides
rain will come
you stand still for hours
longing for this change

turn signals match
the car we follow-
everyseven cycles
they click in synch for a moment
slowly moving apart.

this must mean something
desperate for connection
familiarty, momentary belonging


sip the sour milk
think of nothing else but the word
sour

exposed nerves feel every breeze
tone change in the hum of motor
sense the moment the homeless man
loses his shame
suddenly you have none either


the weight
of a child asleep on your chest
as he nuzzles his sweaty head
into the perfectly wonderful space
between chin and shoulder
of mother

he sighs safe
comfort
warmth
love

this weight of his body on your body
is bliss is purchased
on borrowed fortunes

you know you will pay

when you expose the nerve like this

risking ice cube shock
or aluminum spark
that will crash your system
down into hibernation

again to don the double coat of fur
eyes hide under paw
curled

he comes to you in your darkness
with lantern and gala apple,
paring knife

squinting awake
you do not protest
they do not speak

he edges the first layer of fur
and leather from your shoulder
the cold bite
reminds you
you are alive

kiss forehead
wraps you up
and leave the lantern behind
sensing the memory of the thrill
of exposure is shadowing the fear


why wake,
breaking from shroud
to return,

love
poetry



what else is there

but love and the loss
love and the lack
to remind you

kneel every day in humility
in knowing there is never enough love
to fill your emptiness

you must make your own

hear the invisible whisper

make your own
make your own
make your own

 

[Sibilaire]

Excellent suggestions. I kept trying to make that ark thing work because I like the visual, but I know what you mean. I like your suggestion--sometimes the simplest thing is just to cut. Food for thought, lol.

And yknow I had "ring" and changed it to "toll." I was afraid "ring" would sound trite but you're right--"toll" is more elegaic, too heavy for the whole parade feel of the poem.

Thank you my friend.

this is up there with that poem I can never remember the title, coffee cups at dawn? as my favorite Ange poems.

please do not touch the ark.

please

it is perfect

two by two they come
populate minds multiply
just add water
watch it bloom.

not easy to write a poem about writing, it has been done ad infinitum, but this does a wonderful job making the words into living things. if anything, take the living words image and go with that. or do nothing. it is good.