Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Syndra Lynn]

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

There is so much good stuff in here, my Goddess! You real poets amaze me!

The sour milk stanza leaves me unsure. Is the love sour?

he sighs safe
comfort
warmth
love

This is almost not needed, since the bits before and after encompass these feelings so beautifully.

I wish to write so well.

 

[Angeline]

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.

Thank you, S. Coming from one of your talent, the praise humbles me. I will think about the ark.

I saw your poem in the passion thread and thought it astonishingly good. There's a lot there, and I'm winding down toward sleep. I'll look at it more carefully tomorrow morning.

 

[Sibilaire]

exposure revision (aka pick a pronoun damn it)

next step, punctuation and line breaks


for what reason, this possession,
this weakness?

for love, for poetry,
what else is there?


love scolds my angst

baby if you walk naked
do not weep for the sunburn or frostbite
bite and burn always promise to collect their toll


You made a choice:
expose every nerve
notice every thing

leaves show their undersides
rain will come
you stand still for hours
longing for this change

orange flash of our turn signals
matches the car we follow-
everysevencycles
they click
in synch
for a moment
slowly moving apart
then back
in synch
again


this must mean something
white knuckled and desperate for a connection
familiarty, momentary belonging
we march
in step
in step
in stepin step in
step in step
in step
in step
in step


today I watch you sip the sour milk
until you own the sensation
and earn the right to speak it's name
sour

exposed nerves feel every breeze,
each tone change in the hum of motor

you feel the exact moment
the homeless man loses his shame
so deeply that your lose your own.

you hold hands, hold eyes
until pockets are equally
empty and full of change
remember
his
name


open--
you feel the weight of the child
who sleeps heavy on your chest
breath slows as he nuzzles his sweaty head
into the perfectly comfortable space
between chin and shoulder of mother

remember, this weight is bliss
purchased on the borrowed fortunes
of love suffered, exposed

paid with ice cube shock
or the aluminum spark
that crashes your system
down into hibernation

again to don the double coat of fur
eyes hidden under paw
curled, protected

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

squinting,
you do not protest
he does not speak

instead, he edges the first layer
of tanned leather from your shoulder
inviting the cold bite to remind you
baby, you are alive

before tucking you back in
with a kiss on your forehead,
he senses the memory of exposure's thrill
as it begins to shadow your fear of pain

he always leaves his lantern behind

why wake,
breaking from shroud
to return, naked
vulnerable

love
poetry

what else is there
besides love and the loss,
love and the lack
to remind you,

kneel every day in humility
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]

There is so much good stuff in here, my Goddess! You real poets amaze me!

The sour milk stanza leaves me unsure. Is the love sour?

I had trouble with that too, it came out and I thought I understood why. I think I fixed it. Being exposed means feeling everything and wanting to feel everything, experience everything, even the milk that has gone sour. (like the milk under a baby's chin as he sleeps after suckling wah I miss breastfeeding)

This is almost not needed, since the bits before and after encompass these feelings so beautifully.

thank you, you are so right in this, I cut it snip snip

I wish to write so well.

pshaw you have to know you do, don't you know that?

thank you for these comments, it inspired me, along with Ange's comments to work more on this one. it feels so amorphous and disconnected, I hope I pulled it together more.

- and thanks to you too Ange. Your quote yesterday reminded me of what I was really trying to say and helped me to format my scattered thoughts.

can't wait to see what you do with your ark!

hope it doesn't take forty days

thanks again, I was considering giving up on this one.

~S

 

[Syndra Lynn]

pshaw you have to know you do, don't you know that?

~S

I don't write real poems, just life truths and happy thoughts with pretty words.

Syn

 

[Tathagata]

I am a rumor,
a ghost.
I exist without benefit
of being seen.
I'm passed back and forth
in closeted conversations
and wondered about
during the
in between
moments.

Awaited with a curious fear
a vacation on an isle from
childhood books
but you still remember reading
" cannibal"


Ordinary things
cause me to flash
into the real world,
your world,
and just as suddenly
I fade to black,
scene change,
and my stage becomes shadow.

I'm a knick knack in the attic
that you mean to take downstairs
every time,
but are comforted knowing
I'm still up there,
somewhere.

 

[Tathagata]

She.

It's always a she isn't it?
Who bids the world dance,
blades to bloody, poets to write
and babes to cling
to 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.

A climbing trance
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 hellish moan.

 

[Angeline]

Flyby Edit

She.

It's always a she isn't it?
Who bids the world dance no comma here, I think
blades to bloody, poets to write
and babes to cling how about "babes to suckle/words" it clarifies the meaning
to 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 maybe, "but it can be attempted"
in two.

A climbing trance
you feel each platform a summit suggest: trance,/each platform a summit'
and then grrr ellipsis marks
higher still.

The journey
becomes
the joy.

To have it drawn away, what's the referent for "it"? "journey"? how is a journey "drawn away"? Maybe something like "The journey drains to its ending/takes 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 midnight, don't think you need "s" here
but I wish my heart deaf
to that hellish moan.

************************

Mornin T.

 

[Tathagata]

She.

It's always a she isn't it?
Who bids the world dance no comma here, I think
blades to bloody, poets to write
and babes to cling how about "babes to suckle/words" it clarifies the meaning
to 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 maybe, "but it can be attempted"
in two.

A climbing trance
you feel each platform a summit suggest: trance,/each platform a summit'
and then grrr ellipsis marks
higher still.

The journey
becomes
the joy.

To have it drawn away, what's the referent for "it"? "journey"? how is a journey "drawn away"? Maybe something like "The journey drains to its ending/takes 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 midnight, don't think you need "s" here
but I wish my heart deaf
to that hellish moan.

************************

Mornin T.

don't DO this to me...I'm almost done
LOL
I had suckle, I had gurgle, I had smile..
cling is closer in feeling to what I want
that baby " hangs on" all those noises from the mother.


the second verse stays
that was the first one i felt was right
lol


"each platform a summit" eliminated the objectivity and human mistake of it all
you " feel" its a summit and yet you still go higher
does that make sense?

I have t shirts that say I love elipsis...

drawn away is the woman, the joy, the understanding itself
its about losing a lover in many senses, but importantly losing someone who understands you


is midnight's the plural of midnight?
or does saying I dread midnight mean you dread them all?


Good morning professor

 

[Angeline]

Yes, the punctuation is sort of halfway there, but I'm not sure how far you want to go with it because the breaks and spacing almost work better in many places than traditional punctuation would. I'm really not sure which is better for your poem. If you overdo it, it seems like it limits the flow which is a real strength of the piece.

The only other "overall" comment I have is something I get angst over in a lot of my poems. The second-person voice ("you") is a comfortable remove from "I." I write a lot of pieces in second person, then feel as if I'm trying to hide that I really mean me, not some faceless "you." Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Food for thought.

Nitpicks follow.



PS--it's really really good.
************************


for what reason, this possession,
this weakness?

for love, for poetry,
what else is there?


love scolds my angst

baby if you walk naked, see comma
do not weep for the sunburn or frostbite and here either a comma or a period
bite and burn always promise to collect their toll


You made a choice:
expose every nerve, see comma
notice every thing

leaves show their undersides
rain will come
you stand still for hours
longing for this change

orange flash of our turn signals
matches the car we follow-
everysevencycles
they click
in synch
for a moment
slowly moving apart I think you need something like "then" here--"then slowly moving..." to clarify that the the synch is broken and begins again
then back
in synch
again and here, I think "again" is redundant since you've already clarified that it's cyclical


this must mean something
white-knuckled and desperate for a connection [color]see hyphen[/color]
familiarty, momentary belonging
we march
in step
in step
in stepin step in
step in step
in step
in step
in step


today I watch you sip the sour milk
until you own the sensation
and earn the right to speak it's name: see colon
sour

exposed nerves feel every breeze,
each tone change in the hum of motor

you feel the exact moment
the homeless man loses his shame
so deeply that your lose your own. "deeply" doesn't exactly work for me--maybe "completely" or "fully"?

you hold hands, hold eyes
until pockets are equally
empty and full of change
remember
his
name


open--
you feel the weight of the child
who sleeps heavy on your chest
breath slows as he nuzzles his sweaty head
into the perfectly comfortable space
between chin and shoulder of mother

remember, this weight is bliss
purchased on the borrowed fortunes
of love suffered, exposed

paid with ice cube shock
or the aluminum spark
that crashes your system
down into hibernation

again to don the double coat of fur
eyes hidden under paw curled, what do you think of this line break change? I like the image it creates
protected

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

squinting,
you do not protest
he does not speak

instead, he edges the first layer
of tanned leather from your shoulder
inviting the cold bite to remind you
baby, you are alive

before tucking you back in
with a kiss on your forehead,
he senses the memory of exposure's thrill
as it begins to shadow your fear of pain

he always leaves his lantern behind

why wake,
breaking from shroud
to return, naked
vulnerable

love
poetry

what else is there
besides love and the loss,
love and the lack
to remind you,

kneel every day in humility
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

 

[Angeline]

don't DO this to me...I'm almost done
LOL
I had suckle, I had gurgle, I had smile..
cling is closer in feeling to what I want
that baby " hangs on" all those noises from the mother.


the second verse stays
that was the first one i felt was right
lol


"each platform a summit" eliminated the objectivity and human mistake of it all
you " feel" its a summit and yet you still go higher
does that make sense?

I have t shirts that say I love elipsis...

drawn away is the woman, the joy, the understanding itself
its about losing a lover in many senses, but importantly losing someone who understands you


is midnight's the plural of midnight?
or does saying I dread midnight mean you dread them all?


Good morning professor

It's all good if the reader understands it, no? "Babes" can mean babies or hot women. I'm just trying to help you clarify it. And I don't care if you have ten tshirts--I still hate ellipsis marks; can't you use a dash? I realized after I submitted my review that you were referring to "joy," not "journey," so ok. And I think singular "midnight" implies "any/every' night.

Namaste' cherie.

 

[Sibilaire]

just some experimentation with punctuation

Ange, thanks- I am lost with the pronouns too. I keep changing them. I do so many 1st person poems, I wanted to try a you poem, but it is hard for me to keep track. I am trying to have an internal conversation here, between love (who is always right) and reality. Speaking both voices makes it difficult to pick a pronoun.

And the punctuation, to make it right, makes it feel overly done. I am going to experiment.

Thank you for the suggestions~
S
punctuation:

for what reason, this possession,
this weakness?

for love, for poetry,
what else is there?


love scolds my angst

do not weep for the sunburn or frostbite.
you learned long ago,
if you walk naked through the wild,
bite and burn always return to collect their toll.


You made a choice:
expose every nerve,
notice every thing.

leaves show their undersides
rain will come
you stand still for hours
longing for this change

orange flash of our turn signal
matches the car we follow-
everysevencycles
they click
in synch
for a moment
then gradually move apart
then back
in synch

this must mean something
white-knuckled and desperate for a connection
familiarty, momentary belonging
we march
in step
in step
in stepin step in
step in step
in step
in step
in step


today I watch you sip the sour milk
until you own the sensation
and earn the right to speak it's name:
sour

exposed nerves feel every breeze,
each tone change in the hum of motor.

you feel the exact moment
the homeless man loses his shame
so deeply that it is your loss.

you hold hands, hold eyes
until pockets are equally
empty and full of change
remember
his
name


open--
you feel the weight of the child
who sleeps heavy on your chest
breath slows as he nuzzles his sweaty head
into the perfectly comfortable space
between chin and shoulder of mother.

remember, this weight is bliss
purchased on the borrowed fortunes
of love suffered, exposed

paid with ice cube shock
or the aluminum spark
that crashes your system
down into hibernation.

again to don the double coat of fur
eyes hidden under paw curled,
protected

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

squinting,
you do not protest
he does not speak

instead, he edges the first layer
of tanned leather from your shoulder
inviting the cold bite to remind you
baby, you are alive

before tucking you back in
with a kiss on your forehead,
he senses the memory of exposure's thrill
as it begins to shadow your fear of pain.

he always leaves his lantern behind.

why wake,
breaking from shroud
to return, naked
vulnerable?

love,
poetry

what else is there
besides love and the loss,
love and the lack
to remind you,

kneel every day in humility
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




no punctuation:



For what reason
this possession
this weakness

Love and poetry
What else is there


Love scolds my angst

Do not weep from the sunburn or frostbite
We learned long ago
when you walk naked
bite and burn always
return to collect their toll


You made a choice
expose every nerve
notice every thing

Leaves show their undersides
rain will come
you stand still for hours
longing for this change

Orange flash of our turn signal
falls in rhythm of the car we follow
everysevencycles
they click
in synch
for a moment
then gradually move apart
then back
in synch

this must mean something
white-knuckled desperation for a connection
familiarty
momentary belonging
we march
in step
in step
in stepin step in
step in step
in step
in step
in step


Today I watch you sip the sour milk
until you own the sensation
and earn the right to speak it's name


exposed nerves feel every breeze,
each tone change in the hum of motor.

You feel the exact moment
the homeless man loses his shame
and now it is yours too

You hold hands, hold eyes
until pockets are equally
empty and full of change

remember
his
name


feel the weight of the child
who sleeps heavy on your chest
head nuzzled into the perfectly comfortable space
between chin and shoulder of mother.

remember
this weight is bliss
purchased on the borrowed fortunes
of loves suffering

paid with ice cold shock
and aluminum spark
that crashes your system
down into hibernation

Don the double coat of fur
with eyes hidden under paw curled
protected

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

squinting
you do not protest
he does not speak

instead he edges the first layer
of tanned leather from your shoulder
inviting the cold bite to remind you
baby you are alive
before tucking you back in

Kiss on your forehead
senses the memory of exposure's thrill
as it begins to shadow your fear of pain

He always leaves his lantern behind

why wake
breaking from shroud
to return naked
vulnerable

love
poetry

what else is there
besides love and the loss
love and the lack
to remind you

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



you must make your own

Open
it evaporates and spills
scatters like seeds
under the feeder
and on broken soil

make your own
make your own
make your own

 

[echoes_s]

rewrite of "deep"

as it was brought to my attention kindly, I was a bit sketchy and scattered in the first couple stanzas, as I nervously rushed this uhmm, poem out.

deep

to become entrenched in you,
warm musk scent, soft heat,
my face ensconced
in faded soap,
sheathed skin,
mind moaning raw deep.

Need saturates mind,
alteration from appeal
to abandoned tendency
beyond thought
just please…just anything;
to taste a wavered feel

My tongue traces grooves
wresting wayward moans
as you grab my hair tight
to pull my head more frantic
than anticipation
barely controlled

you remember…

watching you swell,
harden firm with length
sliding so sweet and rigid
to the back of my throat,
and with deliberate hesitation
a smiling small tease

Knowing…

It is tight now, with a touch of force
a sudden thrust downwards
and my neck pulses
as it stretches, loosing a
exhaled rumbled groan
of appreciation

Fluttered tongue of hunger,
suckling reflex,
swallowed squeezed affection
I can’t breathe like that
but god…
you feel so damned good.

?

 

[flyguy69]

Mud, take two

That summer was warm mud,
an easy flow of weeks and cousins
that slid into swimming holes
and browned under a wide-eyed sun.
Heat dripped from our skin and caked
on plates of jam sandwiches
horsebacked to a shade tree.
We meandered plans for gooseberry wine
and twisted cigarettes of willow, risked our bellies
for adulthood's strong taste.
We peeled away youth
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 a classmate’s claim;

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

Dirt flaked from our shaking trunks
at that one. Cicadas passed along
Aunt Connie’s call; 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.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[WickedEve]

always knew god was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and guenter rose.
he just flung a soul
into that baby,

giving us branches
our granpappy--
a new cry in winter
that soon wailed

into bullwhip rose,
god's guenter
under a confederate sky,
lashing shuffalongs in white fields.

brothers marched north.
brothers marched south.
they marched past guenter,
a shadow in caves,

blue ridge hidey-holes
miles from fields of unpicked clouds,

fields now waiting for sons,
sons waiting for papa's swinging arm.
texas took those sons,
and years later:

"horses rocked us toward that bless you place.
i bumped along on the bed
in chaw-splattered church-white.

i was hush like raw cotton,
unpicked in the sun.

i suppose other wagons came
just so he could bullwhip them aside."

old whip curls like a rattler's memory
in my grandma rose's lap.
she speaks of digging dirt,
a small grave to return it
to ready hands.

 

[WickedEve]

The Elders

Wonderful poem, but why did you choose liver-spotted?

 

[PatCarrington]

Wonderful poem, but why did you choose liver-spotted?

(hey, song of the south....you posted this at 3 am?!?....don't you sleep any more?)

i used liver-spotted to signify their advanced age.

do you think it doesn't work?....too jarring, maybe?

ok, i give up on the accent, miss virginia....

tetched=touched....guenter=???

 

[WickedEve]

(hey, song of the south....you posted this at 3 am?!?....don't you sleep any more?)

i used liver-spotted to signify their advanced age.

do you think it doesn't work?....too jarring, maybe?

ok, i give up on the accent, miss virginia....

tetched=touched....guenter=???

I'm so bad. I stole the name guenter rose from some guy I had to ship some african art to. No, I didn't sleep much last night. Yes, I know it's to signify their advanced age, but I hate it in this poem. Last night, I tried to think of some alternatives. Wisdom-faced was the best I came up with.

 

[PatCarrington]

I'm so bad. I stole the name guenter rose from some guy I had to ship some african art to. No, I didn't sleep much last night. Yes, I know it's to signify their advanced age, but I hate it in this poem. Last night, I tried to think of some alternatives. Wisdom-faced was the best I came up with.

wisdom-faced?? i don't like liver-spotted there either, but widsom-faced?......they both sound like 3 o'clock-in-the-morning-and-i-can't-think-anymore adjectives.

i'll come up with something, sweet virginia.

i agree that your poem above has great potential....i still don't understand "guenter", though.

 

[WickedEve]

wisdom-faced?? i don't like liver-spotted there either, but widsom-faced?......they both sound like 3 o'clock-in-the-morning-and-i-can't-think-anymore adjectives.

i'll come up with something, sweet virginia.

i agree that your poem above has great potential....i still don't understand "guenter", though.

wisdom-faced bites but liver-spotted spews.
I told you. It's some guy's name (spelled that way) and I like it. My great, great, etc, great grandpappy was a slave overseer by the name of Richard. Boring. Guenter! And he bullwhipped slaves, family, neighbors... He was just a little dickens, he was.

 

[champagne1982]

wisdom-faced?? i don't like liver-spotted there either, but widsom-faced?......they both sound like 3 o'clock-in-the-morning-and-i-can't-think-anymore adjectives.

i'll come up with something, sweet virginia.

i agree that your poem above has great potential....i still don't understand "guenter", though.

wisened-haired crones... ?

 

[PatCarrington]

wisened-haired crones... ?

thanks for the suggestion, champ.

i think i'll try an unhyphenated adjective, or small phrase. all of these adjectives suddenly feel too much like reaches to me, for a casual poem about simple people.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[WickedEve]

well, i certainly can have a word that spews in there.

is this better, southern siren?

Long before dawn, the abuelas
with eyes bright as Spanish song
baked jeweled king’s bread though
Christmas was worlds away. They
spit-polished blue Talavera plates,
overflowed them with huevos y chorizo
and heavy grapefruits halved. Wet,
and as pink as sunup over High Sierra.

Yes, I am content now.
Now, tell me what you don't like or get about poor guenter? The spelling? The sound of the name? And what do you think is the main thing that needs work in the poem? Cutting out some unnecessary words? Making things clearer?