PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
WickedEve said:
that is certainly possible.
what's the beef with "chop"?
is it too close to "plop"? or too far from wisdom-faced?
Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone
- Thread starter SeattleRain
- Start date
that is certainly possible.
what's the beef with "chop"?
is it too close to "plop"? or too far from wisdom-faced?
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
WickedEve said:I don't like op sounds.
Flop
Chop
Plop
Clop
Sop
Fop
Lop
I'm okay with shop and top.
well, from that list, shop and top are the best two to be okay with.
in the poem:
Sometimes, bringing them down seems
easier than climbing. I chop, only fingers
for an ax. Keys record the meager notches.
doesn't chop work well with the other "reds"?
WickedEve
save an apple, eat eve
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2001
- Posts
- 11,470
Yes, chop works with notches and all the rest. I just don't like the way the word sounds. Say, "I chop" about 6 times. Of course, not much else would work. I hew? No. Stick with chop. lolPatCarrington said:well, from that list, shop and top are the best two to be okay with.
in the poem:
Sometimes, bringing them down seems
easier than climbing. I chop, only fingers
for an ax. Keys record the meager notches.
doesn't chop work well with the other "reds"?
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
.....
Last edited:
flyguy69
Arch Angel
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2003
- Posts
- 2,661
Ceremony
Noho, come down!
Leave the moss, the high rocks
you love. See, we are sick.
Sick from loss.
Sick from theft.
Sick from the poison
in our eyes. You know us,
shambling uncle, in our foolishness
and our pride. We stand
when we should bow, we feast
when we should sow. See our ribs,
our bloody knuckles. Our medicine
is smoke that slips through fingers,
songs that tear in the breeze.
From broken knees
we cry; teach us a new ceremony
with cedar and steam. Peel this skin
of lies and heal us
in your earthen lodge.
Noho, come down!
Leave the moss, the high rocks
you love. See, we are sick.
Sick from loss.
Sick from theft.
Sick from the poison
in our eyes. You know us,
shambling uncle, in our foolishness
and our pride. We stand
when we should bow, we feast
when we should sow. See our ribs,
our bloody knuckles. Our medicine
is smoke that slips through fingers,
songs that tear in the breeze.
From broken knees
we cry; teach us a new ceremony
with cedar and steam. Peel this skin
of lies and heal us
in your earthen lodge.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,174
Poet Chick
was accused of being egocentric when I first submitted it here. But gosh what poems aren't? I like it and I thought it deserved a good sprucing. Not sure if I achieved it though.
Original Version
Poet Chick floats in clouds
hair streaming over cape,
gold lame dahling, tie-dyed bodysuit,
big soul eyes full of world, words,
hands cupped for writing.
Power of vision, satori power,
cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases
to a single word, faster
than a speeding simile,
strong resolve, x-ray empathy.
Poet Chick flies to Earth,
crisis-bound, phrases flipping,
flopping through her veins
like a cauldren bubbling poem soup,
a melting pot of remembrance,
imagination salted with remorse,
yearning, peppered with expectation.
Words fall from her fingers,
scales from her eyes, yes,
maybe yours, too. You remember
the look in your mother's eyes
when she smiled, the taste
of fresh-plucked honeysuckle,
sipped from a bitten flower,
or your chin yellow
over the cast of a buttercup
on a near forgotten summer morning
when Sun played with the breeze
on your bare arms.
Revised Version
Poet Chick dives through the clouds
in a gold lamé cape, her hair streams
and she has big soul eyes
full of the world and words.
Her fingers shoot stars into constellations.
Power of vision, satori power, cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases to a single word, x-ray knowing,
faster than a speeding simile, empathic.
Poet Chick races Earthward,
phrases flip-flopping through her veins.
She's a cauldren bubbling muse,
a melting pot of remembrance
and imagination peppered with remorse,
spiced with yearning and expectation.
Words fall from her lips,
scales from your eyes. You remember
the twist of your mother's smile,
the taste of fresh-plucked honeysuckle
sipped from a bitten flower, or your chin
yellow with the cast of that buttercup
from some near-forgotten summer morning
when the Sun played with the breeze
on your bare arms.
was accused of being egocentric when I first submitted it here. But gosh what poems aren't? I like it and I thought it deserved a good sprucing. Not sure if I achieved it though.
Original Version
Poet Chick floats in clouds
hair streaming over cape,
gold lame dahling, tie-dyed bodysuit,
big soul eyes full of world, words,
hands cupped for writing.
Power of vision, satori power,
cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases
to a single word, faster
than a speeding simile,
strong resolve, x-ray empathy.
Poet Chick flies to Earth,
crisis-bound, phrases flipping,
flopping through her veins
like a cauldren bubbling poem soup,
a melting pot of remembrance,
imagination salted with remorse,
yearning, peppered with expectation.
Words fall from her fingers,
scales from her eyes, yes,
maybe yours, too. You remember
the look in your mother's eyes
when she smiled, the taste
of fresh-plucked honeysuckle,
sipped from a bitten flower,
or your chin yellow
over the cast of a buttercup
on a near forgotten summer morning
when Sun played with the breeze
on your bare arms.
Revised Version
Poet Chick dives through the clouds
in a gold lamé cape, her hair streams
and she has big soul eyes
full of the world and words.
Her fingers shoot stars into constellations.
Power of vision, satori power, cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases to a single word, x-ray knowing,
faster than a speeding simile, empathic.
Poet Chick races Earthward,
phrases flip-flopping through her veins.
She's a cauldren bubbling muse,
a melting pot of remembrance
and imagination peppered with remorse,
spiced with yearning and expectation.
Words fall from her lips,
scales from your eyes. You remember
the twist of your mother's smile,
the taste of fresh-plucked honeysuckle
sipped from a bitten flower, or your chin
yellow with the cast of that buttercup
from some near-forgotten summer morning
when the Sun played with the breeze
on your bare arms.
Last edited:
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Outlander
Outlander
I found two heart shaped stones
on the banks of a nameless creek.
I was not raised among these grasses.
They slice invisible lines
that will swell and itch
as we try to sleep tonight.
No one warned us of their poison,
or pulled the root that would kill the pain.
Stories of the family who worked this lime kiln,
how their life was both tragic
and blessed remain untold.
This is new land.
The only stories I have to pass
are the ones I invent.
Maybe their youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall.
No one thought he would pull through
but your Uncle Johnny drove the team in blinding snow
old Sport led the way with his sniffer
all the way down to the farmhouse.
Maybe that boy became a writer
who told tales of the days the furnace
burned the white smoke that stings eyes,
or passing train cars
and hobo carvings in the woods.
Look, there is his grandson.
He brings the young intern
back to these familiar banks.
They test the water's pH, rate of flow,
right here at this concrete station.
Scrapes on her elbows reveal
hidden stream-side kisses.
Maybe she is a cousin on your father's side.
But she is not.
I do not know the family
who farmed this land
that still watches over our borrowed creek.
Its secrets pass silently through the public park
where I bring my children.
The children of the auslander.
if we stay here long enough, maybe my kids will tell their children of how their grandmother wrote poetry while they threw rocks into this creek, and how she invented stories about the people who used to live in these deserted stone houses.....
mmm maybe that is the angle I should come from on This poem....hmmm
My mother did not know
the family who farmed the lands
that watch over our borrowed creek.
Instead she invented their history
in books of poetry written
as we threw rocks into the water
that passes through the public park.....
any thoughts?
Outlander
I found two heart shaped stones
on the banks of a nameless creek.
I was not raised among these grasses.
They slice invisible lines
that will swell and itch
as we try to sleep tonight.
No one warned us of their poison,
or pulled the root that would kill the pain.
Stories of the family who worked this lime kiln,
how their life was both tragic
and blessed remain untold.
This is new land.
The only stories I have to pass
are the ones I invent.
Maybe their youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall.
No one thought he would pull through
but your Uncle Johnny drove the team in blinding snow
old Sport led the way with his sniffer
all the way down to the farmhouse.
Maybe that boy became a writer
who told tales of the days the furnace
burned the white smoke that stings eyes,
or passing train cars
and hobo carvings in the woods.
Look, there is his grandson.
He brings the young intern
back to these familiar banks.
They test the water's pH, rate of flow,
right here at this concrete station.
Scrapes on her elbows reveal
hidden stream-side kisses.
Maybe she is a cousin on your father's side.
But she is not.
I do not know the family
who farmed this land
that still watches over our borrowed creek.
Its secrets pass silently through the public park
where I bring my children.
The children of the auslander.
if we stay here long enough, maybe my kids will tell their children of how their grandmother wrote poetry while they threw rocks into this creek, and how she invented stories about the people who used to live in these deserted stone houses.....
mmm maybe that is the angle I should come from on This poem....hmmm
My mother did not know
the family who farmed the lands
that watch over our borrowed creek.
Instead she invented their history
in books of poetry written
as we threw rocks into the water
that passes through the public park.....
any thoughts?
Last edited:
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
Angeline said:
I like the revised version.
I can feel how much you want to say..I do the same thing and end up with 15 verses of wonderful imagery that goes nowhere but looks pretty
the revised version says all the important things and does it in a very compact readable way.
and i know you'll still redo it because you're so anal about this stuff
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,174
Tathagata said:I like the revised version.
I can feel how much you want to say..I do the same thing and end up with 15 verses of wonderful imagery that goes nowhere but looks pretty
the revised version says all the important things and does it in a very compact readable way.
and i know you'll still redo it because you're so anal about this stuff
I will not. Ok, I might--but I think I'll submit it somewhere quick before I get edit fever again.
Thank you T.
green lights
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2004
- Posts
- 30
living with sand
polishing far to go if anywhere
his singular aim
of laser sharp brain
focuses on one thing
this one thing
I crumble under the weight
of this one
thing
is singularity possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way
there and blown
no silicon glue
to fasten in stone
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
I will tell them we met
dinner conversation is always made more lively
with grit between teeth
to grind down the pain of the plural state
from the low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding fork tongued devil
himself
has got me clawing at the door of hipprocacy
you too have seen that entryway
sure enough got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging entry
I
swear
I
did
not
mean
any harm
paint it red maybe it will pass us by again
until then
you sleep on your side
and I will sleep on mine
my love
my one lone rock
pressed deep into a life of sand
polishing far to go if anywhere
his singular aim
of laser sharp brain
focuses on one thing
this one thing
I crumble under the weight
of this one
thing
is singularity possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way
there and blown
no silicon glue
to fasten in stone
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
I will tell them we met
dinner conversation is always made more lively
with grit between teeth
to grind down the pain of the plural state
from the low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding fork tongued devil
himself
has got me clawing at the door of hipprocacy
you too have seen that entryway
sure enough got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging entry
I
swear
I
did
not
mean
any harm
paint it red maybe it will pass us by again
until then
you sleep on your side
and I will sleep on mine
my love
my one lone rock
pressed deep into a life of sand
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Lime Kiln revision
okay changed the point of view, next up, verb tense!
none of this editing crap comes easy to me at all
My mother found two heart shaped rocks
on the banks of this creek. She holds them
heavy in her hand when the words won't come.
She was not raised among these grasses
that sliced invisible lines across our legs
and was surprised as we were when night
brought the painful swell and sting.
No one warned us of their poison,
or named the flower and its root that
would cure the pain.
No one passed the secrets of
their mother and her mother before her
back to the days of the Revolution.
This was a new land.
She did not know the family
who once burned lime in the kiln
that watches over our borrowed river.
In black leather books of poetry
she reinvented history to include us
as we threw rocks into the creek
that passed through the public park.
Maybe their youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall
once white wash bright and lined
with Nana's favorite begonias.
No one thought he would pull through
but your Uncle John drove the team
in blinding snow, while old Sport
led the way with his sniffer
all the way down to the farmhouse.
Maybe that boy became a writer
who told tales of the days
when the furnace burned white smoke
that stung eyes, and whose powder
sweetened the land.
Maybe his great grandson still brings
pretty interns back to these familiar banks,
testing pH and rate of flow of this nameless river
here at the hardened concrete station.
Maybe his latest girl is a cousin on your father's side.
But she is not. We never
worked the land that still watches over
our borrowed creek.
Its secrets pass silently through this park
where she brought us to play.
The children of the auslander.
okay changed the point of view, next up, verb tense!
none of this editing crap comes easy to me at all My mother found two heart shaped rocks
on the banks of this creek. She holds them
heavy in her hand when the words won't come.
She was not raised among these grasses
that sliced invisible lines across our legs
and was surprised as we were when night
brought the painful swell and sting.
No one warned us of their poison,
or named the flower and its root that
would cure the pain.
No one passed the secrets of
their mother and her mother before her
back to the days of the Revolution.
This was a new land.
She did not know the family
who once burned lime in the kiln
that watches over our borrowed river.
In black leather books of poetry
she reinvented history to include us
as we threw rocks into the creek
that passed through the public park.
Maybe their youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall
once white wash bright and lined
with Nana's favorite begonias.
No one thought he would pull through
but your Uncle John drove the team
in blinding snow, while old Sport
led the way with his sniffer
all the way down to the farmhouse.
Maybe that boy became a writer
who told tales of the days
when the furnace burned white smoke
that stung eyes, and whose powder
sweetened the land.
Maybe his great grandson still brings
pretty interns back to these familiar banks,
testing pH and rate of flow of this nameless river
here at the hardened concrete station.
Maybe his latest girl is a cousin on your father's side.
But she is not. We never
worked the land that still watches over
our borrowed creek.
Its secrets pass silently through this park
where she brought us to play.
The children of the auslander.
Tathagata
Lazarus Monkey
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2004
- Posts
- 24,721
green lights said:
I really like most of this...a bit scattered but I like the style and some of the word play..I would rethink " fork tongued devil"...it's the one thing that seems too cliché' for this piece.
But..
it's certainly worth working on.
just my opinion
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,174
Uncle Davey had a dry cleaner's
near Columbus Circle.
Models, he said
all the beautiful girls
bring their clothes by me,
which sounds perverted,
but Davey was sweet
with a loopy grin, outrageous politics,
waving his hands and The Times Book Review,
raving and laughing with Daddy.
Outside Lewisburg,
on a hillside far away
from the picnic he lay down
on the grass and smiled at me,
fluttered the Book Review
over his face and slept.
A smile is almost a memory--
the Oak Room where I drank
my first Campari and soda.
Davey's liver-spotted hands shook a little
when he handed me the glass,
but he used to stride with such grace
as if set to some fascinating rhythm
playing private in his head,
Rhapsodic piano rolls,
Gershwin and Uncle Davey
ebbing with the tide.
near Columbus Circle.
Models, he said
all the beautiful girls
bring their clothes by me,
which sounds perverted,
but Davey was sweet
with a loopy grin, outrageous politics,
waving his hands and The Times Book Review,
raving and laughing with Daddy.
Outside Lewisburg,
on a hillside far away
from the picnic he lay down
on the grass and smiled at me,
fluttered the Book Review
over his face and slept.
A smile is almost a memory--
the Oak Room where I drank
my first Campari and soda.
Davey's liver-spotted hands shook a little
when he handed me the glass,
but he used to stride with such grace
as if set to some fascinating rhythm
playing private in his head,
Rhapsodic piano rolls,
Gershwin and Uncle Davey
ebbing with the tide.
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Outlander -finished
My mother found two heart shaped rocks
on the banks of this creek. She holds them
heavy in her hand when the words won't come.
She was not raised among these grasses
that sliced invisible lines across our legs
No one warned us of their poison
that would sting or swell
or pulled the root
that oozed the cure.
This was a new land.
She did not know the family
who burned lime in this kiln
that watches over our borrowed river.
In leather books of poetry
she reinvented history to include us
as we threw rocks
into the nameless creek.
How Uncle John drove the team
and old Sport's sniffer led the way
through blinding blizzard
after the youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall,
once white wash bright and lined
with Nana's favorite begonias.
The boy grew and told everyone
of the stone and mortar furnace
how its white smoke stung eyes
powder sweetened the land.
His great grandson brings
pony-tail interns to test pH and
rate of flow, elbows
scraped on concrete platform
under the press of counted kisses.
Maybe his latest girl is a cousin
on your father's side.
But she is not.
We never worked this land.
We never owned this land.
Its secrets passed as we played.
Children of the auslander.
My mother found two heart shaped rocks
on the banks of this creek. She holds them
heavy in her hand when the words won't come.
She was not raised among these grasses
that sliced invisible lines across our legs
No one warned us of their poison
that would sting or swell
or pulled the root
that oozed the cure.
This was a new land.
She did not know the family
who burned lime in this kiln
that watches over our borrowed river.
In leather books of poetry
she reinvented history to include us
as we threw rocks
into the nameless creek.
How Uncle John drove the team
and old Sport's sniffer led the way
through blinding blizzard
after the youngest son fell
from this crumbled retaining wall,
once white wash bright and lined
with Nana's favorite begonias.
The boy grew and told everyone
of the stone and mortar furnace
how its white smoke stung eyes
powder sweetened the land.
His great grandson brings
pony-tail interns to test pH and
rate of flow, elbows
scraped on concrete platform
under the press of counted kisses.
Maybe his latest girl is a cousin
on your father's side.
But she is not.
We never worked this land.
We never owned this land.
Its secrets passed as we played.
Children of the auslander.
green lights
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2004
- Posts
- 30
Tathagata said:I really like most of this...a bit scattered but I like the style and some of the word play..I would rethink " fork tongued devil"...it's the one thing that seems too cliché' for this piece.
But..
it's certainly worth working on.
just my opinion
Thank you Tathagata. You are right about the fork tongued devil. And it has to be scattered, this bothers me too, but scattered is the point. I will see what I can do to make it scattered but also making its point.
his singular aim
of laser sharp brain
focuses on one thing
this one thing
but I crumble
under the weight of one
lie naked on my bed of nails
each point holds its piece
suspended
is singularity even possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way there and blown
no quick-lime glue
to fasten the stone?
dusted down for fingerprints
we are played like a borrowed piano
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
yes, of course!
I will tell them we met
dinner conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth
to grind down the pain
of our plural state
while that low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding slit-eyed devil
himself
has got me clawing at the door of hipprocacy
you too have seen that entryway
sure as salt you got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging passage
I
swear
I
did
not
mean
any harm
paint it red baby
maybe it will pass over again
until then
you sleep on your side
and I will sleep on mine
my love
my one
lone rock
pressed deep into the wife of sand
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,174
I think this is very good as revised. It makes sense as a cohesive piece of writing now and you've got some great strong images in it. It conveys anger and disillusionment in a measured way.
It still needs punctuation, especially periods between sections--the first and second sections especially are hard to read without a period at the end of the first. The one other thing that caught me is "Madagascar and Bulgaria." I think you need a more realistic example because those two countries aren't really against each other, are they?
All in all, great job revising imo.
It still needs punctuation, especially periods between sections--the first and second sections especially are hard to read without a period at the end of the first. The one other thing that caught me is "Madagascar and Bulgaria." I think you need a more realistic example because those two countries aren't really against each other, are they?
All in all, great job revising imo.
green lights said:
PatCarrington
fingering the buttons
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2004
- Posts
- 1,624
1st draft
.....
.....
Last edited:
green lights
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2004
- Posts
- 30
Angeline said:I think this is very good as revised. It makes sense as a cohesive piece of writing now and you've got some great strong images in it. It conveys anger and disillusionment in a measured way.
It still needs punctuation, especially periods between sections--the first and second sections especially are hard to read without a period at the end of the first. The one other thing that caught me is "Madagascar and Bulgaria." I think you need a more realistic example because those two countries aren't really against each other, are they?
All in all, great job revising imo.
Thank you Angeline for reading and giving your feedback. I will punctuate. Madagascar and Bulgaria were the first furthest away places I thought of. I know it doesn't make sense. I think it is like a neurotic nervous hiccup in the middle of the poem.
Thanks again.
gl
green lights
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2004
- Posts
- 30
Tathagata said:
I like this much more
i like what you added and it is still " random" but it makes more sense.
Good job
Thank you!
green lights
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2004
- Posts
- 30
His singular aim
focuses on one thing
his one thing
But I crumble
under the weight of one
I must lie naked on a bed of nails
weight distributed over the many
Is singularity even possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way there and blown
without quick-lime glue
to fasten the stone?
Dusted down for fingerprints
it is apparent,
I have been played
like a borrowed piano
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
Yes, of course!
I will tell him we met
Conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth to grind down
the pain of our plural state
While that low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding slit-eyed devil
himself
has got me clawing at the door of hypocracy
Friend, you too have seen that entryway
sure as salt you got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging passage
Don't deny it, you too beg this prayer.
I
swear
I
do
not
mean
any harm
Forgive me I swear baby it is not you. You are the many glorious nails upon which I rest, but never enough. Never enough to hold this weight. You would pierce right through me, I would sink right through.
I paint it red
maybe the curse will pass us over again
My love
my lone rock
pressed deep into this life of sand
focuses on one thing
his one thing
But I crumble
under the weight of one
I must lie naked on a bed of nails
weight distributed over the many
Is singularity even possible
for one shattered and scattered
this way that way there and blown
without quick-lime glue
to fasten the stone?
Dusted down for fingerprints
it is apparent,
I have been played
like a borrowed piano
Madagascar and
Bulgaria barely speak to each other
Yes, of course!
I will tell him we met
Conversation is always more lively
with grit between teeth to grind down
the pain of our plural state
While that low down belly riding sand smooooothed
side winding slit-eyed devil
himself
has got me clawing at the door of hypocracy
Friend, you too have seen that entryway
sure as salt you got your claw marks scratched
down that metal knocker begging passage
Don't deny it, you too beg this prayer.
I
swear
I
do
not
mean
any harm
Forgive me I swear baby it is not you. You are the many glorious nails upon which I rest, but never enough. Never enough to hold this weight. You would pierce right through me, I would sink right through.
I paint it red
maybe the curse will pass us over again
My love
my lone rock
pressed deep into this life of sand
Last edited:
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