Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

Some mornings I awake with my hair on fire,
and the words
rising,
bunched ,
a fist in my heart,
and I ,
like a mad hatter
try and find the time
to get them
all
down
or at least
exhume some skeletal representation
for viewing and consecration later.

Once the rite is preformed I can go on,
turning my mind to
the pursuit of meaningless things,
each meaningless day,
feeding the monkey,
feeding the monkey.

a Zen zookeeper who
rubs away worrystones
convinced it's his ego.

Other days I get up
to an empty mirror
and feel nothing at all,

and I haven't decided which is worse.

 

[Angeline]

This is a treasure! I love the third stanza, you little narrative cauldron, you. (Oh, spellcheck on cauldron!)

Syn

Thank you Syn! I think it's better now, too. We're all Poet Chick, yknow? (Well except Tath...he's Poet Monkey).

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Some mornings I awake with my hair on fire,
and the words
rising,
bunched ,
a fist in my heart,
and I ,
like a mad hatter
try and find the time
to get them
all
down
or at least
exhume some skeletal representation
for viewing and consecration later.

Once the rite is preformed I can go on,
turning my mind to
the pursuit of meaningless things,
each meaningless day,
feeding the monkey,
feeding the monkey.

a Zen zookeeper who
rubs away worrystones
convinced it's his ego.

Other days I get up
to an empty mirror
and feel nothing at all,

and I haven't decided which is worse.

This is so you! and so me... and so true!

Love the picture.

Syn

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Syndra Lynn]

added more details

Too drunk to fly

I

my words swirled
as if in a toilet
like so much vomit
and just as valuable

dizzy, wicked this way
i ran along forked
path with splintered
tongue

can’t find me now!

swimming so far, gone
along the reef
of lies, self hatred
spit!
upon the mirror
i dared not look
on wretched soul

i found a stone
to support my dead weight,
let myself go slack,
comfortable in his arms
offering little,
nothing
in return

i wore the stone smooth
with constant wallowing
tossing, fidgeting, angry
bursts
of misdirected energy
until my rut
was inescapable


II

one day a Higher Power reached
down, pulled me to my feet
and dusted me off.
She reminded me of my worth,
told me my value came from ancient
indisputable truths.

She told me to take one step,
then another, until i remembered
to walk. She looked at my stone,
Her gift to me, razed, wrecked and worn,
and smiled. “Repair it with love.
Show gratitude for his support.
That’s all it needs.”
i did as i was told, and soon saw
my stone was pure gold.


III

God handed me my voice
and a pen.
I sprouted wings.

 

[flyguy69]

I don't know how many is too many, Pat, but i confess this one seems like it needs work to me!

The "sex as hog slop" metaphor doesn't work for me-- I see the desperation in her appetite but it is too, well, sloppy for me. I kept expecting it to be erotic, but couldn't get past those flapping jowls, the small eyes, the springy little tails! The last stanza, too, seems to wander from its erotic edge. You are very consistent in your imagery (pork and meat carving), but the thought of her absentmindedly butchering her fingernail doesn't add anything to the poem for me.

I like the first three stanzas very much.

Just my thoughts.

The Morning Extra


Tired in a Texas kitchen,
she brews coffee, fries pork.
The proper housewife,
she breathes deep
and puts her print on morning,
dons an apron as bright
as the flowered curtains,
teases her red hair like sunfire.

The newspaper waits by crispy bacon,
done to his taste, for her man to rise
and eat and head to hungry pigs
and the stories of dawn, to meal
and blade that supply tomorrow’s
table in circular repeat.

Last night too there were headlines.
Editorials not meant for his eyes,
bias he would not understand,
back page fillers
from a northern press.
And meat, raw.

Spread open on motel sheets
like the evening extra, she took
supper from a stranger.
He read her like old news,
fed her like her husband’s hogs
who eat everything slung at them.
Devour it like a last meal, fast
and crazy, faces buried in mud.

She’s back where she belongs, but
a bit distracted as she scans obituaries,
a little displaced as she slices ham.
And not at all surprised when she
takes off a sliver of her fingertip.
Knives are wayward today, carve
a story all their own.


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

i think i am now officially working on too many poems at once to be any good to any of them any longer.

 

[Angeline]

Too drunk to fly

I

my words swirled
as if in a toilet
like so much vomit
and just as valuable

dizzy, wicked this way
i ran along forked
path with splintered
tongue

can’t find me now!

swimming so far, gone
along the reef
of lies, self hatred
spit!
upon the mirror
i dared not look
on wretched soul

i found a stone
to support my dead weight,
let myself go slack,
comfortable in his arms
offering little,
nothing
in return

i wore the stone smooth
with constant wallowing
tossing, fidgeting, angry
bursts
of misdirected energy
until my rut
was inescapable


II

one day a Higher Power reached
down, pulled me to my feet
and dusted me off.
She reminded me of my worth,
told me my value came from ancient
indisputable truths.

She told me to take one step,
then another, until i remembered
to walk. She looked at my stone,
Her gift to me, razed, wrecked and worn,
and smiled. “Repair it with love.
Show gratitude for his support.
That’s all it needs.”
i did as i was told, and soon saw
my stone was pure gold.


III

God handed me my voice
and a pen.
I sprouted wings.

Syn, this is just beautiful imo. It's straightforward and yet it's deceptively simple because you have all these wonderful wordplays and juxtapositions in it, like this

forked
path with splintered
tongue

and this

i found a stone
to support my dead weight,
let myself go slack,
comfortable in his arms

And the ending is really strong.

The only question I have is the use of the possessive pronoun "his." It works very well in the first reference that I quoted above, but here

Show gratitude for his support.

I think I understand what you mean, but wonder if another line would clarify what it is about the thing you thought would drag you down that turned out to be what supported you.

Does that make sense?

Anyway, it's wonderful. Really it is.

 

[PatCarrington]

I don't know how many is too many, Pat, but i confess this one seems like it needs work to me!

The "sex as hog slop" metaphor doesn't work for me-- I see the desperation in her appetite but it is too, well, sloppy for me. I kept expecting it to be erotic, but couldn't get past those flapping jowls, the small eyes, the springy little tails! The last stanza, too, seems to wander from its erotic edge. You are very consistent in your imagery (pork and meat carving), but the thought of her absentmindedly butchering her fingernail doesn't add anything to the poem for me.

I like the first three stanzas very much.

Just my thoughts.

i tend to agree with you.

i spun this one out quick.

i was trying to set up contrast.....crisp meat from raw.....restraint from abandon......proper from sloppy..........home from hotel.....concentration from distraction

the possibilities are there i think.

when i get it right, the "sloppiness" will still be there. otherwise, the contrasts are pointless.

that's for the impressions, fly.

 

[Angeline]

High Climber

Mediocrity creaks like uneven linoleum.
Lives gather neglect like dust. If you never
move beyond, all your green expanse is no more
than hollow blades and the lawn needs mowing.

All our gardens droop weedy gray in time,
stems bent by sameness, traced in dew
too dry to recall what sparkled once,
resigned to pale light like thin ghosts of sun.

Some lives go on forever dead.

I’d rather see the tree line from the climber’s vantage,
shimmy up all your limbs to reach the roof of risk
where green is held aloft, steadied by brown, blue above

like freedom.

Above all, the trick is knowing how to fall,
hearing music in the whoosh of letting go,
arching to wind. Above all the trick is curving arms,
falling with open hands, with fingers branching,
dancing in midair.

 

[PatCarrington]

........I kept expecting it to be erotic....

just saw this, fly.

the poem is not meant to be erotic, in any way. there is sex, but the mere presence of sex should not denote that.

if it felt that way, one of us missed the mark. either the writing led you to believe that, which would make it flawed since it was unintended, or you made the assumption incorrectly.

it's my job to figure out which.

 

[Angeline]

The Morning Extra


Tired in a Texas kitchen,
she brews coffee, fries pork.
The proper housewife,
she breathes deep
and puts her print on morning,
dons an apron as bright
as the flowered curtains,
teases her red hair like sunfire.

The newspaper waits by crispy bacon,
done to his taste, for her man to rise
and eat and head to hungry pigs
and the stories of dawn, to meal
and blade that supply tomorrow’s
table in circular repeat.

Last night too there were headlines.
Editorials not meant for his eyes,
bias he would not understand,
back page fillers
from a northern press.
And meat, raw.

Spread open on motel sheets
like the evening extra, she took
supper from a stranger.
He read her like old news,
fed her like her husband’s hogs
who eat everything slung at them.
Devour it like a last meal, fast
and crazy, faces buried in mud.

She’s back where she belongs, but
a bit distracted as she scans obituaries,
a little displaced as she slices ham.
And not at all surprised when she
takes off a sliver of her fingertip.
Knives are wayward today, carve
a story all their own.


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

i think i am now officially working on too many poems at once to be any good to any of them any longer.

Don't sweat it about how good it is. It is good because you're a good writer. I find it hard though to imagine this woman going out for sex at a motel. She's so drab. I mean anybody can find somebody to go to a motel with, probably without looking too hard, but maybe she needs to seem a little angrier with her life. Going out for a meaningless encounter isn't a passive act, is it? I wouldn't know. My last meaningless encounter was with a conga player a really long time ago, lol.

And I don't like her slicing her finger off. It's too dramatic. I think if you ended on this line:

a little displaced as she slices ham.

it would be much stronger. Just my opinion, of course. If you want to be O Henry, other people will probably love it. I wrote a poem once where a woman stuck her hands in boiling broccoli. Don't ask.

 

[PatCarrington]

High Climber

Mediocrity creaks like uneven linoleum.
Lives gather neglect like dust. If you never
move beyond, all your green expanse is no more
than hollow blades and the lawn needs mowing.

All our gardens droop weedy gray in time,
stems bent by sameness, traced in dew
too dry to recall what sparkled once,
resigned to pale light like thin ghosts of sun.

Some lives go on forever dead.

I’d rather see the tree line from the climber’s vantage,
shimmy up all your limbs to reach the roof of risk
where green is held aloft, steadied by brown, blue above

like freedom.

Above all, the trick is knowing how to fall,
hearing music in the whoosh of letting go,
arching to wind. Above all the trick is curving arms,
falling with open hands, with fingers branching,
dancing in midair.

if you ask me, this beats "poet chick" black and blue.

i think it's a far better poem.

....congo players.....boiling broccoli........

i need you to tell me about those things.

 

[Angeline]

if you ask me, this beats "poet chick" black and blue.

i think it's a far better poem.

....congo players.....boiling broccoli........

i need you to tell me about those things.

If your woman had some superpowers she'd be outta that kitchen in a New York minute.

Well, the conga player had nothing to do with the broccoli. He was pretty cute. The broccoli was just broccoli.

 

[PatCarrington]

If your woman had some superpowers she'd be outta that kitchen in a New York minute.

Well, the conga player had nothing to do with the broccoli. He was pretty cute. The broccoli was just broccoli.

put up an av with your cape and chest emblem.

boiling broccoli is just boiling broccoli, until one sticks their hands into the water. that changes the chemistry a bit.

 

[Angeline]

put up an av with your cape and chest emblem.

boiling broccoli is just boiling broccoli, until one sticks their hands into the water. that changes the chemistry a bit.

I think I have one. I'll see if I can find it.

Do you like High Climber? Should I submit it somewhere?

 

[PatCarrington]

Do you like High Climber? Should I submit it somewhere?

very, very much.

yes, without a doubt.

 

[Angeline]

We won't be doing that reading together.
I could still take your photo,
prop it up on a stool and read your poems,
but now I can't call you then say
to the audience, assuming there is one,
that this is my goofy friend who lives in a fog
in Wisconsin. He's a poet, too.

They would have laughed, I know it.
I'd have been very charming, said say hello
to him and everyone would shout

Hello Douglas

and I would imagine you at the end of the line
with a bag of microwave popcorn you dug up
or a pizza, sitting curled to the telephone
wailing like the loon you were.

I can imagine that and Andre draped on the rug,
relaxed but balefully aware of the night
and noise, but mostly the pizza.
I can imagine that because I have to
or you don't even exist, and no one
who continues to whisper at me
and makes me giggle and write the way
you insist I must could be nonexistant.

Have you met the other ghosts?
They're a friendly lot. They'll listen
to your poems anytime because they see
how I loved you, so they do, too.
You'll like them. They're very cooperative
that way and sometimes they play jazz.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

High Climber

Mediocrity creaks like uneven linoleum.
Lives gather neglect like dust. If you never
move beyond, all your green expanse is no more
than hollow blades and the lawn needs mowing.

Lives gather neglect
like dust. If you never
....


I kept trying to read it as "neglect-like" dust. I wonder if the line break helps clarify?

Above all, the trick is knowing how to fall,
hearing music in the whoosh of letting go,
arching to wind. Above all the trick is curving arms,
falling with open hands, with fingers branching,
dancing in midair.

This is thick with resonance and I love it!

Very good piece!

Thanks for your kind words on "Too drunk"~ very helpful.

Syn

 

[Tathagata]

Mortality is close today.
My nose to the air
and wait.
Yes, close.

Inspiration or a dagger

Guess which hand?
fear is a motivator,
and a joke
so depending on my reaction
I write or laugh.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Syndra Lynn]

The Morning Extra


Tired in a Texas kitchen,
she alters routine. Brews
coffee first, then fries pork.
Again a proper housewife,
she breathes deep and puts
her standard print on morning,
dons an apron as bright
as the flowered curtains,
teases her red hair like sunfire.

The newspaper waits by crispy bacon,
done to his taste, for her man to rise
and eat and head to hungry pigs
and the stories of dawn, to meal
and blade that supply tomorrow’s
table in circular repeat.

Last night too there were headlines.
Editorials not meant for his eyes,
bias he would not understand,
back page fillers
from a northern press.
And meat, raw.

Spread open on hotel sheets
like the evening extra, hungry,
she begged for supper.
He read her like old news, fed her
just the way her script demanded.
Like her husband’s hogs
she ate everything slung at her.
Devoured it like a last meal, fast
and crazy, face buried and stained.

She’s back where she belongs, but
distracted as she scans obituaries,
a bit displaced slicing ham. And
not surprised, really, when she
nips off a tiny sliver of her fingertip.
Knives are wayward today, change
the lines and whorls. They carve
a new print all their own.

This is glorious. I rolled through it several times like a comfortable memory. I did not understand the 6th line until I read the fourth stanza. i may just need more coffee, or you may have intended it that way. The last 2 stanzas are velvet alphabet tied in silk ribbons. Smooth.

My only hesitation is "just the way her script demanded." I know you can write this line better. It felt like snagging my toe on a rug.

and whorls? I don't think whorls fits. Unless it's the lack of coffee thing again.

Smiles!

Syn

 

[PatCarrington]

This is glorious. I rolled through it several times like a comfortable memory. I did not understand the 6th line until I read the fourth stanza. i may just need more coffee, or you may have intended it that way. The last 2 stanzas are velvet alphabet tied in silk ribbons. Smooth.

My only hesitation is "just the way her script demanded." I know you can write this line better. It felt like snagging my toe on a rug.

and whorls? I don't think whorls fits. Unless it's the lack of coffee thing again.

Smiles!

Syn

thanks, syndra.

i think this is a marked improvement from the first version. i erred in that one by trying to be TOO subtle. no one picked up the fingerprint reference (the sixth line connected to the last stanza) in the earlier draft. i meant it to be there, but it just wasn't clear as it is here. nor did anyone pick up the double meaning of the word "print" as both fingerprint and newspaper print.

i mean script as body language, aka the letters and words he gets as he "reads her like old news" -- i'm sure that line can be improved as you suggest.

whorls is the exact word i want there. it is Webster-defined as : any of the circular ridges that form the design of a fingertip.

thanks for the impressions....and you know i love that av.

 

[BooMerengue]

Pat? I'm an instant gratification freak, so in 25 words or less, can you teach me to write like you? Please???

 

[Syndra Lynn]

thanks, syndra.

whorls is the exact word i want there. it is Webster-defined as : any of the circular ridges that form the design of a fingertip.

thanks for the impressions....and you know i love that av.

OH! See, now it makes perfect sense! Of course, I've had two more cups.

You know I love you loving my av.

Syn

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Mortality is close today.
My nose to the air
and wait.
Yes, close.

Inspiration or a dagger

Guess which hand?
fear is a motivator,
and a joke
so depending on my reaction
I write or laugh.

This is perfect!

Syn