Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Zanzibar]

Very impressed!!

::

The ground has a tell, a deep
bedrock rumble that betrays
impending mayhem, the ripped-
earth moans of movement
at the core. Scientists lick their lips
and stare into the flushed faces
of their instruments, curl their fingers
and mop their brows.

I know their joy.

Your dilated awe reveals
the seismic slip of rapture
in the black pools of your pupils,
a wordless warning of howls
and nail-ripped sheets
to come. There is nothing

the geologist can do; buildings will fall
or stand for reasons beyond his control
and bridges will strain to grip
both trembling shores. The fires
and panic ensue in headlines
that alert the world,
but in this moment the lips

are soft, the eyes are wide,
and the earth stands still.

::

What a vivid set of images!!

I love this poem. Thanks for sharing!

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Angeline]

This is not any place I know,
these northern willywags where the road
can only pretend at civilization, smirk
though wilderness, but not really maintain

anything because the forest leans back
slightly from the shoulder, marginally
compliant, pines needle to needle
or stacked in damp matchstick piles.
The air is a miasma of green assertion,
a groundswell of something primative,

barely contained.

I am a face in the window of a flame,
climatized from the storm, singing
hey you get off a my cloud to the rain,
to dripping trees bent in whispers
on a darkening breeze. Soon Orpheus
descends on logging camps, dance halls,
houses framed in splintered gingerbread,
weak with lamps. We're just gaps
between pine teeth--
new cabins, double wides and ATVs
sunk, smothered in mud season.

Jib's Mini Mart beckons camouflage
SUV boys and old men in shirtsleeves
and suspenders. Ayuh ayuh yessir
The Rite Aid in Milo is a spaceship
that took a wrong turn at Mars, fell
straight through the open sky.

We took two wrong turns over bridges.
A wild tom and his fat hens scattered
down a hollow five miles back, left
from the ranger station. Better turn now,
there my dear, turn your eyes
to mine, shift the gear and laugh,
say you ever see anything like here?

 

[Angeline]

Version 3

This is not any place I know,
the northern willywags where the road
only pretends at civilization, smirks
though wilderness, but doesn't maintain

anything because the forest leans
back from the shoulder, marginally
compliant, pines needle to needle
or stacked in damp matchstick piles.
The air is a thick green assertion,
a groundswell of something primative,

barely contained.

I am a face in the window, a flame
climatized from the storm, singing
hey you get offa my cloud to rain,
to dripping trees bent against
a darkening breeze. Soon Orpheus
descends on logging camps and dance halls,
houses weak with lamps, with frames
of splintered gingerbread.

We're just gaps between pine teeth--
new cabins, double wides and ATVs
sunk, smothered in mud season.

Jib's Mini Mart beckons camouflage
SUV boys and old men in shirtsleeves
and suspenders. Ayuh ayuh, yessir.

The Milo Rite Aid is a spaceship.
It took a wrong turn at Mars and fell
straight through the open sky only
to land near a brokendown bait shop.

We took two wrong turns over bridges.
A wild tom and his fat hens scattered
down a hollow five miles back,
one missed left past the ranger station.

Better turn now, better turn
your eyes to mine my dear
before you laugh and shift the gear,
saying Ever see anything like here?

 

[flyguy69]

The Joy of Knowing Him

::

Julio can dance, unashamed
in a crowd of men, his ponytail
flashing midnight excitement
in a noonday sun. He is light
on water, shimmering
out of my grasp even as I embrace
his fleet shadow. His eyes promise
to leave me stained, behind, as he turns
on feet like taloned birds of prey.
I dance, too, and press him. I want
what he has: the magic, the effortless
smile, the way he dips
his shoulder and I buy it. He slips
through me like cologne, an elusive longing
that remains even after he leaves me
for other men. In a crowd he touches

the ball with his toes, a caress
to convince it there is no sweeter place
than the inside of the net and the ball buys it,
too. The arcing journey is how
the ball gives thanks for knowing him.

::

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[flyguy69]

Very nice, Pat. Here are some thoughts

QUOTE=PatCarrington]Double Features at the Stanley

It started with Westerns. Saturdays
he transported himself to the screen,
to be there what limp and stutter
would not let him be here. Beautiful

and brave. He bowed to the oohs <- do you need to tell us "beautiful and brave"?
of girls who longer tried to trick him
with a kiss, the aahs of bad boys
who forgot his bob and cackle when

they saw him throw back whiskey
like a man. Why, they’d offer him
their breasts for sure, let him skip
initiation and get right to the tattoo. <-great image!

Life had another script in mind. No
matter how fast his six-gun was,
how red the savages he slaughtered,
how bright his tin badge blazed,
the posse still rode up his ass. He
still walked wounded, spit syllables

in chunks. So the habit caught up
with the times. The sheriff rode off
in a sunset, came back modern
in a yellow cab. In that dark room, <- is this the cab interior?
taxi drivers can wear their anger
like a star. Projected on fabric, you

can be another man. At the movies <- this section doesn't add much for me.
legs level, words are not chewed up
like cons running for the wire. And
they hush when you speak to mirrors,

You talkin’ to me?

when they realize you’ve been DiNiro
all along. They love you, sit silent
as you practice for your prey. Finally
they are cornered, ready for climax.
Ready to be surprised. Ready to pay
the price for your limp and stutter. <- I'm not sure about the simultaneous emotion of "love you" and "ready to pay the price." Fear seems prevalent, here.

 

[PatCarrington]

Very nice, Pat. Here are some thoughts

QUOTE=PatCarrington]Double Features at the Stanley

It started with Westerns. Saturdays
he transported himself to the screen,
to be there what limp and stutter
would not let him be here. Beautiful

and brave. He bowed to the oohs <- do you need to tell us "beautiful and brave"?
of girls who longer tried to trick him
with a kiss, the aahs of bad boys
who forgot his bob and cackle when

they saw him throw back whiskey
like a man. Why, they’d offer him
their breasts for sure, let him skip
initiation and get right to the tattoo. <-great image!

Life had another script in mind. No
matter how fast his six-gun was,
how red the savages he slaughtered,
how bright his tin badge blazed,
the posse still rode up his ass. He
still walked wounded, spit syllables

in chunks. So the habit caught up
with the times. The sheriff rode off
in a sunset, came back modern
in a yellow cab. In that dark room, <- is this the cab interior?
taxi drivers can wear their anger
like a star. Projected on fabric, you

can be another man. At the movies <- this section doesn't add much for me.
legs level, words are not chewed up
like cons running for the wire. And
they hush when you speak to mirrors,

You talkin’ to me?

when they realize you’ve been DiNiro
all along. They love you, sit silent
as you practice for your prey. Finally
they are cornered, ready for climax.
Ready to be surprised. Ready to pay
the price for your limp and stutter. <- I'm not sure about the simultaneous emotion of "love you" and "ready to pay the price." Fear seems prevalent, here.

thanks for the thoughts, fly.

i'm not sure about any of it. it's still evolving, all twisted around in my head.

i know for sure it's far from done. there are too many contradictions, too many unnecessary phrases, and so on.

it needs work.

 

[PatCarrington]

::

The ground has a tell, a deep
bedrock rumble that betrays
impending mayhem, the ripped-
earth moans of movement
at the core. Scientists lick their lips
and stare into the flushed faces
of their instruments, curl their fingers
and mop their brows.

I know their joy.

Your dilated awe reveals
the seismic slip of rapture
in the black pools of your pupils,
a wordless warning of howls
and nail-ripped sheets
to come. There is nothing

the geologist can do; buildings will fall
or stand for reasons beyond his control
and bridges will strain to grip
both trembling shores. The fires
and panic ensue in headlines
that alert the world,
but in this moment the lips

are soft, the eyes are wide,
and the earth stands still.

::

fly,

i think the "Joy of Knowing Him" needs a lot to sparkle it up. for me, it doesn't have the pull i usually find in your stuff. it's tough to pull off i think, with a subject of limited appeal like a pick-up basketball game. comparing his grace to a dance is an excellent way to do it though. i just think it needs more originality of phrasing to pull it up.

the poem above, however, is another matter.

that first line is great! and the transition from earth to woman is smooth, technically and metaphorically. for the most part, the phrasing is very crisp...

like this:

bridges will strain to grip
both trembling shores

i think it would read better if you can move it out of future tense, get all the "wills" out of it.

"bridges strain to grip
both trembling shores"

...has the flow i think you should strive for throughout the whole piece.

it won't take much to make it tight as hell.

 

[flyguy69]

Thanks, Pat. Both of these are poems I want to do more with, so I plan to spend the time.

"Joy" was written last night after my Sunday soccer game. Julio had his way with me all afternoon! If I wasn't so damned heterosexual...

fly,

i think the "Joy of Knowing Him" needs a lot to sparkle it up. for me, it doesn't have the pull i usually find in your stuff. it's tough to pull off i think, with a subject of limited appeal like a pick-up basketball game. comparing his grace to a dance is an excellent way to do it though. i just think it needs more originality of phrasing to pull it up.

the poem above, however, is another matter.

that first line is great! and the transition from earth to woman is smooth, technically and metaphorically. for the most part, the phrasing is very crisp...

like this:

bridges will strain to grip
both trembling shores

i think it would read better if you can move it out of future tense, get all the "wills" out of it.

"bridges strain to grip
both trembling shores"

...has the flow i think you should strive for throughout the whole piece.

it won't take much to make it tight as hell.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Guest]

Can I ask you why you feel it's necessary? To me it feels a bit disjointed.

 

[PatCarrington]

Can I ask you why you feel it's necessary? To me it feels a bit disjointed.

it feels rather disjointed to me too so far.

i am not trying real hard to get rid of it though, since i'm not sure that it isn't actually helpful in some regards.

i don't feel the 3rd-to-2nd person shift is necessary. it just came off my fingers that way when i was editing.

writing in entirely in 2nd person, or entirely in 3rd, would be an easy matter. the internal shift, however, from 3rd to 2nd, is not something that is common.

so i'm just looking for opinions on whether it can work.

 

[Tathagata]

"Show me your face
before you were born"

I'll show you cavernous boot marks in snow,
endless wandering
through chilled child forests,
pine trees, laden
in Morpheus crepe
slump spellbound,
paw prints , claw marks
and jackrabbit heels,
like fingers in flour,
slashed to bare earth
where life lingered for a second.

my face was the moon,
with lead lidded eyes,
somnambulant steps
past grown up things.

asleep to the worry
asleep to the pain

lulled and beloved,
I was led toward the sun.


dread the pin sharp waking,
return, to cool tree overhangs,
searching
for dream tread paths
among polar sentries.

 

[annaswirls]

::

Julio can dance, unashamed
in a crowd of men, his ponytail
flashing midnight excitement
in a noonday sun. He is light
on water, shimmering
out of my grasp even as I embrace
his fleet shadow. His eyes promise
to leave me stained, behind, as he turns I don't understand the meaning of "behind" why it is necessary
on feet like taloned birds of prey. (I don't get the talon part, I would think taht would be a rough turn, and everything else about him seems smooth)
I dance, too, and press him. I want
what he has: the magic, the effortless
smile, the way he dips
his shoulder and I buy it. He slips (not sure what you are buying. I like how you use the same image with the ball...sweet)through me like cologne, an elusive longing
that remains even after he leaves me
for other men. In a crowd he touches

the ball with his toes, a caress (see, the talon image of toes would not work here, he might just pop that ball, or be more or a demand than a convincing)
to convince it there is no sweeter place
than the inside of the net and the ball buys it,
too. The arcing journey is how
the ball gives thanks for knowing him.

::

okay Fly, first this is hot.

I want you
to
-do something about the last line. it sounds hokey and too new agey or something, the rest of the poem is sweat and this is sugar.

-show me his muscle and what seeing it does to you, does your mind fall into some fantasy? I know mine would.

-see what happens when you change the ing words.

-keep the cologne -- god that is hot. almost like he is not there

Julio can dance,
unashamed in a crowd of men,
his ponytail flashes midnight excitement
in a noonday sun.

He is light on water, shimmers
out of my grasp even as I embrace
his fleet shadow. His eyes promise
to leave me stained.


I dance, too, and press him. I want
what he has: the magic, the effortless
smile, the way he dips
his shoulder and I buy it. He slips
through me like cologne, an elusive longing
that lingers even after he leaves me
for other men. In a crowd he touches

the ball with his toes, a caress
to convince it there is no sweeter place
than the inside of the net.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

I have become the hand
that I see now
only in photos
the one that held mine
when crossing streets
and smoothed my cowlick
with dipity do

I am the bringer of wonder
who bends the rules
to make anyday a birthday
and who secrets jelly candy
out of the air
into tiny fists

if you live long enough
you get to recreate
the good parts
instead of just
remembering them

 

[Zanzibar]

I have become the hand
that I see now
only in photos
the one that held mine
when crossing streets
and smoothed my cowlick
with dipity do

I am the bringer of wonder
who bends the rules
to make anyday a birthday
and who secrets jelly candy <--- secrets seems the opposite of what you're doing here.
out of the air
into tiny fists

if you live long enough
you get to recreate
the good parts
instead of just
remembering them

I really like this poem, especially the last strophe. It brings out one of the joys of being a grandparent (or even aunt or uncle) that makes aging almost worthwhile. I do feel secrets just seems like the wrong word. The whole "sense" of the line for me is you are making something appear out of thin air like a magician. Not sure if a different word, or adding another word to the beginning of the next line like "from".

Or was I missing the whole thrust in my initial perception, and the real act was secreting the candy into the tiny fist, whisked from empty air?

 

[flyguy69]

okay Fly, first this is hot.

I want you
to
-do something about the last line. it sounds hokey and too new agey or something, the rest of the poem is sweat and this is sugar.

-show me his muscle and what seeing it does to you, does your mind fall into some fantasy? I know mine would.

-see what happens when you change the ing words.

-keep the cologne -- god that is hot. almost like he is not there

Julio can dance,
unashamed in a crowd of men,
his ponytail flashes midnight excitement
in a noonday sun.

He is light on water, shimmers
out of my grasp even as I embrace
his fleet shadow. His eyes promise
to leave me stained.


I dance, too, and press him. I want
what he has: the magic, the effortless
smile, the way he dips
his shoulder and I buy it. He slips
through me like cologne, an elusive longing
that lingers even after he leaves me
for other men. In a crowd he touches

the ball with his toes, a caress
to convince it there is no sweeter place
than the inside of the net.

Thank you, Dancing Bananaswirls!

I like your ideas. Hopefully I can add the sparkle and keep the heat, too.

About your q's: the "behind" refers to how he leaves me-- grass-stained and behind him as he goes. The "taloned birds of prey" refers to his shoes-- soccer cleats. What I am "buying" are his feints-- a shoulder dip that convinces me he is moving left when, in fact, he is not. Later the ball "buys" his hard-toed suggestion that it would rather be in the goal. That one is a linguistic stretch, I know, and some critics will jump all over the notion of a ball wanting anything.

 

[Angeline]

i really want to know if the shift from 3rd person to 2nd person (in the 6th line, 5th strophe) works.

anyone?

yoo hoo.....ange.....how about it, princess?

Just saw this post--ok.



Double Features at the Stanley

It started with Westerns. Saturdays
he transported himself to the screen,
to be there what limp and stutter
would not let him be here. Beautiful

I know what you mean by "there," but it's awkward--what you're really saying is to be in front of the screen is to forget what he sees himself as in the real world. Might be better to cut it back "...to the screen/to what limp and stutter would not..."

and brave. He bowed to the oohs
of girls who no longer tried to trick
him with a kiss, the aahs of bad boys
who forgot his bob and cackle when

hmmm, well I'd put the boys before the girls or it's not totally clear whose breasts are being offered in the next section

they saw him throw back whiskey
like a man. Why, they’d offer him
their breasts for sure, let him skip
initiation and get right to the tattoo.

Life had another script in mind. No
matter how straight he sauntered,
how red the savages he slaughtered,
how bright his tin badge blazed,
the posse still rode up his ass. He
still walked wounded, spit syllables

the politcal correctness police may not like "how red the savages.," I know the noun and its modifier were in common use for the time the poem recalls, but you may want to rethink it

in chunks. So the habit caught up
with the times. The sheriff rode off
in a sunset, came back modern
in a yellow cab. Projected on fabric,
taxi drivers can wear their anger
like a star. In that dark room, you’ve
always been another man. And they
hush when you speak into the mirror,

not sure "came back modern" is expressive enough for what you're trying to say, and "star" is ok, but "sheriff's badge" or some such seems more precise to me

You talkin’ to me?

when they realize you’ve been DiNiro
all along. They love you and your
drama, sit breathless as you practice
for your prey. Finally you have them
cornered for climax. Ready for surprise,
they’re propped up to pay the heavy
price for your limp and stutter.

As for the pronoun shift, I think I'd prefer an "I, me my" structure because really the narrator is the protagonist--that's clear. And I know the edit was more than you asked for, but yknow...I read the the poem.

Hope it's helpful.

 

[Tathagata]

I have become the hand
that I see now
only in photos
instamatic mis-color
aging her even more

the hand that held mine
when crossing streets
and smoothed my cowlick
with spit
or dipity do

I am the bringer of wonder
who bends the rules
to make any day a birthday
and who conjures jelly candy
out of the air, and secrets it
into tiny fists

if you live long enough
you get to recreate
the good parts
instead of just
remembering them

Perhaps this is all there is
the ability to provide
the perfect world
for one moment

and then
retire
a god unblemished
remembered through photos
that never get it right

 

[PatCarrington]

Just saw this post--ok.


As for the pronoun shift, I think I'd prefer an "I, me my" structure because really the narrator is the protagonist--that's clear. And I know the edit was more than you asked for, but yknow...I read the the poem.

Hope it's helpful.

it is helpful. thanks, ange.

there are a lot of things i'm not satisfied with.

i've thought of doing it first person -- i will either do that or third -- i've decided the person shift is not useful, buy why do you say it's 'clear the narrator is the protagonist'?

there are more evolved draft, 3rd person only, above -- do you still think that?

you are always a bit help, maine.

 

[Angeline]

it is helpful. thanks, ange.

there are a lot of things i'm not satisfied with.

i've thought of doing it first person -- i will either do that or third -- i've decided the person shift is not useful, buy why do you say it's 'clear the narrator is the protagonist'?

there are more evolved draft, 3rd person only, above -- do you still think that?

you are always a bit help, maine.

I don't know why I say the narrator is the protagonist--I just felt that as I read it. Who else would you be writing about?

I think third person--given that--is too removed. I also think first person gives the poem the intimacy it really should have because it is a personal statement, seems to me.

 

[Angeline]

I have become the hand
that I see now
only in photos
instamatic mis-color
I know what you mean here; it's a good image, but I think there's a better way to say it than "miscolor"
aging her even more

the hand that held mine
when crossing streets
and smoothed my cowlick
with spit
or dipity do
don't think you need "and" before "smoothed"--it's not adding anything--and it's dippity do (I remember, lol)

I am the bringer of wonder
who bends the rules
to make any day a birthday
and who conjures jelly candy
out of the air, and secrets it
into tiny fists
why not "jelly beans"? and I agree with whover (1201?) said "secrets" is wrong; I almost want to say something like "magiks it" but too new age, huh?

if you live long enough
you get to recreate
the good parts
instead of just
remembering them

Perhaps this is all there is
the ability to provide
the perfect world
for one moment

and then
retire
a god unblemished
remembered through photos
that never get it right

not "unblemished" if the photo is miscolored? there's a better word here that would suggest a transient perfection--maybe if I have some coffee and wake up I'll figure out what it is...