Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[twelveoone]

alot of crap goes on in this thread

thought I'd add some of my own

 

[Tathagata]

yo!yo!yo!
wassup bro? turn the comments off?
these the only people that count?
no comments, no vote
it would have been a five
even though
I would have questioned this
"my face was the moon,
with lead lidded eyes,
somnambulant steps"
I got my ass reemed
for a poem about dreams
for useing words like this:
somnambulant
by a better man than you or I
I pulled the poem

I had the comments on
I don't know why it's off

I'm trying to reset it but the server isn't cooperating


I liked the word
and you can only get reamed if you bend over

 

[twelveoone]

I had the comments on
I don't know why it's off

I'm trying to reset it but the server isn't cooperating


I liked the word
and you can only get reamed if you bend over

I'm like you, I walk on my knuckles - sem-bent
I'll go vote(5)- had my say
best thing I read today

besides the thing I just wrote

 

[Angeline]

They don't leave.
You feel them a room away
or even closer. They stand
in ice clouds by the refrigerator,
misty in the mundane kitchen.

Just today she sat in that chair
in a waiting room. Then she turned.
Her hair was still thick and streaky with dye
on that other woman's head.

I'm linear, a means
being swept toward an end,
but they're in every dimension.
All their smiles and tears and rages
are elbow to elbow in my personal space.

It's a good thing I love them
because sometimes their chatter
is an unending breath of memory
whirling our past around me like wind.
It leaves my feet cold and I feel empty
spaces in my palms more clearly, but keep
my hands open. I like the weight
of them there, so I don't let go.

One grand night the ghosts came out
in silvery green auras to play hopscotch
on the porous bones of my recollection.
They tossed themselves across me.
They threw pebbles like thunder.
Even the numbers spoke to me.

Two and cabbage roses appeared
on the carpet. I watched the floor
and listened to their voices. We hopped
to six and I rolled through the Lincoln Tunnel
past midtown, west to the Hayden Planetarium.
They were already there, whispering
my name from the painted stars.

We know who you are.
Remember. Remember.

 

[Tathagata]

They thought me mad
because when we moved
I opened a ginger jar and told Dave
he was welcome to come with us to the new house.

He came

He sat there and drank beer with me
sometimes half his head was gone
and I wouldn't look

at night he'd lead me to a house in the woods
I knew there was blood on the walls in there
and I'd awake
wet
angry
and empty

I told him he was a ghost
ask asked if he was getting any
spirit poom poom
and lit a Lucky
and told him I loved him

a year too late

I have no fear of the dead
Indeed i welcome them
and a part of me longs
to embrace their stilted arms
and sink below this realm
of pity
into the comfort
of harmonious
nothing

 

[Angeline]

i was suggesting a pairing of temperment

Is this what you thought I was pissed about? lol. I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe I should be. What exactly is a mustard-seed temperment anyway? Ok, now I'm pissed.

 

[PatCarrington]

1st revision

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Absolutely the first, without doubt in my mind at least.

My father taught me about trains and hobos
and the walls of the stone crusher
and wildflowers by the creek-- that place he never mows.

I have some comments on this poem-- I am terribly late for work and have yet to shower the stickiness of night time from my skin

Why I’ll Tell My Daughters About Trains

or

Dead Man's Float


(which title is better, helpers????)



There are tricks everyone needs
to know. And I believe
in the magic of minor inconvenience,
of patience. I wouldn’t be here
to pass on the sleights
if my father hadn’t used up
a whole perfect summer day,
laughing off my protests,
to teach me the dead man’s float.
To teach me there’s more to it
than buoyancy. It’s a frame of mind
making swells a cushion, becoming
one with the water. I know,

and they’ll know, that the dead
still have something to teach
about living, that they talk
from the dirt because you can’t
bury words. Tell them about hobos,
he said and says now
from the ground
as I leave him the lilacs
he taught me to grow. Tell them
what they were searching for
riding the rails. Make them hear
a harmonica whine like steel
and cry like the lost. They need
to know that rebirth is never
one too many towns away.
Make them understand why

they wouldn’t pay the fare, why
salvation must not be priced.
Teach them how high to pile
someone else’s trash
so freedom grinds to a halt
long enough for you to climb
aboard. And how to grease
the tracks, to find their way
to a soft kiss at midnight.
To keep looking for kindness
until it sneaks inside and holds
your head up like the sea.

 

[PatCarrington]

Absolutely the first, without doubt in my mind at least.

My father taught me about trains and hobos
and the walls of the stone crusher
and wildflowers by the creek-- that place he never mows.

I have some comments on this poem-- I am terribly late for work and have yet to shower the stickiness of night time from my skin

thanks, anna (that's what i think too)

please do get back to this to comment when you have time.

 

[flyguy69]

Growth Spurt (draft 2)

I watch him grow
tall at first base, stretching
for throws overhead. Muscles
flex as his eye times
the future, the shy smile
in the stands. He claps his glove,
grins on spread legs-- "C'mon,"
he yells, "bring the heat!"

 

[annaswirls]

Why I’ll Tell My Daughters About Trains






There are tricks everyone needs
to know. <excellent starting line-- the pre-answer answer- it is like a teaser, and even if someone only reads one line of the poem, they will walk away with a smile and a good think...And I believe
in the magic of minor inconvenience,
of patience. I wouldn’t be here
to pass on the sleights
if my father hadn’t used up
a whole perfect summer day,
laughing off my protests, <not sure this (protests) is needed-- the "used up" gives the feel without itto teach me the dead man’s float.
To teach me there’s more to it
than buoyancy. It’s a frame of mind
making swells a cushion,<you had something different in the passion thread, didn't you? I wonder how many learn the dead man's float in the pool and would be thrown by this line, it limits the reader to take in his or her own experience. is it necessary that it be in the ocean? becoming
one with the water. <you can say this differently, with Yoga/Zen/ etc being so pop-culture, this being one is cool and I know what you mean but it makes me cringe I know,

and they’ll know, that the dead
still have something to teach
about living, that they talk
from the dirt because you can’t
bury words. <shivers Tell them about hobos,
he said and says now
from the ground
as I leave him the lilacs
he taught me to grow. Tell them
what they were searching for
riding the rails. Make them hear
a harmonica whine like steel
and cry like the lost. They need
to know that rebirth is never
one too many towns away.
Make them understand why

they wouldn’t pay the fare, why
salvation must not be priced.<more shivers this whole part alllll shiverlicious
Teach them how high to pile
someone else’s trash
so freedom grinds to a halt
long enough for you to climb
aboard. And how to grease
the tracks, to find their way
to a soft kiss at midnight.
To keep looking for kindness
until it sneaks inside and holds
your head up like the sea. This ending is full of good stuff, but it felt like tag ons, (?) not as strong as the other train references... kind of like over-kneaded dough. I think if you put it in the oven at my last shiver mmm it would rise perfectly... well you know, I you would have to dust on some flour for good measure, or sesame seeds hmm. You know what you are doing... and know I don't mean just cut it off.


I like this. Much. I am not so sure you need the dead man's float, it is almost like it could be the basis of a whole new poem. The train part is strong and rich enough on its own. Just an idea, of course.

okay Mister Carrington, thanks for putting this out there for something to think about and enjoy!

~anna

 

[Tathagata]

She talks that "fuck daddy" talk
viscous hip back and forth
like a cobra head
mesmerizing
jaws, chewing gum, slow
rolling my resistance around, across her teeth
blowing me
popping me
pink
against her lips

smug smile as if
she controls it all
she cooks her finger and i crawl
i wiggle mine
and she comes
willingly
amazed at her own
supplication

fuck slut daddy talk
and still
when I take her hard her eyes
gasp
and open
letting me see
the exchange
of lust
for comfort

 

[PatCarrington]

Why I’ll Tell My Daughters About Trains






There are tricks everyone needs
to know. <excellent starting line-- the pre-answer answer- it is like a teaser, and even if someone only reads one line of the poem, they will walk away with a smile and a good think...And I believe
in the magic of minor inconvenience,
of patience. I wouldn’t be here
to pass on the sleights
if my father hadn’t used up
a whole perfect summer day,
laughing off my protests, <not sure this (protests) is needed-- the "used up" gives the feel without itto teach me the dead man’s float.
To teach me there’s more to it
than buoyancy. It’s a frame of mind
making swells a cushion,<you had something different in the passion thread, didn't you? I wonder how many learn the dead man's float in the pool and would be thrown by this line, it limits the reader to take in his or her own experience. is it necessary that it be in the ocean? becoming
one with the water. <you can say this differently, with Yoga/Zen/ etc being so pop-culture, this being one is cool and I know what you mean but it makes me cringe I know,

and they’ll know, that the dead
still have something to teach
about living, that they talk
from the dirt because you can’t
bury words. <shivers Tell them about hobos,
he said and says now
from the ground
as I leave him the lilacs
he taught me to grow. Tell them
what they were searching for
riding the rails. Make them hear
a harmonica whine like steel
and cry like the lost. They need
to know that rebirth is never
one too many towns away.
Make them understand why

they wouldn’t pay the fare, why
salvation must not be priced.<more shivers this whole part alllll shiverlicious
Teach them how high to pile
someone else’s trash
so freedom grinds to a halt
long enough for you to climb
aboard. And how to grease
the tracks, to find their way
to a soft kiss at midnight.
To keep looking for kindness
until it sneaks inside and holds
your head up like the sea. This ending is full of good stuff, but it felt like tag ons, (?) not as strong as the other train references... kind of like over-kneaded dough. I think if you put it in the oven at my last shiver mmm it would rise perfectly... well you know, I you would have to dust on some flour for good measure, or sesame seeds hmm. You know what you are doing... and know I don't mean just cut it off.


I like this. Much. I am not so sure you need the dead man's float, it is almost like it could be the basis of a whole new poem. The train part is strong and rich enough on its own. Just an idea, of course.

okay Mister Carrington, thanks for putting this out there for something to think about and enjoy!

~anna

anna - thank you so much. these thoughts are extremely helpful.

and i agree totally with most of them.

"laughed off my protests" is not what i'm looking for -- i was trying to match up with "the magic of patience", but 'laughed' gives it the wrong feel.

i don't think the ocean learning would throw anyone off, but "becoming one with water" just sucks. it is so contrived. when i read its zen/pop silliness, it makes me cringe too. i don't know what i was thinking. it needs to be replaced or eliminated.

i see what you mean about the possibility of two poems. i was trying to make the connection between the 2 (which obviously still needs work), to make the 'dead man's float' have further implications than just survival at sea, but almost a philosophy of life. and also give it the double meaning, since the teacher is now dead, yet still teaching, still 'holding' the offspring of his offspring "up".

i appreciate your help and sharp mind.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Dead Man's Float

she said to me
you always pick the wrong title
giving to the dead what belongs
to the living.

surely they speak through dirt
through ether, through troposphere, stratosphere,
fresh with the scent of lightning new ozone...
you see the bottoms of the leaves lift
when they speak.

they whisper and their lessons
bubble up from the sediment that settles
when the winds from the west slow
leaving the waters to rest

you have traded motion for paralysis
solitary survival for progress
this life!
this life!
this life is why
I teach my daughters about trains

 

[annaswirls]

-this is a passion type thing I did last week, not edited....want to put it here to remind myself that it exists, until I determine if that matters or not


Marigold seeds and roses dipped in wax,
speckled shells and feathers;
the lady displays these remnants
beside swirled glass marbles.

Once flicked by schoolboy thumbs
she rolls them under fingertips
awakening the days of softness-

skin firm with the fullness of youth
raw eggs cracked from shells
nasturtium that colors her mouth.

~

The fat heads of tadpoles wriggle their way
in between the crevasses of rose painted toes.
She holds her breath in restraint as
their tails whip fervently, propelling their way
into what feels like home.

Sister, do not move from this tickle
enjoy the unbearable bliss that comes only
when you are still
when life touches life

and waits.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

love dismisses questions and warms dead bones
it answers lone echoes in the night and wonders aloud over tea
love wraps salient bandages over scarred minds

smiles through the onslaught
it bleeds forgiveness over its assailants
and lies unperturbed among thorns and razor tongues

love bows it's head in reverent winter
and dances unabashed in spring

love carves like water and embraces like fog
patient as stones
arranged in rows
love knows
love waits
love is

 

[Angeline]

love dismisses questions and warms dead bones
it answers lone echoes in the night and wonders aloud over tea
love wraps salient bandages over scarred minds

smiles through the onslaught
it bleeds forgiveness over its assailants
and lies unperturbed among thorns and razor tongues

love bows it's head in reverent winter
and dances unabashed in spring

love carves like water and embraces like fog
patient as stones
arranged in rows
love knows
love waits
love is

I love this poem.

"salient bandages over scarred minds" is excellent, as is "lies unperturbed among thorns and razor tongues"

 

[Angeline]

Naked Fruit

Grandma could denude an apple
in one long ribbon. I’d watch the knife
flash, turn circles until the peel dropped
in a fragrant coil and her wrinkled hand
offered a Macoun, a Gala, a Sweet Delicious.
I tasted whole orchards in that pale flesh.

I use a plastic hook to undress oranges
segment by segment, peel and pith
until I part the lobes, lick off the drops
and savor the crown, gently tart within.

Cantaloupe, muskmelon, honeydew
are best scooped into submission,
slices pressed to teeth so the juice runs
back over my tongue, my throat.
I’m intense with flavor, colored brilliant
like summer. Mama said don’t swallow
the seeds, they’ll grow in your belly,
so I imagined pregnant women round,
swollen with little melons inside them.

Strawberries look like bitten mouths.
Bananas are just an embarrassment.
I want to slide my mouth over them
but I’m embarrassed, self-conscious
about my silly inner thoughts. What
if someone saw right into my head,
knew my lewd amusement, heard me
thinking, trying to make you sweat?

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

stop writing so many goddamn good poems Carrington! You are making me feel lazy.



Don't you have a beach to comb?
I don't even know what that means.

I am going to the sprinklers and I am not going to write any poems.

harumph!




I love the last few you have written, passion one two up was it? damn can't remember. but keep writing, I know I am a lazy ass.