Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

We have the same soul, monkey mein. This is superb.

Maybe "the hole that years shambled through"?

Ted Berrigan has this wonderful line in some poem about the worst thing about the death of someone you love is that they move from your outer life to your inner life and you're like a blind person learning your way in a new environment when that life moves into your imagination and memory. That notion seems like the essence of your poem.

it's getting there

years is too long, i was talking more about the weeks and months following a break up, or death or whatever
where you fall into that stupor again
more immediate in a way


that's very much what it's like
it's also a rebuilding of who " you" are since you lose part of what has made you " you"
you get to a place where they " used to be' and it seems like the edge of a cliff and theres no way to get across that without " them'

I'm gonna have to read this berrigan guy
; )
is he irish?

 

[Angeline]

it's getting there

years is too long, i was talking more about the weeks and months following a break up, or death or whatever
where you fall into that stupor again
more immediate in a way


that's very much what it's like
it's also a rebuilding of who " you" are since you lose part of what has made you " you"
you get to a place where they " used to be' and it seems like the edge of a cliff and theres no way to get across that without " them'

I'm gonna have to read this berrigan guy
; )
is he irish?

Ok. I understand. Also, I'm going back to sleep for a while and I don't have the energy to argue with you. lol.

I'll send you some Berrigan. You'll lurve him, I just know it.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Fflow]

A little help

Hi all. I posted a poem recently and felt pretty good about it but, from the votes I've received, I'm obviously missing something important. I know that I tend to be wordy, and even redundant at times, so I was wondering if all yall could help me make it a bit tighter, and maybe less stinky!

Here it is!

Thanks, in advance, for your consideration!

 

[Tathagata]

She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying in circles ,headlong frantic
into panes of glass
she thinks are freedom.

She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescue hand
the hand that soothes
the hand that nourishes

I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests
feeding them, with tweezers
till they discover their wings
and fly off

They all leave
They're suppose to

each one extracts their pound of flesh
in time i'll never have again
listening to them sing
or squawk

it hurts a little to be
torn apart
piece by piece
like some relic, scattered
to the 4 corners


I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me
the others have picked me clean


and still I try
to rebuild her wings
with skeleton hands

I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window
it thrashed around in there
flying into walls and bureaus
until my father caught it
and let it go
bleeding and half crazed

maybe that's where i get it from

it didn't know about houses or transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world

maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant

 

[Tathagata]

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

it protected me
when crossing streets
and smoothed my angry 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 secretes 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 magician who fades slowly
remembered through photos
that miss the real color

 

[flyguy69]

I.
June is a womb
of promise, each day swollen
with outcomes unforeseen.

II.
And I, thinking this day a trumpet
call, leap into the morning’s breech.

And you, thinking it glad
tidings, inhale the news of columbine.

And I, thinking it a cleansing
shower, turn my face to the wash of light.

And you, thinking it a gift,
unwrap it brown about your shoulders.

And I, thinking it a song
of love, cup my ear to the grass and trees.

And you, thinking it a drop
of nectar, touch it to your tongue.

III.
The parsimony of winter passed, we invest
with pen and postage stamp in the long hours
of June. Here our time is well-spent.

 

[Tathagata]

I.
June is a womb
of promise, each day swollen
with outcomes unforeseen.

II.
And I, thinking this day a trumpet
call, leap into the morning’s breech.

And you, thinking it glad
tidings, inhale the news of columbine.

And I, thinking it a cleansing
shower, turn my face to the wash of light.

And you, thinking it a gift,
unwrap it brown about your shoulders.

And I, thinking it a song
of love, cup my ear to the grass and trees.

And you, thinking it a drop
of nectar, touch it to your tongue.

III.
The parsimony of winter passed, we invest
with pen and postage stamp in the long hours
of June. Here our time is well-spent.

Nice work

 

[flyguy69]

Nice work

Thanks, Tath

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[flyguy69]

Irrigation


He knows this body, where so many saints
have walked, its offering of corn
and beans to be placed on tongues
like a sacrament. Its bloodstream

is fed by their fingers, by the ditches
they dug to carry water again and again
from their hearts. The trenches bear
the embossed imprint of their touch,

the mud their pedigree. Ancestors
meet here when the sky is as dark
as their hands, leave at the spyglass
of dawn, meet again with the moon

to return their skin to the river. He
feels them, and no closeness
is close enough. Every day
with the sun, he takes his best shot

at forever, filling the bottomless well
of their veins. In the shadows
of the ripening fields, all his fathers
stand with a trust that is holy.

Just a thought, Pat-- if this is an Iroquois reference, the addition of squash to the offering would be meaningful: corn, beans and squash are often cited together as a holy trinity of sisters.

Also, "embossed" and "imprint" convey much of the same image to me.

 

[PatCarrington]

Just a thought, Pat-- if this is an Iroquois reference, the addition of squash to the offering would be meaningful: corn, beans and squash are often cited together as a holy trinity of sisters.

Also, "embossed" and "imprint" convey much of the same image to me.

thanks fly.

it isn't an Iroquois reference. i would be writing blind there, since i have no knowledge. it's a deep south reference, soy bean and cornfields.

you're right, of course, about the redundancy.

 

[flyguy69]

thanks fly.

it isn't an Iroquois reference. i would be writing blind there, since i have no knowledge. it's a deep south reference, soy bean and cornfields.

you're right, of course, about the redundancy.

That is remarkable. Even after you dismiss the intent, the connection is clear to me! A good example of cultural commonalities.

 

[PatCarrington]

That is remarkable. Even after you dismiss the intent, the connection is clear to me! A good example of cultural commonalities.

the dirt belongs to us all.

everyone's got to eat, and water.

 

[flyguy69]

the dirt belongs to us all.

everyone's got to eat, and water.

Remind me not to come to your house for dinner!

 

[PatCarrington]

Remind me not to come to your house for dinner!

the teeth do grind a little, but mouthwash and after-dinner mints are supplied.

 

[RhymeFairy]

the teeth do grind a little, but mouthwash and after-dinner mints are supplied.

did someone mention dessert?

count me in~

 

[Tathagata]

I never understood
The Leaving.
The whoosh of the vacuum
inside my belly, the hole that days shambled through,
the repetition of a name
like a funeral dirge in my head.

The feeling it was me,
always me,
even when I left.

Blame, like water, seeks
the lowest level.

They never announced or explained
they were just
gone.
The phone became a cruel mute,
mocking
beds were half slept in,
one cup out for coffee,
only my scent,
like an imprisoned spirit,
floating in my room,
searching.

They went to greener pastures
or holes in the ground,
that always looked deeper
than 6 feet

and cold.
It looked cold down there
and I wondered if it was better
than being with me.

I still miss the ones who left
with no goodbye
but some left
as a blessing,
and years later
I have the time
to thank them.

 

[PatCarrington]

did someone mention dessert?

count me in~

grab a fork.

welcome to the poetry board.

 

[RhymeFairy]

grab a fork.

welcome to the poetry board.

Thank You Pat~
I appreciate that...~!!!
*Big Smiles*


Now Serving~


spoons and forks
are all some need
but for me
well i like'm
on a charging
white steed

charming
sexy as sin
with a body
ya just wanna dive in(to)

come get me smile
twinkling
*to drown in* eyes
that sends ripples
right down to my thighs

wavy blonde hair
an a tight little ass
man this one
i just can not pass

a charismatic laugh
that makes your knees weak
he is the one
i shall forever seek

so give me that fork
and the spoon too
and watch me dive into
his meaty stew~

RhymeFairy~

*had to be said..*Grins*
Thanks Again Pat~

 

[RhymeFairy]

Scattered images in the sand.
Whirling into the waves.
Of the oceans heartbeat.
Washing away.

Nothing makes sense.
As the pictures fly.
So fast, furiously they run.
Washing away.

Bending over palm sticks.
Waving at their departure.
Hearing soft childish laughter.
Washing away.

'Tis sadly quiet now.
Flickering reminisces beckon.
Slipping into timeless shadows.
Washing away~

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

She compares herself
to a broken sparrow
flying in circles,headlong frantic
into panes of glass
she thinks are freedom.

She wants to be saved but
shuns the rescue hand
hand that soothes
that nourishes

I've always been Christ the bird watcher,
healing the lame,giving sight to the blind
raising chicks who've fallen from nests
feeding them, with tweezers
till they discover their wings
and fly off

They all leave
They're suppose to

each one extracts their pound of flesh,
in time i'll never recapture
listening to them sing
or squawk
while the demon of "wasting time"
prods my brain
incessantly


it hurts a little to lose yourself
piece by piece
like some relic, scattered
to the 4 corners


I look at my new bird
but there's nothing left of me
the others have picked me clean


still I try
to rebuild her wings
with skeleton hands
to recite the words
that open the skies
to call the wind home

I remember when I was young
a pheasant crashed through my bedroom window
it thrashed around in there
flying into walls and bureaus
until my father caught it
and let it go
bleeding and half crazed

maybe that's where i get it from

it didn't know about transparent walls
and wasn't looking for freedom
until it got trapped in my world

maybe i'll tell her to be a pheasant

 

[Tathagata]

What's with all the death?
they ask,
ghosts and graves and mausoleums.
You depressed,
unhappy?
Do you want to talk?
You can talk to me.

I tell them:
In old paintings there was always
something,
off in a corner
or under a table,
that represented death,
because
it is always there.
That's how I see things,
that's all.

They look at me moon faced,
blank,
as if I had just handed them a dead pigeon.

You see?
I can't talk to you
and now I've ruined paintings for you too.

Some days I just don't feel like dancing.