Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

I have loosed yet another paper lantern
out among uncertain currents
aqueous right angles
pulse and eddy
one thinks of chocolate
and hears infant burbles
as rice paper
glides on waterbug feet
father away Was it your intent to send your father or was it a serendipitious typo? The near homonym with farther and the fact that you're setting another soul free here, makes me think you've lost your dad.

wedding veil fragile
its flame bobbing craning looking back to watch me become
one with the darkness
void of light again


merged with night
no water is seen
nylon rasp of reeds hush me
as i wonder aloud
why i bother

some where downstream
amazed eyes watch
a hundred flames parade by
with no explanation
tears don't burn and so
they laugh Maybe, instead of "they" you could refer to those at the shore as others or something different.
and speulate what wonderful things are going on Would telling us about the grief in your loss here make the poem communicate your opening better? "and speculate what grief (feeling) moves me"
up on the mountain


I wish I had read this before I caught ang's edit. I'd be able to tell you if I understood what you were saying in the beginning. But, I am familiar with paper laterns and the fact that it's a happy festival that sends them afloat, so the laughter doesn't seem out of place in your ending.

Thanks, Tath, you've earned your place on metaphor lane yet again.

Thanks champ
father was a typo
i tend to write early in the morning before my brain starts looking around at things
i have holes in my brain ( dont ask) where words get jumbled up
like know for no etc
and when i run the spell check it passes
dumb spell check


perhaps "and speculate why their is celebration up on the mountain?"

i'll work on it
thank you again

 

[Tathagata]

Slut.

Do you know who Jimmy MacDonald is/was? I saw a rerun of his (1960s?) talk show on the one Canuckian station we get on tv here, and it struck me that Dan Ackroyd took his newsman schtick from him.

Sorry Tathala. I know it's a hijack, but it's been bugging me about this MacDonald guy.

darkmaas? you would know. i have no comment as to why.

lay off the nyquil princess

 

[Angeline]

lay off the nyquil princess

Oh hush. The strongest drug in my system is honey/ginseng tea.

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[Angeline]

Blow the crops dry
until no tears remain.
Let something be harvested
between flower blooms,
among the spare fruits
of labor where something less
apparent grows wild and more
bountiful than fields of poems.
Something elusive seeds us.
Sustenance is the promise
of swallows.

I am sleepless. Time hurts
behind my eyes shuttered
in blind lines taut with trying.
I pray for satiation. I wish
the river to meet the sea, finally
empty itself and roll away
the sorrow that accompanies
my endeavor. I wish to paint
your fingers on my transitory sands
so you can grasp meaning
on this new shoreline, trace
the pattern of its accidental beauty.

Why do you misunderstand
what everyone knows? Read
these words. Something pure
is illuminated, surfacing
through the corporeal grime
that presses unforgiving fingers
against the neck of days.

Read these words. Try to feel
what he gives me before you slip
through my fingers. I am not
reinvented but reborn dancing
in the fall of heart-time.

 

[Tathagata]

she painted the walls blue
so that it was always like
lying on your back
looking at the sky
a coffin view

i understood when she did the kitchen
the place where
he threw spaghetti that time
and she left it there
till he cleaned up

but the living room is blue
and the furniture is new and
rearranged
probably feng shui
she used to laugh at me
when i talked about that stuff

each change and shift reflects my aging
makes me a stranger to past days

the blue wall never heard the shouts
and crying
the blue wall doesn't remember
like i do
the blue wall makes it seem
like just another old womans house
neat and always waiting
a house that peeks out of itself
to see if anyone
is coming up the walk

each shift in shadows reveals her fragility
slashes in the brow
once from worry
now topographical maps
of the cemetery

the blue wall makes me see her as
small and gray
it doesnt feel like my house any more
i tell her
i don't like the color

 

[Tathagata]

darkness waits for motion
it betrays life
and grinning under the cloak of
rotting leaves
it comes up like
a stain through a sponge
and sits presumptuous and bloated
on a temporary throne

things walk at night
projecting weightless steps in the hopes
of passing the guard dog
crossing your fingers
not stepping on cracks

i sit quiet in the night
and feel it seeping up
into my feet

i've become nights thermometer
watch my eyes
they will turn black
someday

 

[Tathagata]

darkness waits for motion
it betrays life
so with an immense toothsome grin
nestled beneath
rotting leaves and fertile swamp peat
it comes up like
a stain through a sponge
and sits presumptuous and bloated
on a temporary throne

things walk at night
projecting weightless steps in the hopes
of passing the guard dog
crossing your fingers
not stepping on cracks
that's where it can grab you
like quicksand
drowning in oatmeal on
the black and white movies

i sit quiet in the night
and feel it seeping up
into my feet

i've become nights thermometer
watch my eyes
they will turn black
someday

 

[duckiesmut]

Are you up for comments on this yet, Tath?


(Not that that'll keep me from sending you my comments anyway, if you're not.)

 

[Tathagata]

Are you up for comments on this yet, Tath?


(Not that that'll keep me from sending you my comments anyway, if you're not.)

well send them along
it is still taking shape as you can see

 

[tungtied2u]

six nine

it is six nine
time
why'm wasting
away
to many ours
apart
start reclaiming
us
sand drifts
sifting
shifting
dune knot
unslips around my
heart
freeze thawed
melt together
two oceans
joined
in the middle

 

[PatCarrington]

.....

 

[sandspike]

About Red Hook girl

"She hates anti-war novels but loves
soldiers coming home"

Why not a comma instead of 'but'?

"who never knew the dark side
of a ditch. "

That is great!

 

[PatCarrington]

"She hates anti-war novels but loves
soldiers coming home"

Why not a comma instead of 'but'?

"who never knew the dark side
of a ditch. "

That is great!

hey spike.

the "but" is to contrast the unreality of fiction, written by someone who probably has never been in that ditch, with the real deals of GI's walking down the plank at home - and it goes also, I think, with her skipping school (where she reads those novels) to pretend she is the real deal, already grown and waiting for her man, who was lucky enough to stay alive in that ditch.

i may have injected my bias against so many anti-war novels that failed to touch the real poignancy of men at war doing that, which should not be done in writing but is hard to eliminate totally.

"anti-war novel" may not have the necessary negative connotations for the reader as it does for me - so i see why "but" doesn't jive for you (and also someone else who read it).

i may have to tinker - nothing wrong with that.

thanks, beach brother.

 

[annaswirls]

okay Fly!
I found it!



Hammer

I remember the cold
that day, nails driven
through my clothes to lodge
in my chest, in the joints
of my fingers, in my throat.

This first portion, I do not understand in reference to the rest of the poem. I am guessing this is a look back to the source? But then you have another "I remember" so is this looking back back and then looking into the more recent past? Or is the whole thing based in "now" and looking back to the deconstruction incident?

If the wounds were caused in the demolition, then I am not sure how it works. I know it is all metaphor, but it was distracting to me, such that I had to read it several times before the meaning came through.

My brain finally got an image and I stuck with it.

Several years ago, my father was busting apart something or another down at the barn, and he:

1. Slammed his palm right into a nail, leaving a wound right in the center.
2. Got a blister on his other hand, in the center of his palm.
3. It was Christmas, not Good Friday but still, we had a good time of it.

So the first image works for me in this poem. Because it is believable. Using your hands -- juxtoposing the hammer image... maybe the injury to your body could also be expanded, shoulder, etc, as in your poem as is.


I remember the crack
of boards that struck
the ground like hammers
on an anvil, sparks of ice
scattering from impact.
I remember the timbers
that fought demolition,
their frozen joints unable
to relax, and the blow
of your hammer that beat them
flat. I remember
the hard handle, January
in your stare, the frozen plain
of splinters at our feet.
But I don’t remember why
the garage suddenly meant
her, and why it had to come down
that day.


I LOVE I love how this builds up into the cressendo ending with a gong that vibrates right through to your gut... and lingers after the last word...This part is wonderful wonderful, not kissing up, this is not after care, I got SHIVERS after reading the last four lines and a heavy feeling in my stomach. Every time I read the poem, I go back and read the last four lines again

Flyguy, you started out as a decent poet. I will always remember your first poem posted. In the car. Down route 90? And yet look at you now! Only writing poetry a little over a year. I miss your poems here. Where are they? Go start a blog or LiveJournal, come on, I know it is all very linear and you feel like you are sinking into a labrynth, but it would be nice to be able to scroll through your work.


Damn it, I am going to go find that praise a poet or something like that.



I don't know what this cat means, but I like it

 

[flyguy69]

LOL! You mean this one?

94 to Madison May, 2004
The Interstate's a steel rope
cars weave from side to side.
You peer at your neighbors
through secret-proof glass
and wonder what's hidden inside

The woman just smiling;
did she once write a poem
confessing her love to another?
Her husband unknowing
her unrest was growing
as success caused his romance to smother?

Some girls in a jeep
sell cleavage for cheap
and a trucker forgets they're his daughters.
Each paycheck he splits
with a hooker that lisps
and her mother, who hates what she's taught her

A van throbs with thugs
who didn't get enough hugs,
now they hide behind hip-hop and hate.
There's a girl with a braid
who is deathly afraid
she's abandoned her life on a plate.

A man with creased eyes
and his arm on a prize
seeks youth as if it's the chalice.
His vanity fed
by her lips, painted red,
that whisper of love and Cialis

But the girl who sits low
won't let anyone know
why her eyes hold a fathomless shine.
Her fingers, they dance,
and she gives a sly glance
because her secret is mine

Holy crap! An end-rhyme form poem! Who was that guy?

Thanks for remembering, Anna, and for cultivating the growth. If it weren't for you and host of other talented, caring poets I would be pursuing lucrative pastimes like computer instruction or house painting. Instead, I spend my free time concocting lines like "O! Lips!/Magnets made of flesh!"

Here, by the way, is the current incarnation of "Hammer."

I remember cold: nails
driven into the joints
of my fingers. I remember
the crack of boards
striking the ground like hammers
on an anvil, sparks of ice
scattering on impact.
I remember timbers fighting
demolition, their frozen joints unwilling
to relax, and the blow
of your hammer that beat them
flat. I remember the hard
hickory handle, winter
in your stare and the frozen plain
of splinters at our feet.
I remember the fight
before she left, but I don't remember why
the garage had to come down
that day.

okay Fly!
I found it!
....

 

[champagne1982]

<snip>Here, by the way, is the current incarnation of "Hammer."
I remember cold: nails
driven into the joints
of my fingers. I remember
the crack of boards
striking the ground like hammers
on an anvil, sparks of ice
scattering on impact.
I remember timbers fighting
demolition, their frozen joints unwilling
to relax, and the blow
of your hammer that beat them
flat. I remember the hard
hickory handle, winter
in your stare and the frozen plain
of splinters at our feet.
I remember the fight
before she left, but I don't remember why
the garage had to come down
that day.

Your growth is very exciting to me ... Oh geez, that stuff keeps popping up!
Seriously ::fly-spotted-guy I think the new ending really lost the painful meat of the original you offered here.

But I don’t remember why
the garage suddenly meant
her, and why it had to come down
that day

 

[Tathagata]

Darkness waits for motion,
it betrays life,
sweat mist radar blips that cause
immense gluttonous eyes to loll, flaccid,
and awake
with an immense covetous grin

crouched beneath
decaying plant matter and compost flesh
it resurrects itself
slowly arisen
stains through a sponge
and sits presumptuous and bloated
on a temporary throne

things walk at night
projecting weightless steps in the hopes
of passing the guard dog
crossing your fingers
not stepping on cracks
that's where it can grab you
like quicksand
drowning in oatmeal on
the black and white movies

i sit quiet in the night
and feel it seeping up
into my feet

I've become nights thermometer
watch my eyes
they will turn black
someday

 

[Tzara]

While wandering aimlessly around Lit the other night, I came across someone's comments on a posted poem that said something like "poetry is more than just prose with line breaks." At least that's the gist of what I remember. In any case, it was a very enlightening and very depressing remark. It told me why I am am unhappy with this:


Raw Language

The coarse words fill your mouth
like crudités in a bowl
set out for my enjoyment.

I savor their crisp snap,
but the dip seems a bit too
capsicum flavored. Was that

your intent? I feel now
pretty hot and suddenly
ravenous for the entrée.

Let’s eat, shall we?


The problem is that I'm not quite sure how to go about fixing it. Any suggestions?

 

[Tzara]

...I would be pursuing lucrative pastimes like computer instruction or house painting.

Geez, Fly. You must be my more talented doppelgänger. Those are exactly the tasks I am shirking right now.

 

[PatCarrington]

Geez, Fly. You must be my more talented doppelgänger. Those are exactly the tasks I am shirking right now.

you could shirk them by posting a poem here too, tristan.

you're good, in case that hasn't dawned on you yet.

 

[Tzara]

you could shirk them by posting a poem here too, tristan.

you're good, in case that hasn't dawned on you yet.

Why thank you, doctor. What a nice thing to say.

And I already did. Back up a couple posts.

 

[*Catbabe*]

While wandering aimlessly around Lit the other night, I came across someone's comments on a posted poem that said something like "poetry is more than just prose with line breaks." At least that's the gist of what I remember. In any case, it was a very enlightening and very depressing remark. It told me why I am am unhappy with this:


Raw Language

The coarse words fill your mouth
like crudités in a bowl
set out for my enjoyment.

I savor their crisp snap,
but the dip seems a bit too
capsicum flavored. Was that

your intent? I feel now
pretty hot and suddenly
ravenous for the entrée.

Let’s eat, shall we?


The problem is that I'm not quite sure how to go about fixing it. Any suggestions?

Raw Language

The coarse words fill your mouth
like crudités in a bowl
set out for my enjoyment.

-I would get rid of the first ‘the’
-I would perhaps exchange ‘set out’ for ‘arranged and move it to the end of the second line and move ‘in a bowl’ down one


I savor their crisp snap,
but the dip seems a bit too
capsicum flavored. Was that

-I know that savour works well with your metaphor but it’s such a calm word that I am not sure it does justice to the line. Pardon the use of the reference to dogs here, but I would have thought the ‘snap’ would unleash a pavlovian kind of reaction. Something immediate and intense that maybe after the initial reaction or response could be savoured?
-I think your second line needs to be more concise

your intent? I feel now
pretty hot and suddenly
ravenous for the entrée.

-I like the fact that this poem is short but I think maybe you could use a transitional stanza before you wrap things up with wanting the entrée. ‘I feel pretty hot ‘ is an honest line but it doesn’t match the rest of your language in terms of being unique and interesting.

Let’s eat, shall we?

-I personally don’t like to end poems with question marks. The line also seems passive to me which I don’t think ends your poem on the right note. I think ending with an interesting statement of intent would work better.

Just some thoughts.

Cat

PS I always forget to say that I don’t comment unless I think the poem is interesting and has potential.

 

[Guest]

Hey there poets. I've watched this thread for a long time, but have always felt intimidated posting my poems next to the high caliber of work that this thread already contains. I have decided to post now in hopes to improve this poem with your suggestions and to grow a little as a poet.



Counting +


It's instinct for a small hand
to grasp a finger
and it's ours to count.

Precious ten, each one perfect
kiss them all.

Both fit in a palm, tiny, but powerful
kiss them too.

Here is a better man
than he'd thought he'd ever be
watching new life

catching breath when she holds
hers. Will this be the last?
Or will the next?

The counting begins, fingers
hands, feet and toes.
All natural numbers of ten or two.

Tonight it will be breaths and heart rate,
forty and one hundred forty.
Normal enough for both of us to sleep.

 

[*Catbabe*]

Hey there poets. I've watched this thread for a long time, but have always felt intimidated posting my poems next to the high caliber of work that this thread already contains. I have decided to post now in hopes to improve this poem with your suggestions and to grow a little as a poet.



Counting +


It's instinct for a small hand
to grasp a finger
and it's ours to count.

Precious ten, each one perfect
kiss them all.

Both fit in a palm, tiny, but powerful
kiss them too.

Here is a better man
than he'd thought he'd ever be
watching new life

catching breath when she holds
hers. Will this be the last?
Or will the next?

The counting begins, fingers
hands, feet and toes.
All natural numbers of ten or two.

Tonight it will be breaths and heart rate,
forty and one hundred forty.
Normal enough for both of us to sleep.

Counting +


It's instinct for a small hand
to grasp a finger
and it's ours to count.


I don’t believe that having pronouns in a poem weakens it. I would make the baby a she or a he and the narrator ‘I’ . It’s a personal poem and there is nothing wrong with that in my opinion and it makes construction of the poem easier.

For example:

Her small hands grasp
my fingers in shared instinct
that makes me count
each one with a kiss
until I reach ten.


Precious ten, each one perfect
kiss them all.

-I would get rid of the word precious just because it is over-used with respect to babies and therefore, loses its impact in your poem

Both fit in a palm, tiny, but powerful
kiss them too.

Here is a better man
than he'd thought he'd ever be
watching new life.

-I see the potential for this to be a powerful stanza but I think you need to have specifics of what ‘better’ would be in order for it to really dig into the reader.

catching breath when she holds
hers. Will this be last?
Or will the next?

-I don’t think you need to overtly state those questions because the reader will know from your first line what you mean and what you are worried about.

The counting begins, fingers
hands, feet and toes.
All natural numbers of ten or two.

-Does the counting begin or did you mean that the counting never ends? I think you could play around with the breaks in this stanza maybe like this:

The counting never ends,
fingers, hands and toes,
all natural numbers
of ten or two. Tonight

it will be her heart
beats I count to normal.
And then we both will sleep.


Tonight it will be breaths and heart rate,
forty and one hundred forty.
Normal enough for both of us to sleep.


Those are just some quick thoughts Neo. You and I have very different styles when we write so if I messed with yours too much just ignore me.

Personal poems, especially about children are very difficult to write without being overly laden with emotion. I think this poem does a good job of avoiding that and it has an interesting point of view on some thoughts that every parent has experienced.