Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[voyeuresse]

Hi again,
After those steps, then, I reiterate - if I knew you, I'd take the time and possibly critique the poem.

i dont understand... how could you possibly know me?
sure sure i understand you mean if you knew me here on here as a writer if youd read previous stuff of mine chatted with me interacted related advised revised or if what i had made was comprised of things recognized by you as valid and according to the rules.
but you havent and couldnt have because im new.
I reiterate... how could you possibly know me?
and with your set of rules how could you?

.

 

[champagne1982]

i dont understand... how could you possibly know me?
sure sure i understand you mean if you knew me here on here as a writer if youd read previous stuff of mine chatted with me interacted related advised revised or if what i had made was comprised of things recognized by you as valid and according to the rules.
but you havent and couldnt have because im new.
I reiterate... how could you possibly know me?
and with your set of rules how could you?

.

Rules aren't important, desire is. So, where there's a will there's a way, but where there isn't desire, there may not be a will.

You have said that your pieces are "experiments" ... don't get all bent because I don't accept your experiments as a defining part of your effort. Maybe, if I've read something of yours that I've enjoyed, then I may go out and spend sometime with your rules and see if I can appreciate the experiment.

I'm just saying that I don't think I can see the content for the cover and I refuse to judge a book that way.

 

[Tzara]

hi ...you know... i have posted a couple of experiments here and elsewhere and the only feedback i get is that they are too hard to read because of format and/or lack of punctuation.

V:

I am rather interested in experimentation in poetic form (see this one of mine, for example), but I would have to agree with the general consensus that your poems are basically very difficult to read. The peacock poem looks like one run-on sentence (this is not meant as criticism, just a statement of how it appears to me), which makes it quite exhausting to read. This is made worse by the fact that I am viewing this at 1280 x 1024 resolution, which makes each line vvveeerrryyy lllooonnnggg.

The "horse whisperer" poem is even harder to read. It shows up on my screen as gray on a gray background and the smaller font is tiny--you're taxing my ever worsening presbyopia with that.

Part of the problem, I think, is that you are using a display form (a simple post) in which you don't really have control of the graphic display. It gets rendered differently on different screens. If the graphical format is important to you, which it looks like it is in at least the "horse whisperer" poem, then you might want to consider using a graphic layout program (something like Photoshop CS) to control how the poem looks. There is a post category for illustrated poems for which that kind of work would be appropriate (see this for example).

Alternatively, you might want to think about doing the peacock poem as an audio poem, which is another post option here. Looking at it, it seems to me you are trying to get a "stream of consciousness" run-on kind of sound to it. If that is particularly important to you, you may want to read it yourself to guarantee how it is perceived.

Another alternative would be to look at how other poets have addressed this kind of problem. Allen Ginsberg's Howl is a good example of something that is pretty flung out stream of consciousness poetry, but which is formatted in a way to make it more readable.

I think it is the responsibility of the writer to make the work inviting to the reader, even if the work is using an experimental form. It is perhaps even more important than with conventional forms, since you almost assuredly will have fewer people interested in reading it in the first place.

If you enjoy the writing, though, hang in there. If it's fun of its own accord, what ultimately do you care about what anyone else thinks?

 

[voyeuresse]

I think it is the responsibility of the writer to make the work inviting to the reader, even if the work is using an experimental form. It is perhaps even more important than with conventional forms, since you almost assuredly will have fewer people interested in reading it in the first place.

If you enjoy the writing, though, hang in there. If it's fun of its own accord, what ultimately do you care about what anyone else thinks?

thank you Tzara for your well thought out explanations and words of encouragement and comfort! this is constructive criticism and advice and i can do something with it. and i have added allen ginsberg to my study list... he joins ee cummings.

i do care tho what others think in that i want them to get what im sharing.
here! here! here! is my latest offering on here and my first one to get reactions to the content rather than critiques of the form.

hahahasmallwonderhahaha​

 

[flyguy69]

hi ...you know... i have posted a couple of experiments here and elsewhere and the only feedback i get is that they are too hard to read because of format and/or lack of punctuation.

What makes you think this is not valuable, and possibly even the most important, feedback? I have not commented because I found your posts too hard to read, and you already had folks telling you that. It seems rather presumptuous to ask for comments, then reject the ones you get because they aren't what you wanted to hear. I also don't think you help your case with ambiguous threats. I didn't lash out at you, and if you choose not to share any of your poetry here it will not affect me. I know you didn't name me (or anyone else) in your post, but it is hard to feel much empathy for someone that decries parts of the crowd in which I stand. Complain to those that either have insulted you or are in a position to do something about it.

Having said that; I know it is hard to share poetry. Our souls are bared in ways that prose can't touch, and the affirmation of effort and courage is important. When I went back and looked at "Peacock Love" (after you cited my piece as providing some ideas for format) I recognized some great talent for metaphor. And a willingness to experiment. I supect you have great potential as a poet and can do much with this poem (though I am not really qualified to judge such things!).

Champagne1982 has been supportive of your work. She is a talented writer and a helpful teacher: I rely a great deal on her input. Tzara, another insightful author here, has weighed in. I think you would do well to heed their advice and swallow the injuries to your pride done elsewhere.

A final thought: I don't do this, but many poets find it helpful to post a poem on which they want comments in its own thread. That way successive posts by other authors seeking input don't bury yours. You may need to bump the thread every once in awhile, but if you are gracious and responsive to suggestions no one will mind.

most of the comments have been rude and unfriendly. and i have been called an ass, jerk, bitch and fuck when i reacted to those mean comments. no comments have been made on the content... on what the pieces are saying or on the words or phrases used.

im toying with the idea that my stuff is so worthless that the most polite thing you all can do is ignore it... and of course the worst thing some of you can do is be so enraged by its ineptness that you lash out at me for having the gall to inflict it on you.

i just recently restarted writing and making this stuff has brought me great joy... so i know it is not worthless. however... because of the reception it has received here on the literotica forum...

im am toying with the idea that i shouldnt share it.

 

[champagne1982]

when i was a young mother hippy of the land sunny garden shady yard old farmhouse bordered by sun dappled leaf shaded irrigation ditches... tulips elms apricot trees snowballs and lilacs wild rose brambles and oh asparagus red current bushes with one white one nestled in the midst and daylilies. oh. on a warm summer morning id sit on the swing and call to the peacock as i watched my little ones play on the shady wild lawn. the peacock on the next farm... far away... and he would answer back and come closer with each call ...till his fence! stopped him! and i knew he was in love. and maybe i was too. ive always had a soft spot in my heart for the male in pursuit. but he never saw me. until one day as we walked on the road... i heard him call and i answered back. then even with his driveway, my call his call, then up the drive, my call his call, then in the barnyard... there! at my call! i see him! and he sees me! he freezes. his glorious full blown greengolden purple-eyed turquoisy shimmering shivering tail ....droops then folds. disappointment dejection then anger...then scorn... then...shunning. ...as slowly turning ...walking stately away ...never a glance back ...never a call ever again. never ...ever.



hi im experimenting with a format... and would like feedback and constructive criticism on this piece if anyone can actually get a handle on it... i know its not a normal style. thanks

Hi,
This is how I read it. The line breaks, I've inserted and the tiny changes I've made are highlighted in red.

when i was a young mother
hippy of the land
sunny garden
shady yard
old farmhouse bordered by sun

dappled leaf shaded irrigation ditches
tulips elms apricot trees snowballs
and lilacs wild rose brambles
and oh!
asparagus red current bushes with one white
one nestled in the midst
and daylilies. oh.
on a warm summer morning
id sit on the swing
and call to the peacock
as i watched my little ones

play on the shady wild lawn.
the peacock on the next farm
far away.
and he would answer back
and come closer with each call
'til his fence!
stopped him!
and i knew he was in love.
and maybe i was too.
ive always had a soft spot
in my heart for the male
in pursuit.

but he never saw me.
until one day as we walked
on the road
i heard him call
and i answered back.
then even with his driveway,
my call his call,
then up the drive,
my call his call,
then in the barnyard

there! at my call!
i see him! and he sees me!
he freezes. his glorious
full blown greengolden
purple-eyed turquoisy
shimmering shivering tail

droops then folds.
disappointment dejection
then anger
then scorn
then
shunning.

as slowly turning
walking stately away
never a glance back
never a call ever again.
never

ever.

 

[voyeuresse]

thank you flyguy and thank you champagne

 

[tungtied2u]

I will not lie

I will not lie
in her eyes I spy
a certain gleam that seems
to promise future pleasure
a trace upon her face
that in leisure hips will grind
and legs will beg to wrap
around my waist
insinuating tastes
of heaven in my mind

I will not lie
we share a sexual attraction
the action of skin pressed to skin
a friction conjuring up
a depiction of instinctual greed
the need to mount as mare and steed
hips haunched
hooves flayed
nostrils flared

I will not lie
despite my lust
I must admit the sense I have
that in her essence is the presence
of an intoxicant I can’t deny
or ignore, the feeling of a history
which has gone before
and will last long after
sweat has dried and sex has come
and gone, she is the one
who always was and always will be
part of me

I will not lie
the truth be told
I hold her to be
as integral as foot or hand,
or breath or heart,
without which I am incomplete
a lesser man, off balance,
sitting on a fence, teetering
between hopelessness and happiness
she steadies me,
sures my foot, soothes my pulse
takes me beneath her wing
teaches me to soar
to catch the wind of truth,
feel it ring the harmony
of her and I and we.

I will not lie,
I am a lie without her.

 

[flyguy69]

::

Tremble

Marvin had beautiful hands
for tearing the heads off chickens
or stretching wire till it sang
in the prairie wind, fingers
like the spines of snakes
that squeeze until
prey surrender their flesh,
one thumb blunted
by a tablesaw blade.

With those hands he tore
a life from drought, from early frost,
from foreclosure, and built
the dining room table on which
we folded our hands in thanks.
He squeezed the soil

and stems until the fields gave up
their fortune, turned the corn
into a house shaken by laughter
and stronger than the hail and wind.
When his hands began to shake

I didn't notice the diminished grip
until an apple dropped, the knife
still in his fist and his wet eyes
on the floor. I lifted the half-peeled
fruit and held it out; he pushed
the hair from my brow, a touch
softer than any I have known.

::

 

[PatCarrington]

::

Tremble

Marvin had beautiful hands
for tearing the heads off chickens
or stretching wire till it sang
in the prairie wind, fingers
like the spines of snakes
that squeeze until
prey surrender their flesh,
one thumb blunted
by a tablesaw blade.

With those hands he tore
a life from drought, from early frost,
from foreclosure, and built
the dining room table on which
we folded our hands in thanks.
He squeezed the soil

and stems until the fields gave up
their fortune, turned the corn
into a house shaken by laughter
and stronger than the hail and wind.
When his hands began to shake

I didn't notice the diminished grip
until an apple dropped, the knife
still in his fist and his wet eyes
on the floor. I lifted the half-peeled
fruit and held it out; he pushed
the hair from my brow, a touch
softer than any I have known.

::

just about to run off to an engagement when i read this fly.

i have no time to comment, but it doesn't need it, really...it has all the makings.

best i've read from you in a while, imo.

intropsective and gentle...elegant phrasing, for the most part...

fine tune it, poet...and send it out.

(and thanks for the pm....)

 

[flyguy69]

Thanks, PC. I'm in that panicky early phase on this one, where I edit in mid-keystroke! I am going to change the clumsy grammar at the end and some line breaks in S1, but welcome any thoughts.

(You're welcome.)

just about to run off to an engagement when i read this fly.

i have no time to comment, but it doesn't need it, really...it has all the makings.

best i've read from you in a while, imo.

intropsective and gentle...elegant phrasing, for the most part...

fine tune it, poet...and send it out.

(and thanks for the pm....)

 

[SeattleRain]

damn gorgeous this is... Fly.... I have been wanting to write a hand poem, and I cannot get it to work, this is beautiful...

::

Tremble

Marvin had beautiful hands
for tearing the heads off chickens
or stretching wire till it sang
in the prairie wind, fingers
like the spines of snakes
that squeeze until
prey surrender their flesh,
one thumb blunted
by a tablesaw blade.

With those hands he tore
a life from drought, from early frost,
from foreclosure, and built
the dining room table on which
we folded our hands in thanks.
He squeezed the soil

and stems until the fields gave up
their fortune, turned the corn
into a house shaken by laughter
and stronger than the hail and wind.
When his hands began to shake

I didn't notice the diminished grip
until an apple dropped, the knife
still in his fist and his wet eyes
on the floor. I lifted the half-peeled
fruit and held it out; he pushed
the hair from my brow, a touch
softer than any I have known.

::

 

[tungtied2u]

My Truth

I will not lie.

In her eyes I spy
a gleam that seems
to promise future pleasure,
a trace upon her face
that in leisure
hips will grind,
legs will beg to wrap
around my waist,
insinuating tastes
of heaven in my mind

I will not lie.

We share a sexual attraction,
the action of skin skimming skin,
frantic friction conjurs a depiction
of the instinctual need to breed
as steed mounts mare,
hips haunched
hooves flayed
nostrils flared

I will not lie.

Despite my lust,
I must admit a sense
that in her essence
is the presence of an intoxicant
I can’t deny or ignore,
an intimate history
which existed before US
and will last long after
sweat has dried, sex has come
and gone, she is the one
who always was, always will be
part of me

I will not lie.

Her spirit sits
like pit in peach,
within me, promises rebirth,
to break the earth,
reach for the sky,
together to blossom,
in awesome realization
that beyond our struggle
awaits elusive happiness

I will not lie.

She is my truth.

 

[cymry]

Humbled

::

Tremble

Marvin had beautiful hands
for tearing the heads off chickens
or stretching wire till it sang
in the prairie wind, fingers
like the spines of snakes
that squeeze until
prey surrender their flesh,
one thumb blunted
by a tablesaw blade.

With those hands he tore
a life from drought, from early frost,
from foreclosure, and built
the dining room table on which
we folded our hands in thanks.
He squeezed the soil

and stems until the fields gave up
their fortune, turned the corn
into a house shaken by laughter
and stronger than the hail and wind.
When his hands began to shake

I didn't notice the diminished grip
until an apple dropped, the knife
still in his fist and his wet eyes
on the floor. I lifted the half-peeled
fruit and held it out; he pushed
the hair from my brow, a touch
softer than any I have known.

::

I have to say this is one of the most beautiful poems I've ever read. What I love most about poetry, the thing that catches me every time, is its ability to impart/evoke/ express emotions. This touches my soul on many levels and I thank you for it.

 

[voyeuresse]

::

Tremble

Marvin had beautiful hands
for tearing the heads off chickens
or stretching wire till it sang
in the prairie wind, fingers
like the spines of snakes
that squeeze until
prey surrender their flesh,
one thumb blunted
by a tablesaw blade.

With those hands he tore
a life from drought, from early frost,
from foreclosure, and built
the dining room table on which
we folded our hands in thanks.
He squeezed the soil

and stems until the fields gave up
their fortune, turned the corn
into a house shaken by laughter
and stronger than the hail and wind.
When his hands began to shake

I didn't notice the diminished grip
until an apple dropped, the knife
still in his fist and his wet eyes
on the floor. I lifted the half-peeled
fruit and held it out; he pushed
the hair from my brow, a touch
softer than any I have known.

::

i agree with all the praise thus far and wish to add that this poem has helped me so much in my relationship with my dad whom i caregive. after 60 years of not being able to... he is finally able to... show some affection... and if not for your poem i may not have recognized it as such. thank you.

 

[flyguy69]

Seattle, Cymry and Voyeuresse-

Thank you all for your positive comments about that poem. I appreciate these comments because they address the most important question regarding poetry: do you like it?

I have polished the edges a bit, but it remains largely in the format you see here.

 

[tungtied2u]

Seattle, Cymry and Voyeuresse-

Thank you all for your positive comments about that poem. I appreciate these comments because they address the most important question regarding poetry: do you like it?

I have polished the edges a bit, but it remains largely in the format you see here.

Fly, although a bit late, may I chime in my ringing endorsement for your poem.
The echo reverberates long after the poem is over.

 

[Tzara]

an evil vision

i saw my mother
a young woman

face
powdered white as a winding sheet, lips
red

she smiled, black

teeth stained
from chewing betel nuts

i fell to the ground
blood

flowing over my pallid brain
like waves pressing sand flat and smooth

i could not

get up
speak
think

only

stare, confused, at that incendiary red

 

[flyguy69]

Fly, although a bit late, may I chime in my ringing endorsement for your poem.
The echo reverberates long after the poem is over.

Thanks, TT.

 

[cymry]

Too long gone

Time turns my eyes
back 'round front
slipping down,
down
to lift me up.
How many days must pass
before I remember
to go home?
Broken lies linger,
filling up a place
where there is no room.
Once more,
what was I saying?

 

[voyeuresse]

I will not lie,
I am a lie without her.

okay im not sure what everyone is doing here... perhaps the change to "she is my truth" is better for some reason... but

i like it as you wrote it ...it states that YOU are not truth without her... and also i like the repetition of "lie" it feels better i like it it lilts. it rings true.

ohhh i cant even say what i mean anymore... its not ego... i just dont have any confidence anymore. but i needed to tell you, tungtied, how much that line resounds... that when i walked away it was that line that stayed with me.

 

[voyeuresse]

Time turns my eyes
back 'round front
slipping down,
down
to lift me up.
How many days must pass
before I remember
to go home?
Broken lies linger,
filling up a place
where there is no room.
Once more,
what was I saying?

yes that is beautiful. especially the first sentence. ive been there. perfectly described... the disorientation.

 

[cymry]

yes that is beautiful. especially the first sentence. ive been there. perfectly described... the disorientation.

Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. I'm having a little trouble with the line "Broken lies linger" it just doesn't seem to flow well with the rest of the poem. Any suggestions?

 

[flyguy69]

I actually like the confused tone of the poem, but end up wondering what you are trying to say.

QUOTE=cymry]Time turns my eyes
back 'round front
slipping down,
down
to lift me up. <-- Time confuses you, but also lifts you up? Is this sequential? And how does turning your eyes do the lifting?
How many days must pass
before I remember
to go home? <--this suggests to me that home is a metaphoric place in which you are not confused, but too little information is provided on both "home" and "not home" to be certain.
Broken lies linger, <-- how are "broken lies" distinguished from unbroken ones? Are broken lies "truth"? And how do they linger?
filling up a place
where there is no room. <-- A nice expression, but you need to justify it. Is this "home"? Is it filled with truth and understanding? Then how do these "broken lies" fill it up further?
Once more,
what was I saying? <-- I don't know!

Good luck with this one, cymry.

 

[cymry]

Thanks

I think I'll need some luck.

The whole idea of the poem was meant to represent confusion.
Let me try to explain where I was going with it.

"Time turns my eyes
back 'round front
slipping down,
down
to lift me up."

This is meant to give the impression of a loss of direction. Which way am I going? Forward? Backward? Up? Down?

"How many days must pass
before I remember
to go home?"

As in the first line I am referencing time, 'Time turns', 'How many days must pass', to give the impression of urgency. The need to get somewhere without any idea of how. If I am confused about which way to move, the most logical thing to do would be to start from "Home". The interpretation of 'home' is left to the reader. Whether it is a metaphorical place or an actual location depends on the individual.

"Broken lies linger"

This is where I'm having trouble. I don't think it holds with the message I'm trying to get across. It just kind of hangs there...not really in context with the idea of confusion.
I would like to keep the line "filling up a place where there is no room" as it is meant to signify the overwhelming of the senses with lack of direction but I fear that once 'Broken lies linger' is removed or changed it will no longer have the same flow and will have to be altered.

I think "Once again, what was I saying?" is self-explanatory.