Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

very nice, subtle interweaving among the metaphor.

one quick edit, I know this is an "in progress" thread but I noticed your should be you're

thanks anna for the correction, I always do that!

 

[annaswirls]

thanks anna for the correction, I always do that!

I always fuck up the its it's

its it's the ballroom blitz

 

[vampiredust]

A Sicilian Sunset

The sky doesn't weep here,
mother said

no, it doesn't weep anymore

the river's spine lies cracked
and as I till the ground, all I find
are stillborn crops

the sky doesn't weep here anymore

the olive trees and orange groves
don't mourn the passing, they just wait;
wait for their time to come.

the sky doesn't weep here anymore

I think of my great grandfather's factory in
the city and the terracotta trunks billowing
russet colored smoke

but still the sky doesn't weep anymore

And as I watch the haze erupt into thunder
over the jagged London skyline, I watch
the sky weep once more

and I with it, again...and again

 

[vampiredust]

Unfinished Symphony

Mother went to church today
to abandon all her principles,
even time, that hooded guard,
didn't bend its crooked neck
to give another choice.
I just pulled the frayed blanket
over my head and pretended
everything was alright. I didn't
look up at the black inked sky
or even gaze at the copper
puddles below, I would have seen
my future self lying asleep deep
in the void.

 

[annaswirls]

damn vampiredust, I am going to have to keep a closer eye on you! You are a damn fine writer!

 

[annaswirls]

No one taught me how to lay concrete

.........

 

[TheRainMan]

draft 3

Being Estragon


The cold at dusk comes hard as nightsticks.
This is another act of waiting—for a sun
that keeps a higher angle in the sky,
for days when warmth was not
its deepest secret. When I could stand

on any corner, reach out a hand
not wrapped in rags,
and call my city home.

I don’t know what I would’ve done
had I not had its hand to hold. I
don’t know what I should
be doing now. Was I sleeping

while the others suffered,

while a town that rocked me in its arms
became a stranger?

Am I sleeping now?

Even in a dream, I never felt this
distracted nature in people. I
always thought, as they hurried past,
that I was there among them, touching
as we walked in our tight shoes.
I don’t want to believe this farce

is where we have fallen to, where
we can’t sense a churning
in each other’s blood, where
the motors in our chests
never tell us to dance. I don’t

want to believe there are moments
like this in our lives, when we sigh
and must be content with loneliness,

with coffee and the imagining of cakes
that pair it on a checkered tablecloth
somewhere. When we glance up
from chicken bones to see
if rope is dangling from a solitary tree.
When we ask ourselves,

Shall I go?
And answer
yes
and then not move

toward a place where there’s no need
to think about weather
or the blindness
of crowds. Or lost children.

 

[annaswirls]

Lake Sheboygan

........

 

[Tzara]

Isola di San Michele

The vaporetto is uncrowded
as we leave the dock,
sight dimmed by filtered light
through morning fog. We cross

the ashen waters, the lagoon,
to the brick-walled city
of the dead. I have borrowed
coin to come here. Master,

would that offend you? It
was not usury that laid you
here, nor was it madness—
only time's decay,

forgetful of the vortices
and vigors of your youth.
Be calm in death
as you were not in life,

and do not stir
the sinking ground.
Be still as I, careful, lay
one small smooth stone,

laser-etched in Greek
Odysseus, voyager
upon your grave, one
slender rose on Olga's.

Dorothy is not here, of course,
to suffer your neglect.
The Venetian air
did not agree with her.

In your life, I see
not Villon but Lear,
cast out upon the heath
in later years, to wander

not as troubador
but rather madman, raving.
Sometimes clear,
sometimes obscure,

but who could tell?
And as found Lear,
you found that
suffering cannot cure

madness or gift knowledge,
but just leave misery
in its wake. Ah, but there
redemption lurks, huddled

tight with sympathy
in the shelter of the storm.
You were never king,
only counsellor to kings,

a duke at best, Polonius.
At times, a fool.
Your clever verse
still rattles, like bones

in an ossuary box—brittle,
yet not turned to dust.
As time roots in your field of word,
we'll see what crop your seed interred.

 

[flyguy69]

This is very good, TZ. I suspect it is as full as a Venietian graveyard with references that I don't get, but I enjoyed it none the less!

I think it bogs down at times in journalism-- the reference to Dorothy, e.g., seems tangential to the thrust of the poem. You need, of course, to recount enough details that readers know who you're talking about (it is Ezra Pound, right? ), but beyond that those details quickly lose their poetic value. Since this poem seems to be about Pound's lasting influence on poetry, I would try trimming details that do not pertain to this question. And perhaps add new ones, but that is hard for a reviewer to propose. BTW, I particularly enjoyed "vortices... of your youth"!

I have made a couple line-by-line suggestions below.

QUOTE=Tzara]Isola di San Michele

The vaporetto is uncrowded
as we leave the dock,
sight dimmed by filtered light <-- the "light" does not dim sight: the fog does.
through morning fog. We cross

the ashen waters, the lagoon, <-- seems redundent
to the brick-walled city
of the dead. I have borrowed
coin to come here. Master, <-- Why the term of reverence?

would that offend you? It
was not usury that laid you
here, nor was it madness—
only time's decay,

forgetful of the vortices
and vigors of your youth.
Be calm in death
as you were not in life,

and do not stir <-- "Stir" seems to go so well with "vortices" that it might be nice to fit these into the same strophe.
the sinking ground.
Be still as I, careful, lay <-- Carefully?
one small smooth stone,

laser-etched in Greek
Odysseus, voyager
upon your grave, one
slender rose on Olga's.

Dorothy is not here, of course,
to suffer your neglect.
The Venetian air
did not agree with her.

In your life, I see
not Villon but Lear, <-- I guess you pick up on Dorothy's name, here. I don't know this connection to Pound.
cast out upon the heath
in later years, to wander

not as troubador
but rather madman, raving.
Sometimes clear,
sometimes obscure,

but who could tell?
And as found Lear,
you found that
suffering cannot cure

madness or gift knowledge, <-- did Pound really believe this? Just asking.
but just leave misery
in its wake. Ah, but there
redemption lurks, huddled

tight with sympathy
in the shelter of the storm. <-- I'm losing the metaphor, here. "Suffering" is the storm, right? It doesn't bring knowledge, but it does bring redemption. How does the "shelter" fit into this?
You were never king,
only counsellor to kings, <-- probably don't need to say King again.

a duke at best, Polonius.
At times, a fool.
Your clever verse <-- "clever" seems unearned, here. You have presented him as genius, madman and director, but "clever" seems to originate simply in the narrator's view.
still rattles, like bones

in an ossuary box—brittle,
yet not turned to dust.
As time roots in your field of word,
we'll see what crop your seed interred. <-- "interred" seems the wrong verb. You seem to be talking about growing rather than sowing. On the other hand it goes well with the graveyard, so my inclination is to keep the verb and change the metaphor.[/QUOTE]

I think this shows great potential, Tzara.

 

[Tzara]

This is very good, TZ. I suspect it is as full as a Venietian graveyard with references that I don't get, but I enjoyed it none the less!

I think it bogs down at times in journalism-- the reference to Dorothy, e.g., seems tangential to the thrust of the poem. You need, of course, to recount enough details that readers know who you're talking about (it is Ezra Pound, right? ), but beyond that those details quickly lose their poetic value. Since this poem seems to be about Pound's lasting influence on poetry, I would try trimming details that do not pertain to this question. And perhaps add new ones, but that is hard for a reviewer to propose. BTW, I particularly enjoyed "vortices... of your youth"!

I have made a couple line-by-line suggestions below.

QUOTE=Tzara]Isola di San Michele

The vaporetto is uncrowded
as we leave the dock,
sight dimmed by filtered light <-- the "light" does not dim sight: the fog does.
through morning fog. We cross

the ashen waters, the lagoon, <-- seems redundent
to the brick-walled city
of the dead. I have borrowed
coin to come here. Master, <-- Why the term of reverence?

would that offend you? It
was not usury that laid you
here, nor was it madness—
only time's decay,

forgetful of the vortices
and vigors of your youth.
Be calm in death
as you were not in life,

and do not stir <-- "Stir" seems to go so well with "vortices" that it might be nice to fit these into the same strophe.
the sinking ground.
Be still as I, careful, lay <-- Carefully?
one small smooth stone,

laser-etched in Greek
Odysseus, voyager
upon your grave, one
slender rose on Olga's.

Dorothy is not here, of course,
to suffer your neglect.
The Venetian air
did not agree with her.

In your life, I see
not Villon but Lear, <-- I guess you pick up on Dorothy's name, here. I don't know this connection to Pound.
cast out upon the heath
in later years, to wander

not as troubador
but rather madman, raving.
Sometimes clear,
sometimes obscure,

but who could tell?
And as found Lear,
you found that
suffering cannot cure

madness or gift knowledge, <-- did Pound really believe this? Just asking.
but just leave misery
in its wake. Ah, but there
redemption lurks, huddled

tight with sympathy
in the shelter of the storm. <-- I'm losing the metaphor, here. "Suffering" is the storm, right? It doesn't bring knowledge, but it does bring redemption. How does the "shelter" fit into this?
You were never king,
only counsellor to kings, <-- probably don't need to say King again.

a duke at best, Polonius.
At times, a fool.
Your clever verse <-- "clever" seems unearned, here. You have presented him as genius, madman and director, but "clever" seems to originate simply in the narrator's view.
still rattles, like bones

in an ossuary box—brittle,
yet not turned to dust.
As time roots in your field of word,
we'll see what crop your seed interred. <-- "interred" seems the wrong verb. You seem to be talking about growing rather than sowing. On the other hand it goes well with the graveyard, so my inclination is to keep the verb and change the metaphor.

Hey, Fly!

Thanks. Dead on, every point. Yep. This is a Venetian graveyard where I've core dumped a lot of my conflicted feelings about Ezra, and a whole slew of marginally competent allusions to his work and that of others.

The one point you make that bothers me is this:

In your life, I see
not Villon but Lear, <-- I guess you pick up on Dorothy's name, here. I don't know this connection to Pound.

Nope. That ain't about Dorothy (Dorothy Shakespear Pound, his wife). It's supposed to be comparing Pound to Will Shakespeare's King Lear. The next several lines are me cribbin' off the Man.

Well, hell. First draft, ya know.

Isn't this where the director looks off to the left and calls, loudly, "REWRITE!"?

Yes, I think it is.

Thanks much.

 

[flyguy69]

...where I've core dumped a lot of my conflicted feelings about Ezra,
...
Isn't this where the director looks off to the left and calls, loudly, "REWRITE!"?
....

Aha! I hope the writer is listening!

Your response raises new questions for me. I would enjoy it if the poem were to explore these conflicted feelings you describe more fully-- in particular the struggle to reconcile his work with his influence. You describe his descent well, but it might work well to contrast that with the rise of the imagists and the careers of H.D., Eliot, etc., again being careful to avoid journalistic recounting of facts.

Don't teach us about Ezra, teach us about you.

There is a strong poem buried here.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

Pier


creosote painted timbers
haunted echo's of swaying oldgrowth giants
drilled coarse and lashed with bolts

creak and speak
ghostly memories of ferns
and rooted forest floor

piledriven hardshell mudd
deeper towards the core
cold salt bleached winds
with hollow footsteps

to watch the sun touch the sky
where limbs used to raise
singing praise to the heavens

Now, a slave of man
deadwood,
basalt holds you still & silent in your watery grave.

 

[Angeline]

His Shadow Speaks

I was his shadow once.

Perhaps you saw me hooked
close by his heels, sharper defined
in silhouette than any human boy.
Perhaps you saw me poised
against broad pirate planks.
I joined him move by move.

Avast Ye Hook! Ye Snee!
Fear him and thus fear me!

We danced under the sun.
We mocked the sea, no two
more matched in bravery. Until
the sky bowed to the light
I was each day his nature’s knight
until we hid beneath the tree
and rocked in a sage symmetry
of candlelight and fireleap.

We shared the unlit pipe, unruly hair.
We whispered strategy to lost boys
there until we slept and I was naught.

Twas his thought to return
for he is human born, lured
to a bliss I cannot know.

There is no home in me.

Twas his thought to return
for he is human. I am shadow
born of an imagination’s strife.
I cannot taste his life. I am an echo
in a shell. I only dream the voice
of Mother reading fairy tales.

I was too close.

Now from him I am shorn.
Is he diminished? I await him
here in limp gray half-life,
faded and unclear.

 

[flyguy69]

Your enjambment amazes me.

I was his shadow once.

Perhaps you saw me hooked
close by his heels, sharper defined
in silhouette than any human boy.
Perhaps you saw me poised
against broad pirate planks.
I joined him move by move.

Avast Ye Hook! Ye Snee!
Fear him and thus fear me!

We danced under the sun.
We mocked the sea, no two
more matched in bravery. Until
the sky bowed to the light
I was each day his nature’s knight
until we hid beneath the tree
and rocked in a sage symmetry
of candlelight and fireleap.

We shared the unlit pipe, unruly hair.
We whispered strategy to lost boys
there until we slept and I was naught.

Twas his thought to return
for he is human born, lured
to a bliss I cannot know.

There is no home in me.

Twas his thought to return
for he is human. I am shadow
born of an imagination’s strife.
I cannot taste his life. I am an echo
in a shell. I only dream the voice
of Mother reading fairy tales.

I was too close.

Now from him I am shorn.
Is he diminished? I await him
here in limp gray half-life,
faded and unclear.

 

[Angeline]

Your enjambment amazes me.

I love you, too. I labored over those line breaks for over four hours this morning.

Does the tone sound ok? I feel like it's on the edge of Yoda-speak in a few places, but I was trying to get the feel of the way the JM Barrie story sounds to me if that makes sense.

 

[wildsweetone]

I love you, too. I labored over those line breaks for over four hours this morning.

Does the tone sound ok? I feel like it's on the edge of Yoda-speak in a few places, but I was trying to get the feel of the way the JM Barrie story sounds to me if that makes sense.

this might sound a little odd Ange, but for me the 'feel of the read' changes. is it because the sentences near the beginning are longer, toward the end they seem shorter. i don't know enough to know why but to me, the 'feel' of the read changes because of this. of course, you probably mean for it to do this. i have no idea what a JM Barrie story sounds like.

i like what you're saying in your poem though

 

[flyguy69]

I love you, too. I labored over those line breaks for over four hours this morning.

Does the tone sound ok? I feel like it's on the edge of Yoda-speak in a few places, but I was trying to get the feel of the way the JM Barrie story sounds to me if that makes sense.

The tone is fine, because it evokes the joie de vivre that is essential to the tale (did you see that? I wrote French!). You might use it more frequently early in the poem to good effect.

I felt the poem slowed on the distinctions between them at the end. There may be more distinctions to make, but the poem dwells overlong on the human/non-human one.

I also wondered about the shift in narration. It begins talking to "you" and establishes the reader as a partner in the conversation. When it shifts to introspection it left me behind and never came back. I think you could resolve that by either a) coming back or b) don't establish the "you" at the outset.

 

[Coi]

his eyes always reminded me of fallen leaves
and decaying apples on the orchard floor

life before and after
golden turned to gray

now, it is polite smiles
& the friendless conversation of the surface
that's all you can have

"Forgive me if I don't really want to meet your wife"
ask me how I really am.

I won't tell you.

secrets locked away
grains of sand
in me,
waiting
forming pearls
how the life in me died
12.5 hours after you left
in blood and pain
on the wooden floor of my cabin

I never told you.
I never will.

gray morphine mornings
and doctors shaped in shadows

"No, I will be fine"

I drove myself home,
and washed us off the floor.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

I think I agree with Fly...
I love your fairytale style poetry though, very well done Ang.

 

[clutching_calliope]

would appreciate any helpfulness on this one, thanks

.....

 

[champagne1982]

Chicken Soup In China

Paris in September is different
than spring's, the rain falls
frequently and the leaves
on the Isle are autumn's gold
but the river has a shine
brought by the harvest moon
and the bateaux crowd
the left bank as if queued
for the muse.

Don't deny the colours
offered in the flea market
bits of pottery and glass
and paintings wrought
waiting to be bought
by tourists at the foot
of a sacred heart glistening
white in the silvered
night of the moon
on cobbled streets.

Chocolat chaud in a blue café
while the more sophistiqués
sip bordeaux, never knowing
what their jaded palates
keep them from enjoying
and chicken soup in china plates
as the Champs Elyssées goes by.

 

[Angeline]

Thank you all for your comments thus far on His Shadow Speaks. I wrote a very detailed answer to the suggestions--considering how to resolve the things you brought up--and then we lost power (we are in the throes of a howling storm) and my post went bye bye.

Now I'm too tired to reconstruct the post, lol, but your observations are right on about the pronoun shift. I'll work on a fix when I can stand to look at the poem again (not tonight!) and post the new draft.

 

[Tzara]

1er révision

Driving through the Skagit Valley,
We See an Eagle Feeding

It is a juvenile, who has grasped
a mallard's neck and twisted it
to side. The duck is limp and dead.

The eagle plucks out feathers
one by one and guards his prize, watching
out for siblings with less skill or luck

but hungry for red tendons and fat breast.
The mother circles, west toward
the water. From the shelter of the car

we photograph the scene, as the bird
pulls and tugs. Crows land and perch
along a wire fence. Some stand on stumps.

Elizabeth points down the road at swans
scattered in another field. As we leave,
the wind whirls bits of down up

about the raptor as he works. The restive
crows, on wire and ground, hop and twitch,
hop and twitch.

 

[Tzara]

watermelon melancholy

they take the table out to the yard
where the wood looks stiff
among the maples
so they cover it with a cloud
of cloth to disguise
the formality of a Sunday.
the chairs tilt on the grass
like drunk girls
in choir robes.

there is a season of tomatoes
in the cheeks of fertile women
hurried.

an indigo and russet bouquet
set on the garden rocks for hornets
along with a plate of honey
and a red onion
cuss.

threat of rain
sweetening the pores of leaves.
the bocce men are prudent
gaiety holding

cigarettes, boisterous children, bottles
of burgundy, and long-stemmed
glasses offering
toasts to the disgrace of politicians and kisses
to grandmothers. their lips are heavy bread in oil.

after eating, their fingers seek the seeds
of watermelon hips
while syrup seeps from their eyelids.

Hmmm. I am not sure that swooning over your poem is helpful to you. Or telling you I am in love (With your style! Your style!).

I might make one or two really tweaky suggestions, but you are writing over my head by about 20,000 feet. I only have a Student Poet's license and must comment with an instructor by my side.

Let me reiterate what I said before. Well come to Lit.

Great poem.