Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Zanzibar]

thank you! actually these are mostly passion outbursts that I have been trying to turn into poems

I struggled with the exact same line you mention here. it is tough to not slip into the "as if they were written to me" killing me softly with his song cliche. I will try to think of a way to do it, thanks for the confirmation that it needs...something....

Just a thought... popped into my head...

for that line. "Yet to me a precious/priceless gift"

Maybe that will get the thought juices running!

Zan

 

[vampiredust]

To Build A Crow

What do you need to build a crow?

Take some earth,
some mud and sand
and mix them together

shape this into a bird
and throw it into the sea

wait

do not think about it,
do not try to retrieve it

just wait

until the moonlight
has flooded the sea
and watch as it flies
away

a crow has been born
out of all the pain
you've thrown away

 

[DeepAsleep]

I submitted this, a while ago, and I've spent a little time tightening the bolts...

several people called it rough and.. I dunno. I thought that maybe a coat of polish would make them grin. Any comments are welcome, though unexpected.
~~~

Too Much Player Piano


blurred nights, casually wasted
peeking out from behind my eyes
like looking through rainy day car windows

too-fast drunken motion;
striving for grace in arms and legs
that want to separate at the joints
and tumble tired to the tile

you are there
there with your long fingers
unsettling the rings left by glasses
on top of the bar, playing the bottles of beer
and the peanuts, you’re playing
with empty hands and musicians
cry for the grace in your palms

you could play tunes for me in your heart
play silent witness,
play unspoken truth
play with me; lock up your
player piano heart, that does the

thinking for you, the piano you'll never
learn to play, the keys you'll never
tickle because they are too laced with tacks
and you are too afraid

bar's hot enough to wring sweat from
black hearted eightballs
too fast too loud too much
too tired to think straight
too tired to tell you not to leave

draped on a stool i am
damp laundry and
half drunk pitcher beer

falling all out of myself

too many nights, casually wasted
too many clock forgotten seconds and
pitchers of beer and too many noises
too much music too much dancing
too much you leaving

too much player piano

~Ross....meh.

 

[flyguy69]

I like the changes, Ross. I'll spend some time on it and get back to you, but let me share my initial impression: it is still a bit too long. The poem spends too much time on setting and too little time on action.

I'm impressed.

I submitted this, a while ago, and I've spent a little time tightening the bolts...

several people called it rough and.. I dunno. I thought that maybe a coat of polish would make them grin. Any comments are welcome, though unexpected.
~~~

Too Much Player Piano


blurred nights, casually wasted
peeking out from behind my eyes
like looking through rainy day car windows

too-fast drunken motion;
striving for grace in arms and legs
that want to separate at the joints
and tumble tired to the tile

you are there
there with your long fingers
unsettling the rings left by glasses
on top of the bar, playing the bottles of beer
and the peanuts, you’re playing
with empty hands and musicians
cry for the grace in your palms

you could play tunes for me in your heart
play silent witness,
play unspoken truth
play with me; lock up your
player piano heart, that does the

thinking for you, the piano you'll never
learn to play, the keys you'll never
tickle because they are too laced with tacks
and you are too afraid

bar's hot enough to wring sweat from
black hearted eightballs
too fast too loud too much
too tired to think straight
too tired to tell you not to leave

draped on a stool i am
damp laundry and
half drunk pitcher beer

falling all out of myself

too many nights, casually wasted
too many clock forgotten seconds and
pitchers of beer and too many noises
too much music too much dancing
too much you leaving

too much player piano

~Ross....meh.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Diamond Beach

.....

 

[flyguy69]

I submitted this, a while ago, and I've spent a little time tightening the bolts...

several people called it rough and.. I dunno. I thought that maybe a coat of polish would make them grin. Any comments are welcome, though unexpected.
~~~
....[/SIZE]

As I read this poem, D.A., I see a narrator losing faith in the participatory requirement of relationships. He worries that he is not engaged in his life, nor is his love-interest, and so he feels that time is wasting away from him. Is my reading accurate?

If so, you’ll need to be careful that you don’t devolve into “navel-gazing”—the sort of self-absorbed poetry that simply declares how unique the author/narrator is. It is not an impossible line to walk, but it does require attention.

The biggest failing of such poetry is usually length, which may be why yesterday I noted that. Readers are always willing to listen to an author telling about their problems for a short while, but it quickly becomes tedious. Tell us enough to set the scene and support the metaphor, but then move on or readers will move down the bar to another stool!

Catbabe once noted the importance of choosing strong nouns and verbs, and letting them do the work. Too many modifiers clutter the poem and belabor images. In the first strophe you apply one each to “nights” and “wasted,” and three to “windows.” I’m not saying they aren’t all necessary, but together they feel excessive. Ted Kooser (U.S. Poet Laureate and fellow Nebraskan!) calls adjectives the “shadows of nouns,” and cautions writers not to let the shadow cast the object.

Finally, be careful with abstractions and clichés—they blunt a poem’s impact. Lines like “the grace in your palms” don’t have much meaning, and “silent witness” and “unspoken truth” are so overused that readers won’t do anything with them.

On a positive note: the trope you have chosen, the player piano as a metaphor for life on autopilot, is excellent, and the real reason I loved this poem from the start. Much better than “life on autopilot”! I also love many of the images you use: sweating eightballs, limbs that separate at the joints in fatigue, the N as damp laundry, etc. are, well, poetry.

You have a ragged and uncompromising voice, D.A., and I think you will write some very powerful poetry as you refine your skill. If you get enough sleep!

 

[DeepAsleep]

As I read this poem, D.A., I see a narrator losing faith in the participatory requirement of relationships. He worries that he is not engaged in his life, nor is his love-interest, and so he feels that time is wasting away from him. Is my reading accurate?

Mostly - It's sort of mourning the loss of love and bemoaning lack of direction. Speaking of direction - I may have tried to go too many ways with this.

If so, you’ll need to be careful that you don’t devolve into “navel-gazing”—the sort of self-absorbed poetry that simply declares how unique the author/narrator is. It is not an impossible line to walk, but it does require attention.

Ew. I'll keep my eye on it.

The biggest failing of such poetry is usually length, which may be why yesterday I noted that. Readers are always willing to listen to an author telling about their problems for a short while, but it quickly becomes tedious. Tell us enough to set the scene and support the metaphor, but then move on or readers will move down the bar to another stool!

I have the biggest problem knowing when to quit, with poetry. I have fucking PAGES associated with some of my poems that I cut and selected from, in cobbling together the finished product. "A long, empty space" is an example of a poem I've written that could've been far more epic than it already was. ......I need to hack on that one, too, now that I feel like I'm far enough removed from it, to edit it. Thanks!

Catbabe once noted the importance of choosing strong nouns and verbs, and letting them do the work. Too many modifiers clutter the poem and belabor images. In the first strophe you apply one each to “nights” and “wasted,” and three to “windows.” I’m not saying they aren’t all necessary, but together they feel excessive. Ted Kooser (U.S. Poet Laureate and fellow Nebraskan!) calls adjectives the “shadows of nouns,” and cautions writers not to let the shadow cast the object.

I have no formal schooling in poetry. What I write is just how I've learned to write - So comments and things like this, I cherish like gold. I'll try and look at things from this angle. Thanks, Fly.

Finally, be careful with abstractions and clichés—they blunt a poem’s impact. Lines like “the grace in your palms” don’t have much meaning, and “silent witness” and “unspoken truth” are so overused that readers won’t do anything with them.

I try to be, and you're right about the 'grace' line. She's got some elegant fingers on her, though - Her hands are why I chose a piano for this piece, incidentally. She's got these beautiful, long fingers. Amazing hands. I'll eyeball it.

On a positive note: the trope you have chosen, the player piano as a metaphor for life on autopilot, is excellent, and the real reason I loved this poem from the start. Much better than “life on autopilot”! I also love many of the images you use: sweating eightballs, limbs that separate at the joints in fatigue, the N as damp laundry, etc. are, well, poetry.

I'm glad I hit the nail, in a few spots, at least and I've always appreciated your support of what I submit, here. Thanks again, Fly.

 

[flyguy69]

Us Omaha boys gotta stick together.

As I read this poem, D.A., I see a narrator losing faith in the participatory requirement of relationships. He worries that he is not engaged in his life, nor is his love-interest, and so he feels that time is wasting away from him. Is my reading accurate?

Mostly - It's sort of mourning the loss of love and bemoaning lack of direction. Speaking of direction - I may have tried to go too many ways with this.

If so, you’ll need to be careful that you don’t devolve into “navel-gazing”—the sort of self-absorbed poetry that simply declares how unique the author/narrator is. It is not an impossible line to walk, but it does require attention.

Ew. I'll keep my eye on it.

The biggest failing of such poetry is usually length, which may be why yesterday I noted that. Readers are always willing to listen to an author telling about their problems for a short while, but it quickly becomes tedious. Tell us enough to set the scene and support the metaphor, but then move on or readers will move down the bar to another stool!

I have the biggest problem knowing when to quit, with poetry. I have fucking PAGES associated with some of my poems that I cut and selected from, in cobbling together the finished product. "A long, empty space" is an example of a poem I've written that could've been far more epic than it already was. ......I need to hack on that one, too, now that I feel like I'm far enough removed from it, to edit it. Thanks!

Catbabe once noted the importance of choosing strong nouns and verbs, and letting them do the work. Too many modifiers clutter the poem and belabor images. In the first strophe you apply one each to “nights” and “wasted,” and three to “windows.” I’m not saying they aren’t all necessary, but together they feel excessive. Ted Kooser (U.S. Poet Laureate and fellow Nebraskan!) calls adjectives the “shadows of nouns,” and cautions writers not to let the shadow cast the object.

I have no formal schooling in poetry. What I write is just how I've learned to write - So comments and things like this, I cherish like gold. I'll try and look at things from this angle. Thanks, Fly.

Finally, be careful with abstractions and clichés—they blunt a poem’s impact. Lines like “the grace in your palms” don’t have much meaning, and “silent witness” and “unspoken truth” are so overused that readers won’t do anything with them.

I try to be, and you're right about the 'grace' line. She's got some elegant fingers on her, though - Her hands are why I chose a piano for this piece, incidentally. She's got these beautiful, long fingers. Amazing hands. I'll eyeball it.

On a positive note: the trope you have chosen, the player piano as a metaphor for life on autopilot, is excellent, and the real reason I loved this poem from the start. Much better than “life on autopilot”! I also love many of the images you use: sweating eightballs, limbs that separate at the joints in fatigue, the N as damp laundry, etc. are, well, poetry.

I'm glad I hit the nail, in a few spots, at least and I've always appreciated your support of what I submit, here. Thanks again, Fly.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Green Apple

.....

 

[annaswirls]

cc this is so fucking good.
but what is a bc apple?

 

[clutching_calliope]

I'm forcing Canadiana down your throat

.....

 

[flyguy69]

It's not too different in taste from a Granny Smith, but the colour is much different. The best way to describe the colour: just about to puke from drinking too many White Lightning shots. It's a very yellow-green and spotted. And the apple is quite thin, not very plumped out.

They are simply delicious, if you like sour things. (I don't like tomatoes at all).

B.C. is British Columbia, Canada.

Remind me to keep my eyes shut during dinner at your house.

 

[annaswirls]

Remind me to keep my eyes shut during dinner at your house.

we will provide blindfolds, don't you worry your pretty little head

 

[flyguy69]

we will provide blindfolds, don't you worry your pretty little head

You like 'em big and stupid, don't you?

 

[annaswirls]

You like 'em big and stupid, don't you?

um I like them big and whatever else comes with big

 

[annaswirls]

You like 'em big and stupid, don't you?

oh my, do you know Julie? Is that where your AV idea came from?




ARTIST: Julie Brown
TITLE: I Like Them Big and Stupid
Lyrics


When I need somethin' to help me unwind
I find a six foot baby with a one track mind
Smart guys are nowhere, they make demands
Give me a moron with talented hands
I go bar-hopping and they say last call
I start shopping for a Neanderthal

The bigger they come the harder I fall
In love 'til we're done then they're out in the hall

{Refrain}
I like 'em big and stupid
I like 'em big and real dumb
I like 'em big and stupid

What kind of guy does a lot for me
A Superman with a lobotomy
My fathers outa Harvard
My brothers outa Yale
But the guy I took home last night
Just got outa jail

The way he grabbed and threw me, ooh it really got me hot
But the way he growled and bit me, I hope he had his shots

The bigger they are the harder they'll work
I got a soft spot for a good lookin' jerk

{Refrain}

I met a guy, who drives a truck
He can't tell time but he sure can drive
I asked his name and he had to think
Could I have found the missing link
He's so stupid you know what he said
Well I forgot what he said, 'cause it was so stupid

The bigger they come the harder I fall
In love 'til we're done then they're out in the hall

{Refrain}

I like 'em big and real dumb
I like 'em big and

 

[flyguy69]

LOL!

I do! That was on a road tape from a college spring break trip!

oh my, do you know Julie? Is that where your AV idea came from?




ARTIST: Julie Brown
TITLE: I Like Them Big and Stupid
Lyrics


When I need somethin' to help me unwind
I find a six foot baby with a one track mind
Smart guys are nowhere, they make demands
Give me a moron with talented hands
I go bar-hopping and they say last call
I start shopping for a Neanderthal

The bigger they come the harder I fall
In love 'til we're done then they're out in the hall

{Refrain}
I like 'em big and stupid
I like 'em big and real dumb
I like 'em big and stupid

What kind of guy does a lot for me
A Superman with a lobotomy
My fathers outa Harvard
My brothers outa Yale
But the guy I took home last night
Just got outa jail

The way he grabbed and threw me, ooh it really got me hot
But the way he growled and bit me, I hope he had his shots

The bigger they are the harder they'll work
I got a soft spot for a good lookin' jerk

{Refrain}

I met a guy, who drives a truck
He can't tell time but he sure can drive
I asked his name and he had to think
Could I have found the missing link
He's so stupid you know what he said
Well I forgot what he said, 'cause it was so stupid

The bigger they come the harder I fall
In love 'til we're done then they're out in the hall

{Refrain}

I like 'em big and real dumb
I like 'em big and

 

[annaswirls]

LOL!

I do! That was on a road tape from a college spring break trip!

that was you!!!??


um, I think I have something of yours....

 

[flyguy69]

that was you!!!??


um, I think I have something of yours....

I deliberately left that under the mattress!

 

[annaswirls]

dna

I deliberately left that under the mattress!

well you know, you did not leave me any other mementos, on my blue dress or elsewhere... I did not think I would see you again.

 

[flyguy69]

well you know, you did not leave me any other mementos, on my blue dress or elsewhere... I did not think I would see you again.

Your phone number blurred on my sweaty palm. I dialed a real estate office in Williamsburg for weeks afterward.

 

[annaswirls]

Your phone number blurred on my sweaty palm. I dialed a real estate office in Williamsburg for weeks afterward.

um I have a confession, I licked your hand while you were asleep at the wheel and um, that wasn't sweat

 

[vampiredust]

The Recovering Mind

Pages of my journal hang from the tree,
my thoughts glistening in the early light
before running down the page. Names,
places, love past and future, ideas

slowly melt. I'm sketching the scene
from afar, trying to create the picture
on my canvas but nothing is being drawn.
I can see only see an empty outline,

not the complete image. I walk towards
the tree but it fades out of view,
as if I can't see whether its real or just
another illusion distracting me.

 

[Tzara]

Revision 2

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 its prize
from siblings with less skill or luck

at their own hunt, yet hungry
for red tendons and fat breast.
From the shelter of our car,

we photograph the bird. It
pulls and tugs. Crows perch along
a wire fence or stand on stumps.

Elizabeth points out swans
scattered in another field.
The wind whirls up bits of down

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

 

[annaswirls]

I do not like foods that are deceitful
tomatoes give teeth the illusion of solidity