Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[vampiredust]

It was the morning sun on the marks
of her labour, the striations of her skin
rippling like bay waves, that woke me.
Light sieved through the crossbones of the Jolly Roger
hung hasty over the farmhouse window.

Possession of the acreage last night, late night,
mattresses on the floor, we lay where we fell.
Bliss baby in the middle of faded yellow linens,
nested by our nude bodies.

This morning, early morning,
she sits on a wooden chair, her hipbones wink,
slats askew, her front to its back.
Her belly is given to a new shape, approachable,
vulnerable,
written with codes and symbols, maps to adventures
we’ve sailed together.

I motion with a nod, join me, and careful
is our love, not to wake baby,
our pearl in the buttermilk.

This is beautiful, Calli

 

[vampiredust]

I enjoyed this, Calli. Some suggestions:

It was the morning sun on the marks
of her labour, the striations of her skin
rippling like bay waves, that woke me.
Light sieved through the crossbones of the Jolly Roger
hung hasty over the farmhouse window

The first half of this stanza is great. I love that opening image and the following simile. The second half is great, but I think I spotted a typo. Instead of 'hasty'
did you mean to write 'hastily' ?

Possession of the acreage last night, late night,
mattresses on the floor, we lay where we fell.
Bliss baby in the middle of faded yellow linens,
nested by our nude bodies.

This stanza sounds a little awkward. The word 'acreage' in the first half sounds strange. Perhaps it would sound better with another word. Likewise, starting the second half of the stanza with the word 'bliss' sounds awkward.

This morning, early morning,
she sits on a wooden chair, her hipbones wink,
slats askew, her front to its back.
Her belly is given to a new shape, approachable,
vulnerable,
written with codes and symbols, maps to adventures
we’ve sailed together.

I enjoyed the imagery in this stanza. The personification of 'her hipbones wink' is great, as is the last two images. One point. Why did you choose to write 'This morning, early morning' ?

I motion with a nod, join me, and careful
is our love, not to wake baby,
our pearl in the buttermilk.

I think this could sound better with an extra word before 'careful'. It sounds like the narrator is asking an indirect question. Perhaps you could change it to

'and be careful
with our love, not to wake baby,'

The last image is great.

 

[flyguy69]

What an interesting poem! I'm not sure it all works, but you have some wonderful stuff here.

The mixing of two seemingly incompatible tropes is delightful. Who would have thought to cross high-seas adventure with pastoral bliss? I love the title, and it is a beautiful image of both the infant in yellow sheets and the melding of two metaphors. I also love the male N perspective-- it adds interest as I try to imagine how you must imagine how I imagine it must be.... where was I again?

Where the poem suffers is in logic and in distracting details. And the silly "Careful is our love..."

A logic issue: in S1 the sun on her stomach wakes him. Unless she has polished those stretch marks to a shine this part is hard to picture.

Distracting details: the purchase of the farmhouse (it doesn't advance the poem any), the stretchmarks in S1 (I like them later), the repetitive time references.

I would like to know more about that wooden chair-- why is she sitting in it backwards? how did it come to be by the bed? why is it in disrepair? where did it come from? why is she up so early? Don't answer all of these questions, but one or two could add something of real interest to the poem.

Some words you may not need in red.

QUOTE=clutching_calliope]It was the morning sun on the marks
of her labour, the striations of her skin
rippling like bay waves, that woke me.
Light sieved through the crossbones of the Jolly Roger
hung hasty over the farmhouse window.

Possession of the acreage last night, late night,
mattresses on the floor, we lay where we fell.
Bliss baby in the middle of faded yellow linens,
nested by our nude bodies.

This morning, early morning,
she sits on a wooden chair, her hipbones wink,
slats askew, her front to its back.
Her belly is given to a new shape, approachable,
vulnerable, (only because "vulnerability" doesn't add as much as "approachable" to me. In fact, I would rewrite this as "Her approachable belly written with...)
written with codes and symbols, maps to adventures
we’ve sailed together.

I motion with a nod, join me, and careful
is our love, not to wake baby,
our pearl in the buttermilk.[/QUOTE]

Arrrrr!

 

[clutching_calliope]

Thanks

.....

 

[annaswirls]

he leans over
pulls his cheeks apart
with both hands for me to see
“Mommy, did I do a good job?”

wow sure was a messy one huh
you did a good job baby
almost got it all
here let me help you

I wipe the smudged half moon
that rises over his crack
we wash our hands in the sink
he insists on pulling the curtain shut
to change into his bathing suit
my breasts sag

I feel my turn coming back again
when someone will lift my legs
tell me what a mess I have made

 

[flyguy69]

VD, can you tell me a bit about your line breaking? You are a marvelous storyteller, but for the life of me I can't figure out why you break where you do.

That said, I think this one would benefit from a lighter touch. I also think it could be longer: rather than "tell" us that the mother's rants were like bombing raids, provide a specific example. Run the bombing metaphor through a single incident in which she excoriated the protagonist. I would also tell readers more about the glass fortress-- in what way is his life fragile?

And don't you have to be 17 1/2 to join the RAF?

Good luck

Bombs

He joined the air force when he
was sixteen, wanting to escape
the bombing raids coming from
his mother’s lips. The memories

that filled his apartment slowly
turned to glass. As time matured
him, the whisky and cigarettes
changed into babies, who bombarded

him with food. He retaliated with his
fists, shattering the fortress that had
surrounded him. And as the glass fell,
all he could feel were millions of bombs
exploding all around him.

 

[flyguy69]

both F.G. and V.D. ( !!I certainly hope there is no VD here... ). Lots of things to think about and revise! I appreciate you both being so in depth.

Calli

This sounds very

very

kinky.

 

[vampiredust]

Thanks fly for your helpful suggestions. I agree with you on all counts, my line breaks do need work here, I was trying to make the transition from line to line as smooth as possible. Will rework and revise.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Pearl in the Buttermilk Edit 1

.....

 

[flyguy69]

Vampiredust--

As TheRainMan has asserted elsewhere on this forum, the line is the basic unit of poetry (unless you are writing prose poetry, which by definition removes this device). As such, it is sometimes helpful to look at each line in isolation.

There are lots of ways to break, and none of them is the "right" way. Some are more effective than others, however, and the important thing is that you think about them.

One is to break where natural speech puts a pause. Poetry written this way flows well but can get monotonous. The opening strophe of your poem might get broken thusly (I am forced to ignore line length, here, and all of these examples would require rewording to work best).

He joined the air force
when he was sixteen,
wanting to escape the bombing raids
coming from his mother’s lips.

The memories....​

Another method might be to break on verbs. This emphasizes "action" in a poem, which suits this poem well.

He joined
the air force when he was
sixteen, wanting to escape
the bombing raids coming
from his mother’s lips.

The memories....​

A third technique might to break on theme, which pulls readers through a poem. This is harder to demonstrate with just a few lines, and can take multiple forms. Here I tried to connect "air force" with "bombing," and "bombing raids" with "memories." Another form is to look for theme in one line and a theme in the next line, then break on a word that connects the two.

He joined the air force
when he was sixteen, wanting to escape the bombing raids
coming from his mother’s lips. The memories....​

Breaking on articles and prepositions can add a stumbling rush to a poem, and can be very effective at times.

He joined the air force when
he was sixteen, wanting to
escape the bombing raids coming from
his mother’s lips. The memories....​

Almost always, however, the best technique is a combination of these. There are no hard and fast rules-- don't let anyone tell you you can't break "that" way! The important thing is not to ignore the power of line breaks and use them to your advantage.

 

[annaswirls]

Professor Fly!

 

[flyguy69]

Professor Fly!

One more outburst out of you and I'll keep you after class, young lady! Make you clap my erasers or something.

 

[annaswirls]

One more outburst out of you and I'll keep you after class, young lady! Make you clap my erasers or something.

oh what a good set up
I could go with the clap
or the bursting out or or or
something but all I can do is sit still
chin in hand, eyelids fluttering
waiting for the ruler
to kiss my knuckles

 

[Willows_Tears]

Lost in Venice

we were already half way to Rialto bridge
when you found the missing street signs
in the tile mosaics under our sandals
back pack heavy
we barely make check in

later: lost again
we find a mattress down a staircase
outside glorious San Giovanni in Bragora
someone was sleeping down there
right there beside the cathedral

I can't stop thinking in English
tripping across text book time lines
like the day Vivaldi's mother first felt his kick
under her ribs here on these steps
right here where we stand

later: fourteenth century wireless connection
he gets the latest news
“hey look! our little bean's startin' to grow his kidneys
no espresso for you m'lady"

five minutes after you throw away the map
we find an unmarked museum
Salvadore Dali opens my torso
like a four drawer dresser

we lean over ropes
to see inside

first day in Venice

half way to Rialto bridge
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

later: lost again
we find a bare mattress down a staircase
outside the church of San Giovanni in Bragora
someone sleeps down there
I can't stop thinking in English
tripping across text book time lines
Vivaldi's mother first felt his kick
under her ribs in front of this alter

laptop calendar checks in:
Little Bean's startin' to grow his kidneys
no espresso for you m'lady"

five minutes after you throw away the map
Salvadore Dali opens my torso
like a four drawer dresser

we lean over ropes
to see inside

 

[Willows_Tears]

but it never lasts

It is easiest to fall in love with you,
to feel my silent longing soaked deep
with something strong, alive.
Easier to float up off the ground
and sink into your eyes that say
I want you, come to me
than to seek out those small moments
that flood my emptiness with hope
the seedling that sprouts between rocks
below the water line, the child
who struggles to invent the biggest
number fifty thousand hundred to describe
how much he loves you up past the sun
down to the blue house where we used to live
over the ocean and back to Baltimore.

It is easier to spin in motion picture tears
of some forbidden love than to stop
under a tree filled with noisy sparrows
scolding the Jay who holds their hatchling
between claws on the lowest branch,
easier to feel my whole body whir and scurry
under your first touch, a new breath to call me
beautiful, alive, a wind storm of a woman than to
wait for the rain to race down the field
like a stampede of wild horses and mist my face,
soak my toes that barely stick over the covered porch.

 

[TheRainMan]

take 2

Lake George and Places I Can’t Explain


Each night I’d wait until the scoutmasters
were sleeping, the other tenderfoots
balled inside their sleeping bags and dreams,

to walk alone through the lake wind,
past the lean-tos and tilted outhouses
and off into the woods.
I always had the same thought—

I am in a strange and wonderful place
I’ll never be able to explain
to anyone. Anything is possible here—

unicorns, the risen bones of Indians,
little blondes who kiss me quick
under a square green moon.

How the night blazed—I know I heard it ask
why must you always go away
(or was that me), and swear
it would never forget me
when I told it I was going home.

Every summer I return to the lake,
to that midnight ritual,
to search for those remnants of worship.

Night does not invite a man in like it does a boy—

dangling its beautiful territories as bait.
Stars you can touch and slide around,
bushes shaped like the war-painted brave,
the girls of your long-legged wishes—

and I do not ask for any of that—

since then, I’ve been where it’s mean,
where a man becomes everything he hates,
and bottles and sells himself as poison.
There’s no getting at that either,
with the words I know—

I simply crash the gates to those old lands.
I make sure no one is watching—magic
happens best when no one else sees—

and I pass from now to then, to those
far off nights and mornings
when I was simple and nothing changed,

when I heard a music so pure it lived
in my feet, when each constellation
came and disappeared on time
with its own light, its own myth,
its own soft way of saying goodbye.

 

[sugarmountain]

Hell and Helios (working title)

He wrapped his hands ‘round the sun
cupped the heat in his hands, the warmth
bathed his face, he drank it’s essence
to overflowing, not knowing when
he would ever feel it again

into the shadows he stole,
told no one of his time in the light
for fear that word of his whereabouts
might bring peril to those he loved
the cold of darkness cloaked him

only in rare exhalation, when the chill
of separation began to clench his heart,
did he allow himself to part with a breath
of his precious heat, then only slowly
did he let it seep from his lungs

but days become weeks become months
warmth relinquished went unreplenished
frail existence became bare subsistence
dampness drenched his skin,
doubt creeped into his mind

faced with death, a final breath
cleared the fog, overcame his fear
with fevered pace he rose, retraced
the path by which he’d fled, hopeful
at day’s end he’d rest in Helios’ bed


But Helios’ had turned her head, he was dead
to her, other’s felt her favored smile, while
she put a cloud ‘twixt him and her, allowed
only filtered fingers to touch his brow, now
he lingers in the hope she will come ‘round

 

[cherries_on_snow]

He wrapped his hands ‘round the sun
cupped the heat in his hands, the warmth
bathed his face, he drank it’s essence
to overflowing, not knowing when
he would ever feel it again

into the shadows he stole,
told no one of his time in the light
for fear that word of his whereabouts
might bring peril to those he loved
the cold of darkness cloaked him

only in rare exhalation, when the chill
of separation began to clench his heart,
did he allow himself to part with a breath
of his precious heat, then only slowly
did he let it seep from his lungs

but days become weeks become months
warmth relinquished went unreplenished
frail existence became bare subsistence
dampness drenched his skin,
doubt creeped into his mind

faced with death, a final breath
cleared the fog, overcame his fear
with fevered pace he rose, retraced
the path by which he’d fled, hopeful
at day’s end he’d rest in Helios’ bed


But Helios’ had turned her head, he was dead
to her, other’s felt her favored smile, while
she put a cloud ‘twixt him and her, allowed
only filtered fingers to touch his brow, now
he lingers in the hope she will come ‘round

There is some lovely assonance in here, but it seems to pool most in the bottom stanza. There is some ambiguity of players here. Helios being a classical reference, I first thought there to be narrator, neuter-gender sun, Helios and Her. Then I became confused thinking perhaps helios is her and is now a female rather than a male. Sometimes ambiguity helps me enjoy a poem more if it underlines the theme when the moment of revelation occurs.

I didn't have that with this piece. I did have lovely vowels and an emotional reaction to the plight (not sure the specifics of the plight) of the central character. Also the 'he' in the first line of the last stanza is ambiguous and I am not sure if it is a he-Helios (in case the neuter sun or another she exists) or if it is the he narrator.

Summed up, I'd look at eliminating some of the character ambiguity.

 

[sugarmountain]

Thanks for the input COS. I'll work on it.

 

[sugarmountain]

A new approach- the begginning

He wrapped his hands ‘round the sun
cupped the heat in his hands, the warmth
bathed his face, he drank it’s essence
to overflowing, not knowing when
he would ever feel it again

into the shadows he stole,
told no one of his time in the light
for fear that word of his whereabouts
might bring peril to those he loved
the cold of darkness cloaked him

only in rare exhalation, when the chill
of separation began to clench his heart,
did he allow himself to part with a breath
of his precious heat, then only slowly
did he let it seep from his lungs

but days become weeks become months
warmth relinquished went unreplenished
frail existence became bare subsistence
dampness drenched his skin,
doubt creeped into his mind

faced with death, a final breath
cleared the fog, overcame his fear
with fevered pace he rose, retraced
the path by which he’d fled, hopeful
at day’s end he’d rest in Helios’ bed


But Helios’ had turned her head, he was dead
to her, other’s felt her favored smile, while
she put a cloud ‘twixt him and her, allowed
only filtered fingers to touch his brow, now
he lingers in the hope she will come ‘round

Helios had always counted on
coming on the crack of dawn
then one day he betrayed Aurora
left her alone with no tomorrow

slipped silently into the night
depriving her of his vital light
without fair Helios, dawn was broken
in darkness, remaining just a token

reminder of the glory she once cast
when holding daylight was her repast
how fondly she'd been smiled upon
when coupled with the morning sun

(to be continued)

 

[champagne1982]

Helios had always counted on
coming on the crack of dawn
then one day he betrayed Aurora
left her alone with no tomorrow

slipped silently into the night
depriving her of his vital light
without fair Helios, dawn was broken
in darkness, remaining just a token

reminder of the glory she once cast
when holding daylight was her repast
how fondly she'd been smiled upon
when coupled with the morning sun

(to be continued)

A quick question, if I may? Why don't you set this into a formula? I think you'd enjoy the challenge of writing to a metrical length and a set rhyme scheme. When you need to do more with the language you use than to have it complete a quatrain, simple rhymes don't seem quite as unsophisticated as they do in this instance.

Try a rubaiyat. They are fairly easy to write and were, historically, the Persian storytellers' formula of choice. You may like it .

Poetry Form - The Rubáiyát.

 

[sugarmountain]

A quick question, if I may? Why don't you set this into a formula? I think you'd enjoy the challenge of writing to a metrical length and a set rhyme scheme. When you need to do more with the language you use than to have it complete a quatrain, simple rhymes don't seem quite as unsophisticated as they do in this instance.

Try a rubaiyat. They are fairly easy to write and were, historically, the Persian storytellers' formula of choice. You may like it .

Poetry Form - The Rubáiyát.

Thanks Champers, as if I'm not having enough trouble trying to figue out where this thing is going....but I did take a look at the form and the idea is not all that offputting.

I do appreciate you taking the time to comment and make a suggestion.
Guess it's not entirely out of the question...

 

[cherries_on_snow]

New York Before Christmas

New York is where wearing black is not formal
but is grandly normal, and it is where I am normal. In the swing.
I am on the train and the loud speaker sings in a language
in which echo transplants vowel.
Coffee wets my skin under my clothes as if it were breast milk,
just there suddenly. I lick my wrist under my sleeve.
I glance-watch people on my car
pretending to decide which of them I'll invite to dinner.
Pretending I cook dinner.
Nod my head at the station manager as my hips prod through the turnstile
and even though he doesn't nod back today, I remind myself
that some mornings he does nod, and I smile at the top of his head anyway.
I walk past the store where I bought my coffee table the American way--
on payments--and where they told me the table was a Mexican antique
and I believed them (enough).
I am here to stay in this place. I live in New York now.
Still, I plan my yearly goodbyes. I have a week of Christmas goodbyes
to Kansas. Good people, goodbye. I live in New York now.

 

[annaswirls]

god I love the nightportrayed as companion this is really wonderful, I can't find anything to suggest--wait-- I read it again and found something

The strophe in which you and the night speak-- it feels a little awkward. I want more of a conversation scene painted there, between you and the night, instead of you talking about you and the night talking. Does that make any sense at all?

I do not like night being called "it." The only way I can see avoiding this is by turning it more conversational, so your lines are going to the night, and you can use "you" or call the night him or her. Feels like it should be a him. There are so many pronouns in such a short space. The phrase (or was that me) feels out of place-- not the IDEA of the phrase-- that is wonderful-- but how it is worded, or perhaps the parens.

How the night blazed—I know I heard it ask
why must you always go away
(or was that me), and swear
it would never forget me
when I told it I was going home.


................


"I'll never be able to explain"

I guess you did not know then that you were going to be a poet, who did just that very thing and beautifully.

Lake George and Places I Can’t Explain


Each night I’d wait until the scoutmasters
were sleeping, the other tenderfoots
balled inside their sleeping bags and dreams,

to walk alone through the lake wind,
past the lean-tos and tilted outhouses
and off into the woods.
I always had the same thought—

I am in a strange and wonderful place
I’ll never be able to explain
to anyone. Anything is possible here—

unicorns, the risen bones of Indians,
little blondes who kiss me quick
under a square green moon.

How the night blazed—I know I heard it ask
why must you always go away
(or was that me), and swear
it would never forget me
when I told it I was going home.

Every summer I return to the lake,
to that midnight ritual,
to search for those remnants of worship.

Night does not invite a man in like it does a boy—

dangling its beautiful territories as bait.
Stars you can touch and slide around,
bushes shaped like the war-painted brave,
the girls of your long-legged wishes—

and I do not ask for any of that—

since then, I’ve been where it’s mean,
where a man becomes everything he hates,
and bottles and sells himself as poison.
There’s no getting at that either,
with the words I know—

I simply crash the gates to those old lands.
I make sure no one is watching—magic
happens best when no one else sees—

and I pass from now to then, to those
far off nights and mornings
when I was simple and nothing changed,

when I heard a music so pure it lived
in my feet, when each constellation
came and disappeared on time
with its own light, its own myth,
its own soft way of saying goodbye.

 

[TheRainMan]

god I love the nightportrayed as companion this is really wonderful, I can't find anything to suggest--wait-- I read it again and found something

The strophe in which you and the night speak-- it feels a little awkward. I want more of a conversation scene painted there, between you and the night, instead of you talking about you and the night talking. Does that make any sense at all?

I do not like night being called "it." The only way I can see avoiding this is by turning it more conversational, so your lines are going to the night, and you can use "you" or call the night him or her. Feels like it should be a him. There are so many pronouns in such a short space. The phrase (or was that me) feels out of place-- not the IDEA of the phrase-- that is wonderful-- but how it is worded, or perhaps the parens.

How the night blazed—I know I heard it ask
why must you always go away
(or was that me), and swear
it would never forget me
when I told it I was going home.


................


"I'll never be able to explain"

I guess you did not know then that you were going to be a poet, who did just that very thing and beautifully.

you are sweet. . . . and never mind talented.

i know what you're driving at with the pronouns -- needs work there. you're right.

thanks, as always.