Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[sugarmountain]

I drive home from work
watch the joggers
huffing , puffing, puddles
in their shoes from the sweat
cascading down their skin

take another drag
from my cigarette,
promise myself I'll quit,
then take another hit
with a sense of smug self

congratulations
in my heart, (which everyday
struggles harder to keep me moving)
I know this is a lie

just one of so many
I tell myself everyday
Everything will be okay
She still loves me
I'll live to be a hundred

Just like running
will keep you healthy
(but not necessarily alive)
but I'm not taking any chances

I take another drag
from my cigarette
then light another one
with it, hope I'm right

 

[Tzara]

Tinkering with this all day. Current version.

The Conservator's Task

Nitrate film sinks, safety floats.
—National Museum of Photography, Film & Television

Our vaults are crammed with them.
Some have not been viewed since made—
comedies, romantic epics, shorts.

.........................Memories.
They are like old nitrate film.
Open the can and there is just
a pile of acrid dust. Or there's
a flash and sudden flame,
and the image disappears, twisting
and shriveling in the heat.

.........................Sometimes
you get one threaded up to view
but the speed is wrong. The image jerks
like a cartoon. The sound
is out of sync or garbled or
there simply is no sound,
and you don't know the plot.

.........................Restoration
can be tried, but it often costs
too much. It can be a lot of work,
and the right people aren't always
available to help. Worse still
is the botched job. The transfer

.........................fails
onto the safety base and damages—
perhaps destroys—the original,
which then is forever lost.

The old and dearest are least buoyant.

 

[Sealace]

Harry would sit out in his garden
before sunrise, old man afghan
across his lap and when no
words came, he would call for them
Poets, come to me!
and they were waiting just
on the other side of the page.

I once called for dead poets
to guide my hand across the page
like some Ouija muse
and the needle always spelled out
sulfur moths and riverstone
stray voltage and steel

but your eyes are no longer behind mine
I see for one
write for one
live for one
just like when you were alive

but I am not sorry, no
it must have been your choice
spirits do not listen to
the scolding of scorned women
Go away, I do not have time for the dead today!

Hopefully you found someone new to possess
and if I meet them
I will kiss them full on the mouth
just like that rich old lady trying
to seduce father Ralph in Thornbirds
sucking in all her lovers
reborn into his youth
as every day the abacus fills,
beads sliding one by one to the right
until everyone you ever loved
is on the other side

 

[cherries_on_snow]

New in New York (Draft 3)

.....

 

[sugarmountain]

I try to do without
her. She drops a vowel
into empty space, sinks
my heart. In the void
I am unable to produce
a meaningful utterance...oh
if she knew what a pauper
I have become in her absence
not a word worth a farthing
not a phrase I can face to coin
my heart is bankrupt
what savings I thought I had,
spent or stolen,
or gambled away

 

[annaswirls]

Sealace,
I like this poem but you need to make a decision. Do you want to punctuate or not? Then stick to it-- unless you make a conscious choice to break from your decision.



~anna

Harry would sit out in his garden
before sunrise, old man afghan
across his lap and when no
words came, he would call for them
Poets, come to me!
and they were waiting just
on the other side of the page.

I once called for dead poets
to guide my hand across the page
like some Ouija muse
and the needle always spelled out
sulfur moths and riverstone
stray voltage and steel

but your eyes are no longer behind mine
I see for one
write for one
live for one
just like when you were alive

but I am not sorry, no
it must have been your choice
spirits do not listen to
the scolding of scorned women
Go away, I do not have time for the dead today!

Hopefully you found someone new to possess
and if I meet them
I will kiss them full on the mouth
just like that rich old lady trying
to seduce father Ralph in Thornbirds
sucking in all her lovers
reborn into his youth
as every day the abacus fills,
beads sliding one by one to the right
until everyone you ever loved
is on the other side

 

[clutching_calliope]

Multiples

.....

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Sealace, I'd look at the last stanza and replace them with her or him or perhaps make it new ones that are being possessed to correct the error in noun's number.

My general feeling is that this is an intensely personal piece. I see the dead poets transform from ones listened to, to not listened to (you) to the narrator perhaps (seems a bit like a suicide threat at one point).

I agree that the exclamation points should be kept.

just like that rich old lady trying
to seduce father Ralph in Thornbirds
sucking in all her lovers
reborn into his youth

feels too wordy. trying to seduce seems cumbersome. I'd like a more direct path to sucking in all her lovers reborn into his youth. I think punctuation throughout could slow the pace of this poem strategically (between lovers and reborn, for example) but that's just my preference.

I LOVE the abacus image. Gorgeous.

Cheers and best of luck on this and your other writings.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

2nd Draft

I'm insomniac and procrastinating on the musical, so reworking this new poem. I wrote it today on the 13 thread. I think it works better without the 2nd stanza (ty tastytooter). What do you think? I'll include both versions here. Any feedback at all would be great (whatever you think for whatever reason, however you want to tell me). I promise to reciprocate.

Prey Speaking in Tongues
He sees me in cotton and does not know
I also have leather
bound books. I also have
never been to Oz though he doesn't know
from looking at me in cotton on a midnight
walk from the train.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?
I ask. Only it doesn't come out that way.
This is, after all, midnight: the hour of disappearing
means and dark betrayals. I'm nervous. My words
emerge in another language. I have
at long last, after all those baptist
years spent on my knees
after all those
years begging Jesus to speak, to speak, open my beak,
and sing god's synchronous song with outthrust tongue,
After all those muted years this predator
is the only one who hears. He thinks me dumb,
rears so I can run, releasing
fingers from my cotton
as I slip
from his grasp.



******************************************

Draft One: Prey
He sees me in cotton and does not know
I also have leather
bound books. I also have
never been to Oz though he doesn't know
from looking at me in cotton on a midnight
walk from the train.

Other men have tried, I know the look
of a predator. He thinks I'm prey--not today.
He scuttles then swims, the full aquatic evolution,
crossing the street from his side to mine.
No keys in his hand, his eyes
on me, I turn and see his face, his
twice lensed eyes.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?
I ask. Only it doesn't come out that way.
This is, after all, midnight and I am nervous:
the hour of disappearing means and dark betrayals.
It comes out in another language. I have
at long last, after all those baptist
years spent on my knees
after all those
years begging Jesus to speak, to speak, open my beak,
and sing god's synchronous song with outthrust tongue,
After all those years this predator
is the one who hears the song. It is enough
and he withdraws so I can run, only one
finger on my cotton as I
slip from his grasp.

 

[flyguy69]

I'm insomniac and procrastinating on the musical, so reworking this new poem. I wrote it today on the 13 thread. I think it works better without the 2nd stanza (ty tastytooter). What do you think? I'll include both versions here. Any feedback at all would be great (whatever you think for whatever reason, however you want to tell me). I promise to reciprocate.

Prey Speaking in Tongues
He sees me in cotton and does not know
I also have leather
bound books. I also have
never been to Oz though he doesn't know
from looking at me in cotton on a midnight
walk from the train.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?
I ask. Only it doesn't come out that way.
This is, after all, midnight: the hour of disappearing
means and dark betrayals. I'm nervous. My words
emerge in another language. I have
at long last, after all those baptist
years spent on my knees
after all those
years begging Jesus to speak, to speak, open my beak,
and sing god's synchronous song with outthrust tongue,
After all those muted years this predator
is the only one who hears. He thinks me dumb,
rears so I can run, releasing
fingers from my cotton
as I slip
from his grasp.



******************************************

Draft One: Prey
He sees me in cotton and does not know
I also have leather
bound books. I also have
never been to Oz though he doesn't know
from looking at me in cotton on a midnight
walk from the train.

Other men have tried, I know the look
of a predator. He thinks I'm prey--not today.
He scuttles then swims, the full aquatic evolution,
crossing the street from his side to mine.
No keys in his hand, his eyes
on me, I turn and see his face, his
twice lensed eyes.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?
I ask. Only it doesn't come out that way.
This is, after all, midnight and I am nervous:
the hour of disappearing means and dark betrayals.
It comes out in another language. I have
at long last, after all those baptist
years spent on my knees
after all those
years begging Jesus to speak, to speak, open my beak,
and sing god's synchronous song with outthrust tongue,
After all those years this predator
is the one who hears the song. It is enough
and he withdraws so I can run, only one
finger on my cotton as I
slip from his grasp.

I like it better with S2, cherry. S2 establishes the pursuit, essential to the metaphor of predation, and has the wonderful image of evolution. I actually have a harder time with S1 because, while I like the play with fabric, I don't think of cotton as "slippery" (fragile, perhaps) and the significance of leather-bound books escapes me. Is the N carrying them? Do they play a role in her escape or explain her presence on the platfom at midnight? Is one a bible? If you are going to include them i would like to see some justification.

In S2 the "not today" phrase seems out of place. The N at this point of the poem is prey, so this assertion rings hollow. I like the twice-lensed eyes because it harkens back to the evolutionary process, but don't think you need "face" also.

In S3 you certainly don't need to tell us the N is nervous, you've shown us that very well. I love the screaming beaks and claws here. In neither version do I feel the surprise of escape, however. If the N's squawk startled the man i'd like to feel that.

Good luck with this.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Tyvm!

Thank you very much for the feedback, Fly Guy. Much to think about there and I appreciate your help. This really happened by the way, on the upper east side (77th street between 2nd and 3rd avenues, 11pm on a tuesday). Dude didn't look particularly predatory in his dress or presentation: more like an accountant. Nonetheless, he lunged at me and managed to touch my arm (clearly he was a predator) and I meant to say what the fuck do you think you are doing, but it came out waaaooaooaeeeee. Likely my tongue was frozen with fear (the only time that has ever happened to me and was it odd, lucky but odd), and he was startled and I ran. Something I filed away in my head under the category what to do when a freak tries to assault you!

Anyway, I think the poem is worth working on and hope to play with it a bit more. Thank you for taking the time to read it and help me out. Your suggestions are really useful.

 

[flyguy69]

Thank you very much for the feedback, Fly Guy. Much to think about there and I appreciate your help. This really happened by the way, on the upper east side (77th street between 2nd and 3rd avenues, 11pm on a tuesday). Dude didn't look particularly predatory in his dress or presentation: more like an accountant. Nonetheless, he lunged at me and managed to touch my arm (clearly he was a predator) and I meant to say what the fuck do you think you are doing, but it came out waaaooaooaeeeee. Likely my tongue was frozen with fear, (the only time that has ever happened to me and was it odd, lucky but odd) and he was startled and I ran. Something I filed away in my head under the category what to do when a freak tries to assault you!

Anyway, I think the poem is worth working on and hope to play with it a bit more. Thank you for taking the time to read it and help me out. Your suggestions are really useful.

Poor bastard was probably thinking "Waaaooaooaeeeee?! She's kinkier than I am!" and panicked.


I don't mean to make light of a serious situation, and am glad you are safe and able to write of it today! You're welcome for the help.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Revision

.....

 

[annaswirls]

it is mulberry season

......I pull branches low so my son can reach the fruit.
......We agree, the best ones are unfinished,
......a little sour.


In the morning our mother frowned at the back of your shirt
stained purple from drunk slumber under the mulberry tree.

The night before I found you crying in the barn
on the cobweb box dusted with last year's corn.

All the girls from the party wanted to comfort you
but I sent them away.

He is my brother, still mine.
Sure you may suck him off and buy drinks
and cigarettes, flash your panties down the bleachers
but it was me who talked him down since the pre-school quest of
where does the universe end and what is on the other side and if infinity is the biggest number then what is half of infinity and what do you mean if you keep cutting the size of your steps in half and in half you will never ever get there and how can it be everything is just all empty space and where was your face before you washed it this morning
and I can talk him through this one too.

Certainly existential crises may be better solved by a blow job
but tonight let me hold your head steady,
tell you it will be okay
that this is normal
and promise mom and dad will still love you
if you chase absolutes and exceptions,
roots and branches, truth and beauty
instead of the fortune five hundred seventy two.

~

......From the other side of the creek, I see him
......holding the branch down all by himself.
......He takes everything he can reach
......and shares with the puppy who looks up at him
......like some kind of god.

 

[Sealace]

thank you for your comments on this! I will definately take your suggestions in careful consideration. I am almost ready to "finish" this one. Sometimes I need to let them set a bit.

and you are totally right about the Father Ralph part- I changed it because a friend did not get what I was trying to say, and it got too telly, I will try to fix it.

Thanks again!

sealace


NOTE: thank you, your suggestions were right on, I think I fixed it up-- very helpful!

Sealace, I'd look at the last stanza and replace them with her or him or perhaps make it new ones that are being possessed to correct the error in noun's number.

My general feeling is that this is an intensely personal piece. I see the dead poets transform from ones listened to, to not listened to (you) to the narrator perhaps (seems a bit like a suicide threat at one point).

I agree that the exclamation points should be kept.

just like that rich old lady trying
to seduce father Ralph in Thornbirds
sucking in all her lovers
reborn into his youth

feels too wordy. trying to seduce seems cumbersome. I'd like a more direct path to sucking in all her lovers reborn into his youth. I think punctuation throughout could slow the pace of this poem strategically (between lovers and reborn, for example) but that's just my preference.

I LOVE the abacus image. Gorgeous.

Cheers and best of luck on this and your other writings.

 

[Sealace]

Harry would take his journal
and sit out in the garden before sunrise,
old man afghan across his lap and when
no words came, he would call for them
Poets, come to me!
and they were always waiting
just on the other side of the page
to blow puffs of color into his pallid cheeks.

I once called for dead poets to guide
my hand across the page like some Ouija muse
and the needle always spelled out my assignment:
sulfur moths and riverstone
stray voltage, steel.
Go! Go! Write how we carry our machinery with us
everywhere,
even here to these muddy banks.

But your eyes are no longer behind mine
I see for one
write for one
live for one
just like when you were alive

I am not sorry,
it must have been your choice.
Spirits do not listen
to the scolding words of women scorned,
Away! Away! I have no time for the dead today!

Hopefully you found someone new to possess
and if we meet I will kiss her full on the mouth
just like that rich old widower in the Thornbirds
who kissed Father Ralph,
sucking in all her lovers reborn into his youth.

Time clicks and we watch the abacus fill,
beads sliding one by one to the right
until everyone we ever loved
is on the other side.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Attempted Villanelle

(Looking good up there, Sealace!)

 

[champagne1982]

(Looking good up there, Sealace!)

Tonight while I was fiddling online, waiting for students to complete exams, I decided to try something I haven't tried since my first Uni writing class: a villanelle. The first one I wrote failed miserably. This one might too; the jury's still out for me. I'll look at it with fresh eyes in the morning, but commentary / feedback / criticism would be welcome. Oh, and any ideas for a title. <snip>

Cupid's Folly

 

[373Kelvin]

Ok, it's corny but--Villantine?

 

[Maria2394]

hope its okat to put this one here and fix it

window shopping dorian gray



as if a single glance would break
his emotional bank, he ignored her
like the morning glare on a east facing window
he was arrogant, and she was merely a fleck
on the ass of his self important life

as he gestured for the aid of his partner
who had designed those fancy windows
forever, he was more concerned
with the appearance of lines around his eyes
than the condition of his crumbling stature

that painting in the background, the one
with the frolicking children appeared
in every season, in every theme, it stayed
there, among the trappings and gilded
wrappings of an artist in utter despair

i'm sure I heard him lament the existance
of thinners and towels, the peculiar airs
of those society fraus, with their wealthy
husbands and tacky faux pearls

a fright, yes indeed he explained as he turned
the corner and stepped full force
into the front of an oncoming train

 

[flyguy69]

I like it, Maria.

The title is a wonderful draw, and the climax is a clever reference.

The lack of punctuation works for me, because it pulls me through the first two strophes well. You seem to abandon the ambiguous sentance endings in the next three, however. It might be nice to keep this device working for you.

The first strophe has an interesting mix of images: the breaking of a bank, an arrogant glare, a flecked ass. I'm not sure it all works. I'd like to see a more cohesive theme here. The "emotional bank" image, in particular, seems contrived. The flecked ass is crude for the piece, but goes well with concern for appearance.

It is a very good poem, Maria, and worth polishing.

window shopping dorian gray



as if a single glance would break
his emotional bank, he ignored her
like the morning glare on a east facing window
he was arrogant, and she was merely a fleck
on the ass of his self important life

as he gestured for the aid of his partner
who had designed those fancy windows
forever, he was more concerned
with the appearance of lines around his eyes
than the condition of his crumbling stature

that painting in the background, the one
with the frolicking children appeared
in every season, in every theme, it stayed
there, among the trappings and gilded
wrappings of an artist in utter despair

i'm sure I heard him lament the existance
of thinners and towels, the peculiar airs
of those society fraus, with their wealthy
husbands and tacky faux pearls

a fright, yes indeed he explained as he turned
the corner and stepped full force
into the front of an oncoming train

 

[Maria2394]

I like it, Maria.

The title is a wonderful draw, and the climax is a clever reference.

The lack of punctuation works for me, because it pulls me through the first two strophes well. You seem to abandon the ambiguous sentance endings in the next three, however. It might be nice to keep this device working for you.

The first strophe has an interesting mix of images: the breaking of a bank, an arrogant glare, a flecked ass. I'm not sure it all works. I'd like to see a more cohesive theme here. The "emotional bank" image, in particular, seems contrived. The flecked ass is crude for the piece, but goes well with concern for appearance.

It is a very good poem, Maria, and worth polishing.

Thanks, flyguy. it was a midnight frenzy poem, I had no control over it and was startled when I reread it and posted it here. That happens to me sometimes.

A lot of things dont fit well, but the overall theme I was going for is there, I just dont have the skills/objectivity to know what to pare and what not to pare/repair.

as clarity comes, if it does, Iw ill make changes here. This is the first time I have taken advantage of this thread, but I have seen the marvelous work come out of here and am determined to give Dorian the work he deserves.

 

[TheRainMan]

..... gone to greener pastures

 

[Ankara]

.....

 

[cherries_on_snow]

thanks. but no.

Ok, it's corny but--Villantine?

Thanks Champagne and Kelvin. I submitted it untitled though. That may be a clue as to the poem's flaw: it isn't difinitively itself yet. Cheers and thanks for responding.