Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[vampiredust]

River fishing with Father

I rummage through the box
for things that I do not know:
flies wrapped in a sunlight
gauze, lures stuck on nylon tar.

He watches me as I thread
a bright plastic firefly onto
the line, my left hand shaking
as I push down the weights,

forming a voodoo doll. I will utter
my curse as I cast it into the river,
watching the fish choke on my
most powerful weapon: my words.

Although I know little, I am stronger
than the gods weeping on the water.

----------------
I have an issue with this. Can I end the poem after cutting out the underlined part?

 

[darkecstacy]

humble thoughts

River fishing with Father

I rummage through the box
for things that I do not know:
flies wrapped in a sunlight
gauze, lures stuck on nylon tar.

He watches me as I thread
a bright plastic firefly onto
the line, my left hand shaking
as I push down the weights,

forming a voodoo doll. I will utter
my curse as I cast it into the river,
watching the fish choke on my
most powerful weapon: my words.

Although I know little, I am stronger
than the gods weeping on the water.

----------------
I have an issue with this. Can I end the poem after cutting out the underlined part?

I think the reader will be left wondering about the weapon. That isnt necessarily a negative thing. Do you want to create a poignant 'cameo' of a moment in time or are you wanting to convey something about the boy and who he is, what he is about? What he will come to be? if you end the poem where you suggest the feeling is one of the transition from boy to man. These are my humble thoughts (eeek). I love the past where you describe creating the voodoo doll - the symbol is perfect.

 

[lewd_epiphany]

Lost poem

I was going through some old things and found a poem I wrote when I was 14. Its not very good.. and I don't think my writing has improved much..lol.. but I though I would share it anyway.

Looking Back

When the shots rang out
we hit the ground
as silence came
I looked around
I saw you laying there
so peacefully
I knew it was the end
of you and me

as I watched to blood
run down your face
I thought our love
was all a waste

but now I think about it
and you and me
had the best damn love
they'll ever be

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Hey L.E., thank you for sharing your poem. The image is so shocking! one thing I think, for what it is worth, is that the image is so serious that rhyme kinda mocks it, makes it hold less weight than it should. I think, personally, that this poem needs to not rhyme and to be expanded some. The rhyme makes this serious subject into almost a sing-song feel to me (though thank heaven you don't employ that kind of rhythm). This is such a very strong and serious image, I'd love to see it treated with the kind of gravity it deserves.

Hope you don't mind the criticism. Best wishes with it.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

River fishing with Father

I rummage through the box
for things that I do not know:
flies wrapped in a sunlight
gauze, lures stuck on nylon tar.

He watches me as I thread
a bright plastic firefly onto
the line, my left hand shaking
as I push down the weights,

forming a voodoo doll. I will utter
my curse as I cast it into the river,
watching the fish choke on my
most powerful weapon: my words.

Although I know little, I am stronger
than the gods weeping on the water.

----------------
I have an issue with this. Can I end the poem after cutting out the underlined part?

I like the underlined part, personally, Chris. It reminds me of Barthelme's Dead Father. The only thing I wish for here is more transition. It feels like the son outgrowing (at least in one respect) the father and I want to see more of how that happens or rather more of the father as it happens. If left as is, though, It's still awesome. Good job.

 

[vampiredust]

I wrote this just now in the passion thread. Looking for suggestions to help me make it better:

The Dive

We begin at dawn, swapping
our skins for rubber. Language
follows and adults turn deaf
and dumb as they are submerged,

signing only to indicate happiness
in our temporary womb. Men learn
to feel pregnant, carrying the weight
of several children on their backs.

Only the women can relax here,
listening to the sound of their babies
gargling. Someone is calling us in the
background, but we don't care anymore -

this is home

 

[wildsweetone]

I wrote this just now in the passion thread. Looking for suggestions to help me make it better:

The Dive

We begin at dawn, swapping
our skins for rubber. Language
follows and adults turn deaf
and dumb as they are submerged,

signing only to indicate happiness
in our temporary womb. Men learn
to feel pregnant, carrying the weight
of several children on their backs.

Only the women can relax here,
listening to the sound of their babies
gargling. Someone is calling us in the
background, but we don't care anymore -

this is home

Chris, for me there is one thing that sticks out. the comparison between being pregnant and men carrying weight on their backs... two different images being compared.

i think it could do with being rewritten to make the comparison smoother. the line break works well, so i'm not sure how you could alter it. maybe i'm the only one that thinks it needs tweaking.


i'm thinking about the 'swapping our skins for rubber' part, not convinced yet that it works as an image, but it does work well with aliteration.

 

[HotKittySpank]

(within the (our (within the (ourselves) environment) selves) environment)

...

 

[HotKittySpank]

I wrote this just now in the passion thread. Looking for suggestions to help me make it better:

The Dive

We begin at dawn, swapping
our skins for rubber. Language
follows and adults turn deaf
and dumb as they are submerged,

signing only to indicate happiness
in our temporary womb. Men learn
to feel pregnant, carrying the weight
of several children on their backs.

Only the women can relax here,
listening to the sound of their babies
gargling. Someone is calling us in the
background, but we don't care anymore -

this is home

i agree with the pregnant / backpack problem - not quite the same, but you do feel the weight in your back because you are carrying in the front. make sense?

anyhoo, what if the 'listening to the sound of their babies' was 'back babies'? could the gargling noise mix with the background voice you are ignoring?

also, don't like the period after rubber. rubber language and gargling background noises are all sounds that you could play off of. deaf in listening to other noises? remembered noises from the womb? circle it back?

thinking as i'm writing, hope it helps you process the droning waves you are floating in - i am always inpressed with the amount of sound under the water - my own breathing added in to the mix.

hmmm...

 

[HotKittySpank]

I was going through some old things and found a poem I wrote when I was 14. Its not very good.. and I don't think my writing has improved much..lol.. but I though I would share it anyway.

Looking Back

When the shots rang out
we hit the ground
as silence came
I looked around
I saw you laying there
so peacefully
I knew it was the end
of you and me

as I watched to blood
run down your face
I thought our love
was all a waste

but now I think about it
and you and me
had the best damn love
they'll ever be

i read this when you posted it but wasn't sure what to say. i too was moved by this and then thinking of your age when writing well, i think it is appropriate.

my opinion: don't rewrite this. write a new one based on this if you feel you need to.

if you wanted to rework it, as a rememberance, i would do as C_on_S suggested. it is a very heavy subject and your age at the time of this occurance could factor in to the telling of the story.

--hks

 

[HotKittySpank]

...............what a wonderful
.......................way to be;
........................... gliding
..............along two wheels
......wind whistling past ears
................basket out front
.............grabbing scoopfuls



... color? or white? thought to use two lines of blue...hmm?

 

[HotKittySpank]

we are no longer crystal cups ringing
wet fingers circling, singing us into
reverberations of the other, sometimes
overflowing, liquid dripping down

these sides caressing us into vibrations;
concentric harmonies. at times, just a little
bit of fine wine defined us, lips encircling
in an oh, changing tones

with each sip
each lost drip.

...

 

[HotKittySpank]

introspectionnoitecpsortni

...

? do you ?

 

[HotKittySpank]

this was originally intended for the monthly challenge 'animal' poem but champagne1982 beat me to the punch : ) not sure about it though. any suggestions, anyone? i chopped it up many different ways but thought it might read well this way. let me know what you think...

...
once upon the sea

of this song, chest crushing blows, breaching tales arise. i know her lilting lullaby of gentle giants brutal gleaned for my childhood lamplight. home,

she beckons me with mournful song. we two met once along this surface of air and airless, breathless we, singing of battles waged between giants. along two world’s divide, i wait on deck; lone spout gazer. from spawning water she thrusts, daring daughter saucer-eyed to surface. we meet over hull’s edge, my sole arm reaching. that scrimshaw gift strung ‘round my father’s neck willed to me. your blood, your tale land-bound daughter, we of ancient mariners; learn the sea, learn your history. of wild hunts over waters, filled with sorrow’s song, she knows the depths and pull of darkness, cold and haunting bones. in graveyards cloaked, blue mysteries are sewn across these waters. hear her sing of life beyond our grasp, of memories passed hopeful to new children in the murky deep. her blue world gifted calls my reach to her child’s eye, an alien from the floating sky, we too meet along waved surface, view this our shared history and renew ourselves,

once upon the sea.


...

 

[annaswirls]

Make Hay While The Sun Shines

I have been writing this poem for almost 10 years. I want to submit it to a journal that is doing a farming issue. Any help! I dont know if it has any emotional value at all, not sure how to get it there.

maybe another 10 years. any suggestions would be Greatly appreciated

Make Hay While The Sun Shines
~
"Make hay while the sun shines"
that’s what Dad always said
as did all the farmers in the valley.
But not crumpled men like Grandpop,
propped in vinyl armchairs, back straight
with magazine and kleenex tucked between cushions,
telling us about soap opera characters like
they were friends from the Grange
while the men cut, rake
and bale fields of alfalfa and Timothy
and get it in the barn because it
looks like rain, maybe tonight
maybe tomorrow, silver sides
of maple showing in the meadow.

He wrings his hands, soft like a woman
and squeezes back the tight pinch memory of dry twine
under rough calloused knuckle. He never
before knew a time there was no dirt in the bathwater,
no thirst, no pretty girls in tight braids
carrying clay pots of ginger water.

Maybe we could get him to turn off the tv,
talk about war rations or just watch
hummingbird moths hover over Bee Balm
listen to putter of the old John Deere
and the rhythmic clunk clunk
of the baler as it pushes another one
up, up, up the worn metal ramp.
Low echoes of men calling "Hoh! Hoh!"
to the driver, signaling wait driver, the machine needs fixing.
But all our best efforts never lifted the slouch
from grandfather's back,
not while the sun was shining
not while there was hay to be made.

 

[steerpikeslover]

It's just lovely

I have been writing this poem for almost 10 years. I want to submit it to a journal that is doing a farming issue. Any help! I dont know if it has any emotional value at all, not sure how to get it there.

maybe another 10 years. any suggestions would be Greatly appreciated

Make Hay While The Sun Shines
~
"Make hay while the sun shines"
that’s what Dad always said
as did his grandfather and all the
farmers in the valley.
But not crippled men in vinyl armchairs, back straight
with magazine and kleenex tucked between cushions,
telling us about soap opera characters like
they were friends from the Grange
while the men cut, rake
and bale fields of alfalfa and Timothy
and get it in the barn because it
looks like rain, maybe tonight
maybe tomorrow, silver sides
of maple showing in the meadow.

He wrings his hands, soft like a woman
squeezes down the tight pinch memory of dry twine
under rough calloused knuckle. Never
before knew a time there was no dirt in the bathwater,
no thirst, no pretty girls in tight braids
carrying clay pots of ginger water.

Maybe we could get him to turn off the tv,
talk about the war rations
or just watch hummingbird moths hover over Bee Balm
listen to putter of the old John Deere and the rhythmic clunk clunk
of the baler as it pushes another one
up, up, up the worn metal ramp.
Low echoes of men calling "Hoh! Hoh!"
to the driver, signaling wait the machine needs fixing.
But all our best efforts never lifted the grump
and slouch from our grandfather,
not while the sun was shining
not while there was hay to be made.

Firstly can I say that I think this poem is lovely. It's evokative and lyrical and poignant without being obvious or crudely sentimental. The phrase about the maple leaves predicting the weather blows me away (pardon the pun!). A few tiny points to maybe consider; I was a little confused about whether it was about your Dad or Grandfather because of the early reference, then the later one. The word 'crippled' could be softened maybe by something like 'crumpled', more reminiscent of aging and decay. The word grump might be softened too since it doesnt sound as though he is grumpy so much as lost in a different place, become another person maybe. Lastly how about changing the last 'not' to 'nor'. A small thing but again, a gentler echo. Again, I think this is a beautiful poem and I would have been proud to have written it.

 

[annaswirls]

Thank you! Excellent suggestions, I am on it! I had so much detail about what my brother and I used to do to try to cheer up Grandpop, that when I pulled it, I took away the reference of who was who and you are right on about the grump.

My pop-pop showed us the silver sides of the maples in the meadow-- a signal that rain was coming, years later, I swear it signals the presence of the dead among us....as the air rises up

 

[annaswirls]

saving this for later

not looking for critique yet, just a place to work on this poem

Fourth Circle. Those whose concern for material goods deviated from the desired mean are punished in this circle. They include the avaricious or miserly, who hoarded possessions, and the prodigal, who squandered them. Guarded by Plutus, each group pushes a great weight against the heavy weight of the other group. After the weights crash together the process starts over again. (Canto VII)

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[SeattleRain]

haha! you are a crazy man, T.Z. Fun take on the tale, and I do not have any sage advice on the last two lines, except they seem a bit dark for the rest of the poem, but maybe that is where you were going, a boot stomp in the mud to pound us back to reality. Reality? Well, something like it.

I gotta write something to construct and deconstruct here. This place is dusty, I think I even saw some mold growing on the wall.

Nobody has put anything in this thread for some time, so let me post this one that I am fiddling with. I'm not very happy with the ending, for one thing.

Leda Gets Knocked Up

She's just trash, this frizz-haired blonde
who's sitting in his office popping gum

and lying like a sheet to him. Like,
it was God, she says, but as a bird.

Her parents are both drunks, but
at least the mother doesn't curse, just

shakes her head: Lord love a duck.
Little Leedie, legs asprawl

(they're shapely legs, he must admit,
no wonder she's knocked up a bit),

gets agitated, shouts, I told you, Ma!
I told you not a duck. A swan!

The doctor sighs, thinks on the more
and more and more ruined lives to come.

A Trojan could have killed this war.
Now it's just death for everyone.

 

[SeattleRain]

so Carson D. is up in the soundbooth
looking below at the millions
and right there on national television in front of Dick Clark
and everyone he announces, out loud
that people depend on virtual communities
and suddenly I am there with my cock in my hand
and we are all there caught cock handed and dumb-founded
porn and gore news chi-ching in our eyes like the casinos they put up
all over the state to rob the poor my father says
but mom knows they can't manage their own money anyway
better to just take it and take care of things from the counter

but look, says Carson
it is some kind of sign
this reaching out for human contact
dancing in matching hats the whole crowd red with Chevy
Chevy Chevy
from down the street the skinny news woman
takes a little poll
who're you going to kiss at the strike of twelve
family
friends
lovers
strangers?
and these girls here, they just want you Carson
and he tells her
"I will take them all"
they blow kisses
as news girl provides the sound
Carson counts candy cash during the commercial break
for another car or some truck
I cannot remember the name now
and my mother wonders
why they did not pass out hats

12:02 my husband makes his way over to my chair
we kiss upside down
it has been a good year
now lets go giddey up find me someone new
to adore
and god forbid my dreams come true no no no
don't you steal my dreams
don't punish me with the wildest
fuck, I dont think my body can bend that way

 

[SeattleRain]

"you dominate my thoughts"

somehow we both let Milan Kundera's
lightness of being
float off as heaviness of reality
pulls lip corners low
we catch stars
only on the way down
down
down into dust
can we believe his words

..........once

.......... is

..........nonce

and pretend this never happened?
you have Ayn Rand on your side
I have Anais Nin on mine
did she give you permission
some kind of intellectualized reason
to snap me into non-existence
erase the one who no longer followed suit
in your pursuit of happiness

last I heard you were in an accident
and I wonder if your life tripped
through an accelerated slideshow
and could you please reduce me into a
a single screen capture?
what would it be?

you answered with silence


..........and then more silence

leaving me to invent my own answers
me and Anais and our colored notebooks
reporting and revising your fingertips
that strung down my ribs asking
"Fernie, when when are you going to open up to me?"
with half a heart trying to untie corset laces pulled tight
tight into forced breath

my scene: you in the white towel
our scents fresh erased
I watch from the bedroom
you forget to put on that famous smile
your face, fallen, shows your age
as you tuck in the remnants of the evening
wondering how it moved so fast
already you were
in tomorrow without me

and Anais tells me
no! don't fret so! this is not our Henry
we were ready to let him go
don't you remember?

we cannot fold back into days of dominated thoughts
eating each other's words and fingers for breakfast
I didn't think you would figure us out so quickly
and I do not suppose
it would be within your philosophy
to call goodbye
down from that straight and narrow path you walk
up the ridges training for perfection
without a moment free to
kick down a sharp rock
break my circle
give me my laces back

 

[tungtied2u]

sweet flower of youth how you slip away
as the sand washes out to sea from the waves
a spec at a time completely unnoticed
then one day the beach is totally eroded

 

[tungtied2u]

sweet flower of youth how you slip away
as the sand washes out to sea from the waves
a spec at a time completely unnoticed
then one day the beach is totally eroded

youth washes away second
by second, minute as specks
of sand tossed by times turbulent
nature, eroding smoothness into ridges

valleys rough and worn, once fertile
vibrant and lush, alive with enticing scents
inviting exploration, in depth examination
now stand scarred barren as if strafed
by napalm, burned beyond recognition

 

[champagne1982]

Sweet boy. You travel through my dreams
and leave the windings of cerebral cortex
unstrung and stretched tight along pathways
of thought I should not explore.

Selfish visitations of your voice inside
my heart keep me greedily listening for more
whispers of delight and promises of adventure
in a journey my soul makes.

Sweet boy. It's your footsteps in my salience
that keep insanity at bay when its dark shadow
slithers down the hallway of my medulla to find
the lizard brain awake and hungry.

Sexual invitations waft through the air. Scents
of musky welcome tickle my nose and I know
the pheremonal evidence stirs more than lustful
ideas, the more is there at your pelvis.

Sweet boy come out of my dreams
and give your need to me.


Should I add another strophe to this one? It seems unfinished, but I didn't want to stretch the metaphor too far.