Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[pushkine]

Drakula
The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty,
and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.
—Bram Stoker

It isn't blood I want, but innocence—
to change that tight girlish walk into
a woman's lazy sway that men construe
as offering, to swap youth's diffidence
for appetites of more carnal sense.
I don't seek domination, to subdue
a testy spirit with a studied cool.
Instead, I open blossoms, free their scents
to capture more than merely she I've touched,
for nothing is more natural than evil
and legs form perfect traps when they are spread.
Innocence once torn cannot be stitched,
but rips away the innocence of several.
A woman so awakened lives undead.



.

 

[annaswirls]

holy canoli's, Pushkine. I love when a poem takes something that I already knew, somewhere in my subconscious, something I surely must have known on some level, but did not own and the poem brings it out into the light where I can admire it's beauty and make a positive identification, claim the knowledge as mine.

Drakula
The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty,
and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.
—Bram Stoker

It isn't blood I want, but innocence—
to change that tight girlish walk into
a woman's lazy sway that men construe
as offering, to swap youth's diffidence
for appetites of more carnal sense.
I don't seek domination, to subdue
a testy spirit with a studied cool.
Instead, I open blossoms, free their scents
to capture more than merely she I've touched,
for nothing is more natural than evil
and legs form perfect traps when they are spread.
Innocence once torn cannot be stitched,
but rips away the innocence of several.
A woman so awakened lives undead.



.

 

[pushkine]

holy canoli's, Pushkine. I love when a poem takes something that I already knew, somewhere in my subconscious, something I surely must have known on some level, but did not own and the poem brings it out into the light where I can admire it's beauty and make a positive identification, claim the knowledge as mine.

Well, I hope you're not being ironic about that. You're a nicer person than I am, and if that was my comment, it would be meant sarcastically.

So I'm basically a dickhead. What else is new?

I'm not very happy with this poem. It's supposed to be an Italian sonnet, and I think that's the single biggest problem with it. The form gets in the way of what I'm trying to say. Our mutual friend, Master P, could single this out as an example of The Problems with Form Poetry, and I would likely have to agree with him.

Wouldn't want to, of course. But it does. Probably because I haven't worked hard enough on it.

You'd think, with so few words, it would be pretty easy to write this out. That it's not, keeps me in awe of those who managed to do just that.

Frickin' poetry. It's a pain in the ass.

 

[annaswirls]

redone

Eyelash and brow
are supposed to shield eyes
from winds that etch
the ageless desert.

Tweezer, wand, charcoal stick:
thin the brow, extend the lash,
trace the rims, transform into
the curious wide-eyed fawn.

This too trips signals
wired deep as stick twisting wrens,
feathered peacock-
my cheeks blushed with peach,
skin papaya-polished smooth
into a fruit-scented promise
of barely ripened youth.

Your low growl calls me close.
Shy eyes lowered,
I lean forward,
slow lift hips tease.
"You've been such a good girl,
You want to please Daddy?"

I am high pitched and hairless. Wax smooth,
fingers slide easy between
surgical tightness as
my lollipop lipgloss on your tongue
takes you backseat
twenty years.

A box of auburn waits its turn
in this fool's game.
Cold cream, warm cloth,
starlight, sleep.

I already feel morning's sand
in my eyes.


Eyelash and brow
are supposed to shield eyes
from sand winds that etch
the ageless desert.

Tweezer, wand, charcoal stick:
thin the brow, extend the lash,
trace the rims, transform into
the curious wide-eyed fawn.

This too trips
signals wired deep
as stick twisting wren,
feathered peacock.

Cheeks: blush with peach
Skin: papaya polished smooth
into a fruit scented promise
of barely ripened youth.

You growl low
shy, I lean forward,
my slow lift hips tease.
"You've been such a good girl,
You want to please Daddy?"

I am high pitched and hairless, wax smooth
your fingers slide easy between
surgical tightness as
my lollipop lipgloss on your tongue
takes you backseat
twenty years.

A box of auburn waits its turn
in this fool's game.
Cold cream, warm cloth,
starlight, sleep.

I already feel morning's sand
in my eyes.

 

[annaswirls]

I am quite sure I am not a nicer person than you.

You do not ever seem to be happy with your poetry. That is a good sign unless it stops you. Yield.

At any rate, I liked it.

so there

Well, I hope you're not being ironic about that. You're a nicer person than I am, and if that was my comment, it would be meant sarcastically.

So I'm basically a dickhead. What else is new?

I'm not very happy with this poem. It's supposed to be an Italian sonnet, and I think that's the single biggest problem with it. The form gets in the way of what I'm trying to say. Our mutual friend, Master P, could single this out as an example of The Problems with Form Poetry, and I would likely have to agree with him.

Wouldn't want to, of course. But it does. Probably because I haven't worked hard enough on it.

You'd think, with so few words, it would be pretty easy to write this out. That it's not, keeps me in awe of those who managed to do just that.

Frickin' poetry. It's a pain in the ass.

 

[annaswirls]

Thanks so much for taking the time to read, give thought, and comment on my poem.

I just want to make sure I get it-- you think I should whittle down the whole rest of the poem into one stanza? I am willing to try anything. I trimmed and rearranged a bit.

4sentimentality
04/12/09 by Epmd607
"Still that dream was solid enough/ to hang our rings upon/ back in the kitten eyed part of love/ where every thing takes on special meaning,/ this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors." I don't want to pan the rest of the poem, but this stanza is it for me, the golden bough of sentimentality, which I ada adore. Maybe forcing out forms leads to a lot of mediocre but it obviously leads to strong lines, stanzas, word pairings that you can always recycle down the line. I'd re-write the rest of the poem as the first stanza and finish with this one above as the second. A punch in the gut of sentimentality.


The Man Who Wasn't There
by annaswirls©

You ask me to bury our silver rings outside
the door that leads to my father's hayloft.

Your bronze-legged statue watches from her shelf.
She gives birth to her own hands. They reach out
between her legs and grasp tight.

We too, deliver ourselves, climb leaning ladders,
press too hard into softness, bury rings
in foreign soil in hopes something new will grow.

You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.
We were kids up in that loft, hiding
behind a wall of hay bales, your hands
under my calico skirt, discovery.

Still that morning dream
was solid enough to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning,
this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors.




...................
Originally posted:

The Man Who Wasn't There
by annaswirls©

You asked me to bury
our silver rings outside
the old barn door,
the door that leads to the hayloft.

You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.
We were both kids, climbing up to the loft,
hiding behind a wall of hay bales,
your hands under my calico skirt, discovering.

Still that dream was solid enough
to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning,
this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors.

Our bronze-legged statue you sculpted
watches from her shelf.
She gives birth to her own hands.
They reach out between her legs
and grasp tight to the egg
that is somehow her body.

We too, deliver ourselves,
climb leaning ladders,
press hard into softness,
bury silver rings in foreign soil
in hopes something will grow.

 

[annaswirls]

The Night has Seventeen Eyes

If ever if still I were clever enough I would tell you I would tell you why. I would label all our numbers and give them meaning.

17
hangs alone in space
wondering what it will become:
orange slices, degrees Kelvin,
meters per second squared?

I hang there too
wondering what is the unit of I?

Anna.
Anna what?

Trochaic dimeter or spondee
doesn't matter.
Anna of Wemberly
Anna daughter of Saul
Anna with the ringlet curls
Anna scissor kick side swimmer.

How to count a girl by seventeen.
Years. Lovers. Thanksgiving turkeys
under aluminum tents.
Needle sticks.

I forget how to make your cock hard from such a distance.
How to make you sing my stories. Scroll my seas.
My skin, peeled. My flesh, sectioned.
My seeds, removed and set aside.
I sit in little boats, drying on your plate.

apple fritters, degrees Kelvin
meters per second squared?

I hang there too
wondering what is the unit of I?

Anna.

Anna what?

Just Anna.
Trochaic dimeter or spondee
doesn't matter
Anna of Wemberly
Anna daughter of Saul
Anna with the ringlet curls
Anna scissor kick side swimmer.

How to measure a girl by seventeen.
Years. Lovers. Thanksgiving turkeys.
Needle sticks.

I forget how to make your cock hard from such a distance.
How to make you sing my stories. Scroll my seas.
My skin, peeled. My flesh, sectioned.
My seeds, removed and set aside.
I sit in little boats, drying on your plate.

 

[Angeline]

The Night has Seventeen Eyes

If ever if still I were clever enough
I would tell you I would tell you why.
I would label all our numbers
and give them meaning

"17"
hangs alone in space
wondering what it will become:
apple fritters, degrees Kelvin
meters per second squared?

I hang there too
wondering what is the unit of I?

Anna.

Anna what?

Just Anna.
Trochaic dimeter or spondee
doesn't matter
Anna of Wemberly
Anna daughter of Saul
Anna with the ringlet curls
Anna scissor kick side swimmer.

How to measure a girl by seventeen.
Years. Lovers. Thanksgiving turkeys.
Needle sticks.

I forget how to make your cock hard from such a distance.
How to make you sing my stories. Scroll my seas.
My skin, peeled. My flesh, sectioned.
My seeds, removed and set aside.
I sit in little boats, drying on your plate.

This is very good and gets stronger as it moves along. The last three strophes are powerful. I'd lose the first strophe. I don't think you're gaining anything from starting out with a "what if this" supposition. To me, the poem reads better if you begin it with that "17"/hangs alone in space".

That's all I can think of now. If anything else occurs to me, I'll come back to say it. But maybe that means that the rest of the poem doesn't need any work.

 

[annaswirls]

This is very good and gets stronger as it moves along. The last three strophes are powerful. I'd lose the first strophe. I don't think you're gaining anything from starting out with a "what if this" supposition. To me, the poem reads better if you begin it with that "17"/hangs alone in space".

That's all I can think of now. If anything else occurs to me, I'll come back to say it. But maybe that means that the rest of the poem doesn't need any work.

thank you thank you thank you (did you hear my inter-coastal plea for help ) I missed you!

 

[Angeline]

thank you thank you thank you (did you hear my inter-coastal plea for help ) I missed you!

It echoed over the plains and Appalachia and zoomed north.

 

[annaswirls]

Space Keeping motivator

write a poem with an interaction of some sort.

glycerin dipped sodium
soft silver metal
sliced easy with putty knife

bead tears across the water surface
in a forceful divorce,
acidic union, alien explosion

 

[annaswirls]

Spack keeper 2

done it over there

 

[annaswirls]

Place keeper

write an angry poem

the bitch is too serious
rolls her dice
tells me to hurry up
forget the one eye'd beer label
and roll

Chris calls out the new number
from the head table.
Going for fives.

They closed up this place so fast
left the dishes unwashed
silverware rolled in napkins,
waiting, and best yet, fridge full of beer
for drunken Sunday girls
to sample.

We can't find the lights.

"Bunco!"
she hollers and demands
the fuzzy dice be returned.
I wish we were playing
the hand scratch version.
I wanna claw something.

Bitch turned all the china
value side up.
But I wouldn't budge,
she had me priced on the stairs.

 

[annaswirls]

Place keeper shit I have so many I have to catch up!

from the last shelf

soon as I slid off Carla's slim
hips she did it:
banished me to
the fat jeans shelf

then they scolded her
"get them out of the house!
it will be a symbol of no going back"

but believe me
as long as there exists
peanut butter, chocolate and cheese,
there will be going back and again

soon will come the regret
of the transfer from
fat shelf to plastic bag to fat jean
orphanage (aka Goodwill)
where I wait for the next
big boned babe on an upswing,
not yet ready to commit
to paying full price
to cover her new curves

maybe Carla will watch me wiggle down
this small town sidewalk
and remember what it is like
to breathe easy within seams

 

[annaswirls]

Cerbere: a la frontiere d'espagne.

1 a.m. we have to hop from the Spanish line
in Cerbere. Maybe on this train we will score a seat.
We jingle peseta for francs and in my haste
my l'eau comes avec instead of sans gaz.

Female voice mutters something
guessing from the instant movement,
there has been a change.

Train to arrive on the opposite platform?

Backpack heavy, will I make the jump? Baby in belly
will I make the climb back up on the other side?

The crowd leaps down in a wave over tracks under black sky
there is no time for stairs in the station so we do it.

My friend Sean was killed this way in Jersey
the year after graduation.

I will not be left behind in France.

I jump.
Pressure builds in my water bottle.
Climb.

Meet a cute Canadian to share a car.
We recline seats to beds,
hide under towels for sheets
and immediately feign sleep
to avoid sharing with the drunk coeds.

She peeks open her eyes.
"You really must return sometime and stay."

I nod, but never do.

 

[annaswirls]

work / job

DIY

demo always looks like more fun
on channel 33 than in my house
where cracks go too far
reveal rotted wood
or raccoon nests

I do not have an inspiration piece
beyond
the godawful cottage cheese
stucco and cracked vinyl surround

power sander
fucked up my back
two months
door locked

first the blue
too dark
then blue
good enough
white bead board
glass pulls

labor pains are a bitch
but see what I did, myself.

 

[annaswirls]

let me tell you about an opportunity
to get your name out in the community
and it is all for a good cause
"The children!"
think of the disabled children
who will someday if they are so lucky
to clean your toilets
spray disinfectant
in your bowling shoes
their mothers will be so proud
if they learn to be so independent
if they learn enough to stay out of the
group homes

now don't you want them to
at least have a nice childhood
swim and soccer perhaps a nice bowling league?

yes? perhaps you would like to donate water bottles?
can I put you down to sponsor a quarter K
or maybe more?
you want your logo on the t-shirt?

yes I know times are tight
but
the children
the families
do you have any idea how
much it costs to take care of these kids
how their mothers have to leave jobs
because they have no where to go
only schools are really required
teams won't play them
camps won't take them
daycares can't care for them
they drown in the main stream

so will you just give us the fucking money
and we promise
to keep our beautiful freaks
out of your kid's lane

 

[annaswirls]

regret

that night you lay dying

I should have answered
the phone.

 

[annaswirls]

All the other succulents in my garden
thrived, growing out and up as they should
except this flaccid cactus. I added more soil,
mixed in sand, pressed it tight,
proud monument re-erected.

A day or two, he's back down.
Stubborn! I pushed him back upright
rocks piled and propped, days later,
horizontal. Again I prop and curse until

giving up, I swear and say fine
lie down and die, shame of my potted garden!

Week later
a row of buds pop,
each reaching upright
from the fallen father.

Little fucker just wanted to lie down,
labor in peace, prepare
a foundation, pass on the view.

 

[Tzara]

rebirth holy shit I will never finish all of these fucking poems

Just write the poems you can write. All anyone can do.

I think you're overthinking this.

 

[annaswirls]

Just write the poems you can write. All anyone can do.

I think you're overthinking this.

moi? I never overthink anything. Well, I guess it depends on how you define over thinking.

hehe

I just want to get the 30 poems of April done. I so rarely get to the end of anything.

Hi cutie.
I saw you first.

 

[Xelebes]

A poem with no title, though if I had to choose, I might use "Asking".

The signs here are all blank
And are all in the front
The sirens are all flat
Each surrounding me
I smell a foul odour
Of a strong ammonia
I feel a rough leather
Burying deep into me

Who's this in front of me
Filling my senses so
Does he not see me here
Or does he see me only
With a taste of warm steel
Coursing all through my mouth
Is this who I am to
This very strange person

When I see the stars rise
And a red sun set fast
I sense a lot of sense
That no longer make sense
And as the storm shows signs
Of ending soon enough
I ask if I do ask
Too many damn questions

 

[UnderYourSpell]

rebirth holy shit I will never finish all of these fucking poems



All the other succulents in my garden
thrived, growing out and up as they should
except this flaccid cactus. I added more soil,
pressed it tight, monument re-erected.

A day or two, then down.
Stubborn! I pushed him back upright
rocks piled and propped, days later,
horizontal. Again I prop and curse until

giving up, I swear and say fine
lie down and die, shame of my potted garden!

Week later
a row of buds pop,
reaching upright
from the fallen father.

Little fucker just wanted to lie down
to labor in peace, prepare
a foundation. Be born again.

This is eerie you've got my cactus perhaps I should let it fall over!

 

[annaswirls]

Miscommunication

 

[annaswirls]

This is eerie you've got my cactus perhaps I should let it fall over!

You should! Definitely! I had no idea it was trying to lay down and let the next generation get the good view.

They are growing up very nicely. I should take a photo.