Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[pushkine]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Sometimes as I narrate my life
with poetry, I imagine my words
read by Garrison Keiler and I soften,
I prose up, I include indefinite articles.

There is a woman in a car
she drives her children here and there,
movie rentals, gymnastics classes, to the
grocery store to buy garbonzo beans, cantalope,
corn tortillas. After she loads the children
and the bags back into the car,
despite the complaints from the back,
she turns the radio to her choice station
to NPR and there is his voice
smooth and easy, a peaceful calm
falls over the minivan as he reads on and on
Billy Collins or someone like him carries her
up and down the small hills
of inflection, over lanyards and pears.

But this time, she is
listening to his voice, my words
as she stops her minivan at a red light
and her hands relax
from the wheel and she knows
it is finally our turn.

 

[butters]

creatures of shadow
we dwell in half measures
unfiltered light too strong
infinity of darkness too intense

we hover in that space our breed allows
we try hard not to stare
too long at the light
that place where only pure things may exist

mostly backs are turned to its pull
the black's cold flux and wane
but creatures of shadow are foolish
the fall into darkness or light
ultimately one and the same

 

[bflagsst]

To Begin at the Biggening

She's unmanageable.
Bees are deliberate masses, zealously ordered,
but singularly, they cannot match her fervour
fer allusions sake.

Further, I'd break with the church and steeple,
to people with her, any of the two-bit isles
peopled or unpeopled.

 

[butters]

estranged

how to communicate with the moon
when it sails so high
so lofty
a blind eye
indifferent to semaphore
and ill-equipped to receive thoughts
launched
in a rocketship

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Album 4 - Tupperwear Party

Ooops.

 

[bflagsst]

Paternoster, or A Muttered Hymn

With the haulm, we'd lie
fallow in the calming lea,
our hallow combe lie below,
enswathed by trees, hiding
the meadow with the sweet-tempered grasses,
and its monuments to the loves of shepherd and shepherdess,

Behind tousled hair, our fallow minds
weaved the tapestries,
and cut the Gothic windows,
for our peering Father to peek out
onto leal portraits.

 

[champagne1982]

I'm bumping this one...

 

[EroticOrogeny]

I have noticed a lot of poetry in progress in threads here and there--
in passion, new poems, etc which is no big deal because there really was not a place to put them before besides starting a new thread--

I think it might be good for everyone to try to keep them in one place, so that people who are interested can post and get comments and exposure, or just show poems that they are not interested in submitting but would like to put out there.



So, this thread is for:

1. Poems you wrote that you are passionate about but cannot stand the idea of writing on the fly with no backspacing or editing, copy/pasting... so you know it doesn't Really belong in the all of a sudden passion suddenly (I know this has happened to me!)

2. You are looking for a little feedback and exposure and are not interested or ready to submit.

3. You just feel like keeping this thread from disappearing, so throw a poem in just to humor me. Come on you know you want to do it.....

4. Whatever else. Just put em here if you want to.

I am easy
this thread is easy
prizes will be given (I am working out a deal where the winner gets to choose Eve's av for a day, or an hour, or maybe just for 3 minutes, negotiations will begin once I think to ask her....)

just let us know what you want when you post a poem

sound good?

Seattle

bump with #1

 

[champagne1982]

This poem is posted here: Thanks

Thanks

Words might fill the silence¹
but I would rather hear your breath
as in comfort you sleep,
after we have whispered hopes
and longing against the pillow

we share. All those words spoken
as if these tongues are the broken host,
and my tears, the wine of communion,
taken at the altar of this union.
Love absolves us of sin

and sorrow. Strength renews
as kisses silence mouths
when we swallow the eucharist
and set down the empty cup
that defines² redemption.

Dream in this after silence
as I whisper thanks and worship
each unspoken word you breathe.

¹Separately Together, by Tristesse2 ©2006

²Notes found written to..., by unpredictablebijou ©2007
_______________________

It's a Thanksgiving Challenge response poem from a couple of years back. I've made an edit of the strophe Angeline suggested in a comment on that poem. It's way better as a result. Are there any other crits anyone would like to share? I'm open to revising this further since it's a very meaningful poem to me.

Thanks for reading and thinking about it.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I like the way you use the borrowed line at the beginning because it makes me think of silence as something that can be filled in small as well as large ways. I wonder if you can further that sense of container or containment with the pillow image. I'm not fond of "hopes and longing" because it is so big and vague. Also it reminds me of "hopes and dreams" though I know you weren't saying that. Still the and construction sort of makes it have that ring. What hope? What specific thing were you wishing for?

I liked the enjambment before we share as well as "these tongues were the broken host". The sentimentality of the love expressions is diminished when the poem is at its most concrete. I want to know what that worship looks like. How does one worship an unspoken word? I want further into this moment instead of looking at it from the outside through the declarations of the narrator.

This shows some evidence of your talent though and the ear and sonics of it really pulled me in. You have an elegant tongue, Champ.

This poem is posted here: Thanks

Thanks

Words might fill the silence¹
but I would rather hear your breath
as in comfort you sleep,
after we have whispered hopes
and longing against the pillow

we share. All those words spoken
as if these tongues are the broken host,
and my tears, the wine of communion,
taken at the altar of this union.
Love absolves us of sin

and sorrow. Strength renews
as kisses silence mouths
when we swallow the eucharist
and set down the empty cup
that defines² redemption.

Dream in this after silence
as I whisper thanks and worship
each unspoken word you breathe.

¹Separately Together, by Tristesse2 ©2006

²Notes found written to..., by unpredictablebijou ©2007
_______________________

It's a Thanksgiving Challenge response poem from a couple of years back. I've made an edit of the strophe Angeline suggested in a comment on that poem. It's way better as a result. Are there any other crits anyone would like to share? I'm open to revising this further since it's a very meaningful poem to me.

Thanks for reading and thinking about it.

 

[champagne1982]

I like the way you use the borrowed line at the beginning because it makes me think of silence as something that can be filled in small as well as large ways. I wonder if you can further that sense of container or containment with the pillow image. I'm not fond of "hopes and longing" because it is so big and vague. Also it reminds me of "hopes and dreams" though I know you weren't saying that. Still the and construction sort of makes it have that ring. What hope? What specific thing were you wishing for?

I liked the enjambment before we share as well as "these tongues were the broken host". The sentimentality of the love expressions is diminished when the poem is at its most concrete. I want to know what that worship looks like. How does one worship an unspoken word? I want further into this moment instead of looking at it from the outside through the declarations of the narrator.

This shows some evidence of your talent though and the ear and sonics of it really pulled me in. You have an elegant tongue, Champ.

There's a lot to think about in this, thank you.

I believe you're asking me to write more, rather than edit the contents of the last verses. I'll give it a shot, or maybe I can revise me out of it. I'll do a bit of work on hopes and longing plus I think if I turned a face into the pillow rather than against it, there's a firmer boundary to the "container" idea.

 

[butters]

help appreciated with this

it feels it could do with trimming more - maybe lose some of the we's, but I want to keep the reader embraced within this too as part of a shared human experience. perhaps you guys can see past my block with this.

p.s the title came about from watching a dr. who episode, but this isn't about any unseen shadow host. if there's some ambiguity set up by using the quote as a title, could you tell me and maybe a suggestion for a replacement?



"a million million books, hatching shadows"
Dr. Who - The Library



creatures of shadow
we dwell in half measures
unfiltered light too strong
infinity of darkness too intense

we hover in that space our breed allows
we try hard not to stare
too long at the light
that place where only pure things may exist

mostly backs are turned to its pull
the black's cold flux and wane
but creatures of shadow are foolish
the fall into darkness or light
ultimately one and the same

in all the books
in all the world
we strive to recreate ourselves
push the boundaries
exploring this condition

 

[AoNoDoY]

?"a million million books, hatching shadows"
Dr. Who - The Library

My gut reaction is that I have trouble with the relationship between pure and books. I get hung up on that opposition. Not that I think it should be the other way around. Whoa no.

Of course, it would help if I had ever seen an episode of Dr. Who. I almost moved in with a guy who had a bunch of Dr. Who DVDs, but I didn't. So, you know, I've never seen the show. So if you were going to write the poem for ME, you'd be better off trying to give me the feeling of what you mean by saying it was inspired by Dr. Who in some other way. Of course, you weren't writing the poem specifically for ME, so I can't really fault you for not setting it up in a way I might need to understand differently in order to really get into the poem.

The poem did hold my attention all the way through. I think I can feel the Dr. Who inspiration, the poem feels like it can exist in sci fi land, I think that would be a fun avenue to keep working in.

Wane/shame I like. Even reading it silently I stopped and looked back to see what went with shame. I think there might be some other rhymes in there, too, that are pretty subtle.

The poem reminded me of the idea that books are some of the mental and emotional vomit produced by humanity, in a way involuntarily ...

I also like thinking of people as creatures. Speaking of sci fi, it would neat if we could walk around for one day and see everybody without any skin on, and not all cleaned and sanitized like Mr. Goodbody, but all slimy and bloody and oozy and gross like it must be under that skin. LOL!

Regarding the title, I think it is fine on this here forum, especially since you mentioned it in the introductory paragraph. I think it would be a general break with convention to publish it that way somewhere else or with no explanation. I'm not a stickler or anything, I say to hell with convention. A question might be raised as to whether "a million million books, hatching shadows" is the title of if Dr. Who - The Library is also part of the title.

Television shows are interesting in that they have titles (Dr. Who) and then they have titles (The Library). That happens in music with album and song titles and in visual arts I suppose sometimes, but that doesn't happen often in writing very much. Novels and chapter titles? Out-there abstract stuff?

All in all, it's a well done poem. Nice work.

 

[butters]

first of all THANKYOU for taking the time to respond to my request for help
looking at a familiar piece through another's eyes helps me get a different perspective.

still don't know what to do about the title, unless I simply use it 'straight' without the acknowledgement that its a quote from a dr. who episode called The Library. Or go with The Library and leave out the quotation - but then I feel I'm spurning the very line that triggered the poem. sigh.

I'm not sure there's too much of a connection between pure and books anyway, the books existing in the shadowlands with us; the blinding light of purity and equally blinding absence of light are places we don't belong.

I think I might drop the last lines altogether - too much tell, not enough show. the what I want to say but not the how.

glad your ear is catching a hold of some of the sonics in this. I hope they do work subtlely enough to not jump out but more as a background harmony of sorts.



thanks again for your time and consideration.

 

[lorencino]

There's a lot to think about in this, thank you.

I believe you're asking me to write more, rather than edit the contents of the last verses. I'll give it a shot, or maybe I can revise me out of it. I'll do a bit of work on hopes and longing plus I think if I turned a face into the pillow rather than against it, there's a firmer boundary to the "container" idea.

I loved the original poem that appeared in November 2007. This revised version is a distinct improvement to something I had thought of as perfect when I first read it. However, there is a danger that writing more would change this poem from what it is to something else and it strikes me that that should be another poem not an edit to this one. Writing yourself out of it, similarly, would alter what this poem means to me.

With complete respect for her opinion, I react quite differently to PandoraGlitters. I don't need the poem to explain to me how one “worships an unspoken word” for the same reason that I know that no-one can explain to me, with any degree of precision, exactly what love means. This poem, however, shows me a deeply meaningful relationship in which I strongly sense the love, know the love, and feel the devotion of the poet as the breath of her resting lover resonates with everything he means to her. His breath becomes iconic for the fullness of what he is to her.

When love is so intense it is quite reasonable to “worship unspoken words" even as the phrase makes not sense at all. It is a relaxing break to so worship the sleeping partner when the intimate energy between two people is so intense. The beauty of this poem has a lot to do with what the words imply rather than the specifics of the words written. I can expand my consciousness into the beauty of the relationship described and so the poem has deep meaning and great satisfaction for me.

Ultimately, you have to write to please yourself, if you are really going to please this reader.

 

[lorencino]

From this dim place

it feels it could do with trimming more - maybe lose some of the we's, but I want to keep the reader embraced within this too as part of a shared human experience. perhaps you guys can see past my block with this.

p.s the title came about from watching a dr. who episode, but this isn't about any unseen shadow host. if there's some ambiguity set up by using the quote as a title, could you tell me and maybe a suggestion for a replacement?



"a million million books, hatching shadows"
Dr. Who - The Library



creatures of shadow
we dwell in half measures
unfiltered light too strong
infinity of darkness too intense

we hover in that space our breed allows
we try hard not to stare
too long at the light
that place where only pure things may exist

mostly backs are turned to its pull
the black's cold flux and wane
but creatures of shadow are foolish
the fall into darkness or light
ultimately one and the same

in all the books
in all the world
we strive to recreate ourselves
push the boundaries
exploring this condition

I feel a bit of an idiot admitting this but the very first line leaves me in confusion about who the creatures are. I hover between reading the poem as voiced by a human or a book. The shadows that the books hatch could be the "breed" referred to in the poem. Are humans the shadows that are hatched from books in the sense of being shaped by books. This poem is torturing me in a delightful way, but until I can make more sense of it, I cannot offer help. I shall struggle on until the light shines unfiltered and strong in the vacant structures of my mind.

 

[butters]

I feel a bit of an idiot admitting this but the very first line leaves me in confusion about who the creatures are. I hover between reading the poem as voiced by a human or a book. The shadows that the books hatch could be the "breed" referred to in the poem. Are humans the shadows that are hatched from books in the sense of being shaped by books. This poem is torturing me in a delightful way, but until I can make more sense of it, I cannot offer help. I shall struggle on until the light shines unfiltered and strong in the vacant structures of my mind.

thankyou

what you have just done is show me I'm making the same mistake I often do: because I know what it's about, where it's coming from, that the reader does too.

I did mean people. Us. Humanity as a species.
Perhaps I need to lose the quote as a title. gonna have to think hard about this one since it's (for me) the beginning and end of the poem. we write the books which explore and create living characters in the minds of others.


thinking cap time for me, lorencino. *nods*

 

[lorencino]

I like the title you have. It works for me to just have this quote at the head of the poem. Perhaps if you concentrate on the poem itself a name in congruency with what the poem becomes will eventually present itself.

Maybe the quote will even grow on you.

 

[some_poet]

They are coming for my trees,
the invasive Lagustrum stands,
the dead and cracking Hackberry elm.
"Trash trees" she called them.
What the hell do I know?
This is not my land. I am learning,
spring is summer fall is spring and
summer you just stick to the shadows.

East-siders don't cross the river
for milk or coffee,
west end won't cross the highway
for gin or saddle soap.

I am learning
to seal boxes between visits,
to keep secrets
in separate pens.

You cannot go barefoot on the other side
of the limestone ridge, fire ants and
flint, scorpions, rattlers,
prickly pear.

We keep our St. Augustine lawns soft with
sprinklers on timers, pecan trees
drop fruit every couple years.
Posts and beams hold us above ground,
without foundation.

They have come for my trees.
Fingers on wavy glass pane
soak in chain saw vibrations.
Eyes closed and still can see
metal sharp slicking layers
into mulch.

Just like that time you called,
talking just loudly enough for that girl
(table two)
to hear (if she wanted to)
the things you planned to do to my native lands
cowboy mountain lion sharpening claws
on my yankee limbs.

Still I can see you
fingers that fuck if I know
who you are just cross that divide
name the trees
show me the place the rope broke
and you got away with barely a burn.

 

[some_poet]

small talk

big state small talk

what to say?
assume everyone knows about the deer population
how the lake level is up or the oil level, down
and your team our team their
team of horsehair pigskin well
what have we hear Johnny is
marching home again soon

briskets in the fire
turkey's in the fryer
we're fixin' to say
all the nothings there are

wait quick
sex up the talk in case someone is looking
lean in my valley so low hang
your head over hear the wind blow
shhhh sanity smells of car wash quarters
tastes of juke box tater tots sanity looks
like maple leaves before the fall
feels like weighted comfort, toes tented up all
warmth pillows tucked under
for just the right angle for
what's that you just said?

I remember
the berry tongue experiment
senses tricked into believing tamarind
and even lemon as sweet
that is crazy
but no more crazy
than this

 

[some_poet]

truth is I need that mood swing conservation of
angular momentum swing chains extend as we pull,
almost flip the top
drop jerk tension loosens
we fall

truth is I feel those chains round wrists ankles
night terror coverups you warm my bottle, smooth my hair
pour the cup christen the boat microscope me baby
until I dry on the slide

 

[lorencino]

Poems on the meaning of life #1

Nietzsche

Why, God is not dead,
he just doesn't give a shit
that oil has peaked

 

[some_poet]

He leans me in with casual mention of
property ownership
checks to see if any buttons have opened through
the sheer force of wealth.

Truth: power turns me coy,
turtle neck logic I make him wait
because men like this only climb
the tallest towers.

Dragon teeth hook braids, raised
wit flashes- he sees surely
less than he has shown
bicep endurance tap promises to crack the fairy
right from her tail

Remind me why we bother when you know
I am already there
finger tied into the softness of
your belly I breathe
feathers flutterbetween.

 

[some_poet]

This I learned from you:
always count the miles before assuming
any path leads to your door; inspect the allusions
as they drape your features but not your form;
remember headlights are not windows.

I just read that
the buck flexes his pelvic floor
every time he wags his tail. It's
why they call male Kegels the Deer Exercise.
I imagine your ass twitching under promise
of doe tail flicks.

Charles warned me,
don't mention peninsulas or the color yellow
she will sniff us out, eat our young
best to keep it quiet lover.

And he never spoke of swirls or swarms
or sycamore roots, leaves turning white side up
incoming storms.

May-be-lover let us imagine our bells
do toll for each other, that the woman in your
smudged sketches is me, that all our openings
are tight as our timing. Until then, let us condition together:
you do your Qi Jong deer tail thing, I will Kegel myself
tight right here in my chair, and dance while
deeply placed Ben-wa balls jingle and hummm with
mercuric vibrations- lover watch my clench as I move
only you know they are there up here where I hold you in
distracting me into focus
lest the brass fall hard
rolling across tile
and everyone will know,
this time it's real.