Poetry Workshop, February 2011: Glosa

[Angeline]

I slip softly into the air
The world's furious song flows through my costume.
--Red Shift, Ted Berrigan

I slip softly into the air
beneath the clouds the mist
holds on more like a shroud
than ceremony

a dull linger white beads
click like cubes and a thick
rustle of silk pulls layers cold
and slick the binding
and the veil with its neat
tiny stitches blinding.

Crunch my heels
stabbing veins of snow
sketched across asphalt,
a dark, glittering path.

All is white, this silent night slow
processional and insubstantial
as a shell. Now I think I know
what waxworks know for I am
vaguely empty and alone
as the world's furious song
flows through my costume.

 

[Tzara]

It Could Be Worse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
..They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
..And add some extra, just for you.
—Philip Larkin, "This Be the Verse"

It happens quite unconsciously;
..It's not because you've made them mad.
It's natural, how unctuously
..They fuck you up. Your mum and dad

Try to be kind (it never works)—
..They just end up indulging you
And raise a horde of spoiled jerks.
..They may not mean to, but they do.

It's why your brother's how he is,
..I mean, an asshole of a lad,
But you're one too. Your parents' kiss
..Has filled you with the faults they had.

Relax. We all are made this way
..Quite shortly after our debut.
Their flaws make up your dossier
..With some few extra, just for you.


.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

It Could Be Worse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
..They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
..And add some extra, just for you.
—Philip Larkin, "This Be the Verse"

It happens quite unconsciously;
..It's not because you've made them mad.
It's natural, how unctuously
..They fuck you up. Your mum and dad

Try to be kind (it never works)—
..They just end up indulging you
And raise a horde of spoiled jerks.
..They may not mean to, but they do.

It's why your brother's how he is,
..I mean, an asshole of a lad,
But you're one too. Your parents' kiss
..Has filled you with the faults they had.

Relax. We all are made this way
..Quite shortly after our debut.
Their flaws make up your dossier
..With some few extra, just for you.


.

goddammit! You picked my pick! Plus it's better than mine would ever be.

*grumps off to find another poem*

 

[UnderYourSpell]

It Could Be Worse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
..They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
..And add some extra, just for you.
—Philip Larkin, "This Be the Verse"

It happens quite unconsciously;
..It's not because you've made them mad.
It's natural, how unctuously
..They fuck you up. Your mum and dad

Try to be kind (it never works)—
..They just end up indulging you
And raise a horde of spoiled jerks.
..They may not mean to, but they do.

It's why your brother's how he is,
..I mean, an asshole of a lad,
But you're one too. Your parents' kiss
..Has filled you with the faults they had.

Relax. We all are made this way
..Quite shortly after our debut.
Their flaws make up your dossier
..With some few extra, just for you.


.

Bravo!

 

[denis hale]

Please Drop Down, Gimme 20 Menus

There are a dizzying number of options,
that multiply every day... --from the AOL
Home Page, an advert, for phone gadgets


Have you ever stopped short
at a crossroads? A real Johnson
Robert with chops to boot, enough
to melt frost? But knowing the point
is tough, and moot as regards cost:
there are a dizzying number of options,
burning holes, blooming fruit.

Apples in winter, thigh-high fences
ripe with splinters, and a penumbra
of penitents,
down on their knees, to pray
for right of way, not to be left
in a posse of lost souls
that multiply every day.

Consider the fork! With arrows
flipping haywire, like a compass
cum bum ticker, would you
only then commit
quicker? Or wait,
impatient, for devils, to dicker
over options? Gone dizzy.

Late February, say, frost peaks,
it swirls this way, then doubles
back. A fucking bundt cake, eh?
Or maybe souflay? Lick a thumb,
taste the wind, then run like
mad the other way. Don't look
back for options. They don't

multiply every day.








every day.

 

[butters]

i'm reading these and they make my mouth water - and still i'm stuck at amber... can't find one i'm happy with, and when i try to force a gloss to fit it's just that - forced. this isn't coming easy and, for me, i don't think it will till i find the right mote to begin with i have only admiration for some of the examples above my post!

 

[Angeline]

i'm reading these and they make my mouth water - and still i'm stuck at amber... can't find one i'm happy with, and when i try to force a gloss to fit it's just that - forced. this isn't coming easy and, for me, i don't think it will till i find the right mote to begin with i have only admiration for some of the examples above my post!

You just have to choose one and start writing. I'm never happy with the mote I pick and then I write and it slips into place. I tend to just squint and settle on it. Point my finger and say those words.

 

[butters]

You just have to choose one and start writing. I'm never happy with the mote I pick and then I write and it slips into place. I tend to just squint and settle on it. Point my finger and say those words.

but that's what i've been trying *whine whine*

when i read the examples here, my own feels trite and engineered beyond what can, in any decency, be termed poetry

maybe i'll find one soon - mind you, the no2 son has been round mine a lot the past 3 or 4 days. his presence is never conducive to writing. sigh.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

You just have to choose one and start writing. I'm never happy with the mote I pick and then I write and it slips into place. I tend to just squint and settle on it. Point my finger and say those words.

Mostly though I am laughing Tess that you called me the Grande Dame of the Glosa. Lauren would disagree.

Remember this? I do.


Birthday Glosa

If hands could free you, heart,
__Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
__If hands could set you free?

~ Philip Larkin, If Hands Could Free You, Heart

If hands could free you, heart,
from drumless rhythms, oceans
or fragmented falls of rain,
all different, distant, yet the sound
the same, beating from miles apart.

The continent can not divide
the whisper of you, heart:
the tap of truth spoken one letter
at a time. If hands could free you
with the feathered power
of a rhyme, where would you fly?
What music would you paint
if song could fill your eye, recall
the scattered tears from far

beyond every part of prescience
to dimensions of child years
that catch each flake of hope
upon the tip of smiles.

Our compasses of earth,
this running sky, make desolate
the hourglass of past.
Where would you cross the hidden
line from first to last: heaven
and earth, city and hill and sea?

Where would you plant your dreams
if hands could set you free?

 

[Angeline]

Remember this? I do.


Birthday Glosa

If hands could free you, heart,
__Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
__If hands could set you free?

~ Philip Larkin, If Hands Could Free You, Heart

If hands could free you, heart,
from drumless rhythms, oceans
or fragmented falls of rain,
all different, distant, yet the sound
the same, beating from miles apart.

The continent can not divide
the whisper of you, heart:
the tap of truth spoken one letter
at a time. If hands could free you
with the feathered power
of a rhyme, where would you fly?
What music would you paint
if song could fill your eye, recall
the scattered tears from far

beyond every part of prescience
to dimensions of child years
that catch each flake of hope
upon the tip of smiles.

Our compasses of earth,
this running sky, make desolate
the hourglass of past.
Where would you cross the hidden
line from first to last: heaven
and earth, city and hill and sea?

Where would you plant your dreams
if hands could set you free?

I do. I remember who I wrote it for.

 

[butters]

maybe, one day, i will write a glosa-proper. those preceding this 'thing' leave me awed, but for what it's worth, here's something. just to say i fitted some words into place and tried ... one day i will find the time and right state of mind to write a proper one. *no rotten tomatoes, please. it is what it is*

from Sonnet # 8 by Gloria Carpenter http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/sonnet/pushkin.html

Can muses be aroused to help me out?
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?
Determined as I am to see this through,
Decisions that I make, may bother you.



This one is just for you, your eye, your mind
Your ear, sweet reader, if I could but find
The words to turn to whispers my coarse shout;
Can muses be aroused to help me out?

To think that you would read this, perhaps smile,
Would help a poor lost poet for a while;
To think of you afrown engenders doubt;
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?

Ah, love, that old and many splendoured thing
In all its forms, will have me dance and bring
An empty bowl, a rose, a worn tap shoe -
Determined as I am to see this through.

So on the stage I face into your light;
There, blinded, smile and juggle words in fright
And, hoping for applause, expect your 'boo!'
Decisions that I make may bother you.

 

[Angeline]

maybe, one day, i will write a glosa-proper. those preceding this 'thing' leave me awed, but for what it's worth, here's something. just to say i fitted some words into place and tried ... one day i will find the time and right state of mind to write a proper one. *no rotten tomatoes, please. it is what it is*

from Sonnet # 8 by Gloria Carpenter http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/sonnet/pushkin.html

Can muses be aroused to help me out?
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?
Determined as I am to see this through,
Decisions that I make, may bother you.



This one is just for you, your eye, your mind
Your ear, sweet reader, if I could but find
The words to turn to whispers my coarse shout;
Can muses be aroused to help me out?

To think that you would read this, perhaps smile,
Would help a poor lost poet for a while;
To think of you afrown engenders doubt;
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?

Ah, love, that old and many splendoured thing
In all its forms, will have me dance and bring
An empty bowl, a rose, a worn tap shoe -
Determined as I am to see this through.

So on the stage I face into your light;
There, blinded, smile and juggle words in fright
And, hoping for applause, expect your 'boo!'
Decisions that I make may bother you.

I think you've figured it out.

It's very sonnet-y and iambic-y, which gives it a lovely lilt and you weave into those lines from the mote like a player sliding into base--a beautiful thing to see! I especially like the thrird strophe where you are really rolling, and also I love anyone who would use a word like "afrown."

You give good glosa, Chip.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

maybe, one day, i will write a glosa-proper. those preceding this 'thing' leave me awed, but for what it's worth, here's something. just to say i fitted some words into place and tried ... one day i will find the time and right state of mind to write a proper one. *no rotten tomatoes, please. it is what it is*

from Sonnet # 8 by Gloria Carpenter http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/sonnet/pushkin.html

Can muses be aroused to help me out?
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?
Determined as I am to see this through,
Decisions that I make, may bother you.



This one is just for you, your eye, your mind
Your ear, sweet reader, if I could but find
The words to turn to whispers my coarse shout;
Can muses be aroused to help me out?

To think that you would read this, perhaps smile,
Would help a poor lost poet for a while;
To think of you afrown engenders doubt;
Can words be found that hold poetic clout?

Ah, love, that old and many splendoured thing
In all its forms, will have me dance and bring
An empty bowl, a rose, a worn tap shoe -
Determined as I am to see this through.

So on the stage I face into your light;
There, blinded, smile and juggle words in fright
And, hoping for applause, expect your 'boo!'
Decisions that I make may bother you.

..... and you were panicking why? Bravo!

 

[butters]

I think you've figured it out.

It's very sonnet-y and iambic-y, which gives it a lovely lilt and you weave into those lines from the mote like a player sliding into base--a beautiful thing to see! I especially like the third strophe where you are really rolling, and also I love anyone who would use a word like "afrown."

You give good glosa, Chip.

..... and you were panicking why? Bravo!

well, thanks to you both but i still feel like a cheat - however, this one fell into place and was composed on the fly but then i liked the lines i found and wrote it directly having found them. the other motes i tried to use felt all kinds of wrong and so my working with them was - cruddy. this is no great shakes, i know that. but it came easy. you guys are probably the same - given the right inspiration, writes spill. how good or rough they are, after the fact, is another matter the all of a sudden threads, and writing live, seem to be where my head's still at. i don't know if that's a good place to be still... it kind of suggests i'm not putting the work into polishing and editing afterwards that i should. getting a bit lazy

 

[PoetGuy]

Poet Guy apologizes for his tardiness in submitting this attempt. He has been very ill the last week or so, which he hopes explains the quality of the following:



Autobiography

How ludicrous these efforts to translate
Into one's private tongue a public fate!
Instead of poetry divinely terse,
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse!
—John Shade, "Pale Fire"

I am a man and yet not "man," it seems—
Mere heteronym, just one of several beings,
Like rolls of coin struck from a common plate.
How ludicrous, these efforts to translate

My several selves to one coherent thing,
Be it elfin poet, troll, or Ming
The Merciless, to map moods, to conflate
Into one's private tongue a public fate.

I am that I am: An author, true
To my own interests and needs, to strew
Across the page my bland, unleavened verse,
Instead of poetry divinely terse.

How can it matter who I am? The lines
Are either good or bad in their designs
Alone; they either work or they disburse
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Poet Guy apologizes for his tardiness in submitting this attempt. He has been very ill the last week or so, which he hopes explains the quality of the following:



Autobiography

How ludicrous these efforts to translate
Into one's private tongue a public fate!
Instead of poetry divinely terse,
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse!
—John Shade, "Pale Fire"

I am a man and yet not "man," it seems—
Mere heteronym, just one of several beings,
Like rolls of coin struck from a common plate.
How ludicrous, these efforts to translate

My several selves to one coherent thing,
Be it elfin poet, troll, or Ming
The Merciless, to map moods, to conflate
Into one's private tongue a public fate.

I am that I am: An author, true
To my own interests and needs, to strew
Across the page my bland, unleavened verse,
Instead of poetry divinely terse.

How can it matter who I am? The lines
Are either good or bad in their designs
Alone; they either work or they disburse
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse.

Bravo and I hope you are feeling much better now

 

[butters]

for a sick Poet Guy, you glosa well! hope you get better asap. have a flower -->

 

[Angeline]

Poet Guy apologizes for his tardiness in submitting this attempt. He has been very ill the last week or so, which he hopes explains the quality of the following:



Autobiography

How ludicrous these efforts to translate
Into one's private tongue a public fate!
Instead of poetry divinely terse,
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse!
—John Shade, "Pale Fire"

I am a man and yet not "man," it seems—
Mere heteronym, just one of several beings,
Like rolls of coin struck from a common plate.
How ludicrous, these efforts to translate

My several selves to one coherent thing,
Be it elfin poet, troll, or Ming
The Merciless, to map moods, to conflate
Into one's private tongue a public fate.

I am that I am: An author, true
To my own interests and needs, to strew
Across the page my bland, unleavened verse,
Instead of poetry divinely terse.

How can it matter who I am? The lines
Are either good or bad in their designs
Alone; they either work or they disburse
Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse.

I guess it really doesn't matter who you are as we now know you can write a interesting glosa (hardly bland, unleavened verse--anyway I write the matzoh verse around here!).

Sorry to hear you've been ill, PG. There's some narsty viruses about these days. Mine own eagleyez lays sick in bed with one himself today. Here's to a speedy recovery to you both!

 

[UnderYourSpell]

gentle hugs to EE too and get well soon

 

[Angeline]

gentle hugs to EE too and get well soon

Thanks Annie. The poor man has felt awful all day. I just hope I don't get it!

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Thanks Annie. The poor man has felt awful all day. I just hope I don't get it!

I hope you're both ok. There are some nasty viral attacks going on this spring.

- and now back to our normal programming.

In Peace we Love

In peace we loved but strife might grow to war,
The call to arms means all men here must pay
With limb or life for country we adore.
Remember me when I am gone away,

For memories of you will carry me
Through frightful nights of blood, bombardment and
The knowledge that the mind can be set free
Gone far away into the silent land

Where, close beside me you would always be
and strength of love can warring armies stand.
But should the bullet or shrapnel find me,
when you can no more hold me by the hand,

t’is you must follow passage of your heart
but I am hale and hearty for today
I will not die nor never will we part
and I half turn to go yet turning stay.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I hope you're both ok. There are some nasty viral attacks going on this spring.

- and now back to our normal programming.

In Peace we Love

In peace we loved but strife might grow to war,
The call to arms means all men here must pay
With limb or life for country we adore.
Remember me when I am gone away,

For memories of you will carry me
Through frightful nights of blood, bombardment and
The knowledge that the mind can be set free
Gone far away into the silent land

Where, close beside me you would always be
and strength of love can warring armies stand.
But should the bullet or shrapnel find me,
when you can no more hold me by the hand,

t’is you must follow passage of your heart
but I am hale a hearty for today
I will not die nor never will we part
and I half turn to go yet turning stay.

that's lovely ..... should that be 'hale and hearty'?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

that's lovely ..... should that be 'hale and hearty'?

Thank you - and yes, thanks again. That's it for me, exersize 3 is way too hard - tried but no cookie.

 

[Liar]

*bangs head on desk*

 

[UnderYourSpell]

*bangs head on desk*

bang it on the keyboard and you'll get a cute likkle qwerty pattern on your forehead