Thunderstruck

[TheRainMan]

well, it did have a title. - i guess i will have to stop making assumsption(you know what is said about that)

i'll rework it. - it had a car in it earlier. thanks for not making me feel like an idiot - i already do a good enough job it it. : )

your writing is getting better along the way.

it takes time (and you are far from an idiot).

the advice i just gave you is the same as i already gave you.

talk like a real person when you write. writers who try to be 'poetic' don't understand what poetry is . . . be 'real'.

 

[HotKittySpank]

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[TheRainMan]

. . . i honestly don't think 'be poetic' when shit come out of my head . . .

you don't?

what were you thinking when this came out of your head? --

of gouged striations rough hewn by explosions topped with outcrops

and this? --

a sideways monolith piled up against the electric opal flow
ringed by evaporation lines filled in with sinking green
ached for the life she brings in sparkling ingenuity stopped up


. . . when you want to say something, try just saying it.




p.s. -- it is possible you have more to un-learn than learn.

 

[HotKittySpank]

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[TheRainMan]

of gouged striations rough hewn by explosions topped with outcrops

that passage makes no sense.

you have to make sense. otherwise, what's the point?

a sideways monolith piled up against the electric opal flow
ringed by evaporation lines filled in with sinking green
ached for the life she brings in sparkling ingenuity stopped up

and that passage is a marble-mouthed mess.

talk plain.



p.s. -- it is possible you have more to un-learn than learn.

but i never 'learned' anything about poetry.

yes you did, somewhere. or your mind thinks it did . . . it thinks poetry has to be fancy and flowery and twisted around . . . why else would you speak clearly here in this discussion, and so unintelligible in some of your poetry?

your mind has to un-learn those things about flowers and pretzels that it thinks it knows.

THIS is the learning. you are seeing it, right now.

yes, it is.

i will strip it down and say it plainly - promise.

prove it.

 

[Tzara]

what were you thinking when this came out of your head? --

of gouged striations rough hewn by explosions topped with outcrops

the striated rock formations along the side of the road had been cut though, exposed, and you can't do it all by hand, it had to be dynamite. you could follow it with your eyes to the rocks that naturally popped out of the ground on top.

I think what TRM is saying is that good images are formed simply, with specific nouns and crisp, active verbs. For one thing, the fragment quoted above has too much filigree to have much punch. Back things off to the almost overly simple and focus on noun/verb, noun/verb statements. Junk all the adjectives and adverbs, or at least as many as you can reasonably eliminate, for now.

Look at your sentence describing what the line of your poem is trying to say. If you way trim that down you can get something like

...striate rock cut by blast.
Eyes trace to a more native stone...​

or something.

The point is to focus on being simple, straightforward and clear. Trying to be overdescriptive gets you into problems. The extra words merely muddle up the image. It's something we all do, all the time. God knows I do.

And, of course, feel free to disregard everything I've said. I don't know anything either.

 

[Tzara]

yes you did, somewhere. or your mind thinks it did . . . it thinks poetry has to be fancy and flowery and twisted around . . . why else would you speak clearly here in this discussion, and so unintelligible in some of your poetry?

your mind has to un-learn those things about flowers and pretzels that it thinks it knows.

I would second this. Your statements about what you were trying to convey with your poem are actually more vivid than the poem itself. The poem is like an overdecorated Christmas tree—there are so many ornaments that you can't really see the tree itself.

P.S.: I love your attitude.

 

[Never]

Hot Kitty Spank:
"ok, now my face is fucking beet red as all get out."
When I was young and tender, I gave one of my poems to a girl I was utterly smitten by so she could edit it for me. This may or may not have been done to impress her with my artistic bent. Sadly, what I'd failed to take into account was that poetry, despite its faggy, fruity, and flowery reputation, is sometimes written by people with minds like a steel trap and the ability to dissect a poem with sub-atomic clarity.

The criticism that followed was a bit like being buggered in the ass with a butcher knife for an hour.

(Aside: There's a persistent rumor among artistic types that one's work is never shown to one's loved ones as they could never provide objective, intelligent criticism. I don't think that's true. I think that many artistic types expect their friends, families, and lovers to pamper their ego. Instead, what they get is someone who thinks highly enough of them to believe they can do better than the shit they're producing.)

All that is a round about way of saying I know what you're feeling as I've been there myself a few times.

"i guess what i meant is that Dr. Seuss is a tongue twister - not that i should compare myself to anyone so wonderful."

I think he is wonderful but there's no reason you why you should feel the same. My comment in regards to him has nothing to do with the quality of your work but it's form.

" as for the breath - sigh - i always just assumed that you might take a breath at the end of a line."

That would be unconventional as reading that way would make most poems sound quite choppy and interrupt the flow of the poem.

For example:
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

is meant to be read:
My heart aches (small pause) and a drowsy numbness pains my sense (small pause) as though of hemlock I had drunk (small pause) or emptied some dull opiate into the drains one minute past (small pause) and Lethe-ward had sunk (large pause)

Some poems do line their pauses up with the end of a line.

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

But the lines are by necessity quite short. If you want a longer line then you'll need to add punctuation inside the line itself.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Poetry predates the written word. Even in these times when much poetry is enjoyed only by being read, many readers will unconsciously search for poems that sound right to their inner ear.

Hot Kitty Spank:
" commas, periods - i guess i wanted to be free of those."

That's a bit like a composer saying they wished they could write music without indicating how fast the piece should be played or how long each note and silence should be held. Punctuation is a tool. It lets you control the flow of the poem. Poetry is not just words on a page. It's not an inert substance that just lies there in an ever-growing pool of drool.

You know what? I hate punctuation as well. My (college) English teacher once said, "Never, one day I'm going to put you in a headlock until you can give me the definition of 'comma splice.'" She said this in front of the class as well so you can imagine I was ready to shove my head into a nest of irradiated fire ants.

But, yeah. You can't escape the English language.

 

[HotKittySpank]

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[HotKittySpank]

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[Sara Crewe]

AND, the attitude? what the self-depreciating, self-flagellating, whiner? well, it gets me by ; ) what doesn't kill me...

You can joke all you want but your willingness to learn and gracious acceptance of criticism are impressive. I second what Tzara said about your attitude. It's rare 'round these parts.

 

[TheRainMan]

. . . but someday i do want to make something decent so, i pull myself up knowing that i will fall again - fail again - its pretty much nauseating.

i will strip it down and say it plainly - promise.

"It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." -- Pablo Picasso

and . . . your attitude IS terrific. one that assures learning has fertile ground.

 

[HotKittySpank]

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[HotKittySpank]

been busy thinking... reading, counting. and thanks again for all the advice and kind words of encouragement. : )

 

[HotKittySpank]

Pacheco Pass: take 2 : )

Pacheco Pass,
a lovely stretch of yellow hills
with oaks that dot and disappear
along the way; dry as a bone,
the trees die off to grass alone.

The pass slips into a made crevasse
though rock is still quite visible
as bone fingers claw out of grass.

Upheaval is so evident;
vertical stripes instead of flat.

The pass winds down to dry grassland,
sometimes burned out in large patches
‘tis no doubt due to motorists.

The dam makes a sudden contrast.

And glist’ning bright under the sun,
a bright blue lake, though it has sunk,
from water lost to summer heat.

Evaporation lines fill in
with green that seem to grow toward
the water as opposed to sun.

Above, peaks are covered in long lines
of windmills slicing through the air.

The pass slides alongside the dam,
black as coal, either burned or dirt’s
natural color, i’m not sure.

The road-crossed channel funneled by
turbines brings dark thoughts of dam breaks,
how water would crash and flood the
broad valley on the other side.

...

 

[HotKittySpank]

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[HotKittySpank]

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[HotKittySpank]

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[HotKittySpank]

Pacheco Pass: take 6 - and i'm done for the day, thank god.

yellow hills lead us to climb
then slip between a crevasse
of vertical striations topped
by rock fingers clawed out of grass.

our slick black road snakes its path,
to melt down through hills of burned
out patches, baked land only broken
by black wall. A dam against blue

lake ringed by green water lines.
Both sink toward clever man’s
wall creation in hope of rain.
And those rows of giant windmills

mirror turbine spins as through
air so through water. We slide
alongside that dam, burned coal black,
above our heads the inundation,

and so our road blends into
the patchwork quilt of farm land
crisscrossed and dotted, full of life
so thirsty on the other side.


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[HotKittySpank]

Pacheco Pass - the last take.


that shit of yellow grassland that burns across me,
it blinds me in fury as if i am burned in patches.

those undulations fold across me, smother fires that spread.
but i am already scorched, a raw wound upon this planet.

where is the rain that would quench my thirst?
all i have are the tears that leak from my cracks,
my damaged wall barely contains the inundation.

and so you demand the simplicity that spills between tears;
they only smear upon attempts to clean them.

this is realness in raw, sometimes hard to view so stark naked.
in shock, that dam will break as my voice cracks from under use,
spilling blood into the mix, and in that fear lies the truth.

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[HotKittySpank]

when i pick up the pieces,
remake the whole there is a hole
as if the core is shot clean through.

this puzzles me.

where is that sole missing one
that remakes itself in image?
graven, i will pray to the myself,

fall prey to myself,

oh sweet mother full of grace,
blessed be the self-destruction
of me, i am the idiot.

that black spot of anti-me
destroys those naïve formations,
breaks them as i gather pieces.

 

[HotKittySpank]

i fear this doom; to be a banjo-wielding Finster,
ghost stalker of my own Paradise Garden consumed
by visions shook loose to sprawl across empty acres,

to play tour guide to my own folk paths, hand encrusted
with inlaid junk and smattered jewels that pass through decay.
overrun madness picked off, an auctioned legacy.

past great Haring and hard scratched dirt of exotic birds
behind chain link, i drift through long halls of trade succumbed
to mold, disrepair, token reminders of purpose.

echoed laughter bubbles from dry land to rattle me,
so i retreat to this mirrored chapel of visions
and strain to hear the voice of ceremony, haunting.

 

[HotKittySpank]

blackbody - 2

i want to be a blackbody,
to suck and spew simultaneously.

a little radiation never hurt anybody.

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[HotKittySpank]

blackbody - 3

fear sat me down. to shield my eyes
from the window, fingers cut sunlight
which fell into bars on the carpet
and dust froze above my hand.

epiphany made it dance again
and light played across the floor
until my sight adjusted.

 

[HotKittySpank]

once upon the sea - 2

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