To read, or not to read...

[bogusbrig]

I'm still here, son. Just get yur ass movin', and quit goofin' off.

Is that a rebuke Bert?

*Graves are never deep enough!*

 

[twelveoone]

i doubt you're missing anything. i don't think the poem is in the 'haunting' catagory.....it ain't Prufrock....

what is does have is a sophisticated grasp and use of language, one that is usually only shown by the top poets here.

the words and images are cross-threaded. and the word choice is wonderful, not tired in the least.

i was just saying that it's been 5 months since i read a poem here written by someone other than the expected ones that i thought was worthy of a higher venue. that is the last one that struck me like that.

eve and the list of writers above strike me like that all the time.

it's always nice to see such mature writing from a new name. and it usually goes largely unacknowledged here, as this poem did, which makes me wonder a bit about the general readership as well.

See WSO, Pat and I agree on so much...
I really get tired of seeing all the comments on how wonderfull... when things are riddled with cliches, unless of course someone twists them in a fresh way.

"The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot. "
Salvador Dali

 

[annaswirls]

maybe that is why I was bored, I have no concept of buses or umbrellas

bored, he remains

encircled by the sea that rises
met by neither road nor rain
burdened by neither cities
nor journals that bear their names


I did edit this on the fly, hopefully that is acceptable

 

[bogusbrig]

I really get tired of seeing all the comments on how wonderfull... when things are riddled with cliches, unless of course someone twists them in a fresh way.

I don't see anything wrong in giving someone encouragement because one day they might remember me in their memoirs.

 

[wildsweetone]

Sometimes the only way to get past the cliches is to write them all down to a 'beyond the ridiculous amount' and then your mind is free to find new expressions... at least that's the way it is for me. I didn't realise it until a month or two ago. Up until that point, I'd write them down and use them without giving myself the chance to take that further, (and in my opinion, necessary) step.

For me, Morning Walk has one line that captured my attention 'The sky is a perfect wash of snow weather gray.' I've not heard that turn of phrase before. For me, that one line held my interest in the poem as a whole.

So to me that line wasn't a cliche. Some people don't even realise they are using cliches, I know I often miss them in my own writing. Probably if I gave myself more time to let the writing sit, then these things would become glaringly obvious.

 

[twelveoone]

I don't see anything wrong in giving someone encouragement because one day they might remember me in their memoirs.

neither do I, but unless you help them with some of the cliches, you might fall asleep before you get to the part about you...

I'm the chairman of the bored...Iggy Pop

 

[twelveoone]

Sometimes the only way to get past the cliches is to write them all down to a 'beyond the ridiculous amount' and then your mind is free to find new expressions... at least that's the way it is for me. I didn't realise it until a month or two ago. Up until that point, I'd write them down and use them without giving myself the chance to take that further, (and in my opinion, necessary) step.

For me, Morning Walk has one line that captured my attention 'The sky is a perfect wash of snow weather gray.' I've not heard that turn of phrase before. For me, that one line held my interest in the poem as a whole.

So to me that line wasn't a cliche. Some people don't even realise they are using cliches, I know I often miss them in my own writing. Probably if I gave myself more time to let the writing sit, then these things would become glaringly obvious.

This is an excellent example of how a little work does wonders
The sky was gray - gives you the information you need, ho hum.
The sky was snow weather gray, probably good enough to get by
'The sky is a perfect wash of snow weather gray.' That line is quite good enough on its own, now look at it in it's context "perfect wash" strengthens "pastel box",
"draw" "pictures"
It may be better with the substitution of paint (water colours), but it looks like it was a judgement call for "crush-press-draw"

The sky is a perfect wash of snow weather gray.
I don’t have that color in my pastel box.
If I could only crush the sky with morter and pestle, I would.
I’d press it into little cakes,
and use it to draw you pictures of my day.

as Pat says
"what is does have is a sophisticated grasp and use of language, one that is usually only shown by the top poets here.
the words and images are cross-threaded. and the word choice is wonderful, not tired in the least."

I don't presume to speak for him, but this would be my guess, he would use as an example.

 

[bogusbrig]

i was just saying that it's been 5 months since i read a poem here written by someone other than the expected ones that i thought was worthy of a higher venue. that is the last one that struck me like that.

Then you have not read this poem by ROBBERMAGNET. No linguistic acrobatics, no game playing, no pretention, just a poem that rattles in your head long after you have read it. It doesn't rely on trickery, it just won't let you leave without it following you.


Please, God, he said through his teeth,
Give me a ten.
And not doubles, oh, please, God.

He went to the supermarket and bought bananas and bran.
Bananas for potassium.
Bran because bananas, he’d heard, will constipate.
And coffee,
well, he just put that right back on the shelf.
Tannic acid, he’d heard, will burn your stomach.
And you know he paid cash.
He might forget to deduct,
and then what would happen to his world?
He didn’t, of course, speak to the checker
who might not answer.
You know how they are
with their sprayed young hair
and painted young nails.

His brown four-door surrounded him
and took him past the swings
even though they summoned him
and tried to entice him.
His Ben-Gay hag of a neighbor
the bitch!
might see him and think him a pervert.
The crone!

He put the bananas away from the fruit flies, safe now, and sighed because
he wasn’t out there.
And it was time to turn the porch light on,
to make the usual noise
before dreaming the usual dream
so that the burglar would know that he’s not out there
gallivanting around
doing God knows what.

In his dream,
the others prayed to land on Free Parking.
But he owned hotels on Boardwalk.

 

[PatCarrington]

Then you have not read this poem by ROBBERMAGNET. No linguistic acrobatics, no game playing, no pretention, just a poem that rattles in your head long after you have read it. It doesn't rely on trickery, it just won't let you leave without it following you.


Please, God, he said through his teeth,
Give me a ten.
And not doubles, oh, please, God.

He went to the supermarket and bought bananas and bran.
Bananas for potassium.
Bran because bananas, he’d heard, will constipate.
And coffee,
well, he just put that right back on the shelf.
Tannic acid, he’d heard, will burn your stomach.
And you know he paid cash.
He might forget to deduct,
and then what would happen to his world?
He didn’t, of course, speak to the checker
who might not answer.
You know how they are
with their sprayed young hair
and painted young nails.

His brown four-door surrounded him
and took him past the swings
even though they summoned him
and tried to entice him.
His Ben-Gay hag of a neighbor
the bitch!
might see him and think him a pervert.
The crone!

He put the bananas away from the fruit flies, safe now, and sighed because
he wasn’t out there.
And it was time to turn the porch light on,
to make the usual noise
before dreaming the usual dream
so that the burglar would know that he’s not out there
gallivanting around
doing God knows what.

In his dream,
the others prayed to land on Free Parking.
But he owned hotels on Boardwalk.

yes, i have read that poem.

i think it is certainly better than the average fare at lit. i particularly like the next to last strophe. not the last, however.

if i were the reviewer the day it appeared, i’m sure i would have recommended a reading. but i find nothing that compels me to read it a second time, nor does it stay with me after it is gone.

i certainly see none of the originality or grace or sophistication that i see in the poem i cited.

but as always, it becomes a matter of personal taste and judgment.

 

[Angeline]

Then you have not read this poem by ROBBERMAGNET. No linguistic acrobatics, no game playing, no pretention, just a poem that rattles in your head long after you have read it. It doesn't rely on trickery, it just won't let you leave without it following you.


Please, God, he said through his teeth,
Give me a ten.
And not doubles, oh, please, God.

He went to the supermarket and bought bananas and bran.
Bananas for potassium.
Bran because bananas, he’d heard, will constipate.
And coffee,
well, he just put that right back on the shelf.
Tannic acid, he’d heard, will burn your stomach.
And you know he paid cash.
He might forget to deduct,
and then what would happen to his world?
He didn’t, of course, speak to the checker
who might not answer.
You know how they are
with their sprayed young hair
and painted young nails.

His brown four-door surrounded him
and took him past the swings
even though they summoned him
and tried to entice him.
His Ben-Gay hag of a neighbor
the bitch!
might see him and think him a pervert.
The crone!

He put the bananas away from the fruit flies, safe now, and sighed because
he wasn’t out there.
And it was time to turn the porch light on,
to make the usual noise
before dreaming the usual dream
so that the burglar would know that he’s not out there
gallivanting around
doing God knows what.

In his dream,
the others prayed to land on Free Parking.
But he owned hotels on Boardwalk.

Yeah, but it's still pretty metaphoric. 1201's example is of poetry that's like an Impressionist painting--yours is like a Realist one, but both have an effect.

 

[annaswirls]

when was this one out?

I want to read it & comment.

I like it and would like to read more of his poems.

Then you have not read this poem by ROBBERMAGNET. No linguistic acrobatics, no game playing, no pretention, just a poem that rattles in your head long after you have read it. It doesn't rely on trickery, it just won't let you leave without it following you.


Please, God, he said through his teeth,
Give me a ten.
And not doubles, oh, please, God.

He went to the supermarket and bought bananas and bran.
Bananas for potassium.
Bran because bananas, he’d heard, will constipate.
And coffee,
well, he just put that right back on the shelf.
Tannic acid, he’d heard, will burn your stomach.
And you know he paid cash.
He might forget to deduct,
and then what would happen to his world?
He didn’t, of course, speak to the checker
who might not answer.
You know how they are
with their sprayed young hair
and painted young nails.

His brown four-door surrounded him
and took him past the swings
even though they summoned him
and tried to entice him.
His Ben-Gay hag of a neighbor
the bitch!
might see him and think him a pervert.
The crone!

He put the bananas away from the fruit flies, safe now, and sighed because
he wasn’t out there.
And it was time to turn the porch light on,
to make the usual noise
before dreaming the usual dream
so that the burglar would know that he’s not out there
gallivanting around
doing God knows what.

In his dream,
the others prayed to land on Free Parking.
But he owned hotels on Boardwalk.

 

[PatCarrington]

when was this one out?

I want to read it & comment.

I like it and would like to read more of his poems.

just type the author's name in the "search members" link on the index page.

that poem is from 3/15 (i think).

 

[twelveoone]

Yeah, but it's still pretty metaphoric. 1201's example is of poetry that's like an Impressionist painting--yours is like a Realist one, but both have an effect.

? I missed something

 

[twelveoone]

Then you have not read this poem by ROBBERMAGNET. No linguistic acrobatics, no game playing, no pretention, just a poem that rattles in your head long after you have read it. It doesn't rely on trickery, it just won't let you leave without it following you.



He went to the supermarket and bought bananas and bran.
Bananas for potassium.
Bran because bananas, he’d heard, will constipate.
And coffee,

That's funny, reminds me of the thing I wrote where God starts talking about planting tomatoes because HE heard they were good for the prostrate.

"I don't know what the fuck he is talking about" - Perks (where is she, miss ol rufflebutt)

"And coffee" - I guess so; so offhand, I love it, reminds me of some of yours anna, with those asides
BTW I liked your bored poem

 

[twelveoone]

Layered vs nonlinear?

 

[twelveoone]

whoops, would be a good idea to get the authours permission before commenting, pulling apart, mea culpa

 

[PatCarrington]

Layered vs nonlinear?

1201

if you're referring to the two poems cited, i think they are both linear.

i just think the first, Morning Walk, shows a much more mature and accomplished hand.

it is indeed multi-layered, yet done with elegant simplicity.

 

[twelveoone]

1201

if you're referring to the two poems cited, i think they are both linear.

i just think the first, Morning Walk, shows a much more mature and accomplished hand.

it is indeed multi-layered, yet done with elegant simplicity.

Again Pat, I agree with you, we would be arguing a fine point as to the secondary route taken, outside of saying that as soon as an aside is made, an element of nonlinearity is introduced, this begins to set up a counter, which was followed. It is a tool used in comedy, music, sometimes in poetry.

I see the value of both.

I must say I feel uncomforable discussing either, mea culpa, and an apology to both Willow Rain and Robbermagnet. Even though, positive aspects where emphasised, I still feel unfortable.

 

[PatCarrington]

Again Pat, I agree with you, we would be arguing a fine point as to the secondary route taken, outside of saying that as soon as an aside is made, an element of nonlinearity is introduced, this begins to set up a counter, which was followed. It is a tool used in comedy, music, sometimes in poetry.

I see the value of both.

I must say I feel uncomforable discussing either, mea culpa, and an apology to both Willow Rain and Robbermagnet. Even though, positive aspects where emphasised, I still feel unfortable.

i would feel uncomfortable too, if i were to dissect them without asking.

but we haven't done that -- merely cited and praised them.

this has come up before. i thought the general consesus was if a poem is put out in public, it is fair game. i don't feel good about that, and think it is common courtesy before tearing one apart. but i have no problem with citing a poem, or with a very general commentary.

when i think of linear poetry, i tend to think of something that is more toward the somewhat narrative side (as oppossed to whittled-down and minimalist, with those type of complexities), rather than a straight beginning to end run with no asides or tangents or gaps. the second poem returns to its straight run after the branch-offs.

it looks linear to me. very few poems are totally straight chains.

it just semantics.

 

[annaswirls]

1201



it is indeed multi-layered, yet done with elegant simplicity.

mmmmm makes me want a nice torte for breakfast

mmmmlotsoficing

mornin' cheeky

 

[PatCarrington]

mmmmm makes me want a nice torte for breakfast

mmmmlotsoficing

mornin' cheeky

morning.

you sound hungry.

 

[twelveoone]

I see what you are saying, Haiku (good) is nonlinear; other ways to approach.

I agree, again.

One of the most interesting things to me, is if two reasonable people of different styles, discuss a work.

I was completly blown away when you and jim had that discussion of your "Dresden Boots" I know others were involved, but that exchange was one of high points here.
Hat's off to both.

 

[annaswirls]

see what I live with?

morning.

you sound hungry.

My morning: it is chilly, I put on jeans and a turtleneck.

The Elder: pulling up my sleeves "More arm please!"

The Father: "More leg please"

The Younger: "More belly please!" (changes his mind as I show said belly) "More boobie please!"


sheesh.

see what I live with?

 

[PatCarrington]

My morning: it is chilly, I put on jeans and a turtleneck.

The Elder: pulling up my sleeves "More arm please!"

The Father: "More leg please"

The Younger: "More belly please!" (changes his mind as I show said belly) "More boobie please!"


sheesh.

see what I live with?

sounds perfectly normal to me.

you know how guys are.