Vignette Challenge: poems and discussion

[AlwaysHungry]

#10 End of Autumn

leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Dear AH, could we please have a list of participants? <<hopeful smile.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Dear AH, could we please have a list of participants? <<hopeful smile.

Yes, when the deadline for entries arrives in four days. <<authoritarian smirk.

Then the ID guessing will commence, along with more critiques (one hopes). If one of the participants turns out to be GM, there will be illusory bonus points awarded to anyone that can guess which poem or poems are his. During this period, the contestants may submit re-writes in response to the brilliant critiques. Then at the end of the month I'll post the re-writes and out the authors.

 

[Piscator]

#3

Soledad is a small woman,
but she's tough like El Árbol del Tule.
And if they let atomic volleys fly
I do believe that on the day that follows
we'll see her trudging doggedly
through fields of ash
bleating, bleating her bicycle horn,
propelling her ancient cart,
and with timbre borrowed
from now-extinct geese
crying "Tamales! Tamales!"

Although I've never been south of San Antonio, I like this and can picture Soldad easily through the author's descriptive imagery. I do have a couple quibbles.

The first is that atomic volleys take me away from the picture, perhaps intentionally but I am unsure why. Given the level of gang activity in some parts of Mexico, why not use machine gun, Uzi or whatever volleys and just the gangs raise the town to produce the "fields of ash" (nice phrase by the way).

The second is with El Árbol del Tule, I was able to guess that it was a tree, probably large and old but I had to look it up to appreciate the context. I now I know know that it's the stoutest trunk of any tree in the world and in 2001 it was placed on a UNESCO tentative list of World Heritage Sites but the divesion took me away from the poem.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

#7 My Father’s House

Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone stooges.

And looming above as if to
threaten, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.

Fourth floor walk-up sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be elsewhere.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking, I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.

I like this poem a lot. The author happened upon some of my chief lyrical zones, which is that I am ga-ga for assonance and consonance, both of which this poem possesses in abundance. My only quibble is that it seems like the final sentence needs additional punctuation.

Edit: upon reflection, I think that it is possible that "disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled" is a little over the top, verging on "bewitched, bothered and bewildered."

 

[AlwaysHungry]

# 8 Sun Danced Filmed Festivities

So anal he was
about performing rehearsals
Just one more pass, Robert!

that encore presentations of
pain in my ass sensations
were coming to a theatre near me

Though, I wasn't nearly as bad off
as the crew who insisted upon
drinking the water

WARNING! DANGER AHEAD
Explosive diarrhea everywhere!

But there were periods of respite
we were thankful for

like when Paul ceaselessly
argued with George over
incorporating the Bledsoe Scene
or was brainstorming recipes for
his new "man themed"
salad vinaigrettes

Sam, Katherine and I chilled
in our trailers chugging soda pops
between downing tequila shots
to beat the desert heat
and
The Great Dehydration of 1968

This reads like the intersection of three or more vignettes. Plus, through no fault of the author, I got disoriented and started free associating: the Beatles in stanza 6, and the African Queen in stanza 7. I also found the reference to vinaigrettes to be suspicious.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

#9 The Flat Side of the Earth

On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.

Grandpa used to say “You could see your dog running away for the next three days” although after a few minutes, our dogs always turned back from the rabbit, coyote or deer they were chasing to lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat. He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went in the two World Wars and never returned. “It’s all in your history books” he’d continue “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating, shiny and he’d sail along the river in the iceboat he’d build himself from old sled runners and wood scraps. Then, he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell “There was always the wind, even if you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."

The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.

The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada, eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo which had already disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.

I have not worked with prose poems before. It's certainly vignettish, but since it is mainly prose I feel the lack of punctuation in some sections, such as commas that ought to appear immediately before quotes.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

#10 End of Autumn

leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow

Very vivid, like a Haiku that has escaped its formal constraints.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

#11 Chilled Party Favors

The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.

The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight
and eclipse the brief discomfort of heavy lifting?

I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.
__________________

 

[Magnetron]

Yes, when the deadline for entries arrives in four days. <<authoritarian smirk.

Then the ID guessing will commence, along with more critiques (one hopes).

I'm a little burnt from doing critiques, writing and battling evil doers .... but I'll hope to a least drop some comments on all these.

 

[Magnetron]

#1.

We set out for Madagascar where
Jimmy Fowey said we'd make our fortunes.
He was well read up on such things
from a book his Grandpa gave him for Christmas.

The boat had once belonged to his Pa,
but Ma Fowey stopped him using it when
he rolled home smelling of cheap perfume
and booze, just one weekend too many.

We never did make it, or our fortunes,
and I can still recall the look of horror
on my Ma's face when we were dragged
unceremoniously home by the Coastguard.

Neither me nor Jimmy could sit for a week
and the Hen house had never been so clean.
Years later we lost Jimmy to a landmine, and me?
Some stroke of irony fetched me to the Coastguard's chair.

My quibbles with this are so minor, they are not worth mentioning.

This is a solid vignette if there ever was one, which I don't believe would be anywhere near as strong without the final line. Irony being a form of poetry itself seals the deal.

 

[Magnetron]

#2 The Poem Is a Dirty Sock

Frustrated, you crumple and toss it
into the hamper but then retrieve it.
Who knows? Maybe one or two

more lines is all it needs to be clean,
something neatly folded
you'd gladly put in your drawer

by the one you wrote and liked last year
with three maybe four in the back
you hardly ever wear.

You've laundered it so many times,
and look! There's another new hole.
Christ! You just spelled "sole" as your soul!

Embarrassed, you are reminded
it's time again to trim your nails,
and then in disgust you toss it
because it really does smell,

but when you finally retrieve it,
you burn it instead in your stove
to get the stink out of your head
that's all the way down to your toes

before you grab some loose leaf paper
to start all over again. Who knows?
perhaps even the beginning of
an emperor who has new clothes.

I can see why Annie suspected this might have been mine. It is rhyme happy, but not overboard with rhymes like I do some times in my lyrical ... crimes ... against the Humanities.

I'm not so sure it is a vignette, but to be honest - having never written one before, I'm out of my wheelhouse.

I know it's definitely NOT GM.

 

[Magnetron]

#3

Soledad is a small woman,
but she's tough like El Árbol del Tule.
And if they let atomic volleys fly
I do believe that on the day that follows
we'll see her trudging doggedly
through fields of ash
bleating, bleating her bicycle horn,
propelling her ancient cart,
and with timbre borrowed
from now-extinct geese
crying "Tamales! Tamales!"

This screams "GM! GM!"

I have no idea who El Árbol del Tule is, but this doesn't negate the impact.

Are tamales made from geese meat? Would such be a loose goose meat sandwich?

[ insert drums and cymbals here ]



[ insert crickets chirping here ]



I gander not.

 

[Magnetron]

#4

Chinook​

It arises out over the Pacific, sweeping east across Vancouver Island, down the Strait and up over the Coast Range. Cooling now releasing moisture as it flows across the first summit; then warming as it descends, sucking moisture from the dry interior. Up again, repeating the cycle, first the Selkirks, then the Rockies. Pausing at the divide, poised for an instant before falling, laughing, tumbling to the continent below. Warming now, dry now, a fast warm sponge coursing through the foothills drawing precious water from the suddenly melting snowbanks.

never can forget
the warmth of her first smile nor
the blue of her eyes​

A brilliant turquoise sky arches across the western mountains behind somber gray clouds. Temperatures rise twenty degrees in under an hour; a foot of snow vanishes overnight and lake ice heaves. Life quickens; buds are tricked from dormancy; animals emerge blinking from secure dens. But all too soon, the ephemeral wind passes and winter returns.

for that brief moment
reconciliation was
perhaps possible​

Stanza 2 has a nice balance of description and story telling, whereas Stanza 1 could use some trimming down to achieve the same.

Definitely not GM.

Although I can picture him in an RV.

 

[Magnetron]

#5

Today I thought of Maggie Lynn's wedding
The time I almost caught her bouquet,
How my fingers brushed like watercolor
Over the stems when Louise

Elbowed me to the side and snatched
The bunch clean out of the air,
Shrieking like she'd slapped home a goal.
It must'a worked for her,

For just five months later, she and Stan,
Big handsome lug of a guy
Who was supposed to be sweet on me,
Walked down the aisle at Sacred Heart.

But Stan got a little rough when in his cups
And just eight years later, Lou
Was up at Muncy doing 18 years,
And her with those two little girls. <- extend this with ellipsis ..... to fabricate pause for thought trailing off into silence

I'd found my Denny by then, a good man,
And though I never could conceive,
We lived a good and happy life
Until his car wrecked in ninety-three.

Now Lou at least has the comfort of grandkids
And all I know is an aging little hut
In Shadytown and a teller job I can't let go.
I guess God and the Virgin gave me the good

Up front while Lou had to pay for her sin.
It's funny how life works or don't
And the weird thing is neither me nor Lou
Know whatever happened to Maggie Lynn.

Other than the slight modification suggested above, the only thing I can say is I had to read several times before it finally sunk in that Louise was Lou.

It's definitely a good attempt at writing like GM.

 

[Magnetron]

#6 Lichening.

Lichen grows grey green upon your stone
and on my mind, obscures.
I remember as I visit with you.

I remember remember .....
your name?
so many years
so many, many ..... Joan!

And if young Joan remembers.
I'll come again
to see you, see the lichen grow,
so slow, so very very grey green slow.

Oddness.

I hit the Liken button.

"Not GM! GM!"

 

[Piscator]

#11 Chilled Party Favors

The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.

The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight
and eclipse the brief discomfort of heavy lifting?

I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.
__________________

Cool, clever and wish I could come up with another 'c' word.

Definitely needs a like button, although it has reminded me that I must clear this late season snow dump too.

 

[Magnetron]

#7 My Father’s House

Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone stooges.

And looming above as if to
threaten, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.

Fourth floor walk-up sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be elsewhere.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking, I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.

Again, I like the stooges.

Start spreadin' the news, I'm leavin' today
I want to be a part of it, N'Yuck N'Yuck, N'Yuck N'Yuck

Spell check says "disheveled".

Stanza 3 starts off with way too much for the mental tongue to handle.

 

[Magnetron]

# 8 Sun Danced Filmed Festivities

So anal he was
about performing rehearsals
Just one more pass, Robert!

that encore presentations of
pain in my ass sensations
were coming to a theatre near me

Though, I wasn't nearly as bad off
as the crew who insisted upon
drinking the water

WARNING! DANGER AHEAD
Explosive diarrhea everywhere!

But there were periods of respite
we were thankful for

like when Paul ceaselessly
argued with George over
incorporating the Bledsoe Scene
or was brainstorming recipes for
his new "man themed"
salad vinaigrettes

Sam, Katherine and I chilled
in our trailers chugging soda pops
between downing tequila shots
to beat the desert heat
and
The Great Dehydration of 1968

I don't think GM would stoop to this kind toilet humor.

I could be wrong.

Suggest changing 1968 to '68.

And it burns, burns, burns
the Ringo of fire, the Ringo of fire
Dat da dat da dat dat dat daaaaaa

 

[Magnetron]

#9 The Flat Side of the Earth

On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.

Grandpa used to say “You could see your dog running away for the next three days” although after a few minutes, our dogs always turned back from the rabbit, coyote or deer they were chasing to lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat. He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went in the two World Wars and never returned. “It’s all in your history books” he’d continue “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating, shiny and he’d sail along the river in the iceboat he’d build himself from old sled runners and wood scraps. Then, he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell “There was always the wind, even if you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."

The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.

The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada, eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo which had already disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.

What's up with "shiny"? Is it Grandpa's bald head? Or is his hiney frozen from ice fishing?

While this may suffice as some form of micro prose, this one suffers from too much stage setting. The real poetry is Paragraphs 3 + 4.

I do not feel GM would go full blown prose on us either.

 

[Magnetron]

#10 End of Autumn

leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow

This is not much of a vignette yet
I regrettably informed Bernadette
to which she gave an exasperated, "Up yours."
look while filing her newly painted nails
so shiny I'd mistaken them for wet

Of course, I suck at Haiku and Limericks, so what do I know.

No GM for you!

 

[Magnetron]

#11 Chilled Party Favors

The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.

The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight
and eclipse the brief discomfort of heavy lifting?

I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.
__________________

I think Stanza 1 could use a pause as it runs on.

This is NOT not NOT GM's handywork.

 

[Magnetron]

Okay.

I'm spent.

 

[greenmountaineer]

#2 The Poem Is a Dirty Sock

Frustrated, you crumple and toss it
into the hamper but then retrieve it.
Who knows? Maybe one or two

more lines is all it needs to be clean,
something neatly folded
you'd gladly put in your drawer

by the one you wrote and liked last year
with three maybe four in the back
you hardly ever wear.

You've laundered it so many times,
and look! There's another new hole.
Christ! You just spelled "sole" as your soul!

Embarrassed, you are reminded
it's time again to trim your nails,
and then in disgust you toss it
because it really does smell,

but when you finally retrieve it,
you burn it instead in your stove
to get the stink out of your head
that's all the way down to your toes

before you grab some loose leaf paper
to start all over again. Who knows?
perhaps even the beginning of
an emperor who has new clothes.

I can see why Annie suspected this might have been mine. It is rhyme happy, but not overboard with rhymes like I do some times in my lyrical ... crimes ... against the Humanities.

I'm not so sure it is a vignette, but to be honest - having never written one before, I'm out of my wheelhouse.

I know it's definitely NOT GM.

Hey, Mags,

Ya never know!

 

[Magnetron]

Hey, Mags,

Ya never know!

No GM for you!