butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

This is my favorite one, butters:

http://forum.literotica.com/showpost.php?p=75984748&postcount=815

empathetic and introspective without being maudlin.

The last couplet was one of those "I wish I could write like that" moments:

that they may once more come to see
themselves as more than shadows at noon.

thankyou for reading and commenting, gm

it's bemusing, isn't it, how sometimes people are quite struck by a line or phrase we didn't see as having much impact when we wrote them? not complaining, just saying i bet that happens to lots of us makes me revisit and take another look, perhaps taking a small step to the side for that slightly different viewpoint. it's an enlightening exercise. think 12 used to say about shifting to the side and looking again.

 

[butters]

3 - 6

poetic injustice

he's never seen my evil side
or how i contemplate
the torture of the innocent
to place upon my plate
or how i shun my victims' fears
from frying pan to fire
as i garrotte sweet bunny ears
with warmed piano wire!

 

[butters]

in the still, dark morn
puddles of light
to catch the late nocturnalist
or early bird
but worms turn in their beds
loosening the soil of ages
outsmarting them both

 

[butters]

his was the quiet knife
old rind of yellow moon
sat to the curl of his palm
its patient tongue whet
to flense and sever
baptism in flesh
lap the wet heat
drink its fill




not sure where i'm going with this, if anywhere, just had 'the quiet knife' and the image of the bone handle curving to his palm. wanted to take it somewhere metaphorical, got lost along the way.

 

[butters]

licking/lapping is more tongue-like i s'pose

lapping at the red wet heat
tempered in its flame



dunno

 

[butters]

baptised in folds of flesh
red heat
lapping at the flame









ugh

 

[butters]

small acts

a slip of scree will bare the sapling's roots,
the unwatched cup of milk will surely sour;
the hungry termite riddles oak joists through,
a loaf is spoiled by weevils in the flour;
the bee that's chilled by snow within the shower
can't fly away to pollinate the rose;
a squally wind will lift the sand to scour
the single bloom a hardy shrub has grown.

though no event's momentous, hour-to-hour,
by small acts of unkindness we're exposed.






---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
so, it's been over a year since i caught back up with this thread. not hunting up the old ones right now to bring here, but dropping in this from last night - was tinkering for hours but maybe still needs adjustments, so any suggestions welcomed.

 

[greenmountaineer]

small acts

a slip of scree will bare the sapling's roots,
the unwatched cup of milk will surely sour;
the hungry termite riddles oak joists through,
a loaf is spoiled by weevils in the flour;
the bee that's chilled by snow within the shower
can't fly away to pollinate the rose;
a squally wind will lift the sand to scour
the single bloom a hardy shrub has grown.

though no event's momentous, hour-to-hour,
by small acts of unkindness we're exposed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
so, it's been over a year since i caught back up with this thread. not hunting up the old ones right now to bring here, but dropping in this from last night - was tinkering for hours but maybe still needs adjustments, so any suggestions welcomed.

Very poignant, butters. All lines sound to me to be iambic pentameter, except the last. I suppose you could hear it that way:

By small acts of unkindness we’re exposed.

but that sounds forced to me. Although “cruel” is an adjective, I like it better than “unkindness,” but that may be because I have a bias against nouns starting with “un”

 

[butters]

Very poignant, butters. All lines sound to me to be iambic pentameter, except the last. I suppose you could hear it that way:

By small acts of unkindness we’re exposed.

but that sounds forced to me. Although “cruel” is an adjective, I like it better than “unkindness,” but that may be because I have a bias against nouns starting with “un”

thanks for the read-through, thought, and comment, gm

yeah, how you've bolded the text is how it sounds to my ear. i suppose i felt 'cruel' too harsh, maybe too premeditated-to-cause-anguish, where i was aiming for those more off-the cuff, natural(?) kind of acts that cause problems but aren't invested with that specific intent to distress. add to that it all stemmed from the phrase 'small acts of unkindness' and i guess it's harder for me to drop.

i was also toying with 'by such small acts of...' but then got stuck with finding how to replace 'unkindness' with a 2-syllable word to convey my intended meaning
maybe i can go look up synonyms

i did wonder about using 'undone' rather than 'exposed' but then it gives a deeper incline to the end than i wanted to convey - 'exposed' felt more able to show the vulnerability to being hurt rather than the hurt destroying the one exposed, all kinda (i hope) linking in with the nature of the acts - 'small' *shrugs in bemusement*

it feels somehow off, though, like it maybe needs a couple more lines before the end 2, but all those previous lines i was jigging about in order for hours, and layout... couplets, quatrains with the final couplet... ugh. i know it needs something.

that end line may well end up as 'by such small acts of (something) we're undone', which may then mean messing with each line again. no wonder this thing was 4 hours in the making after then initial 10 minute first draft, and then my brain wouldn't shut up and let me sleep till 4 this morning

thanks again

 

[Piscator]

baptised in folds of flesh
red heat
lapping at the flame
ugh

Damn I thought this was hot porno until I read the poem it's attached to.

 

[butters]

Damn I thought this was hot porno until I read the poem it's attached to.

hahahaha

maybe i should sub it as it is, drop the rest

 

[butters]

hmmn


harshness?

disdain

diskindness

grimness

contempt

menace

insult? kinda like insult... by such small acts of insult we're exposed

shame? by such small acts of shame are we exposed

injustice? disjustice?




holy hell

 

[RubiDia]

reads/re-reads: by unkindness we're exposed... it's in the title afterall

 

[butters]

reads/re-reads: by unkindness we're exposed... it's in the title afterall

so 'by small acts of unkindness we're exposed'? same as i have already?

and thanks for your time and eyes

 

[RubiDia]

small acts
though no event's momentous, hour-to-hour,
by unkindness we're exposed.

Editor's note. Not trying to hack up your poem.

 

[butters]

Editor's note. Not trying to hack up your poem.

never thought you were it's always of interest to see how someone else hears/perceives a write

in this instance, i don't feel your suggestion would work within the context of the iambic pent this poem used. having said that, gm doesn't hear the final line in i.p, whereas to my (brit-english) ear it does. maybe i'll work something else out, sometime. all thoughts well-received, thankyou

 

[butters]

just for fun

Every night it's Gotham

When the city's in trouble,
beware the brooding hero
whose beacon burns inside his chest
to throw designs on nightly skies
to dazzle unprotected eyes,
and wraps bleak wings of righteousness
about himself - a mask, a shield
against life's slings and arrows.

Who knows what empty tubs reside
within his bathroom cabinet;
what history has shaped his mind
and which parameters define
the nature of the villain.

Lock your doors and bolt your thoughts;
encase your heart in blocks of lead;
make sure you've bought the time to hide
for inmates rampage on the streets;
outside, the joker's running wild
and every night it's Gotham.
--------------------------------------
edited to

Every night it's Gotham

When the city's in trouble
beware the brooding hero
whose beacon burns inside his chest
to throw designs on nightly skies
to dazzle unprotected eyes
and wraps bleak wings of righteousness
about himself—as mask & shield
against life's slings and arrows

Who knows what empty vials reside
within his bathroom cabinet
what history has shaped his mind
and which parameters define
the nature of the villain

Lock your doors and bolt your thoughts
encase your heart in blocks of lead
make sure you've bought the time to hide
for inmates rampage on the streets—
outside the joker's running wild
and every night it's Gotham.




accepted for FP publication in OAF, oct 13th

 

[butters]

NOTEBOOK:

"Recipes in the front, poetry in the rear..."

...made me smirk
and wonder how
to approach fine poetry
with thoughts wedgied
low-brow mode
ideas in need
of suppositories
clenched sphincter
requiring lube

so i guess
when it comes to fine poetry
best touch your toes
relax, read the recipes
immerse yourself in stellar tarts
angel cakes and heavenly pies
and maybe
just maybe
this'll hurt me
more than you

---------------------------------------------
revision

Poetic Constipation

notebook entry:
Recipes in the front, poetry in the rear...
made me smirk and wonder
how to extrude fine poetry
with thoughts wedgied
in low-brow mode
ideas in need of
suppositories
a clenched
sphincter
requiring
lube

so i guess
when it comes to fine poetry
best touch your toes
relax, read the recipes
immerse yourself in stellar tarts
angel cakes and heavenly pies
then maybe
just maybe
this'll hurt me
more than
you​

 

[butters]

badly drawn Vitruvian woMan

perhaps i should speak casually of wild purple pansies
or the rich assault of freshly-torn hot bread
number the times i thought of you before coffee
or how the sharp pebble in my shoe bit a hole in my sock

perhaps i should mention the lowering sky
glowering like a pompadoured whore in Nebraska
or mention the way my egg yolk slowly congeals
to make a hard ring on my plate that begs a cigarette butt
for completion

i don't smoke

and rings are things that circle me
badly-drawn Vitruvian woMan
or make links with toothpaste's confidence
and dreadful Hallmark movies

i may be distracted...

my hands
my fingers, i suppose
want to hold whole worlds
lay them out on screen
not just settle for those stars that fall inbetween

i want to punch my head
unlock the words, images - s u p e r s o n i c ed

i want to roll this up in a ball
set it alight

 

[butters]

the humiliated man

has learned the art of filtration
wears as his mantle
the patience of permeable rock

has tallied drips
made a reckoning of numbers
to brim a broken vessel

knows the taste of acid
how its burn distils
sharpens focus

is a self-fashioned bomb
primed and critical
waiting on the fool who'll
push his button

 

[butters]

2 days ago

the big pond changed skins overnight
sub-zeroes crusting a thick white slab
over normally wind-riffled slates

its stillness
makes the biggest impact
like thoughts frozen in place

a few brittle reeds lean stiffly
into the pale sun's stare
they won't break a sweat

the lone white rock's become a headstone
for frogs sleeping with the fishes
a baffled heron changes its flight-plan

the ice is probably thick enough to skate on
but will remain pristine
age and no skates a good excuse

air hangs suspended in time
but hunger drives bright beads of colour
as red birds harry the feeders

 

[butters]

THIS is NOT a FRUIT poem


this poem will not attempt to beguile you
with mirrors and toxic red fruit
nor whisssper to the benefits
of succulent knowledge
it is a fruit-trifle of a poem
sans fruit
because i loathe tinned fruit
its insipid textures

it is the star of seeds left behind
when flesh has fallen away
the stained-glass light
as filtered through an orange slice
the curve of horizon and
the layering of bedrock
pith and peel

it searches for the exotic
in foreign-fleshed fruit
and finds tears in eruptions of juice
it is the cool eye ready to burst on your tongue
the warmth and honey of a fritter
the pooling vitality of sugars!
the blemishes and bruises
aligned to our own

this is not a poem about fruit

 

[butters]

robots dream of
more than electric sheep

awake before the clock's hello
from dreams of robots with human hearts
and al pacino crying his heart out
at the bottom of my bed where a robot
had sung its dreams to him
and i was both inventor and robot
in some strange experiment
which showed people couldn't tell
borg from being, until finally
it really didn't matter
when it came to affairs of the heart

​

published in Persian Sugar in English Tea 2018

 

[butters]

High on the Hill


layers of today

sunnier and milder than November has a right to be
make breakfast
hone my new southern biscuit skills
we eat them still warm
buttered
and with home-made elderberry jam
the colour of bohemian garnets

later:

take coffee in a red plastic beaker out to the man
brush sawdust from his glasses
kiss him and leave to stroll across the fields with the dog

we wander the cattle-worn track
where years have eroded the soil over limestone boulders
they remind me of a dinosaur's backbone, half-sunk in mud...
meander down the rock-bottomed ditch where the rainwater spills
from hilltop to the big pond
but no rain for a week and it's
mostly dry right now
exposing delicate frond-patterns of fern
immortalised
ancient shelled creatures i have no name for
imprints of tiny ribs, spines, piscatorial tails

my fingers trace shapes
waiting for some memory to trigger
it doesn't
but imagination fills in the blanks

i stop
sit on the damp bank
feet dangling just above the crystal water
fry first school downhill but i sit still
guess i blend into the landscape
they swim back to smooth rock shallows
bathe in sunlight
suck at small clumps of weed

i watch their tiny shadows slip across the bed
they hang suspended in aqueous aether
i think they understand flight

the dog splashes in
grabs a mouthful of weed
they scatter

we walk on
i take a detour - find the top-half of a horse's skull
must've washed down from the hills longtime since
all old bone, teeth mostly there
i carry it home, feeling bad my fingers plumb its eye sockets
so adjust my hold

show it to the man
horse he says
wotcha gonna do with it?
i shrug
stroke its long nose
leave it on his workbench

the man bends back to his project - the mail post
i sigh at exquisite patterns he's revealed in the grain
the serpentine grooves he's worked into it
excited to see the fish carvings he'll lay there

i walk back for fresh coffee
grass wrapping round my boots
dog at my heels

 

[butters]

grey day

late to leave the bed's embrace
grey weather brings its special brand of tightness to my head
nothing to do with last night's midnight movie
or the brandy
nuh-uh

feed the dog
her big black nose
cold, wet
tickles
add a scoop of dry to the outdoor cats' bowl
act as doorman to the chooks
only one warm egg as yet

burrito and coffee
more coffee
a choc chip cookie
some mornings are healthier - breakfast-wise

fave poetry site down for maintenance
get caught up in chip and jo's house renos
finally crawl out of my robe
boots on
hair tied back with a bright red bandana of his
collect the burnables, a bucket of soapy water, his lighter

rain isn't quite making it past a few spits and grumbles
so burn the trash in the firepit we built in May
have to use an old crate to stand on to reach
when washing the truck's windscreen
and even then need to s t r e t c h

sit on the tarmac
chat with the dog
look down the hill at the pond
all oiled slate and i think the fish sleep
no rings break the surface

coffee

thoughts too slow, too heavy
sleep bids me close my eyes
ears buzz
the sharks and the jets rumble in the background
too loud
this is a day for grey indolence
boots off