Not For The Thin-Skinned

[PatCarrington]

Judo is da bomb. Ever read any of her poems? Gosh I miss her. When I first came here and everyone said who the hell is Angeline and why does she think she's a poet (well some people, lol), Judo said "Hey, I like Lester Young, too.

And I'm not working out this morning--I need a day off, I'm leaving to teach shortly, and he brought me the bagel with veggie cream cheese...and lilacs to put on my desk.

This is a porn site?

no, U da bomb.

yes, i have...you know me. i cringe when i hit the first rhymed line.

and when I came here, and people said the same thing, it was you who said, "Hey, I like your poem. It sounds like an elegy to me."

it must be a porn site. i keep getting pm's with invitations to breast threads.

 

[flyguy69]

Discovery - revision

A suitcoat reenactment
of horror: Like this? Was he here? Describe again
the walls, the angles
of limbs. A voice flat
as tile reveals a spreading pool
of words that darkens the room
and pulls a dozen pairs of eyes
to the floor.

Bees and bratwurst sizzle
in the heat as Frisbees cleave thick
charcoal smoke and pull children
a scream’s distance
beyond the screen of jungle gyms
to a tiled restroom, where a face turns
sharp in a mirror like the twisted mind
behind it. The winding spring
of the door pulls his eyes
to the entering boy. The spring snaps
shut.

Have you seen him? scattered breathless
through the park before the spring winds again
and a mother’s heart
stops, fixing this moment
forever: the turned legs, the still, dark pool.

 

[annaswirls]

He noticed how you watched my toes sink

He noticed how you watched my toes sink


He noticed how you watched my toes sink
into hose wet grass, how you followed me
down, avoiding beer cooler chat.

Strangers, we hid below, river-bed deep
in silent labor lifting rocks,
rebuilding storm-worn banks,
filling hollows, unable to stop our attempts
to divert the flow.

Two devoted allies against this force of erosion
that bullies up to the soft side

Mindless, we pause to look for some intangible
reason, that momentary subconscious search
underneath rock before moving it to the other side.


Unable to stop the routine
reinforced by the satisfaction of building something
strong, solid, with vague promise
of possibility it might last.

But they are gone.

Despite blistered fingers, twisted back
rock walls, they are still gone from us.

Yet we bargain for more.
We imagine they are resting on the footbridge

But they are gone,
and there is work to be done.

 

[twelveoone]

He noticed how you watched my toes sink


He noticed how you watched my toes sink
into hose wet grass, how you followed me
down, avoiding beer cooler chat.

Strangers, we hid below, river-bed deep
in silent labor lifting rocks,
rebuilding storm-worn banks,
filling hollows, unable to stop our attempts
to divert the flow.

Two devoted allies against this force of erosion
that bullies up to the soft side

Mindless, we pause to look for some intangible
reason, that momentary subconscious search
underneath rock before moving it to the other side.


Unable to stop the routine
reinforced by the satisfaction of building something
strong, solid, with vague promise
of possibility it might last.

But they are gone.

Despite blistered fingers, twisted back
rock walls, they are still gone from us.

Yet we bargain for more.
We imagine they are resting on the footbridge

But they are gone,
and there is work to be done.

God, I love this, this is why I love your work, I see you out of the corner of my eye in wet jeans... well enuff about my fantasies.
"reason, that momentary subconscious search"
Think again about the word "subconscious" I feel it ruins, everything else is implied, hinted at. I advise replacement.

 

[PatCarrington]

He noticed how you watched my toes sink


He noticed how you watched my toes sink
into hose wet grass, how you followed me
down, avoiding beer cooler chat.

Strangers, we hid below, river-bed deep
in silent labor lifting rocks,
rebuilding storm-worn banks,
filling hollows, unable to stop our attempts
to divert the flow.

Two devoted allies against this force of erosion
that bullies up to the soft side

Mindless, we pause to look for some intangible
reason, that momentary subconscious search
underneath rock before moving it to the other side.


Unable to stop the routine
reinforced by the satisfaction of building something
strong, solid, with vague promise
of possibility it might last.

But they are gone.

Despite blistered fingers, twisted back
rock walls, they are still gone from us.

Yet we bargain for more.
We imagine they are resting on the footbridge

But they are gone,
and there is work to be done.

anna

i don't share 1201's enthusiasm with this as it is laid out here.

i think this is very uneven - some great moments mixed with some where "there is work to be done."

this, in particular, i find very clumsily phrased:


Unable to stop the routine
reinforced by the satisfaction of building something
strong, solid, with vague promise
of possibility it might last.

in the third strophe, i think 'devoted' is an unnecessary adjective, redundant with allies almost, and shrinks the power of the wonderful grouping bullies up to the soft side.

in my opinion, there are too many strophes. ideas that would do well side by side have a disconnected feel to me.

and this:

unable to stop our attempts
to divert the flow.

...seems to me to be what you perhaps wanted to emphasize in the poem, the fighting against hopeless odds, fighting on even when it makes no sense. i don't think it is done -- there is so much more you could give to this.


i think the repeated phrase "unable to stop" is not used in a way where the repeat has effect, and therefore feels like you are searching to say what you mean.

there are small, technical errors as well. you are hyphenating things, so beer-cooler needs one. you need a period after 'soft side,' and a comma after 'twisted back,' if i'm reading that strophe right.

 

[twelveoone]

anna

i don't share 1201's enthusiasm with this as it is laid out here.

i think this is very uneven - some great moments mixed with some where "there is work to be done."



in my opinion, there are too many strophes. ideas that would do well side by side have a disconnected feel to me.


i think the repeated phrase "unable to stop" is not used in a way where the repeat has effect, and therefore feels like you are searching to say what you mean.

didn't expect you too, all has to do with perception of patterns, whether something is drawing in or drawing out. I've always thought of you, Pat, as the master of drawing out, I've always thought of anna as the master of drawing in. Perhaps, it is because I am master of nothing, I begin to see both.

http://pavlov.psyc.queensu.ca/~psyc382/daliSlavemarket.html

 

[PatCarrington]

didn't expect you too, all has to do with perception of patterns, whether something is drawing in or drawing out. I've always thought of you, Pat, as the master of drawing out, I've always thought of anna as the master of drawing in. Perhaps, it is because I am master of nothing, I begin to see both.

http://pavlov.psyc.queensu.ca/~psyc382/daliSlavemarket.html

thanks for the praise.

i agree. anna writes words that pull inward toward a center.

and you do not give your own writing nearly enough credit.

 

[annaswirls]

He noticed how you watched my toes sink-revision

He noticed how you watched my toes sink


He noticed how you watched my toes sink
into hose wet grass, how you followed me
down, avoiding beer-cooler chat.

We hid below, river-bed deep
in silent labor-- lifting rocks,
rebuilding storm-worn banks,
filling hollows.

Allies against the force of erosion
that bullies up to the soft side,
we pause,
search for an intangible reason
underneath every rock.

There is none.

Just obey the compulsion
to build something strong,
to bury the reality of loss.

But they are not coming back.
Despite blistered fingers
and sweat-blurred perceptions,
they are gone.



goddamn this is the most fucking boring poem I have ever written

~~

He noticed how you watched my toes sink

He noticed how you watched my toes sink
into hose wet grass, how you followed me
down, avoiding beer cooler chat.

Strangers, we hid below, river-bed deep
in silent labor lifting rocks,
rebuilding storm-worn banks,
filling hollows, unable to stop our attempts
to divert the flow.

Two devoted allies against this force of erosion
that bullies up to the soft side

Mindless, we pause to look for some intangible
reason, that momentary subconscious search
underneath rock before moving it to the other side.


Unable to stop the routine
reinforced by the satisfaction of building something
strong, solid, with vague promise
of possibility it might last.

But they are gone.

Despite blistered fingers, twisted back
rock walls, they are still gone from us.

Yet we bargain for more.
We imagine they are resting on the footbridge

But they are gone,
and there is work to be done.

 

[annaswirls]

Thanks 1201 and Patrick, both of your comments and suggestions were helpful.

sometimes I do not know what my poem is supposed to "MEAN" I just know that there are experiences I have that I know mean Something larger than what they are. I sense something happening very deep inside. So I write about them, and usually I discover what it all meant at the time.

I think that isi why sometimes my poems shift (like 1201 termed non-linear) because I am learning as I write. It is the writing that makes me understand.


the thing that is missing in this poem is that in addition to fighting against the inevitible (ooh I have a poem that I will find on this subject!) there was the HIDING from what is real by burying oneself into mindless labor.


like self-inflicted sisyphys syndrome

I just invented that, spelling and all


Most of the time I have to wait before coming back to a piece that was surreal.


The rock moving incident was last August. It was the closest I have been to a stranger without ever speaking. His fiance, lover of many years had just left him, cut off completely. We were in a zone. Ha! People mentioned it after some time had passed. Don't even remember his name.

 

[annaswirls]

didn't expect you too, all has to do with perception of patterns, whether something is drawing in or drawing out. I've always thought of you, Pat, as the master of drawing out, I've always thought of anna as the master of drawing in. Perhaps, it is because I am master of nothing, I begin to see both.

http://pavlov.psyc.queensu.ca/~psyc382/daliSlavemarket.html

1201 thank you--

you are the master of transport.

taking the reader to places they have never visited, perhaps, never exist

and it is not through storytelling or description alone, you alter your language, the rhythm and tone of your words, sometimes it feels like you are inventing another culture, dialect and all it is all very transforming. Makes me feel like an anthropoligist sometimes.

 

[PatCarrington]

wrong thread.

 

[Guest]

Help, I just can't make this one work

It may be because I usually write shorter stuff but this one is fighting me.


Through his numbing grief
he remembers talk of God’s grace
but he cannot, dare not,
accept that his daughter
is an exception to that grace,
he cannot know for sure,
it is a terrifying and unspeakable thought.

He remembers how the object above
the altar was all wrong.
Eight stained glass shapes
each one a solid colour lit from behind
by buzzing fluorescent strips,
faux stained glass that erased
any hope of nature,
leading the eye to the cross.
Below the cross, a small
too small -
white box.

The too-neat image hissed lies.
Staring at the prevaricating picture.
he thought a rock could break it
make it tell truths smash each frame
and the light behind
that served the falsehood
replacing it with. something
truthful.
What she was and
what she could have been.

The family resurrects her
each in their own way,
one with a tender pencil sketch,
another with softly spoken words to prolong her life
(for as long as words last
“Too brief” his heart cries.)
then in music,
a lullaby for the already sleeping.

But he chose to paint her life
with colours that ran together.
Red as the corners of grieving eyes,
black as an early death,
yellows and greens for hope and sanctuary,
purple desire, frail peaceful blues
and white for laughter.
A frenzied, redemptive chorus of colour.
All blended by ambient sunlight,
infinite and rich – singing of
everything and its opposite.
He knows it will cry truth.

 

[annaswirls]

Tess--I will get to this, promise, I am late for work already

 

[flyguy69]

That last strophe is beautiful!

The rest is pretty good, too!

It may be because I usually write shorter stuff but this one is fighting me.


Through his numbing grief
he remembers talk of God’s grace
but he cannot, dare not,
accept that his daughter
is an exception to that grace,
he cannot know for sure,
it is a terrifying and unspeakable thought.

He remembers how the object above
the altar was all wrong.
Eight stained glass shapes
each one a solid colour lit from behind
by buzzing fluorescent strips,
faux stained glass that erased
any hope of nature,
leading the eye to the cross.
Below the cross, a small
too small -
white box.

The too-neat image hissed lies.
Staring at the prevaricating picture.
he thought a rock could break it
make it tell truths smash each frame
and the light behind
that served the falsehood
replacing it with. something
truthful.
What she was and
what she could have been.

The family resurrects her
each in their own way,
one with a tender pencil sketch,
another with softly spoken words to prolong her life
(for as long as words last
“Too brief” his heart cries.)
then in music,
a lullaby for the already sleeping.

But he chose to paint her life
with colours that ran together.
Red as the corners of grieving eyes,
black as an early death,
yellows and greens for hope and sanctuary,
purple desire, frail peaceful blues
and white for laughter.
A frenzied, redemptive chorus of colour.
All blended by ambient sunlight,
infinite and rich – singing of
everything and its opposite.
He knows it will cry truth.

 

[ishtat]

I

The fundamental strength of this is the emotions that "He " experiences, grief, anger then in the penultimate stanza, reflection and finally defiant assertion. I wondered whether a better impact might be obtained if it was written in the first person. That might enable the reader to be with the narrator sharing the experience, here and now rather than having it reported. With the first three stanzas in the present tense and the last two clearly future maybe that might help.

I have gone through it on that basis but haven't suggested much else except for changing "accept" to allow in the first stanza. I feel that accept and exceptional are a bit uncomfortable. The bit in parenthesis in the 4th stanza doesn't quite work but I don't know what to suggest. Finally "ambient sunlight" maybe isn't necessary in a terrific ending.

It may be because I usually write shorter stuff but this one is fighting me.


Through his numbing grief Numb in grief
he remembers talk of God’s grace I hear talk of Gods grace
but he cannot, dare not, but I cannot, dare not,
accept that his daughter allow that my daughter
is an exception to that grace,
he cannot know for sure, I cannot know.
it is a terrifying and unspeakable thought. It is terrifying, unspeakable

He remembers how the object above The object above the altar
the altar was all wrong. It is all wrong
Eight stained glass shapes Eight faux stained glass shapes
each one a solid colour lit from behind solid colour fluoresced from behind
by buzzing fluorescent strips, omit?
faux stained glass that erased omit?
any hope of nature, erases any hope of nature
leading the eye to the cross.
Below the cross, a small
too small -
white box.

The too-neat image hissed lies. This too neat image hisses lies
Staring at the prevaricating picture. A prevaricating picture
he thought a rock could break it a rock could break it
make it tell truths smash each frame
and the light behind
that served the falsehood
replacing it with. something replace it with, something
truthful.
What she was and
what she could have been.

The family resurrects her The family will resurrect her
each in their own way,
one with a tender pencil sketch,
another with softly spoken words to prolong her life
(for as long as words last (Don't know what to suggest here)
“Too brief” his heart cries.) (and especially here)
then in music,
a lullaby for the already sleeping.

But he chose to paint her life But I will paint her life
with colours that ran together. with colours that run together
Red as the corners of grieving eyes,
black as an early death,
yellows and greens for hope and sanctuary,
purple desire, frail peaceful blues
and white for laughter.
A frenzied, redemptive chorus of colour.
All blended by ambient sunlight, Blended, infinite and rich
infinite and rich – singing of - singing of
everything and its opposite.
He knows it will cry truth. It will cry truth

I'm off now, sailing, bright & sunny 70F - winter in Sydney - someones gotta do it !

 

[twelveoone]

didn't expect you too, all has to do with perception of patterns, whether something is drawing in or drawing out. I begin to see both.

http://pavlov.psyc.queensu.ca/~psyc382/daliSlavemarket.html

to as
pm's are full
you should know the importance of titles, in this case follow the visual lines, the hands pointing to the eyes, the eyes looking at...
Dali would not have been that obvious to call attention to an optical illusion, I've read that he wrote poetry, so he played with words, misdirection, the buried aha. I do not know the full meaning of this...but I'm sure it is deeper still.

 

[bogusbrig]

to as
pm's are full
you should know the importance of titles, in this case follow the visual lines, the hands pointing to the eyes, the eyes looking at...
Dali would not have been that obvious to call attention to an optical illusion, I've read that he wrote poetry, so he played with words, misdirection, the buried aha. I do not know the full meaning of this...but I'm sure it is deeper still.

Dali was involved with visual trickery and what I have seen of his poetry he tried the equivalent trickery with words but failed.

Dali relied on visual trickery because he was a lousy painter. It is the same reason some poets rely on the trickery of words ie. they can't write.

 

[Guest]

Thank you, ishtat and fly for your in-put. Ishtat, I decided, for me, it has to be third person. In first person I felt it too mawkish. I'm trying not to get too sentimental but still move the reader.

The Colours Of Her Life

Through the fog of his grief
he recalls talk of God's grace
but he cannot, will not,
accept how his daughter
may be an exception to that grace.
The object above the altar is all wrong.
Eight faux stained glass shapes
illuminated by fluorescent bars
guide the eye to the cross.
Below the cross, a small
too small -
white box.

Staring at the prevaricating window
the thought that a rock could break it,
smash each frame and the light behind
that served the falsehood comforted him.
It should be replaced with something truthful,
what she was, could have been.

The family resurrects her
each in their own way,
one with a tender pencil sketch,
another with softly spoken words
recalling her short life.
Then with music,
a lullaby for the already sleeping.

But he chooses to paint her life
with colours that run together.
Red as the corners of grieving eyes,
black as an early death,
yellows and greens for hope and sanctuary,
purple desire, frail peaceful blues
and white for laughter.
A frenzied, redemptive chorus of colour.
all blended by ambient light,
infinite and rich – singing of
everything and its opposite.

 

[flyguy69]

I think you have done a wonderful job here, Trissy.

The poem is much more focussed now, and leaves more for the reader to discover. I think you could still trim it a bit ("to that grace," e.g.), but I like this very much.

Always happy to in-put you!

Thank you, ishtat and fly for your in-put. Ishtat, I decided, for me, it has to be third person. In first person I felt it too mawkish. I'm trying not to get too sentimental but still move the reader.

The Colours Of Her Life

Through the fog of his grief
he recalls talk of God's grace
but he cannot, will not,
accept how his daughter
may be an exception to that grace.
The object above the altar is all wrong.
Eight faux stained glass shapes
illuminated by fluorescent bars
guide the eye to the cross.
Below the cross, a small
too small -
white box.

Staring at the prevaricating window
the thought that a rock could break it,
smash each frame and the light behind
that served the falsehood comforted him.
It should be replaced with something truthful,
what she was, could have been.

The family resurrects her
each in their own way,
one with a tender pencil sketch,
another with softly spoken words
recalling her short life.
Then with music,
a lullaby for the already sleeping.

But he chooses to paint her life
with colours that run together.
Red as the corners of grieving eyes,
black as an early death,
yellows and greens for hope and sanctuary,
purple desire, frail peaceful blues
and white for laughter.
A frenzied, redemptive chorus of colour.
all blended by ambient light,
infinite and rich – singing of
everything and its opposite.

 

[wildsweetone]

I've not abandoned this thread... just had some stuff to deal with in the last little while. Hope to catch up here soon.

 

[flyguy69]

This is a drastic rewrite of one I posted earlier under the title "Narrow Eyes," I think.

::
Bullets are words for speechless
rage, universal fuck you
fingers even the blind understand.
The blind don’t understand

how ugly changes everything, how ugly
people get when no words express
how they feel, but they know

when some gook’s had it
up to here with their shit
and barks fuck you in soft metal
sign language.

Oedipus poked his own eyes out
with a pin, ashamed of the ugly things
he’d done. Too late. He’d already seen it

by then; his father dead
by his hands, his mother spread
for his loins. Early blindness
could have spared him the pain.

In the woods of Wisconsin
blindness came early
in November. Passed father to son
it hid the ugly effects of words
fired into the tree tops with lips pursed

like an assault rifle. Hollow-point
gook words that hurt more
on exit, after thirty years
of waiting on a promise
made in the jungles of Laos.

Treed like quarry Chai Vang
found the words he needed
in the lead language
of deer hunters, narrowed his eyes
and told them how he felt.
::

 

[Guest]

Chai Vang
found the words he needed
in the lead language

Fuck off.

 

[flyguy69]

Fuck off.

什么? Eu não posso compreendê-lo!

 

[Bacteriophage68]

.......

 

[wildsweetone]

checking to make sure i'm in the right thread this time!

This is a drastic rewrite of one I posted earlier under the title "Narrow Eyes," I think.

::
Bullets are words for speechless
rage, universal fuck you
fingers even the blind understand.
The blind don’t understand

how ugly changes everything, how ugly
people get when no words express
how they feel, but they know (note: three 'how's close together)

when some gook’s had it
up to here with their shit
and barks fuck you in soft metal
sign language. (no idea what this is, but it sounds fantastic)

Oedipus poked his own eyes out
with a pin, ashamed of the ugly things
he’d done. Too late. He’d already seen it (I don't like 'it' here much)

by then; his father dead
by his hands, his mother spread
for his loins. Early blindness
could have spared him the pain. (a little heavy on 'his')

In the woods of Wisconsin
blindness came early
in November. Passed father to son
it hid the ugly effects of words
fired into the tree tops with lips pursed

like an assault rifle. Hollow-point
gook words that hurt more
on exit, after thirty years
of waiting on a promise
made in the jungles of Laos.

Treed like quarry Chai Vang
found the words he needed
in the lead language
of deer hunters, narrowed his eyes
and told them how he felt.(note: 'words' repeated too often?)
::

I really like the way you're conveying your words.