Not For The Thin-Skinned

[twelveoone]

Thank you, Pat and twelver, for your invaluable assistance. I am greatly indebted for the time and effort you expended in your reviews-- they are insightful, clear and encouraging.

I will work on this one some more in light of your comments.

I really did this one more as an experiment than a poem-- my own version of a "form" piece in paired triolets:

"Tucker says...
[explanatory response]
... he can't get enough

... [physical response to the theme]
... he pumps
[transition to theme of next strophe]"

In the last strophe I tried to tie up all the linguistic and thematic elements.

I will spend some more time on this one.

One clarification: the "cell mates" reference is to terrorist cells, not to prison cells.

a note on the clarification, it is a wonderful enimatic line, functioning well on many levels.
a note on the experiment, keep it up.

 

[flyguy69]

(#15, Paradise Lost, an allegory)

Plu-tarch, Plu-tarch a ref to "parallel lives"? Good idea, but I would develop it further
The seagull cries, as it dives
for it's meal of plastic clams,
the remains of wrappers. i think your metaphor stands without explanation
This is how it lives.

Ah, distinctly I remember,
Twas a gray December
morn. As gray as me
and unnaturally warm. I don't know what this stanza contributes

I shambled out, dressed in black,
and she starts tripping just like Tippi
Hedren, in a movie I once saw.
I catch my daughter's arm.

As we make our way to puke down unneccesarily graphic!
breakfast at mickey D's, the radio plays
a wretched C&W cover of some old
sixties song.

He don't love you...
What was Righteous once,
Like I love you...
Now long gone,
Somethin, somethin, somethin...
In the haze of my gray dawn.

That she is interrupting
shakin hands with fingers extended
yammerin like gangstamuthafucka,
about Kharon Werther (a sorrowful cutter)
and the things they listen too.
Things without much melody.
And I shudder, very nearly mutter,
at the thought of her, a few years from now
with spiky lips and rings on brows
or god forbid, tattoos. My progeny. love this stanza!

But, still I remember...
As I open lids of eyes and mind,
I shoot her with the cover of a straw,
and startled she is laughing, knowing in passing
my heart once was as transplanted as hers. and this one, though the wording is a bit wooden

Were once was rustic roads,
were wild chevy's once roamed
as bottles shattered against STOP signs
in the green glass of Kerouacian zen
The world was my ashtray, a paradise-
lost in pallid mess, of windsheilds at the mall.
Oh. Lil darlin, I leave you with this:
Auric Arches, parking lots
full of seagulls and shit?


No mercy expected, I am serious here.

I am left confused, 12; the Milton, McDonalds, Plutarch and seagull themes seem too jumbled together. Are you trying to draw parallels between your and your daughter's experiences? If so, I think that theme should be pursued further and more tightly.

Some very strong images throughout.

 

[twelveoone]

I am left confused, 12; the Milton, McDonalds, Plutarch and seagull themes seem too jumbled together. Are you trying to draw parallels between your and your daughter's experiences? If so, I think that theme should be pursued further and more tightly.

Some very strong images throughout.

Thank you fly, I see some parts are impromperly sewn together here. Needs more Poe I think, to make it clearer a new bird's in town.

 

[twelveoone]

Thank you, Pat and twelver, for your invaluable assistance. I am greatly indebted for the time and effort you expended in your reviews-- they are insightful, clear and encouraging.

I will work on this one some more in light of your comments.

I really did this one more as an experiment than a poem-- my own version of a "form" piece in paired triolets:

"Tucker says...
[explanatory response]
... he can't get enough

... [physical response to the theme]
... he pumps
[transition to theme of next strophe]"

In the last strophe I tried to tie up all the linguistic and thematic elements.

I will spend some more time on this one.

One clarification: the "cell mates" reference is to terrorist cells, not to prison cells.

The problem I have is trying to blend these Tucker's into one person. Are they?
As a thought, make it a generic Fucker, easier to assign seperate personalitiies. Yes, it is generic, but it may be enough of a shift in meaning to have this Fucker pumping to avoid clichedom. I don't know. If you assign a set number of stanzas to each Fucker, I think it will work. Makes a hell of a song.

 

[flyguy69]

Horror

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

Watermelon and bratwurst sizzle
in the sun as Frisbees cleave
the charcoal smoke and pull children
a scream's distance from the table.
Beyond the screen of jungle gyms a tiled
restroom twists a face in steel
mirror, far from home
and alone with the crowd
in his skull. The winding spring
of the door draws his eyes
to the entering boy, and snaps
shut.

Have you seen him? scattered through the park
before the spring winds again
and a father's chest is crushed flat
by a single image: the turned legs, the still, dark pool.

 

[wildsweetone]

I have a photo in mind to go with/beside/above/below this poem but I would like to know if the poem stands alone. I think it does, but I might be seeing more than I'm voicing. Any opinions would be appreciated.



Coercing the sky
fingertips outstretched
welcoming new winter winds
and indulging in the joy of leaves
in their death-throe.

Flames stroke the sky
and where flickers fall
tiny red embers glow on the ground.

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on seal.

 

[wildsweetone]

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

Watermelon and bratwurst sizzle
in the sun as Frisbees cleave
the charcoal smoke and pull children
a scream's distance from the table.
Beyond the screen of jungle gyms a tiled
restroom twists a face in steel
mirror, far from home
and alone with the crowd
in his skull. The winding spring
of the door draws his eyes
to the entering boy, and snaps
shut.

Have you seen him? scattered through the park
before the spring winds again
and a father's heart is crushed flat
by a single image: the turned legs, the still, dark pool.

1. What specifically snaps shut?
2. Are 'the turned legs' human legs? I've only heard this expression used with table legs.
3. just a note: there are several males in this poem, would it be any 'different' to have the 'mother's heart is crushed flat' to discern the difference a little more clearly?

 

[flyguy69]

1. What specifically snaps shut?
2. Are 'the turned legs' human legs? I've only heard this expression used with table legs.
3. just a note: there are several males in this poem, would it be any 'different' to have the 'mother's heart is crushed flat' to discern the difference a little more clearly?

This one needs some work, yet. Thanks for your observations, WSO.

1. The spring. Or, rather, the spring-loaded door. I wanted to evoke the killer's mind snapping as well, but it is not clear.
2. The boy's legs. I meant to presage this in S1 with "angle/of limbs"
3. Yes, I could use a mother. In the real incident it was a mother, but it is such a terrifying story that I guess I was trying to mitigate the horror by inserting a dad.

I have copied yours and will spend some time on it tonight. Thanks again.

 

[wildsweetone]

This one needs some work, yet. Thanks for your observations, WSO.

1. The spring. Or, rather, the spring-loaded door. I wanted to evoke the killer's mind snapping as well, but it is not clear.
2. The boy's legs. I meant to presage this in S1 with "angle/of limbs"
3. Yes, I could use a mother. In the real incident it was a mother, but it is such a terrifying story that I guess I was trying to mitigate the horror by inserting a dad.

I have copied yours and will spend some time on it tonight. Thanks again.

Oh i got the horror all right. Don't doubt that. It's going to be a powerful poem.

 

[flyguy69]

I have a photo in mind to go with/beside/above/below this poem but I would like to know if the poem stands alone. I think it does, but I might be seeing more than I'm voicing. Any opinions would be appreciated.



Coercing the sky
fingertips outstretched
welcoming new winter winds
and indulging in the joy of leaves
in their death-throe.

Flames stroke the sky
and where flickers fall
tiny red embers glow on the ground.

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on seal.

I assume, WSO, that since you have chosen this thread you have girded yourself in lizard skin. Besides, sometimes I like to take a girl rough!

Since you seem to be interested in the poem separate from the illustration I won’t speculate on the composite effect, but I do not think this poem stands alone—it is too vague. The image conjured for me contains a tree, a fire and a seal, but I can’t picture the connection between these elements.

“Coercing the sky” is an interesting line, but I do not know what it means. The tree is forcing the sky to do its bidding? What does a tree want a sky to do? How does a tree make a sky stop doing whatever it is doing and do something else instead?

I like the rest of this strophe, though “joy” and “death throe” seem incongruous.

The second strophe is pretty, but I wondered about the use of “flickers” as a noun because it seems to mean either “flames” or “embers”, both of which are already in there. Is the tree on fire? That would challenge the images in the first strophe which were joyous and welcoming. I also had to wonder about the illustration here (I couldn’t help myself!) because it seems that you may simply be describing it, which would negate the value of the illustration.

I am not sure how a breeze “cradles” and also “flings”; they seem to refer to the lifting of sparks but the actions conflict. “Flings” and “scatter” seem redundant in this strophe, though neither of them seem to work with “draw,” since that implies some coherence or intent. “Draw” also doesn’t seem the best verb to describe “scratches.”

I think “seal” needs an article (minor), but wonder what the point of this rather striking image is in the final line.

If this is to be an illustrated poem I have to wonder what the text is for. If I am to be shown an image, I’m not sure why I should be told what it is that I am looking at. I think you would do well to go back to the image and decide what it does not provide that text can, and vice versa.

Pat, of course, will suggest that there is nothing text can’t provide!

I hope my thoughts will provide a different perspective as you shape this poem. I look forward to its final form.

 

[Zanzibar]

I have a photo in mind to go with/beside/above/below this poem but I would like to know if the poem stands alone. I think it does, but I might be seeing more than I'm voicing. Any opinions would be appreciated.



Coercing the sky
fingertips outstretched
welcoming new winter winds
and indulging in the joy of leaves
in their death-throe.

Flames stroke the sky
and where flickers fall
tiny red embers glow on the ground.

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on seal.

The imagery I get from your poem is a lone tree in the fall, leaves a vibrant crimson, so it looks as of the tree is burning. Leaves are bits of flame, flung out by the wind, and the sandpaper scratches are the sound of leaves being blown about.

In the second strophe, flickers seems awkward to me as well, perhaps using sparks there and using a different word in the third strophe. or perhaps using something like fiery motes in the place of flickers?

Flames stroke the sky
and where fiery motes fall
tiny red embers glow on the ground.

I also have difficulty picturing the last strophe... First, cradling breeze seems juxtaposed to the rest of what you're saying in your poem. Soft and benign where the rest of the poem evokes a stronger, more active, vibrant image. Perhaps swirling instead of cradling?

I'm also trying to figure out what "draw sandpaper scratches on seal". Do you mean draw as in artwork, or draw as in raise? Two different images, one with a tracing of lines like a charcoal drawing, the other like drawing fingernails across skin, raising a welt -or- a blackboard, raising a noise. And seal is just begging for some kind of descriptor to me. As it is, I just can't get a clear picture what you're trying to get across.

If I stick with the leaf analogy, perhaps something like:

A swirling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they sound/sing
sandpaper scratches on a shrouded seal.

or with the fire theme

A swirling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they sear
sandpaper scratches on ???? seal.


Well, there's my 2 cents. Hope it's helpful, or at least shines a different perspective on your work. I definitely enjoyed the imagery you've provided. I think it has some very strong potential, but for me as it stands, I'd need the picture to make it feel complete.

 

[flyguy69]

..... Leaves are bits of flame, flung out by the wind, and the sandpaper scratches are the sound of leaves being blown about.....

Smacking my forehead!

Thanks, Zbar!

 

[Zanzibar]

A poem I wrote last year this time. I want it to work.
I posted it elsewhere and got praise, but I want to know where it doesn't work.


Poet’s razor


I look out the window.
It is about to rain,
just like the beginning of
too many awful poems and songs
and suicidal contemplations.

Today I see nothing.
Nothing behind, beneath,
or beyond the shiny cars,
all hubcaps matched and intact.

They turn on red.
They turn on green.

People shaped blobs
push air from their space
as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z.

No stories emerge from
angles dancing on the dashboard or [angels instead of angles]
the red spiked grandma.

But this one, here!
She who opens the door
with hands, this one!

I could love her cold-chapped nose
and hair touched by brush alone.

She could sharpen my edge [Insert "Once" or "Yesterday" before she]

enough to strip insulation
from wire,
carve down the false fronts of this
color coded strip mall
until all are naked again
under the power of my poet’s knife.

But not today.

Today I am dull,
numbed by the ache of you.
You, who used to make me notice
everything.

My heart has slipped from its sleeve.
You have me.

When I first read this poem, I thought it was about writers block and not being able to draw inspiration from anything. Then I got to the next to last strophe and suddenly it was about loss and numbness. I think if you replaced the first strophe with the next to last, it would be a much more effective piece.

It feels like there's a typo with Angle on the dashboard instead of Angel

Also adding a descriptor before "She" as denoted makes the work stronger for me by reinforcing the difference the pain of today brings out in you.

From my perspective, the last line in the last strophe doesn't jell with the rest of the piece to describe the hurt that permeates the rest. "You have me." sounds more hopeful and positive, and that contradicts everything else you said before. "You hurt me." or "You left me." or even stronger, redoing the last strophe to read something like:

My heart slipped from its sleeve
When you left me.

Or in its entirety

Poet’s razor

Today I am dull,
numbed by the ache of you.
You, who used to make me notice
everything.

Today I see nothing.
Nothing behind, beneath,
or beyond the shiny cars,
all hubcaps matched and intact.

They turn on red.
They turn on green.

People shaped blobs
push air from their space
as they change coordinates,
x,y, sometimes z.

No stories emerge from
angels dancing on the dashboard
the red spiked grandma.

But this one, here!
She who opens the door
with hands, this one!

I could love her cold-chapped nose
and hair touched by brush alone.

Yesterday she could sharpen my edge

enough to strip insulation
from wire,
carve down the false fronts of this
color coded strip mall
until all are naked again
under the power of my poet’s knife.

But not today.

My heart slipped from its sleeve
When you left me.

or even

My heart slips from its sleeve
When you leave me


My two cents... Hope it provides some usefull feedback.

 

[Zanzibar]

Smacking my forehead!

Thanks, Zbar!

My pleasure! (Least thats the image that *I* get.. we'll see if it goes with her image or not.)

And call me Zan

 

[wildsweetone]

I assume, WSO, that since you have chosen this thread you have girded yourself in lizard skin. Besides, sometimes I like to take a girl rough!

Since you seem to be interested in the poem separate from the illustration I won’t speculate on the composite effect, but I do not think this poem stands alone—it is too vague. The image conjured for me contains a tree, a fire and a seal, but I can’t picture the connection between these elements.

“Coercing the sky” is an interesting line, but I do not know what it means. The tree is forcing the sky to do its bidding? What does a tree want a sky to do? How does a tree make a sky stop doing whatever it is doing and do something else instead?

I like the rest of this strophe, though “joy” and “death throe” seem incongruous.

The second strophe is pretty, but I wondered about the use of “flickers” as a noun because it seems to mean either “flames” or “embers”, both of which are already in there. Is the tree on fire? That would challenge the images in the first strophe which were joyous and welcoming. I also had to wonder about the illustration here (I couldn’t help myself!) because it seems that you may simply be describing it, which would negate the value of the illustration.

I am not sure how a breeze “cradles” and also “flings”; they seem to refer to the lifting of sparks but the actions conflict. “Flings” and “scatter” seem redundant in this strophe, though neither of them seem to work with “draw,” since that implies some coherence or intent. “Draw” also doesn’t seem the best verb to describe “scratches.”

I think “seal” needs an article (minor), but wonder what the point of this rather striking image is in the final line.

If this is to be an illustrated poem I have to wonder what the text is for. If I am to be shown an image, I’m not sure why I should be told what it is that I am looking at. I think you would do well to go back to the image and decide what it does not provide that text can, and vice versa.

Pat, of course, will suggest that there is nothing text can’t provide!

I hope my thoughts will provide a different perspective as you shape this poem. I look forward to its final form.

The poem came before the illustration. Tolyk has since provided me with a photograph. However, because of things I've learned from recent poetry discussions I want to make this poem work without the image.

I am fully aware that coming into this thread is akin to standing naked in front of everyone and while it scares me to death, I might be able to improve a little by myself, but with feedback from others I am likely to learn and understand a great deal better. (think I'll c and p that into the sticky)

You've given me much to think about and I can see what I need to do is explain better my thoughts. Thank you I appreciate the time you've spent on this for me.

 

[wildsweetone]

The imagery I get from your poem is a lone tree in the fall, leaves a vibrant crimson, so it looks as of the tree is burning. Leaves are bits of flame, flung out by the wind, and the sandpaper scratches are the sound of leaves being blown about.

In the second strophe, flickers seems awkward to me as well, perhaps using sparks there and using a different word in the third strophe. or perhaps using something like fiery motes in the place of flickers?

Flames stroke the sky
and where fiery motes fall
tiny red embers glow on the ground.

I also have difficulty picturing the last strophe... First, cradling breeze seems juxtaposed to the rest of what you're saying in your poem. Soft and benign where the rest of the poem evokes a stronger, more active, vibrant image. Perhaps swirling instead of cradling?

I'm also trying to figure out what "draw sandpaper scratches on seal". Do you mean draw as in artwork, or draw as in raise? Two different images, one with a tracing of lines like a charcoal drawing, the other like drawing fingernails across skin, raising a welt -or- a blackboard, raising a noise. And seal is just begging for some kind of descriptor to me. As it is, I just can't get a clear picture what you're trying to get across.

If I stick with the leaf analogy, perhaps something like:

A swirling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they sound/sing
sandpaper scratches on a shrouded seal.

or with the fire theme

A swirling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they sear
sandpaper scratches on ???? seal.


Well, there's my 2 cents. Hope it's helpful, or at least shines a different perspective on your work. I definitely enjoyed the imagery you've provided. I think it has some very strong potential, but for me as it stands, I'd need the picture to make it feel complete.

Hi Zan nice to see you.

You've got the correct image.

You've given me some interesting thoughts as well and I thank you very much for them.

I liked the 'cradle' idea... a leaf being picked up and carried on the breeze before tumbling along the ground. I wanted to say all those things but in a new way, leaving behind all those things that sound cliche and trite to me. I think I nearly managed it and knew it needed tweaking.

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on seal.

I liked the idea of opposites

cradling - flings
scatter - draw

then to read the third line I thought I had managed a second meaning from draw as in 'to sketch'. The leaves scratch the ground as they tumble along on the road. 'Seal' here is short for 'tarseal' which is a road surface.

 

[Zanzibar]

Hi Zan nice to see you.

You've got the correct image.

You've given me some interesting thoughts as well and I thank you very much for them.

I liked the 'cradle' idea... a leaf being picked up and carried on the breeze before tumbling along the ground. I wanted to say all those things but in a new way, leaving behind all those things that sound cliche and trite to me. I think I nearly managed it and knew it needed tweaking.



I liked the idea of opposites

cradling - flings
scatter - draw

then to read the third line I thought I had managed a second meaning from draw as in 'to sketch'. The leaves scratch the ground as they tumble along on the road. 'Seal' here is short for 'tarseal' which is a road surface.

Ahhhh, I have a much clearer picture now. It was not knowing what seal meant that gave me so much trouble.

What about just using a different word instead of seal, or be more allegorical? One thats more widely known, but that depends on your audience (or purpose) as well.

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on seal.

becomes

A cradling breeze flings
sparks to scatter as they draw
sandpaper scratches on dusty trails


As for cradle itself, it just didn't seem to fit for me with all your other references to fire and flames. The other words and phrases painted vivid pictures in my head, especially now that I have the reference for seal.

I did really enjoy the piece, and I look forward to any tweaks you might make of it.

~Zan

 

[flyguy69]

The poem came before the illustration. Tolyk has since provided me with a photograph. However, because of things I've learned from recent poetry discussions I want to make this poem work without the image.

I am fully aware that coming into this thread is akin to standing naked in front of everyone and while it scares me to death, I might be able to improve a little by myself, but with feedback from others I am likely to learn and understand a great deal better. (think I'll c and p that into the sticky)

You've given me much to think about and I can see what I need to do is explain better my thoughts. Thank you I appreciate the time you've spent on this for me.

You're very welcome, WSO, and you needn't fear this thread! It is, in fact, a safer thread than most here since the participation is very specifically geared at the poetry and not the person. Angeline and I were recently talking about the important, but sometimes difficult, task of stepping away from poems you have raised as children!

The explanation of "seal" makes a big difference to the end of the poem, and I think Zan is right that a simple change in term will make all the difference there. Although I would rethink the theme in that last strophe since I suspect it is an auditory scratching rather than a visual one. Unless "seal" is awfully soft in NZ!

It is interesting that fall imagery is on your mind; in the northern hemisphere we are gearing up for spring!

 

[wildsweetone]

This particular poem has been through hmm 14 edits so far. I'm not willing to chuck it in the bin because I feel that I can make it do what I need. Like having a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue this poem is almost where I want it.

My latest version is:

She coaxes winter winds
dancing with fingertips outstretched,
flames stroking the sky.
Fallen firey motes
are aglow on the ground.
And a whirlwind of sparks
scatter on the breeze
to compose sandpaper scratches
along the street.


I stumbled on 'coaxes' and it fits with a rewording to include 'she'. I like the 'firey motes' suggestion because it fits with the 'f' alliterations. I've deleted the 'cradled' reference as finally I saw it didn't fit in the way I had tried and to make it fit by rewording would have caused too much verbiage (there's enough already).

'compose sandpaper scratches' I've brought back in from one of the early revisions. I'm now wondering if I've hit upon by accident, what you've mentioned flyguy when you said 'since I suspect it is an auditory scratching rather than a visual one.' And I get the feeling you thought 'seal' was the mammal and he was having a good ol' scratch - no wonder that striking image threw you off. lol My apologies! 'seal' is our kiwi shortened version of saying 'tar seal' i.e. the road surface.

Which brings me to 'along the street'... will it grow on me? hmm I like your 'on dusty trails' Zan, but as it's change of season, then I wouldn't really expect the trails to be that dusty. One of my revisions did have 'sandpaper scratches on dust'. Needs more thinking.

Again, thanks so much for your help Fly and Zan, you've helped me a lot!


Fly, fall imagery isn't on my mind at all - I do enough of that on a daily basis... but autumn imagery surely is. It's one of my favourite times of year because it shows a passing of time and moving on. I love it.

 

[flyguy69]

This particular poem has been through hmm 14 edits so far. I'm not willing to chuck it in the bin because I feel that I can make it do what I need.
....

And I think you have! This version is much clearer-- clear enough to stand on its own. My only suggestion with this one is the subject of the verb "dancing": who is dancing? If it is the fingertips I would switch "dancing" and "with." If it is the tree, then there are some leftover props from "Lord of the Rings" down there!

Good work, Sweetie!

 

[flyguy69]

And I think you have! This version is much clearer-- clear enough to stand on its own. My only suggestion with this one is the subject of the verb "dancing": who is dancing? If it is the fingertips I would switch "dancing" and "with." If it is the tree, then there are some leftover props from "Lord of the Rings" down there!

Good work, Sweetie!

I take that back. I think I like the image of a tree dancing with its arms stretched overhead.

 

[wildsweetone]

I like it too. As it stands it is a little ambiguous - I like that edge.

I'm not quite set on the last line yet... but it's growing on me.

 

[Zanzibar]

This particular poem has been through hmm 14 edits so far. I'm not willing to chuck it in the bin because I feel that I can make it do what I need. Like having a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue this poem is almost where I want it.

My latest version is:

She coaxes winter winds
dancing with fingertips outstretched,
flames stroking the sky.
Fallen firey motes
are aglow on the ground.
And a whirlwind of sparks
scatter on the breeze
to compose sandpaper scratches
along the street.


I stumbled on 'coaxes' and it fits with a rewording to include 'she'. I like the 'firey motes' suggestion because it fits with the 'f' alliterations. I've deleted the 'cradled' reference as finally I saw it didn't fit in the way I had tried and to make it fit by rewording would have caused too much verbiage (there's enough already).

'compose sandpaper scratches' I've brought back in from one of the early revisions. I'm now wondering if I've hit upon by accident, what you've mentioned flyguy when you said 'since I suspect it is an auditory scratching rather than a visual one.' And I get the feeling you thought 'seal' was the mammal and he was having a good ol' scratch - no wonder that striking image threw you off. lol My apologies! 'seal' is our kiwi shortened version of saying 'tar seal' i.e. the road surface.

Which brings me to 'along the street'... will it grow on me? hmm I like your 'on dusty trails' Zan, but as it's change of season, then I wouldn't really expect the trails to be that dusty. One of my revisions did have 'sandpaper scratches on dust'. Needs more thinking.

Again, thanks so much for your help Fly and Zan, you've helped me a lot!


Fly, fall imagery isn't on my mind at all - I do enough of that on a daily basis... but autumn imagery surely is. It's one of my favourite times of year because it shows a passing of time and moving on. I love it.

You're quite welcome

I really love what you've done with the poem as it's gone through it's incarnatons. The whole thing flows with a wonderful imagery.

Thinking about that last line... something that jumped out at me as I read your latest

Since you really like opposites and the transition between fall and winter... what about something like:

She coaxes winter winds
dancing with fingertips outstretched,
flames stroking the sky.
Fallen firey motes
are aglow on the ground.
And a whirlwind of sparks
scatter on the breeze
to compose sandpaper scratches
along frost kissed streets.

ties your first and last lines together with coaxing winter and the first sign of winter... frost. I had wind kissed as an option instead of frost kissed, but I really like frost so much better. Just seems to jive with everything else in the poem.

<smiles> This process has created a lot of fun and imagination for me, and comes in really handy in my own freelance writing work doing proposals. Soon I'll have some more of my own work in here for my turn in the rain barrel.

Thanks for giving us the opportunity to share in your creation!

 

[Guest]

I've fiddled, and tweaked. Hit me.

The hot, dry wind
Sculpts the drifts of dust,
Nosing the tumbleweed
Into wrestling heaps.
The cottonwood stand,
Left parched,
Fidgets restlessly.
And, somewhere
A dog howls,
Yearning for mud.

He sits on the porch,
Lop-sided,
In an old wooden chair
Tilted back to rock on two legs,
A glass of Bourbon
On his table-belly.
His name is Cal.
Weathered,
Like the clapboard,
He scratches at his grizzled chin,
Squinting across the years.

The “Last chance to Fill up” sign sways in the wind
And whines
Like a petulant child.
He swats a fly
And it lies
Kicking its life away by his dusty boot.
Looking down at it
He mutters “coulda been me.”


Haunted by memories of lives gone too soon
Of faces he once loved
And lost
He looks helplessly
Into their death-dried eyes.
Now
He is here,
Selling gas to others
Lost
All looking for the way home.

 

[Zanzibar]

shattered

Here's one of mine the bubbled out of the fount today... brought up by the works I have been reading and commenting on lately I think. In any case, break out your editing pens and shine your lights on me.

shattered

one moment joy, sharing visions
then a sudden
Oh!
the soft thump of a body collapsing

franticly dialing NINEONEONE
Sirens shrill screams pierce the air
their wailing cries mimic my heart

lives
shattered in an instant
vacuum

frenzied EMTs
work their magics to no avail

still
cold
silent

the look of surprise frozen on your face
as they wheeled your shell away

shock, pain and anger
weave in my mind
a tapestry of agony and loss

how?
why?

so abruptly the circle turned
no time to plan, to share
to say I love you

i awake
shrouded in cold, sweaty sheets
calling your name

can you hear me?