Joining some of the others by keeping an open thread of my work. I hope some of you will find a poem or two enjoyable or inspirational for your own work. I'll include comments about the craft as well... a kind of journey into the mind of a struggling poet. Warm April Day White sundress. Spring sun bathed her shoulders, and her step, creamy breasts burrowed into the cotton as if seeking shelter, or escape. Darkened soldiers. Bundled for a different heat sat smoking, waiting, leave ending a distant sun setting over white sands seared their minds and blocked their view. I was going to try to focus on making this a positive upbeat poem, a nice spring day... but, as usual, my mind goes to the dark, and the image of the soldiers was in there... they hurry up and wait and they have such a short leave home from the unending war in Iraq/Afghanistan... how can they enjoy this pretty girl moment as they are waiting for the bus out? Not sure why I couldn't just write about a nice sunny warm day...
The image painted by this poem is very striking. I love the addition 'and her step'. The youthful spring sunshine illuminates her innocence, and although she's attractive, nothing about her is provocative, not even the way she moves. I also love how the sun is the source of both the light and the darkness(or good and evil) in this poem. They are both opposite sides of the same coin after all. Although it illuminates her beauty, her chest is burrowing away from it's glare and the last line in the first stanza hints strongly that the sunlight is damaging. The soldiers themselves have been darkened by the sun and the way you used it to burn their souls and deny them the chance to revisit or even appreciate innocence is magical. All in all, a powerful poem with powerful imagery that manages to say a great deal with very few words. You are awesome.
Amber, I'm glad you liked it! Red, you did capture what was in my head exactly. I used the word "darkened" to describe the soldiers because it seemed the right word to capture both their sun-damaged skin but also their tainted souls... they are dark... from the beating desert sun but also through their experiences - they are no longer innocent and no longer on the same level with the young woman, although they are probably the same age. You are awesome too! Thanks for taking the time to give me your feedback. I really appreciate that. Waiting to see your next post!
Timber Bridge It stands between here and there, and as I walk upon it festival music, laughter, taps along the water from the distant lake shore on my left, blurred smiling faces of togetherness sink into me. I continue along; My step echoes off the emptiness below the timbers and above the lake, and at my right hand, a sudden deep gurgling, a tangerine fin flash, one fantastical koi, large as a leg, slaps a hello along the surface, and with the splash, I inhale surprise, exhale wonder, trip on my own feet find myself face down on the planks peering through the slats to the water below, my resolve, for the moment, has ended; Merriment continues to my left and koi play to my right, the water below calm mirror saying, “you can’t walk on me.” I close my eyes and smell the cut wood, imagine the fingerprints of wood carpenters, footprints of those who crossed before me, I see the years of wind, sun and rain and feel the solid smoothness. I right myself, look for the larger than life fish causing me to pause and see only two turtles on two separate logs looking in two separate directions. I turn away and walk toward the celebration on the outlying shore. This poem resulted out of an actual walk on a bridge and an actual fish (although I really didn't fall down ;0), I said koi here but i have no clue what kind of fish it was. It was huge, it was gold and it was very spectacular, but it all got me thinking of the purpose of a bridge... to cross an obstacle, in this case a body of water. We all are faced with crossing something that for us "is as big as a lake" and can hold surprises and beauty. For me this turned into a poem about getting on the other side of something big as a lake. That "lake" could be a number of things to a number of people. Sometimes we resolve to do something along our path as we attempt to get across, but something larger than life can cause us to pause and reflect and may even change where we were going.
Okay, here I am... I was reaching for a topic to write about and as much as I tried to come up with something spectacular... here is what resulted. Sometimes if it doesn't come, it just doesn't come. I put my mind around the idea of "anomie" and studied a bit and tried to come up with something meaningful... Perhaps that's the meaning. It's all meaningless. We are so immersed in our reality TV reality, we are like boiling frogs - not only in danger of global warming but this other non-reality reality fed to us everytime we turn on the tube. Wow, I'm in an odd mood, oh well. Special note: My heart goes out to those who are struggling with the horror that mother nature can impact. I hope they can find comfort in these days of hardship and loss. Anomie “…you will disappear into the blackness of the space from which we came – destroyed, as we began, in a burst of gas and fire. The heavens are still and cold once more. In all the immensity of our universe and the galaxies beyond, the earth will not be missed. Through the infinite reaches of space, the problems of man seem trivial and naïve indeed, and man existing alone seems himself an episode of little consequence.” Part of the astronomy lecture given at the Griffith Observatory by the Professor in the film Rebel Without a Cause, circa 1955 Jenny decided to boil a frog to test the theory. She named it Paris. After the millionairess, not the city. A newspaper man heard about it from Jenny’s neighbor lady, Selma, who happened to be his wife’s sister. Jenny’s mom complained to Selma about throwing out the pot in disgust after barfing in the kitchen trashcan. Jay Leno show picked up the headline, Paris Blows, on his Monday night comedy headlines. Jenny thinks Selma sent it in to Leno. First line read: Frog nick-named Paris Hilton blows up as part of home-made experiment testing the boiling frog theory. Animal activists picketed.
I like your last poem about anomie. I confess, I had to look up it's meaning. I like the idea of ridiculous events that led to something so big as national TV but were in fact so meaningless and trivial. It shows our modern obsession with nonsense. One suggestion. I would chop the line "First line read:...." I think that it distracts from the humour of the headline, and the animal rights activists reasons to protest are already apparent from the rest of the poem.
thanks... just so you know... this started the same way, I heard the word, looked it up, brainstormed, etc. I don't think I captured all of what the word can mean but I did go down the track of what I thought was a symptom of "anomie" in our world today. Our entire fixation on the meaningless (Paris for example). Red, I realized I had a bit of rhyme in Anomie with Paris and millionairess... but only later realized I had a second rhyme... theory and not the city. It had me wondering if I could rework it to strengthen the rhyme throughout. The name of the neighbor lady was pulled out of my head and I could easily change that to make it more lyrical/rhyming... may come back to it later... will see. I think it might add to it although it is a total contrast to the title of the poem which is a serious topic. Saw your Hooligan poem... very good, will be on your post later, letting it sink in. I could see how hard you worked on it, short, but solid... more later... believe it or not going to post another here now. I'm in a frenzy, not a "great" one but oh well... guess I'm feeding on the frenzy happening at work...
Virtual Rita vital air, a tart, a trull a Tula ritual rival ‘till Lill. I tilt. Lill, a lilt, a virtu vault a lava villa a larva trail. Val, a Taal lit aura, lira tail, ultra tall rail a liar a trial, a rut, ill airt. This was just more of an excercise. I read a poem called Vowels by Christian Bök where he only used the consonents and vowels in the word vowels in his poem. I chose the word Virtual (seemed to have plenty of vowels and some consonents I like the sound of "l" "v" "r" "t"); I spent a lot of time with an online dictionary; tried to come up with as many words as possible which I listed out including pronouns of cities/rivers, etc.; and the poem above is what resulted. Here are some definitions so you don't have to go look them up too. trull - prostitute Tula - town in Mexico lilt - lively song virtu - collection of artwork Taal - active volcano (Phillipines) airt - direction This exercise first of all taught me new words, forced me to focus on the function of the word (verb, noun, etc.), made me realize how hard this must have been for Christian Bok - he certainly went through several words before he found one that connected so well, and well I definitely missed "s" and "e". It's obvious my title doesn't connect with the topic of the poem... but this is in a way a "virtual" poem... Now that I think about it, his doesn't connect with his topic either... or did it? I'll have to go back and read it again. Being a poet on some days is frustration and too much thinking. I need a beer. It's 8:09 a.m. Late to work, my virtual job - which is probably one big reason I write, I would go insane if I didn't have something else!
I think writing 'Virtual' must have been challenging and possibly even fun. It's an interesting excercise, stretching your skills in such a controlled manner. I'm impressed the way you managed to get a sort of coherent poem with such limits imposed on your available vocabulary, but ultimately I found it difficult to read and without your glossary of terms, I'm sure it would have been impossible to understand too. I want to take your lead and try and expand my horizons a bit and stretch my abilities. As always, I'm looking forward to reading more of your work.
This is a draft of something I wrote this a.m. I've been in a bit of a writing hiatus but jumping into it again, so here I am and here is first pouring... not my best stuff but a start, hopefully... He’s not You, He’s He I walked across hot sun baked stones among cracks in dry earth big enough to swallow me, through a forest dank and dark and crawling with unspeakables where the trees reached down to slap at me into a gorge and up the side of a volcano across places I couldn’t see a horizon from into places where I had no reflection and now I’m here at the banks of a great lake immense and promising where the sun is gentle where your voice is a mere whisper rolling on a breeze toward the outer shore barely causing a ripple along the water.
Yay! You're back. OK, this is my immediate reaction to your poem. I just read it and haven't even had time to think about it but here goes. The first 2 stanzas are good. The imagery is great and the rhythm is good too, but I would get rid of 'at' and leave the trees reached down to slap me. Helps the rhythm I think and also lets us know that the branches are actually low enough to hit you. Feels a little more claustraphobic this way. The last two stanzas are also great. Perfect even. The part that I would work on is the bit between. The line with the horizon reference seems awkward and jolts the flow of an easily read poem. Anyhow, I wil have a more detailed look later on, when I get back from some errands. Peace, A.
Here Across hot sun baked stones, dry earth, through dank forests crawling with unspeakables, across places with no horizon I’ve come. Here. To the banks of a great lake immense and promising where the sun is gentle where his voice is a mere whisper rolling on a breeze toward the outer shore barely causing a ripple along the water. Hey Red, revamped this one. First thought... maybe it should be "you're you" vs. "he's not you".... haha. Look forward not back right? Anyway, then I did what I typically do with my first drafts, I hacked at it some. I like it better now... but you can see I dropped a lot of it. It somehow opened up a bit, no longer directed at someone, more of an observation about reaching a new place... Is it finished? Heck, no. I think it's not that great... but for today I'm done with it.
Hi Vetty, I'm going to agree with red a bit, the three spaced lines need the most work, but i wouldnt cut them if i were you. i really liked the images in them, foreign, exotic, lost... i would maybe cut the spaces and make them a third stanza and just play with the wording a little. like: "into a gorge, up the side of a volcano / across ____ with no horizon / into places i had no reflection"...(i would only use "places" once if you have to at all, its a pretty vague term.) anyway, i like this poem...it has great vibes and i like the way you start by wandering and end standing still...
Matter Behold the woman, work of fine art embraced by canvas. Loved forevermore tendered tresses contemplated mouth perfectly still. Why, must longing stir turmoil into my quiet; don’t I believe that these lips were also pondered?
Seeds For awhile, I’ve been lying outstretched on this mountain. Heels digging into its hard-packed earth, fingers holding its scraggly grass. I watch passing clouds with the promise of rain, others like gossamer cloth. Some mornings, dew arrives like Romeo my heart becomes the seed of a sunflower tossing deep seeking roots into the mountain. On those mornings it’s clear, the rain will return the flower will sprout seed the breeze will gust.
I loved the third stanza, with the image of dew arriving like Romeo... that was my wow moment with this one. I think there's the potential for a few more in there if you try to weave in the unusual.
Frenzied notes along the roof, a rebellious rehearsal. The maestro dozing. Opus of a clinging hungry child. Melody of a calloused mouth mesmerized by the skin of a lover’s breasts. Mother earth relents. Insatiable white consumes her symphony, allotting it a hymn summoning spring.
