thanks! i wanted it to be darker, but i dont really think that came across. i think i will be writing a nonfiction essay on it when i'm a little more detached and can see it more objectively, hopefully then i can get across some of the darker details of living with meth addicts...
Haha, nice one Sky. I'm taking a Brit Lit Survey at the moment as well. And since it is a survey of the Romantic Period through the Modern Period and i've taken a British Romantics class, a Victorian Lit class, and a Modern-Post Modern British fiction class I've seen this stuff a whole lot and that makes it easier. Just had a midterm today. Anyway, thought I'd write a response to your poem here for fun on the homework I'm supposed to be doing at the moment: Re-writing a scene from Streetcar Named Desire and adding a character in such a way that it changes one of the intrinsic properties about the play. Desiring the Streetcar Blanche stands in the doorway blue paint stripped in layers, peeling from Katrina rain blue notes shifting the air, slipping around her pale dress - the fragility of lace is Blanche and her blue desire maybe a telegram will come, maybe a call Blanche is diluted by New Orleans heat voices like grenades (or hurricanes) dispel her mad, silent reverie I walk up the stairs and stare at her Here I am my dear, I speak like a trumpet, she turns (stark eyes downcast) walks (shy hesitating feet) we are in the kitchen drinking booze smelling talcum, acrid alcohol, oversweet perfume Blanche's body is a ruined temple My hand is a slow, irrelevant rudder directing her to the bedroom Rubbish. Instead, I am a poor boy fantasizing when really I should begin my writing --------------------------------------------- Where do you go to school Sky? -V
Hi...I havent posted anything in a while, i got self-conscious all of a sudden, but i need help with this one. what do i need to do with it? do you get anything out of it? (untitled) Lightning fireworks fizzle through July sauna sky- it rains. The smog's acid tears are also hers. Rain drums her shoulders- t-tap, t-tap with her pulse. Her heart beats behind ribs like slick white cement. She breathes. Trees breathe, leaves exhale around her, she inhales the wind. Thunder cracks thick black clouds, ridges flood with electric light. Her heart beats, t-tap. It rains, it rains. Thunder like her pulse, flash-fizz-crack- t-tap, t-tap. The trees breathe. The grass whispers, "go home, its coming." Just wait, its coming. Her heart beats- inhale, exhale... She exists.
You don't need any help, Skyfire. This is a nice piece. Only a couple trouble spots for me personally. First what I liked though. The best thing I think about this poem is the auditory nature of it...that repetitive "t-tap t-tap"...beautiful. I love the piece just for that. Humans are far too visual, poems tend to be far too visual (mine especially). The other senses though can be just as effective, and sometimes more. Nice work. The line: Her heart beats behind ribs like slick white cement; oh man, I wish I'd written that. Very sweet. The feeling this poem gave me as I read it was indescribable, but it was there...sort of shivery and visceral. The weak spot, the only one as I see it, is the end. "She exists"...the trouble is, we already know that. She's spent the whole time breathing and heart-beating, know what I mean. I hate to make suggestions to other writers (it's hang-up, I know), but if you want one, I'd end it: "Her heart beats- inhale, exhale... t-tap, t-tap." Also, the "its" in your second last stanza should be "it's" should it not? I like your stuff. Look forward to more.
Hi Skyfire, I've been doing a lot more reading than writing lately. I'm really trying to improve my poetry, studying the craft, watching line breaks, grammar, overuse of adjectives, cliches. I'm in serious workshop mode and I have realised that a lot of the stuff I write, while having a nice rhythm, needs a lot more work. Something I've been told recently is 'Show, don't tell'. Having said all of that, this poem of yours is already quite good. I will go through it and give a few pointers and suggestions on where I think it needs some minor tightening. First, let me say that the t-tap, t-tap, is beautiful sonically and visually and really holds the piece together. OK, here we go. Lightning fireworks fizzle through July sauna sky- it rains. There are no excess words. You employ alliteration perfectly, and the onomatapaeia of fizzle is great. Altogether, a great opening, painting the scene perfectly. The smog's acid tears are also hers. Rain drums her shoulders- t-tap, t-tap Here acid tears is great. The line break after tears works well but I preferred it to move it to after acid, leaving both lines capable of standing alone. I thought that you didn't need to re-use rain. You've already described it as acid tears, so why bring the reader back to reality. Plus t-tap should maybe be tagged onto the end of this stanza, the dash after shoulders already seperates it well enough. I would maybe suggest something like this. The smog's acid tears are also hers, drumming her shoulders- t-tap, t-tap with her pulse. Her heart beats behind ribs like slick white cement. I love the way the new stanza begins 'with her pulse' and I love slick white cement. In fact this little part is just perfect. She breathes. Everybody breathes. I would get rid of this for sure. I would add another t-tap, t-tap here just to keep it constant through out the poem. Trees breathe, leaves exhale around her, she inhales the wind. Thunder cracks thick black clouds, *snip ridges flood with electric light. *snip whipping her pulse- flash-fizz-crack, t-tap, t-tap. First four lines are great and although I like the sound of 'crack, thick, black', clouds being described as thick and black isn't exactly groundbreaking imagery. I would perhaps lose the last two lines here and do a bit of cut 'n paste from below. Flash-fizz-crack really sounds like a whipping action which is why I chose that verb. The trees breathe. The grass whispers, "go home, its coming." *snip Just wait, its coming. *snip *what's coming? the storm? Without a little description, you are leaving too much to the reader's imagination. I would cut those two lines. I also love Nick Scratch's idea for the finish and would keep it. Her heart beats- inhale, exhale... t-tap, t-tap. I really enjoyed working on this as I am in workshop mode lately. It may seem that I disliked a lot of it but that's not the case. In fact, I loved it. I hope my suggestions may prove helpful in your future redrafts. That's what they are meant to be. Peace, Aidan. My draft: Lightning fireworks fizzle through July sauna sky- it rains. The smog's acid tears are also hers, drumming her shoulders- t-tap, t-tap with her pulse. Her heart beats behind ribs like slick white cement, t-tap, t-tap. Trees breathe, leaves exhale around her, she inhales the wind. Thunder cracks, whips her pulse- flash-fizz-crack, t-tap, t-tap. The trees breathe. The grass whispers, Her heart beats- inhale, exhale... t-tap, t-tap. Once again, thanks for posting this.
Hi all, have been absent for a while, but figured I'd post some new stuff. Enjoy, if you please. Atlantic Twilight I cannot tell if it is raining or I am catching ocean spray, but I shiver & the wind does not care. Pelicans fly in-line like Chinese dragons, dip & glide bump & slide, in & out of waves necks craned, wings wide. Waves erase the day’s footprints & the forever horizon has hazed from cut & polished topaz to tarnished steel gray. ________ In Between Caught in the slide between the second hand’s tick, a metronome’s left arc, the crest of breaking waves: I am all stars in the earth’s rotation and the sun, both rising and setting. Anchored by the sand between my toes, my eyes forever reflect the sky. And all this time I have been, but where? __________ Indecision I planned to throw my pen deep into the Indian River until remembering the bar patrons surrounding me on the wooden deck dangling over the water. The pen rested on the chipped-white-paint ledge, waiting. A gull floated on heat waves. A damp wind fingered my notebook pages and flicked my pen into the brackish mire. ___________ Minneapolis Morning Sun shines though snow flakes falling, piercing the cloud of my breath. Breathers wait in a fog on the corner for the number 2 bus, and the street breathes under my feet, steam rising from storm drains. This city wakes with taxi exhaust yawns and light-rail grumbles, and the travelers stomping over snow banks, dodge drivers skidding into crosswalks, honk at cars stopped on green. The bang and the clang go unnoticed by the snow. It falls through the bustle and the sun.
(My pieces are always in a state of unrest so I'm sorry if I seem redundant...) Bartender’s Lament Its not even worth the candles’ time to burn. They sit snuffed on empty tables in an empty bar where the bass beats empty noise into windowless walls. Liquor bottles aligned like Qin’s terracotta army, armed yet defunct. Reminders that once there was life. But now, the concrete floor is cold as beer in the cooler and ice melts in its well. Dance floor lights dim from boredom, and the clock gives up counting. _________ Choices Perched on a thin pine bough fifty feet above an early winter’s frozen ground, pine pitch sticks to palms and jeans and dried orange needles poke through to thighs. Wind bites the face and legs and rocks the branch like nursery rhymes. Quivering arm reaching toward the trunk like a squirrel tight-roping telephone wires, tail twitching. Wondering: await an inevitable fall, or simply choose to jump? _________________ Flash-Whiz-Crack Lightning fireworks fizzle through July sauna sky. Smog's acid tears drum her shoulders- t-tap, t-tap with her pulse. Her heart beats behind ribs like slick white cement echoes thunder, t-tap, t-tap. Tree leaves exhale, she inhales the wind like a wet-towel smack- flash-whiz-crack t-tap, t-tap. She skips across puddles lilacs in hand, dances to the clang of the big brass band- t-tap, t-tap.
You're awesome. Those three pieces are all so different and unique. I think my favorite is Flash-Whiz-Crack, it's just too precious.
Gypsy With Minneapolis for a crown he explains electromagnetism and how he will use it to build a light saber. Lanky fingers pulse a mirrored wave toward an invisible apex, converge collapse collide, reflect deflect into onto themselves then return to their source. Like a tuning fork, he’d say, its all just sound waves. It’s the musician in him, the magician in him. Stand-up bass strings like arteries from his heart. Lights lining Hennepin bridge a Seurat pointillism on the fresh-shaved canvas that is his cranium. Empty plastic grocery bag bumbles like tumbleweed down the street, swirls at his feet. Eh, he’d say, I’m just talkin’ fortune cookie.
Oooh LOVE the Gypsy piece. I'm vibing with it. These lines are really neat: "It’s the musician in him, the magician in him. Stand-up bass strings like arteries from his heart. "
Thanks a million kittenx...u seem to b my only fan these days..I really appreciate your continued support
Crows We are scavengers. Crows on a carcass picking the last rotted flesh from stark white broken bone. The dowry of a life’s work, we’ve devoured. ___________ Homicidal Kill me, you say? Will you bind me and toss me in the Mississippi? Strangle me? Will you shoot me in the head? Carve out my heart and parade it in front of my family? Make my parents siblings grandma cry and quake in terror and remember always your power, my mistakes. Will you even bother to go to those lengths? Or will you just throw me over the bridge, hands chained to feet chained to concrete? Chucked like trash, alive, so the last thing I know are your eyes, black as the river at night.
Boy and Girl He swings sticks as swords, runs in the sun, throws rocks at cats squirrels pedal-bikers, burns ants in a magnified ray. He earns dimes and quarters running neighborhood errands, spends every penny on corner store candy. Banters with other boys from sun-up to sunset, he can’t sit down. Skinny as a broomstick, hair a nappy shag. He is boy, what is more? She plays dress-up in a stash of mom’s prom gowns. She waltzes in sunlit attic room. Swirls long ringlets, awry, into up-do in vanity mirror. Helps grandma bake cookies, colors pretty crayon pictures. She dresses Barbie and Ken, plays house. Barbie has a job in the city and her own car, Ken cooks dinner. She is girl, what is more? He moves in with she, she quits her job, he’s working. She sleeps ‘til three, doesn’t shower every day. He stops for a drink, stays ‘til close. She does dishes and has his dinner ready, it goes cold. He snores, sprawled on the recliner, she leaves room for him in their bed. He speaks a language she doesn’t know. He is only boy, she is only girl, what is more?
YIKES. Boy and girl. That was genius. I love the way you build it up. The gender game and what happens when we try to fit together, when we lack understanding. It's actually a really sad piece and thought provoking. And I -just- wrote a piece with boys and girls must be a similar wavelength.
