Contrasts of then and now

Taking a look through the old poem review thread when there were dedicated people doing reviews on new poems and while it was arduous for those involved it seemed like that extra effort seemed to spark a more community like atmosphere of sharing and commenting. Without which I would still be thinking of poetry as (cringe, shudder) rhyming couplets...... this place misses a lot of those voices that helped and encouraged.

As much flack as 1201 caught and often brought on himself I feel he is missed here because his acid often made others help the newer poets. I believe I have grown worlds away from where I started out. I wish I had the time to put out more comments on work posted. Also looking at Mirrorimages post regarding the poetry forum which has been a shambling zombie for a couple of months I agree with her. It took me months to find out there was a forum and that though the people here at first were a bit standoffish, warmed quickly and welcomed me as a "poet" helped me to actually become something closer to a "poet".

It annoys me thought,that G'M, one of the best poets here can barely garner the same number of views as a thread only created a few weeks ago simply coz it was linked on the home page.

shut up todski, you're drunk and rambling/........./

Oh yeah the point



Post a contrasting pair of poems from when you first started writing through to now
les see how you have grown. since you first started

I'll post some of my junk in here soon

Wow they are worse than I thought.....

Day Dreaming by Todski28.......first piece I ever submitted here complete with spelling mistakes and all of its blemishes.

Eyes crystal blue,
How I want you

To sample you delicate dish,
Is my firmest wish

Imagining your salty fleshy taste,
Makes my heart skip jump and race

Body a flame craving the heat of yours,
My mind betraying my deepest flaws

Lusting for a sinful delight,
Strip you naked, memorize the sight

In my dreams this can be real,
I can worship your body with sight taste and feel

We can explore each others darkest desires
The heat of our passion igniting fires.

Sampling what each has to give,
remembering each moment as long as I live.

Our lips touch, sparks fly
Fierce passion I exhale with a sigh

Yearning for every inch of you,
Demanding you go further too

Your body presses tight into mine,
Our lips locked your scent devine

The tension in me riving me crazy,
Your intoxicating caressMy thoughts are hazy

My body quivering with need and lust,
All hope of controll turns to dust

All of me tense as steel,
Your body the opposite feel

Every part of you so soft so yielding
My constraints buckled my mind I am wielding

All actions and deeds now bent to please you
Confindent and strong I know what to do

I awaken from my dream state unsatisfied,
For the briefest of moments I cling to the lies

With a rueful sigh and a shake of my head,
I pack up I move on those thoughts never dead

Forever dreams, dreams they shall stay,
I will torture myself with them another day

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A similar themed poem written nearly two years later.


slam down that glass of liquid happy
another round
celebrating
what I don't know
why I can't say
but it beats the hard heat
of summers day
and memories that play

sad country music
sang in voice smooth
liquid, sounds that tug
at, the time she sat,

fuck that
pour me another,
mask the stench
perfume on unwashed flesh
a masquerade
try to feel the better days
or at least damp the fire

pour me another
imbibe the inebriation
like masturbation
sure feels good
but you're only fucking your
mind with another round
drown out all but the sound
of a man and the silky strum
the tones of his voice
through the haze of smoke
that I haven't done in years
and damn it feels good
twisted cough, a knife in my lungs
the head spins roll out

I can imagine you through the
smoky wisps of.....

pour me another the bottom
of my glass is mocking me
daring me to have some more
to forget
why I was here in the first place
why was I here,

pour me another tender bar tender
stroke my mind with lotus leaf, delete
the repeating thoughts of

pour me another
wee's a celebrashin

todski28 said:

Taking a look through the old poem review thread when there were dedicated people doing reviews on new poems and while it was arduous for those involved it seemed like that extra effort seemed to spark a more community like atmosphere of sharing and commenting. Without which I would still be thinking of poetry as (cringe, shudder) rhyming couplets...... this place misses a lot of those voices that helped and encouraged.

As much flack as 1201 caught and often brought on himself I feel he is missed here because his acid often made others help the newer poets. I believe I have grown worlds away from where I started out. I wish I had the time to put out more comments on work posted. Also looking at Mirrorimages post regarding the poetry forum which has been a shambling zombie for a couple of months I agree with her. It took me months to find out there was a forum and that though the people here at first were a bit standoffish, warmed quickly and welcomed me as a "poet" helped me to actually become something closer to a "poet".

It annoys me thought,that G'M, one of the best poets here can barely garner the same number of views as a thread only created a few weeks ago simply coz it was linked on the home page.

shut up todski, you're drunk and rambling/........./

Oh yeah the point



Post a contrasting pair of poems from when you first started writing through to now
les see how you have grown. since you first started

I'll post some of my junk in here soon

Click to expand...

Thanks, tod, (even though you were drunk and rambling LOL), that's nice of you to say. I too would like to see that curmudgeon, 1201, come back to Lit. He had a knack for getting me to think about writing, which is why I came here in the first place.

That's a remarkable second poem BTW.

This poem, which is a bit of a tongue-twister, was posted in 2009, and formed the basis of the two that follow.

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme

(1796 in the Sargasso Sea)

The stars return like life itself but pale
Before the eyes among the nearly dead
To hush the swagger in the old salt’s tale
Of whiskey, whores, and harbors still ahead.

Nostalgic now, he sings “La Marseillaise,”
But neither flag nor happenstance may grant
The crew full speed to coral reefs and bays
Off Florida to find the scurvy plant.

Each day, I know, she fears the widow’s walk
And seeks the church instead to visualize
Our fate in spite of idle tavern talk
As having found safe harbored paradise.

The word for hunger sounds like femme, Mon Dieu.
I hunger for her all the while and pray
Faith, hope, and love rejuvenate the few
Who stand or feed our souls to pass away.

Genevieve

When last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
stood Genevieve, I had been told,
on widow's watch whose prayerful pleas
said Belanger in heart and soul,
Trafalgar in her rosary.

As once pled she, so now I plead
upon an atoll's slivered reef
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
I'd give to Rome for Genevieve.


The Devil's Triangle

What is there but to read or write
poetry now that Satan has come?
He strangles the ship with sargassum fingers
after he blew the trade winds away.
Oh, that I were on the Saguenay
bypassing ice floes in Louis' New France
where once I traded for Iroquois pelts.

I should have tacked more in the South Atlantic
from west equatorial Africa
to the Portuguese land of the parrots,
except Monsieur le Gouverneur sent word
his treasury was lacking for molasses,
and sea dogs wanted their kill devil rum.

Perhaps we have perished and gone to hell
for having thrown them overboard,
first the frail, intended as one transaction
The Company surely would have forgiven,
but soon there were needed all of the rations
for black feral muscle ready at auction.

Desmarais, I fear, will not last the night,
but in his madness he says there is time
to find a young widow who for her passage
will pleasure us all the way back to France
where for a fee he will have his bother
the priest dispense us small penance.

greenmountaineer said:

This poem, which is a bit of a tongue-twister, was posted in 2009, and formed the basis of the two that follow.

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme

(1796 in the Sargasso Sea)

The stars return like life itself but pale
Before the eyes among the nearly dead
To hush the swagger in the old salt’s tale
Of whiskey, whores, and harbors still ahead.

Nostalgic now, he sings “La Marseillaise,”
But neither flag nor happenstance may grant
The crew full speed to coral reefs and bays
Off Florida to find the scurvy plant.

Each day, I know, she fears the widow’s walk
And seeks the church instead to visualize
Our fate in spite of idle tavern talk
As having found safe harbored paradise.

The word for hunger sounds like femme, Mon Dieu.
I hunger for her all the while and pray
Faith, hope, and love rejuvenate the few
Who stand or feed our souls to pass away.

Genevieve

When last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
stood Genevieve, I had been told,
on widow's watch whose prayerful pleas
said Belanger in heart and soul,
Trafalgar in her rosary.

As once pled she, so now I plead
upon an atoll's slivered reef
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
I'd give to Rome for Genevieve.


The Devil's Triangle

What is there but to read or write
poetry now that Satan has come?
He strangles the ship with sargassum fingers
after he blew the trade winds away.
Oh, that I were on the Saguenay
bypassing ice floes in Louis' New France
where once I traded for Iroquois pelts.

I should have tacked more in the South Atlantic
from west equatorial Africa
to the Portuguese land of the parrots,
except Monsieur le Gouverneur sent word
his treasury was lacking for molasses,
and sea dogs wanted their kill devil rum.

Perhaps we have perished and gone to hell
for having thrown them overboard,
first the frail, intended as one transaction
The Company surely would have forgiven,
but soon there were needed all of the rations
for black feral muscle ready at auction.

Desmarais, I fear, will not last the night,
but in his madness he says there is time
to find a young widow who for her passage
will pleasure us all the way back to France
where for a fee he will have his bother
the priest dispense us small penance.

Click to expand...

All three are to me brilliant poems,

I feel that you control over syllables, consonance and vowels and your structure in writing has become more refined, each line reads to a very steady rhythm that helps build you narratives

greenmountaineer said:

The Devil's Triangle

What is there but to read or write
poetry now that Satan has come?
He strangles the ship with sargassum fingers
after he blew the trade winds away.
Oh, that I were on the Saguenay
bypassing ice floes in Louis' New France
where once I traded for Iroquois pelts.

I should have tacked more in the South Atlantic
from west equatorial Africa
to the Portuguese land of the parrots,
except Monsieur le Gouverneur sent word
his treasury was lacking for molasses,
and sea dogs wanted their kill devil rum.

Perhaps we have perished and gone to hell
for having thrown them overboard,
first the frail, intended as one transaction
The Company surely would have forgiven,
but soon there were needed all of the rations
for black feral muscle ready at auction.

Desmarais, I fear, will not last the night,
but in his madness he says there is time
to find a young widow who for her passage
will pleasure us all the way back to France
where for a fee he will have his bother
the priest dispense us small penance.

Click to expand...

This one in particular catches my eye and my ear. It's got a strong story-telling feel to it, a coherent narrative, but without sacrificing any of its artistry. It is steeped in authenticity, well-themed, and made more impressive for it by the detail work in the syllable work.

Question for greenmountaineer, but also for the rest of the poets

As a poet I suffer big time from premature submission (which is probably worse than premature ejaculation).

I wonder, greenmountaineer - how do you work on your poems? how long do you spend on each? and how often do you come back to each one over time, to polish them as they are now?

legerdemer said:

As a poet I suffer big time from premature submission (which is probably worse than premature ejaculation).

I wonder, greenmountaineer - how do you work on your poems? long do you spend on each? and how often do you come back to each one over time, to polish them as they are now?

Click to expand...

legerdemer: I confess to the enjoyment of editing as much as I do writing the original. I'm reminded of two comments made by poets here on Lit. The first is that of Angeline who wrote to the effect that the poem you thought was wonderful three months later is, well, not so much. There's the opportunity to perhaps make a good poem better.

You've posted some good stuff here. I'll bet you a metaphorical cyberspace cup of coffee if you re-visited that poem you wrote 3+ months ago, you'd find something to make the poem better.

The second aha for me was written by a poet whose monicker started with "emp"(but I can't remember the rest of it) who said that poetry demanded precision. I agree with that although the Jack Kerouacs of the world may not. When I substitute a word, rework the diction in a line, or try something different that results in something that "feels" better than what was, it's a joy.

To be fair, I have to say I'm retired. I have the time perhaps that others don't have in their busy lives.

AMoveableBeast said:

This one in particular catches my eye and my ear. It's got a strong story-telling feel to it, a coherent narrative, but without sacrificing any of its artistry. It is steeped in authenticity, well-themed, and made more impressive for it by the detail work in the syllable work.

Click to expand...

Thanks so much.

I miss Twelveoone too.

My poetry is an improvement over what it was a decade ago, but I have no original writings to compare with. In the last 16 months, I rewrote and replaced every serious piece I've ever submitted to the various forums I attend. As long as there is an EDIT button available, I take advantage and make everything I've put into one corner of the WWW consistent with the other three corners.

And because I do attend various forums, it is impossible to maintain a constant presence here.

Especially at the moment, while I am currently posting under 4 accounts simultaneously in another forum.

I think the revised piece needs a new title, maybe, a bit unsure.


Travelling The Tarmac


Have to hit the road, flee
in that moment a flash
of glinting steell a pale throat
begging to be opened
set blood free to mingle
with the cross
hatching of tiles over
a laugh in jest
the last laugh a clatter of metal
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting
gleam of his eyes

feet echo out a transient beat
dull thuds
trees breathe in this state
of being I laugh at the wonder
I discover leaping

thoughts trickle and flood
ebbing flows in blood
streaming synapse fire
moons eye is shattered
then recreated in a thousand
waves

teleported time distorted
illusioned stupor
Tarmac gives way to dream
time
owl sized eyes see clear
as day in black a cactus stalk
sways waves me forward
race to the cliff face
trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous
death in misted breath
I laugh at being mortal
taste it on the wind

that threatens to upend
my travelling feet
stamping to a perilous
beat

On the road again time
bends
skin grainy
dirty
gritty
crusted in salt painted
streaks of black, brown
and red
head bowed at my faults
tumultuous thoughts
shoes filled with blistered
blood

Foot falls crunch
day light burns
somewhere I fell
somewhere I caught
myself

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shane snorts another line
then I do mine

our party trick,
one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……

hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go

what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block

his pale throat

begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling

metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched, foetal curled he gurgles
"please don't" shaking adrenaline
fuels his fear

my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars

a door slams,
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat
owl sized eyes slice through night

a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that
just sleep

head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath

the wind tastes mortal
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator

the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I

fell

somewhere I caught myself

it’s Sunday

Fathers Lament

on the whispered wind
season change, time ticks on
flesh marked bitter, puckered
scabbed and weeping
near a year since you were
born, un-born
remember,
grieve,
wound not healed
soul still open
eyes leak, feel broken

took up a quest in words
to see if a life so full of
well, just full
could empty a little onto
a screen, bring something
that means, well anything

another shooting star that blazes
away and fades into a memory

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

three nights past the new moon
blood worms spawn
slither free from mangrove silt
float to the surface
mating ritual consummated
feed the fish
so the next generation may live.

three nights past the full moon
you sacrifice yourself
push and breathe
float to the surface of a dream's reality
cradle your swollen belly where she kicked

so close now

push that last push

the cries are the cries of silence
screaming an echo of tinnitus

she
is still
a porcelain doll
one arm malformed
gently passed between the family
so she may live in our hearts

three nights past the full moon
nature got it wrong

todski28 said:

I think the revised piece needs a new title, maybe, a bit unsure.

Click to expand...

I don't think the title fits now.

And, damn.... it's so good.

This was about the first I posted ...............
.
Let's hear your applause for the Flasher,
Don't leave his bravery unsung.
For although he might have a pip-squeak,
He may be really well hung.
As he gathers his nerve to surprise you,
Don't laugh at his efforts off-hand,
But consider his ego and feeling
And declare him the best in the land.
.
Followed by my favourite Sestina
.
Theme a little Theme (of me)
.
I asked
who themed
a summer place.
I said
Percy Faith,
I played it well.

Are you well
used to being asked
Mr Faith,
how you themed
by what's said
in this place?

A lovely place
obviously well
worth it, he said
when asked,
This was themed
taken in good faith.

Put your faith
for a place,
decide what's themed
arrange it well
and if you're asked
keep it said.

He often said
such faith
was unasked
for, misplace
the will
just call it themed.

But themed
it must be said,
I always will
state my faith
in any place,
whoever asked.

What is themed here represents my faith,
I've always said it in this place,
and it is well you asked.

sestinas still scare the hell out of me
I will maybe try to write one, one day. No promises though

todski28 said:

sestinas still scare the hell out of me
I will maybe try to write one, one day. No promises though

Click to expand...

No, not for the faint hearted one poet on here used to use a spreadsheet to get it right and Angeline refuses point blank to write them, that's why I've never done a teach in on them!

Bumping

Though i think there was a better one....

Life is way too busy for this writing stuff these days all ive the time for is random rants and too much of it political i can't think of how much I've burnt my brain on that shit....

I will riffle through my archives and pick out an early blunder, then something that makes me blush a little less. Just can't do it now.

Removed

GP (but you know I'm really thinking PoeTess), Voluntary Entertainment is lovely. You really brought that scene alive. It touched on all the senses. Love reading you here again.

Angeline said:

GP (but you know I'm really thinking PoeTess), Voluntary Entertainment is lovely. You really brought that scene alive. It touched on all the senses. Love reading you here again.

Click to expand...

Thank you Ange.

Ooops.