Before and after, an exercize.

greenmountaineer said:

I agree if the sole purpose is to reduce the words. But I don't think other poetic devices should be thrown out the window. There's a hypnotic effect in the sound of the poem for me in Senna's version with the feminine endings, inclusive of the title, and then the variation at the end. I'm not a big fan of short poems (I think basically because I'm a story teller at heart), but I enjoyed the craft I saw in both versions.

Click to expand...

hello no, i agree with you about not throwing out the baby with the bathwater: a reduction should serve the purpose of decluttering, polishing, without changing (or to change for the better) the original meaning. Personally, as i rewrite pieces, i will change their original meaning in order to try and find the better poem within. What i saw 12 do, and offer as yet another reduction that - as he states - changes meaning again, is just where my mind immediately took Senna's write. It's not necessarily a good thing to do, as it's changing it to something from my own perspective rather than the poem's - but it IS what i saw. And preferred, truth be told. But that's ok, to prefer something, just not to attempt to impose - which I don't believe I did.

Senna Jawa said:

First of all, thank you greenmountaineer for your kind comment about both of my versions.

My both poems, the short and the longer one, are very good. In general, there are poems of different style and scope. Some of them are very good. They cannot be compared, one with another or any with mine, either way. But it's simply hard to find any poem which would match mine, which would be simply better than mine.

Butters wrote: this is where my head wanted...--Butters should sit on her head or else her head is totally wasted. The same goes for Tshota who ignorantly volunteered: These are both pretty bad (Tshota talked about my shorter poem and about someone's added boring junk).

Click to expand...

Butters has to go to work. Sitting on her head would make traveling quite uncomfortable. Senna, ivory towers are only good for a few things, and tend to get quite lonely after a spell.

version 1

Now I'm mad
There's hell to pay

version 2

I'm mad as hell

version 3

gesture

HarryHill said:

version 1

Now I'm mad
There's hell to pay

version 2

I'm mad as hell

version 3

gesture

Click to expand...

Ok Harry, that's funny.

I'm going to delete posts where people insult each other and call each other idiots, except for the ones that also have poetry content. Those I'll move to a thread in the Hangout for 24 hours so people have time to keep their poem stuff if they want it.

We're all grown-ups here. I think. And please, don't anyone say who started what first because honestly that is what my kids say and then I say, "I don't wanna hear it."

Angeline said:

Ok Harry, that's funny.

I'm going to delete posts where people insult each other and call each other idiots, except for the ones that also have poetry content. Those I'll move to a thread in the Hangout for 24 hours so people have time to keep their poem stuff if they want it.

We're all grown-ups here. I think. And please, don't anyone say who started what first because honestly that is what my kids say and then I say, "I don't wanna hear it."

Click to expand...

Wait 'til I read all the good parts

HarryHill said:

Wait 'til I read all the good parts

Click to expand...

Sorry.

greenmountaineer said:

I agree if the sole purpose is to reduce the words. But I don't think other poetic devices should be thrown out the window. There's a hypnotic effect in the sound of the poem for me in Senna's version with the feminine endings, inclusive of the title, and then the variation at the end. I'm not a big fan of short poems (I think basically because I'm a story teller at heart), but I enjoyed the craft I saw in both versions.

Click to expand...

Actually, my response did say something "good" about the writers that showed up, reduction changes the effect and meaning. I have never read a poem by GM or Tess or UYS or Senna or you Angeline, that I felt needed it. It at best would be the law of diminishing returns, at a point, as GM points out it becomes negative return.
You can if you wish, chalk this up to an insult, or the rambling of someone that does not know poetry if you wish.
On the other hand, I did direct someone who does need it here.

1+2: 1.exercise + 2.mature poetry

Tristesse2 said:

Choose one of your poems, posted or not, any length or form. The exercise is to remove and words you feel are unnecessary, then go back and remove more. Keep removing with out losing the meaning of the poem. Reduce it by a ¼, a 1/3 then ½ until you reach the essence.

Post both versions in this thread, before and after.

Click to expand...

The crucial moment of this post is: the essence. Or, more in full: reduce a poem to its essence.

There are two interpretations. Trist means to remove the unnecessary elements. That would mean that the original longer text was not truly a poem but only a proposition of a poem, and the actual poem would be the shorter version.

Within a liberal margin of a poetic thread I addressed a different version of Trist's theme. Indeed, when a poem is good then a shorter version must give up on some essential poetic moments of the original. The short version may even introduce minimal additions, and on the total it has to omit phrases or lines which otherwise can be meaningful. And still the shorter version can keep the main message of the poetic trust, it may preserve the essence of the longer poem.

And, when poems are good, then there is a trade off. Possibly not an equal trade off but nevertheless the shorter poem is not majorized by the longer one nor vice versa--or else one of the poem is not really a poem. In particular, when the shorter poem is good then its very brevity is already an advantage, while the missing elements contribute to the advantage of the longer version. The key word is good (or true poetry).

Thus while the original theme was an exercise, I added to this thread the mature poetry examples. Actually, greenmountaineer was the first who has provided a pair of related longer and shorter poems which served as an example which went beyond the original Tristesse2 topic (if meant strictly).

The other direction

Senna Jawa said:

The key word is good (or true poetry).

Click to expand...

If Trist gave up on "unnecessary" then it opens the opposite direction. Occasionally given a short poem a longer (even much longer) follows.

The two poems, written in either chronological order: long => short or short => long, can be authored by two different authors. Just avoid undoing, i.e. trivialization--writing something trivial when compared with the original--that's an artistic crime. To my own poems the two kind of variations were written too (and sometimes also crimes were committed, the poem got victimized).

Writing two versions harmonizes conceptually with a discussion of translations. In each case you need an acute alertness to... oh, well, there is a lot to write about all this.

crimes?
the poem got victimized?

a somewhat nonsensical concept, in my opinion.

Tsotha, i will take the poem you kindly suggested and work on elimination then post both versions here. Perhaps others will be good enough to offer me their opinions of what did or didn't work, and even thoughts on improvement.

saving my place, Tess

ok, here's the original with 2 alternate versions.
(think i'm losing myself somewhere.) can others suggest further cuts without losing what the poem's saying? i know my limitations

decompression's a wonderful thing

drunk on oxy-gene
the reefs beckon
smiling, you sing with clowns
before the bends hit you
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


decompression's a wonderful thing 2

the reef beckons
sing smilingly with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


decompression's a wonderful thing 3

the reef beckons
sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


is there another word that can combine the sense of 'smilingly' and 'sing' to make this neater?

Nip it it the bud, Andy

butters said:

ok, here's the original with 2 alternate versions.
(think i'm losing myself somewhere.) can others suggest further cuts without losing what the poem's saying? i know my limitations

decompression's a wonderful thing

drunk on oxy-gene
the reefs beckon
smiling, you sing with clowns
before the bends hit you
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


decompression's a wonderful thing 2

the reef beckons
sing smilingly with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures
ruptures imminent

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


decompression's a wonderful thing 3

the reef beckons
sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light


is there another word that can combine the sense of 'smilingly' and 'sing' to make this neater?

Click to expand...

I like the second version... hmnn..giddily, would point to ascending too rapidly...

Senna Jawa said:

The crucial moment of this post is: the essence. Or, more in full: reduce a poem to its essence.

There are two interpretations. Trist means to remove the unnecessary elements. That would mean that the original longer text was not truly a poem but only a proposition of a poem, and the actual poem would be the shorter version.

Within a liberal margin of a poetic thread I addressed a different version of Trist's theme. Indeed, when a poem is good then a shorter version must give up on some essential poetic moments of the original. The short version may even introduce minimal additions, and on the total it has to omit phrases or lines which otherwise can be meaningful. And still the shorter version can keep the main message of the poetic trust, it may preserve the essence of the longer poem.

And, when poems are good, then there is a trade off. Possibly not an equal trade off but nevertheless the shorter poem is not majorized by the longer one nor vice versa--or else one of the poem is not really a poem. In particular, when the shorter poem is good then its very brevity is already an advantage, while the missing elements contribute to the advantage of the longer version. The key word is good (or true poetry).

Thus while the original theme was an exercise, I added to this thread the mature poetry examples. Actually, greenmountaineer was the first who has provided a pair of related longer and shorter poems which served as an example which went beyond the original Tristesse2 topic (if meant strictly).

Click to expand...

leading...
My point, the essence was not the same. In your second poem was an overriding image of Max Schreck in Nosferatu. i.e the fingers like icicles.
I do tire of these insinuations and we have been down this path before, you do not have a stranglehold on what is good or true poetryyou have a relatively unsupported opinion.
Now my response (here) contains no poetry, however, neither does yours, and mine is a little less self-serving.
Do you wish to address that the second is not the same, that it becomes something else with the removal of the other?

HarryHill said:

I like the second version... hmnn..giddily, would point to ascending too rapidly...

Click to expand...

that's a good choice, harry. thanks!

decompression's a wonderful thing 4

the reef beckons
giddily, sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light

butters said:

that's a good choice, harry. thanks!

decompression's a wonderful thing 4

the reef beckons
giddily, sing with clowns
before the bends hit
unforgiving of raptures

pacing is everything
dive deep
fluoresce with the best
but ascend
more slowly
into the light

Click to expand...

Giddily is a good choice. I was looking for something like it in my mind, but the only word that came forward was "drunk", which was already in the poem in the first place.

I wonder how much further it could be reduced. Tricky. The only way, I think, would be to strip it down to something slightly less descriptive:

giddily, dive deep —
but ascend slowly...
rupture's uncaring of raptures

Uncaring, unsympathetic, aloof, indifferent, unconcerned, unmoved, impervious, disinterested... I wasn't sure what to use there. EDIT: d'oh. Why not keep "unforgiving"?

As I select what to maintain, I wonder if I am keeping what you'd consider "the message". Damn, reducing this poem is painful, I liked "drunk on oxy-gene" and "unforgiving of raptures / ruptures imminent"...

Tsotha said:

Giddily is a good choice. I was looking for something like it in my mind, but the only word that came forward was "drunk", which was already in the poem in the first place.

I wonder how much further it could be reduced. Tricky. The only way, I think, would be to strip it down to something slightly less descriptive:

giddily, dive deep —
but ascend slowly...
ruptures' uncaring of raptures

Uncaring, unsympathetic, aloof, indifferent, unconcerned, unmoved, impervious, disinterested... I wasn't sure what to use there. EDIT: d'oh. Why not keep "unforgiving"?

As I select what to maintain, I wonder if I am keeping what you'd consider "the message". Damn, reducing this poem is painful, I liked "drunk on oxy-gene" and "unforgiving of raptures / ruptures imminent"...

Click to expand...

that's pretty neat, tsotha - because you did manage to state the main message in such a short space! it might lose something of the sympathetic nature the original held, but it's true enough...

the long dive
to rapture

slow ascent imperative
ruptures unforgiving

Raw 1

On their first night
he found her discarded skin
rinsed and hung out to drip
over the tub.
Long silken legs
their empty toes neatly pointed,
her breasts lacy memories
and her hips flimsy
gossamer webs he was
already snared in.
In the bedroom she was waiting,
sweetly scented, freed
of her skin, she stood
to pare him bare,
toss his defenses aside
and ride him until
their bodies were raw
with sweat.

2

First night he found
discarded skin
rinsed, hung to drip
over the tub.
Long silken legs,
empty toes neatly pointed,
her breasts, lacy memories,
hips gossamer webs he was
well snared in.
She waits sweetly scented, free
of her day, prepares
to pare him bare,
toss his defenses aside
and ride him until
their bodies are rivers,
their lungs on fire.

Hi, Tristesse. There are several modifications I like in your second version.

First, you modified "he found her discarded skin" to "he found discarded skin". In my opinion, it's good that you keep the information that it's her skin from the reader a bit longer. It adds some suspense to the piece, for it's not immediately obvious what is going on.

I like the trimming in general, it helps the flow as I read. However, the very first line looks strange to me, incomplete. I don't know if this will make any sense to you, but it's like I'm more sensitive to an incomplete sentence there, right at the start, than I am to an incomplete sentence when I'm already further in the reading. If I could restore two words, it would be "On their" at line 1. Or perhaps I'd change it to "On his", keeping in mind what I said above, about keeping the info from the reader for a while.

EDIT: Ok, one other thing: you've written "She waits sweetly scented...", so it should probably be: "First night he finds...", not "First night he found". Also, about the sentence being "incomplete", to my eyes it feels better with some punctuation: "First night; he finds discarded skin..." Not sure how it reads to you, with it, but it's an idea.

I particularly like the new last two lines, but at the same time I miss the old "raw with sweat". It somehow fits (in my mind) with the image I've created of a "spider" ready for her prey.

EDIT 2: It occurs to me that maybe I'm steering it in my mind too much toward the suspense / gossamer web / spider lady thing, which might not be your intention. Oh well.

EDIT 3: You've changed "already snared in" to "well snared in". I feel as though "already" reinforces the feeling of "doom" of her prey (he doesn't know it, but he is done for).

Senna Jawa said:

The key word is good (or true poetry).

Click to expand...

i feel the texture
of silence


is a transposition from the tactile to the aural,
and the functional equivalent of a null set (i.e. most definitions of silence will yield nothing)
1si·lence
noun \ˈsī-lən(t)s\

: a lack of sound or noise

: a situation, state, or period of time in which people do not talk

: a situation or state in which someone does not talk about or answer questions about something
Full Definition of SILENCE
1
: forbearance from speech or noise : muteness —often used interjectionally
2
: absence of sound or noise : stillness <in the silence of the night>
3
: absence of mention:

for all intent and purposes this is the sound of one hand clapping in that if you work hard enough a sense of profundity can be reached.

(monk slaps pupil on the head, get it)

good (or true poetry) is nothing but a series of tricks, or techniques if you prefer

self assignment of value is always questionable

Bumping to resuscitate.

Opening

It is up two narrow flights,
not quite hole-in-the-wall.
The stairway smells of vinegar
and dinner from the chip shop below
and my mouth is tinny with nerves
but once inside the world
shifts. My work is lined
among walls of glass as if the viewer
is suspended with sea creatures.
It isn’t crowded and people talk softly,
church-like as they swim my pool
of art.

The Opening

Up two flights,
not quite hole-in-the-wall.
Smell of vinegar
from the chippie below
and my mouth is tinny with nerves
but once inside the world
changes. My work is hung
among walls of glass
as if the viewer is suspended
with sea creatures.
It isn’t crowded
people talk softly,
church-like, as they swim
in my pool of art.

Pornography

That cotton mesh vest he’s wearing,
oh boy! His abs apparent, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant with arousal
She’s blonde and buxomly bosomed,
he seems to like that, squeezing and nuzzling
like a greedy puppy as she grasps his
urgency milking it mercilessly.
When she moves to suck his hugeness
he arcs and grabs her head
keeping her on him until he orgasms
leaving her with rivulets of cum
like candle wax on twin moons.


Pornography

That cotton mesh vest, oh boy!
His abs exposed, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant, aroused.
She’s blonde and bosomed,
he seems to like that,
squeezing and nuzzling
like a greedy puppy
as she grasps his urgency
milking mercilessly.
When she takes his hugeness
in her red mouth
he arcs and grabs her head
keeping her on him
until he orgasms
leaving her with rivulets of cum
like candle wax on twin moons.

Poverty and Wharf living"

Down goes the last mouthful of tepid coffe
not stirred properly the sugar granule slurry slides
down the mugs edge and crunches
its textured sweet to hide the dash of bourbon
Three day growth rasps beneath
blackened fingernails, stain splattered clothes
Hang like limp wall paper that melted in summer
caring is for those rich enough to feel shame

the grimy door knob slips from my grip
twice before the door creaks open
to 4am's lack of light
Autumn smells of mulch and leave littered fall
as chill air playfully licks at my long coat
before seeping into popping joints
that arthritis ache that makes age seem
like hell

Stilted steps beat their ungainly rhythm
as envious thoughts blare bloody murder
at the smoke curling lazily from next doors chimney

the damn fucking ache, as if a black smith has set up
shop right there in my fucking knee, using my cartilage
as his damned fucking anvil, the sea air
wafts on the breeze
I shuffle along hunched
bent by decisions that left me here
rotting in my flesh

If time was a person then 4am would be
the lonliest person on the planet
A shiver shudders up my spine
as the walk begins
wharfies fling their nights catch
from boat to dock
fresh fish

Headlines read
man pulled from River
no known family or relatives
have come forward

a bus accelerates away from the news stand
in a cloud of diesel, and the bustle of human traffic
continues on, uncaring

The last caption
of 4am

----------------------------------------------------------
The Last Caption of 4am

the last mouthful of tepid coffe
not stirred properly
slides down the mugs edge
the sugar granule slurry
crunches textured sweet
hides the dash of bourbon

Three day growth rasps beneath
blackened fingernails, stain splattered clothes
hang like limp wall paper,
caring is for those rich enough to feel shame

the grimy door knob slips from my grip
before it creaks open
to 4am's lack of light
chill air playfully licks at my long coat
before seeping into arthritic joints


Stilted steps beat their ungainly rhythm
envious thoughts blare bloody murder
at the smoke curling from next doors chimney

the damn fucking ache, as if a black smith has set up
shop right there in my fucking knee, using cartilage
as a damned fucking anvil,
I shuffle along hunched
bent by decisions that left me here
rotting in my flesh

If time were a person
4am would be the lonliest person on the planet
A shiver shudders up my spine
steps echo

wharfies fling their nights catch
from boat to dock
in the 6am light

Headlines read
man pulled from estuary
no known family or relatives
have come forward

a bus accelerates away from the news stand
in a cloud of diesel,
the bustle of human traffic
continues on.

My Children, Of Course, Are Grown Now

They're all young adults
in different parts of the country.
I don’t really wonder what they look like.

And yet these memories
somehow bring them back to me:
Elizabeth had brown solemn eyes;
Harry, still that cheeky grin?
Gabrielle and Jeremy, what are they like?

You start to notice things:
the wind in the trees,
the crunch of dry leaves,
the smell of a book,
the beautiful trim
on the edge of a table,
the first sip of wine.

There’s a touch of frost on the windowsill.
The moon perhaps is still in the sky.
In the distance a morning train rushes by.


Insight

They're all young adults
in different parts of the country.
I try to wonder what they look like
because there are these memories
that somehow bring them back to me:

Elizabeth had solemn brown eyes;
Harry, still that cheeky grin?
Gabrielle and Jeremy, two toddlers then,
I wonder what they're like
as I listen to the wind in the trees
and smell Margaret's morning coffee.

It's time she put the storm windows up,
for there's frost that makes my fingers stick
on the north facing window sill.
Maybe the full moon is still in the sky.
In the distance a morning train rushes by.

Ghosts of North Beach -- North Beach

The Ghosts of North Beach

In Washington Square Park
the poetry sells
for a dollar a page
rough handed manuscripts
faintly echo a beat
as recollections of martyrs, saints
and ancient superstitions
seep through windows, doors -- and more.

They're spread on tables
with jagged rock paperweights
edges flutter in a breeze
that whispers of ghosts
you can almost hear
a soft, kaddish howl
over shuffled paper
and around a corner

a swirl of leaves
settles on the road
the sounds of Coney Island
pause in your mind
as for a moment you wonder
"Are they calling me?"
You pay your dollar
and read another poem.



North Beach

Washington Square
poetry sells
a dollar a page
manuscripts
faint echoes
martyrs
seep through windows.

On tables
rock paperweights
as edges flutter
whispers,
ghosts you almost...

Soft howl
shuffled paper
a swirl of leaves
settles on the
sound -- Coney Island
in your mind,
"Calling me?"

Pay a dollar
read another.

jthserra said:

The Ghosts of North Beach

In Washington Square Park
the poetry sells
for a dollar a page
rough handed manuscripts
faintly echo a beat
as recollections of martyrs, saints
and ancient superstitions
seep through windows, doors -- and more.

They're spread on tables
with jagged rock paperweights
edges flutter in a breeze
that whispers of ghosts
you can almost hear
a soft, kaddish howl
over shuffled paper
and around a corner

a swirl of leaves
settles on the road
the sounds of Coney Island
pause in your mind
as for a moment you wonder
"Are they calling me?"
You pay your dollar
and read another poem.



North Beach

Washington Square
poetry sells
a dollar a page
manuscripts
faint echoes
martyrs
seep through windows.

On tables
rock paperweights
as edges flutter
whispers,
ghosts you almost...

Soft howl
shuffled paper
a swirl of leaves
settles on the
sound -- Coney Island
in your mind,
"Calling me?"

Pay a dollar
read another.

Click to expand...

For me the narrative works better in the longer version,
the flow runs better,

The second seems a bit choppy.

Love the use of "soft howl" and its duality of meaning.
but enhoyed reading both.

GuiltyPleasure said:

Pornography

That cotton mesh vest he’s wearing,
oh boy! His abs apparent, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant with arousal
She’s blonde and buxomly bosomed,
he seems to like that, squeezing and nuzzling
like a greedy puppy as she grasps his
urgency milking it mercilessly.
When she moves to suck his hugeness
he arcs and grabs her head
keeping her on him until he orgasms
leaving her with rivulets of cum
like candle wax on twin moons.


Pornography

That cotton mesh vest, oh boy!
His abs exposed, amplified
chocolate nipples rampant, aroused.
She’s blonde and bosomed,
he seems to like that,
squeezing and nuzzling
like a greedy puppy
as she grasps his urgency
milking mercilessly.
When she takes his hugeness
in her red mouth
he arcs and grabs her head
keeping her on him
until he orgasms
leaving her with rivulets of cum
like candle wax on twin moons.

Click to expand...

I think "Oh boy!" Could be trimmed, it states what you already show, that lick your lips moment just before wha tever happens, happens.

The rest very sexy