The Gymnasium

In light of all the current nastiness...

I thought I would add a "Tzara, you know I was kidding back there, right?"

I was. As a matter of fact, I am almost incapable of not kidding. 'Cept when I lose my temper and in that case there is never any doubt that I am not kidding.

Sara Crewe said:

I thought I would add a "Tzara, you know I was kidding back there, right?"

I was. As a matter of fact, I am almost incapable of not kidding. 'Cept when I lose my temper and in that case there is never any doubt that I am not kidding.

Click to expand...

[Cue the sleazy French accented voice]

My embers are still tamped for you, Madame ou Mademoiselle.

Your po-em enfires me with lustiness and warmth.

I have been, this is so sad, distracted from your womanly beauty. Oh, and your verbalalitiness. It is so seky!

Come into my bed, you northern beauty!

Or, maybe, just hang on, babe. I am tired from the 50K thing. Like your poem, though. Comment pending.

Oops! [resume character] Your so sexy Canadian body fills my American conciousness with lust!

Sara Crewe said:

I don't want to post this on the thinned-skin thread 'cause Anna has a poem she wants people to have a look at and two would be confusing so I have decided to abuse Calli's thread 'cause she just doesn't seem scary in any way.

I would like impressions, critique, comments (good/bad/ indifferent) on this poem if people have the time. The reason why is that this poem appears to be the runt of my summer poetic litter. All his siblings have found homes but he is still hanging around. I would turf him but the problem is I like him, probably too much, so I need some extra eyes to give me some perspective. So, I don't totally mess up the thread on Calli and everyone else, maybe pm me your ideas if you have any. Thanks.


Missing the Trevi

I remember a city carved
not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries
touched me and stopped my travels.
I was held by their silent stories
and the charm of finding art
standing on every street corner.

He watched me stare at Medusa
until he wondered
if she had petrified me
and his fingers touched my hair.
I remember being startled.

When he took my hand
I didn’t ask why nor did I mind
that we exchanged no words
between kisses that shared
our melting gelato as we felt
the Spanish steps warm our skin
even after the Roman sun slept.

I see that me in the postcards
I play in my head and she seems foreign.
Today I don’t have time to stop
and stare at statues. I drive in circles
with a five mile radius
and never talk to strangers.

Click to expand...

I remember a city carved
not constructed<<<<<

carved/constructed.

Interesting way of starting your poem.

I normally wouldn't go along with it.
You have already established the fact that
the city wasn't constructed when you
started the poem by stating it was
carved.


The lesson is: some things may apply 99% of the time
but, there may be that one instance
where you break the rule for the good
of the poem, even though you know
damn well by rule you shouldn't

One of the things you learn in any poetry class, or
creative writing class, is to avoid being redundant.

In the case of your poem the two words at issue
for me are carved and constructed.

I'm thinking that the idea of carving a city
is very good poetry. It expands on the page,
takes up more space than the space it takes up.

By nature you shouldn't have to
inform us that it wasn't constructed.

We know that because of the power
and the vivid image presented by
your first line.

That said, the second line
(in my opinion)
is one of the few times,
in this style of poetry,
where I say redundancy
works. It reinforces the
first line very well. It's
telling me, "Hey if you didn't
hear me the first time, this
city is carved it wasn't
constructed."

It's the one city in the world
that's different through the
eyes of the poet.

At that point I understand
and I am ready to go on.


Hope you get where I'm coming from.
The reason I elaborated the way I have
is I wanted to make a point, that redundancy
is something to stay away from in general.

However, in poetry there comes a time
to break the rules. Whether you intended
to do it or not is of no consequence to me.


It works and that's the only result that matters.


I'd look to rid the poem of a few words
that suit no purpose. They say nothing
and don't have anything to do with
retaining meter.

ex: not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries

not contructed. Stone faces
shriveled hands from other centuries

It isn't the correct word but, you can
take the poem to another level by replacing
words and adding adjectives that lift
the poem off the page a bit.

Overall I enjoyed the poem.

I sense you have some skill for writing
and a nice ability for free expression.

I'll look to read more of your work
in the future.

best,
andy

OK, I am gonna do the rewrite thing. Not the best way to comment, and certainly I don't expect you to take this as received knowledge, but a simple way to comment.

I basically deleted a lot of words. Tweaked others. Added some. Feel free, of course, to put them back. My take is not all that clever.

Ahem.

Good poem, by the way, however you want to finalize it. If that's the runt, I am curious about the litter.

Missing the Trevi

I remember a city carved,
not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries
touched me and stopped my travel.
I was held by silent stories
and the charm of art
on every corner.

He watched me stare at Medusa
until he wondered
if she had petrified me.
His fingers touched my hair.
I remember being startled.

When he took my hand,
I didn’t ask why, nor did I mind
that we exchanged no words
between kisses that shared
that melting gelato as we felt
the Spanish Steps warm our skin
even as the Roman sun slept.

I see that me in postcards
played in my head and she seems foreign.
Today, I don’t have time to stop
and stare at statues. I drive in circles
within a five mile radius.

I never talk to strangers.

Tzara said:

OK, I am gonna do the rewrite thing. Not the best way to comment, and certainly I don't expect you to take this as received knowledge, but a simple way to comment.

I basically deleted a lot of words. Tweaked others. Added some. Feel free, of course, to put them back. My take is not all that clever.

Ahem.

Good poem, by the way, however you want to finalize it. If that's the runt, I am curious about the litter.

Missing the Trevi

I remember a city carved,
not constructed. Stone faces
and hands from other centuries
touched me and stopped my travel.
I was held by silent stories
and the charm of art
on every corner.

He watched me stare at Medusa
until he wondered
if she had petrified me.
His fingers touched my hair.
I remember being startled.

When he took my hand,
I didn’t ask why, nor did I mind
that we exchanged no words
between kisses that shared
that melting gelato as we felt
the Spanish Steps warm our skin
even as the Roman sun slept.

I see that me in postcards
played in my head and she seems foreign.
Today, I don’t have time to stop
and stare at statues. I drive in circles
within a five mile radius.

I never talk to strangers.

Click to expand...

Merci, Monsieur Tzara! I never mind the rewrite thing because at this point it's easy for me to guess/understand why somebody might change something. I will take your version and Calli's ideas and put them with my version when I start to work on it next week.

The rest of the litter has moved out and the little bastards never call or write.

I liked that French guy. I bet he does a great version of 'Voulez-vous couchez avec moi..." Bring him back. I need to strip search him for my pendant.

champagne1982 said:

Regardless of what I may have said about panty-drawer-poetry (TT2U can use his sock drawer, but I hear T-zed has a pair or 2 of panties in his own. Or was that Tath?). . .

Click to expand...

How to Channel Courtney Love
by Your Underwear Selection

Wear those blue ones
with the white band,

the soft and cotton ones
that are more modest

than your thongs, or would be,
if they weren't a little torn.

In the Happy Family Sciuridae

I am just a squirrel,
planting poems in shallow ground.
No way will I remember where
they're buried. It is their sound

that I recall and treasure. Nothing,
nothing else. No apocalyptic vision,
no practical incision. I am just
a squirrel. It's how I am compelled.

Boston, Winter

Knowing you go (you go nether,
you go whether)

lays crooked on me
as a baby seeing its future

in martyrdom
and suckling the bloody teat anyway.

clutching_calliope said:

Knowing you go (you go nether,
you go whether)

lays crooked on me
as a baby seeing its future

in martyrdom
and suckling the bloody teat anyway.

Click to expand...

When the soul hungers
it will find the food
that places it in harmony,
be it from the breast of mater-dom,
the kindness of strangers,
or the cooing frosted lullabies
of the void.

Do Not Settle for Cheap Utensils

because the hammered copper of my heart
spreads so easily the heat

of your blue flame to my other,
cheaper organs. Still, these other mettles do remain

untarnished, although alloys they may be.
My ductile heart, I know, needs stroking, even scrubbing:

a squeeze of lemon, some added vinegar and salt
and, I am sorry, lots and lots of friction.

It's the rub that rids the tarnish, and
I know you want to keep me neat.

Tathagata said:

When the soul hungers
it will find the food
that places it in harmony,
be it from the breast of mater-dom,
the kindness of strangers,
or the cooing frosted lullabies
of the void.

Click to expand...

Welome back, Mr. Tath, even if this is a "brief guest appearance." Hope you got SAG scale for the appearance, anyways.

Many of us have missed you. Just a comment.

Tzara said:

Welome back, Mr. Tath, even if this is a "brief guest appearance." Hope you got SAG scale for the appearance, anyways.

Many of us have missed you. Just a comment.

Click to expand...

I endorse this message. I'll even break out the bananas.

[keep still you little idiots, you're food]

On the Begetting of Tiny Tim:
Why the Revolution Will Be Fictionalized

I am one who has an itch
and, what is odd, I scratch it

Why am I sleeping with your wife?
Because I'm Marley, Crachit.




Revolution is a trivial shift in the emphasis of suffering.
—Tom Stoppard

The sign on Noah's Ark

No Refunds

Ditch

Rain de-glazes the charcoal trough,
bringing the craneflies to the surface.
Their wings are still beating out
words dictated by the sun and moon,
telling the story of creation
from where it first began: deep down,
wrapped in a nocturne of darkness.

it was late
you were not here
I was alone
and on TV
Emmanuelle Beart
was taking off
her clothes
and.....

Inadequacy, Want

I don't know anything and
I don't want to know anything.

It is too easy to know things
and I don't want easy. I want

problematic and queer and difficile,
like that would make a différence

but, bien sûr, it won't. I want
you to love me. But I know you don't.

There are rivers meant
to be crossed by packs

of riderless horses. You
can hear the arguments

amongst the stallions
of the pack, to go west

or east, leftover corpses
signals of their indecision.

Night Light Talk

I wouldn’t read this.
It isn’t for you.

It’s for me.
It’s about me.
It was always about me.

That when you are a day away
and I thrash and scream, it’ll be over
it all twenty four hours before you even
hear me.

Yeah.
So.

I’ve decided something.
I’ll tell you tomorrow.

Prayer of the Modern Supplicant
to Venus Erycina et Genetrix

There is no male heart your body cannot win
to its allegiance. This is mere fact of life.
Your lavish pregnant curves bend men to sin
and men will kill to secure you for their wife—
a circumstance you can exploit and well
use to your advantage. Shake money from the till

of their foolish pockets. Tease them. Find them
ripe for harvesting, broad silly field of rape,
and crush their seed to oil, cut off every stem
at groundline, leave a barren weal. Shape
even history as you dispense pleasure, aid
poverty through having men you've laid

donate their dull effective powers to your cause.
Be whore. Be mother. Be nature, without laws.

ShyErraticTable said:

Prayer of the Modern Supplicant
to Venus Erycina et Genetrix

There is no male heart your body cannot win
to its allegiance. This is mere fact of life.
Your lavish pregnant curves bend men to sin
and men will kill to secure you for their wife—
a circumstance you can exploit and well
use to your advantage. Shake money from the till

of their foolish pockets. Tease them. Find them
ripe for harvesting, broad silly field of rape,
and crush their seed to oil, cut off every stem
at groundline, leave a barren weal. Shape
even history as you dispense pleasure, aid
poverty through having men you've laid

donate their dull effective powers to your cause.
Be whore. Be mother. Be nature, without laws.

Click to expand...

Welcome here. Loved this. And your name is cool, too.

Lines from a Foolish Male Poet,
Praising a Female Poet's Excellent Lines

You wear your talent like your beauty—simply,
unadorned, as it needs no adornment—for its true
worth is in form and elegance and fine subtlety.
Your phrasing is exact and reflects your cool

intelligence and mastery of verse. "Cool" not as cold,
as your theme is often warm. I mean controlled,
or careful, fitted more like dovetail than glove.
It's your craftsmanship, not retail, that I love

about your words. You build but do not sell
your poems. Their surface glows with polish
that refines their sturdiness, shows off how well,
how solid they are made. My only, impure, wish

when I read them, blessed by your grace and style,
is that I read them in your arms, kissing you the while.

Cultivation

I am as tired as when the Sun
at end of day and red in cheek
submerges into ocean sleep
until another daybreak's rung.

Then your body mine does seek—
light touch of fingers and of tongue
and I know I am not done
with that day's labour. I must reap

and burn these sometime sullen fields,
cache the crop and store the yield,
return some part unto the ground.
Re-seed our future all around.

So there is work before I sleep.
Work that is hard. Work that is sweet.

Sonnet 4b, Commenting on a Poet's Purpose,
Sloppily Written in Wordsworth Rhyme Scheme

Frivolity was not the Wordsworth way to write.
He was a serious poet, and with his pen,
he wrote on themes of import such as men
of thoughtful mien discovered thoughts to light
obscurantism of the age and so make right
judgements on nature, mortality, and love.
Sentiment, though, seemed to be his groove,
which scarred his sonnets' elsewise perfect skin—

for sonnets thematically speak on love or truth
or both. Mawkishness mars love's expression where
too soupily expressed to some Dorothy or Ruth,
and truth is by poets best avoided. Rather, dare
to be uncivil, poets, in constructs and expressions.
Graffiti Tintern Abbey, and so keep out of heaven.

Touch Without Touch

Touch without touch is like this without thus,
push without thrust, bread without crust, morning’s
mash without mush. I am full of you, lust…
love… and cannot change these amber warnings.

Every star tumbles with the ice in cups,
supped with dry fire on punished tongues. Blue
flames shoot highest, fall hard, seek to erupt
below the ribs where most itches debut,

deep-seated, stubborn, drunken and foolish.

If only one could scratch, be more content
for one flea’s lifetime… would it but fuel this

brief lit room or dark the cave of resent?
I know that touch, your one touch such as thus,
that you deep in me is worth all the fuss.