invitation for public slicing, dicing, and other constructive skewering

Angeline said:

This is a lovely sonnet Mer. It reads true to the form without sounding archaic, which imho is a feat in itself.

My only quibble is in S1, lines 5-6. I find "...threads - /their..." to be an awkward phrasing with the pronoun directly following the noun to which it refers. To me the enjambment would work better if you got rid of the pronoun: maybe something like "...the spinning threads - /our web - speaks..."

Just my two cents.

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Thank you, Angeline, for reading and for your comments and suggestion. I think I would change it to 'the web,' this thing outside the lovers' pair.

I would like to enter this poem as a defense exhibit, to answer Magnetron's charge of "evil sonnets." I think that the undeniable struggle that is required to shoe-horn one's initial blurt into the restraints of the form has a distilling effect, it can bring out the best work in the poet, like a refiner's fire.

AlwaysHungry said:

I would like to enter this poem as a defense exhibit, to answer Magnetron's charge of "evil sonnets." I think that the undeniable struggle that is required to shoe-horn one's initial blurt into the restraints of the form has a distilling effect, it can bring out the best work in the poet, like a refiner's fire.

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Now you done it. I'm going to have to do a poll...

Work in Progress

The View From My Harbor

You are the boat, the hole in the ocean
into which I throw my questions.
Like a Delphic oracle, you hear only one
frequency of voice on the wind.
When the gale rises, waves churn, leaves
rustle, and my lips move but you
hear little and answer less.

I throw my line, hook, and sinker,
and catch a boot-full of promise,
a magic carp, like those of my childhood,
from a fathomless meandering river.

You are leaded crystal, beautiful and so
easily shattered, impossible to recast into any
shape I dream of.
You are illusion, a spirit
cloaked in a cloud with a silver lining.

I fold pieces of paper with my prayers
for enlightenment and tuck them between
the stones of my own Wailing Wall.
I throw pennies into the wishing fountain,
hoping something - anything - will light my horizons,
shed moonbeams and hope.

You are a silverfish, burrowing and feeding on
my history, as much absence as presence.
You are both my light and my dark (k)night,
as waves roll and break across my bow.

legerdemer said:

The View From My Harbor

You are the boat, the hole in the ocean
into which I throw my questions.
Like a Delphic oracle, you hear only one
frequency of voice on the wind.
When the gale rises, waves churn, leaves
rustle, and my lips move but you
hear little and answer less.

I throw my line, hook, and sinker,
and catch a boot-full of promise,
a magic carp, like those of my childhood,
from a fathomless meandering river.

You are leaded crystal, beautiful and so
easily shattered, impossible to recast into any
shape I dream of.
You are illusion, a spirit
cloaked in a cloud with a silver lining.

I fold pieces of paper with my prayers
for enlightenment and tuck them between
the stones of my own Wailing Wall.
I throw pennies into the wishing fountain,
hoping something - anything - will light my horizons,
shed moonbeams and hope.

You are a silverfish, burrowing and feeding on
my history, as much absence as presence.
You are both my light and my dark (k)night,
as waves roll and break across my bow.

Click to expand...

The imagery was very confusing to me, Mer. To some extent, that was effective because it re-enforces the state of mind of the poet. I think, however, the seafaring allusions were a bit overplayed. When I read the poem without the 2nd stanza, it felt more crisp to me.

greenmountaineer said:

The imagery was very confusing to me, Mer. To some extent, that was effective because it re-enforces the state of mind of the poet. I think, however, the seafaring allusions were a bit overplayed. When I read the poem without the 2nd stanza, it felt more crisp to me.

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Thanks, gm, for taking a look. I've had similar comments from two others. I put it here for construction, but am missing, for now, the clarity of a way forward.

I am about to embark on a trip - I hope the traveling will help with this, as well. Though I will be very scarce... and will miss you all.

The Dark Side of Love

In saner moments I take it out, turn it this way and that, examine every crease and imperfection. I polish it until it gleams—a thing outside itself, beautiful, abstract. Nothing you’d question.

But then…

…it wells, a ball of fiery lava, glomping thick and dense and rising in milliseconds, unbidden and uncontrolled. It bursts, red-purple, raw, gashes re-opened. It splatters everything, like thick paint, insinuates itself into the wrinkles of my face, under my fingernails, in my stomach, squelches up between my toes as if I’d stepped in mud, in the quicksand that swallows all, anger and everything—until, finally, even the bubbles disappear.

Until no trace remains of what was.

Anger, why are you still here? I thought you’d gone, let flesh knit itself back together until barely a seam remains, just the hint of something, a bruise that barely rankles on the edges of memory. Just a few grains left in a sandal I once wore to a coarse sand beach.

Only an arid impotent sadness lingers, gray and brittle, cracking, its dust coating every surface.

(very much not to AH)

My first impression, Mer, is that the poem's intriguing. We all have a dark side. While others may disagree, I think one the jobs the a poet can do is to make that dark side transparent in ourselves and others that we may be the better for it.

I have a few "Have you considered this?" ideas but need more time to re-read the poem.

legerdemer said:

The Dark Side of Love

In saner moments I take it out, turn it this way and that, examine every crease and imperfection. I polish it until it gleams—a thing outside itself, beautiful, abstract. Nothing you’d question.

But then…

…it wells, a ball of fiery lava, glomping thick and dense and rising in milliseconds, unbidden and uncontrolled. It bursts, red-purple, raw, gashes re-opened. It splatters everything, like thick paint, insinuates itself into the wrinkles of my face, under my fingernails, in my stomach, squelches up between my toes as if I’d stepped in mud, in the quicksand that swallows all, anger and everything—until, finally, even the bubbles disappear.

Until no trace remains of what was.

Anger, why are you still here? I thought you’d gone, let flesh knit itself back together until barely a seam remains, just the hint of something, a bruise that barely rankles on the edges of memory. Just a few grains left in a sandal I once wore to a coarse sand beach.

Only an arid impotent sadness lingers, gray and brittle, cracking, its dust coating every surface.

(very much not to AH)

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I liked this very much, Mer. The images are strong. "It" is usually a "non-word" to me to be used sparingly, but coming as it does immediately after the title and repeated 3 times created almost a compulsive undertone about "it," something you can't help but do; very effective IMO.

"...it wells" reminds me of tears. Somehow that didn't fit well with lava. I thought "swells," i.e., about to erupt may have been better.

"Until no trace.." i thought was unnecessary and repetitive after "even the bubbles disappear."
If you like the line, I suggest omitting "even," and follow with "Until no remains." "Of what was" is clearly inferred already.

I like "Anger" addressed in the second person. It gives a sense of heightened drama when, in fact, you're alone, talking to yourself.

I thought there were some breaks with aspiration and punctuation that would have worked better in the more accepted line structure, but given the unsettled way the poet feels, I can see perhaps why it was formatted that way. I suppose I'm old-fashioned. Extended lines and irregular breaks don't do much for me, but in this case neither did they get in the way as they do for me in some poems

Thank you for your thoughtful comments and suggestions. I was playing with prose poems, though I'm not sure this qualifies, and so this looks quite different. The second person POV was a surprise to me - I'm glad it seems to work as an exhortation to "self".

greenmountaineer said:

I liked this very much, Mer. The images are strong. "It" is usually a "non-word" to me to be used sparingly, but coming as it does immediately after the title and repeated 3 times created almost a compulsive undertone about "it," something you can't help but do; very effective IMO.

"...it wells" reminds me of tears. Somehow that didn't fit well with lava. I thought "swells," i.e., about to erupt may have been better.

"Until no trace.." i thought was unnecessary and repetitive after "even the bubbles disappear."
If you like the line, I suggest omitting "even," and follow with "Until no remains." "Of what was" is clearly inferred already.

I like "Anger" addressed in the second person. It gives a sense of heightened drama when, in fact, you're alone, talking to yourself.

I thought there were some breaks with aspiration and punctuation that would have worked better in the more accepted line structure, but given the unsettled way the poet feels, I can see perhaps why it was formatted that way. I suppose I'm old-fashioned. Extended lines and irregular breaks don't do much for me, but in this case neither did they get in the way as they do for me in some poems

Click to expand...

I appreciate the disclaimer.

Anger

In saner moments I take it out,
turn it this way and that,
examine every crease and imperfection.

I polish it until it gleams, an object of perfection—
a thing outside itself, beautiful, abstract.
Nothing you’d question.

But then…
................…it swells, a ball of fiery lava,
glomming thick and dense
rising in milliseconds
pluming unbidden, uncontrolled.
It bursts, red-purple, raw, gashes re-opened.

It splatters everything, like thick paint,
insinuates itself into the wrinkles of my face,
under my fingernails, in my stomach,
squelches up between my toes
as if I’d stepped in mud,
the quicksand that swallows all.

Until no trace remains.

Anger, why are you still here?
I thought you’d gone,
let flesh knit itself back together
leaving barely a seam,
the hint of something, a bruise
that rankles on the edges of memory.
A few grains left in a sandal I once
wore to a coarse-sand beach.

Only an arid impotent sadness lingers—
gray, brittle, cracking,
its dust coating every surface,
gritty against my teeth.

But for the grace of man... (in memory of 9/11)

I still remember
where I was
when smoke billowed
from obscene torches
thrown with loathing
and deadly precision

Each tower folded into itself
monuments to life
casually discarded
souls floating down
transmuted into memory

each a plea to love
a homage to life lived, small and large.

Each a sacrifice to man's supreme misunderstanding.

Hate dispensed recklessly
yet with the utmost careful planning.

Evil wrapped in righteousness
coddled tightly to chests
holding shrunken hearts
smothered by envy and blindness.

All cries muffled into the same sky,
brown and gritty and
mute with unspeakable sorrow


Note: There is no worse evil than that which we perpetrate upon each other.

I think your 9/11 poem is well done. "Obscene torches," "souls floating down", and the final stanza are some of the high points. However, I also think it falls wide of the mark in terms of the significance of the event itself. You seem to cast the hijackers as the authors of their own evil, driven by some sort of bigotry and, as you put it, envy. I think that they were pawns being sacrificed.

I don't see 9/11 as a tragic case of man's inhumanity to man. I see it as a cynical crime in which the actual perpetrators should be brought to justice. With the recent release of the 28 Pages, and the passage two days ago of JASTA, we may finally be on the verge of doing just that.

In the meantime, we have killed and displaced millions of people who had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, and it is going to take us a long time to atone for that. The tremendous sympathy which the rest of the world offered us at that time has dissipated, and rage and fear have taken its place.

AlwaysHungry said:

I think your 9/11 poem is well done. "Obscene torches," "souls floating down", and the final stanza are some of the high points. However, I also think it falls wide of the mark in terms of the significance of the event itself. You seem to cast the hijackers as the authors of their own evil, driven by some sort of bigotry and, as you put it, envy. I think that they were pawns being sacrificed.

I don't see 9/11 as a tragic case of man's inhumanity to man. I see it as a cynical crime in which the actual perpetrators should be brought to justice. With the recent release of the 28 Pages, and the passage two days ago of JASTA, we may finally be on the verge of doing just that.

In the meantime, we have killed and displaced millions of people who had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, and it is going to take us a long time to atone for that. The tremendous sympathy which the rest of the world offered us at that time has dissipated, and rage and fear have taken its place.

Click to expand...

I agree partway with the pawns being sacrificed - that's what I tried to convey with the couplet starting with hate - the utmost planning. It didn't work as well as I'd like. And the 'shrunken hearts' are meant to refer as much to those of the 19 as those of the many others who planned and funded and helped the event.

I am in no way blind to the political message sent, nor hold us in any sainted position. We (the US, the West in general) are no saints. But 9/11 was deplorable and tragic nonetheless, whatever the greater political context.

As you know, Syriana is one of my favorite movies, perhaps the best made on that particular topic - I had that in mind while writing the poem as well.

I disagree very much with your second paragraph. Whoever the "actual perpetrators" are, and however many should be brought to justice, 9/11 was very much an example of man's inhumanity to other men. And a tragedy of political and cultural blindness and misunderstanding.

On the other hand, I agree entirely with your third paragraph. But that's not what the poem is about.

A Tender Wood

Tendrils, like veins and arteries,
constrict to capillaries and surround
the invisible heart, nourish it
for a few more weeks of fall. Before the
winter's frozen touch arrives,
....the air still,
suspended in impenetrable
hibernation.

Silhouettes walk, sit, run...
dance
I see them,
as in an infrared movie, white shapes like ghosts.

But
....if you look carefully

right there:

you'll see the hearts
p u l s i n g
involuntary movements keeping time
to some inaudible tune,
a rhythm beyond time and telling
contracting beats, fast,
struggling to breathe
helpless

>constrained<

routines interrupted by
irrelevancies: new births, old deaths
swirl in the soup of anonymity,
each singing melodies
that blend into the white noise
of some god's earbuds

and when they stutter and flail,
stumble over invisible obstacles,
extinguished like the flame
of fireflies

they simply reappear elsewhere
......flutter again
leaving only the memory of an air current
that ruffled a little girl's golden hair
as she ran through a field of cheatgrass

Each light, each wave, each particle-
what hope does it have
of leaving any footprint,
its signature in rock, to be buried
and rediscovered, eons from now?

All you may hope's to weave your spell,
anoint your touch with oils of love
may your flame's flicker last
days and nights
to warm the soul of a child
-even when it does not fill her belly.
Soothe her when she wakes,
frightened,
in the middle of another nightmare
that, like those wood tendrils, closes
-barren-
upon her heart

until spring brings out
new leaves
again.

That's both evocative and provocative, Mer. I'm struggling to penetrate to the heart of it, but in a good way; it's the right kind of ambiguity, not muddled, but laden with possible meanings.

legerdemer said:

Tendrils, like veins and arteries,
constrict to capillaries and surround
the invisible heart, nourish it
for a few more weeks of fall. Before the
winter's frozen touch arrives,
....the air still,
suspended in impenetrable
hibernation.

Silhouettes walk, sit, run...
dance
I see them,
as in an infrared movie, white shapes like ghosts.

But
....if you look carefully

right there:

you'll see the hearts
p u l s i n g
involuntary movements keeping time
to some inaudible tune,
a rhythm beyond time and telling
contracting beats, fast,
struggling to breathe
helpless

>constrained<

humdrum routines interrupted by
irrelevancies: new births, old deaths
swirl in the soup of anonymity,
each singing melodies
that blend into the white noise
of some god's earbuds

and when hearts stutter and flail,
stumble over invisible obstacles,
extinguished like the flame
of fireflies

they simply reappear elsewhere
......flutter again
leaving only the memory of an air current
that ruffled a little girl's golden hair
as she ran through a field of cheatgrass

Each light, each wave, each particle-
what hope does it have
of leaving any footprint,
its signature in rock, to be buried
and rediscovered, eons from now?

All you may hope's to weave your spell,
anoint your touch with oils of love
may your flame's flicker last
days and nights
to warm the soul of a child
-even when it does not fill her belly.
Soothe her when she wakes,
frightened,
in the middle of another nightmare
that, like those wood tendrils, closes
-barren-
upon her heart

until spring brings out
new leaves
again.

Click to expand...

...... A revision that came out as a reply... I'll fix it soon.

Massasauga Rattler (rewritten as a triolet)

I should have known,
that silken snakeskin molt a sign
to beware blithe silent smiles. Alas,
I should have known,
when yellow slitted eyes
from shadow glowered. And yes,
I should have known,
that silken snakeskin molt a sign.


Original haiku

I should have known, the
silken snakeskin molt a sign:
beware blithe silent smiles.

legerdemer said:

Massasauga Rattler (rewritten as a triolet)

I should have known,
that silken snakeskin molt a sign
to beware blithe silent smiles. Alas,
I should have known,
when yellow slitted eyes
from shadow glowered. And yes,
I should have known,
that silken snakeskin molt a sign.


Original haiku

I should have known, the
silken snakeskin molt a sign:
beware blithe silent smiles.

Click to expand...

I read it and at first thought OK, what then? The what then? came when I looked up Massasauga and found out that it's a North American rattlesnake that inhabits dark moist places.

A snake, of course, is a phallic symbol, a rattler a more dangerous one. It's not hard to imagine what moist places are. I imagine the molted casings are condoms, and then there are the slitted eyes.

Unless I'm mistaken, and this is a primer on rattlesnakes, I'd say this is a very clever poem.

One quibble: the comma in line one isn't necessary because it's a compound sentence linked by "that" in the second line.

Excellent poem IMO.

greenmountaineer said:

I read it and at first thought OK, what then? The what then? came when I looked up Massasauga and found out that it's a North American rattlesnake that inhabits dark moist places.

A snake, of course, is a phallic symbol, a rattler a more dangerous one. It's not hard to imagine what moist places are. I imagine the molted casings are condoms, and then there are the slitted eyes.

Unless I'm mistaken, and this is a primer on rattlesnakes, I'd say this is a very clever poem.

One quibble: the comma in line one isn't necessary because it's a compound sentence linked by "that" in the second line.

Excellent poem IMO.

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Thanks, gm. First to address your quibble: I see how you are reading it, and indeed in your case the comma is superfluous. The way I heard it when I wrote it is as "that (particular) snakeskin molt," in which case the comma had its place. Which, more importantly, leads me into alternate readings:

I like your reading of it, and I did have it in mind as an alternative and more accessible reading.

However, there is a second way to read it that is nevertheless more than a catalog of snake characters: the original poem (and even in its reincarnation) was written in anger, and directed at a specific person. I did not send the target this poem - I may never do so. (This is the reason why I turned off voting - I expected the poem might be meaningless except to me.) In a way, it was written both in self-indulgence and to let out steam.

In this alternate reading, think of that cultural meaning of snakes where they exemplify the underhanded and sneaky, a stand-in symbol for someone who lashes out at someone else from instinct and often out of ignorance. Think of someone who attacks in this way but hides behind anonymity, and is too cowardly to confront their target openly, or fairly. They use surprise attacks and hide because they are comfortable in their ignorance. Instead, in the open, they feign friendship and even extend their hand, as if they mean the best. (Not one of the denizens of PF&D, btw, but of greater Lit.)

I like that the poem has these two disparate meanings, the sexual innuendo one more readily accessible than the venomous one (pun intended). I also like the idea of hidden "private" messages - though, as I mentioned, the poem doesn't function as a message yet because I did not send it to the target to whom I wrote it. Meanwhile, it was a fun, even a necessary, therapeutic exercise with a happy side effect.

Thanks for stopping by this way. I often stop by your thread, though I don't always comment, as I don't always have anything intelligent to say.

You're right about "that." Used as an adjective, the comma is appropriate.

I don't see the interpretations as all that disparate. In the Book of Genesis, the serpent is both phallic and devious.

On the Cusp

I pace the perimeter
of my hermitage,
watch the last
parchment leaves
turn, quiver —
kinesthetic.

Silence shifts air and space,
pushing to make room.

Vibrating with curiosity,
I hover, waiting
to take
that jump.

legerdemer said:

I pace the perimeter
of my hermitage,
watch the last
parchment leaves
turn, quiver —
kinesthetic.

Silence shifts air and space,
pushing to make room.

Vibrating with curiosity,
I wait
to take
that jump.

Click to expand...

I found this confusing, Mer. At first I thought it about the nervous energy one might feel before sitting down to write when words spill over from brain to pen to paper ("parchment leaves") Then I thought it might be about going out on a first date. Perhaps there are other interpretations too.

I have mixed feelings about "kinesthetic." It's a powerful word referring to muscle receptors. If it's referring to the "I" which starts the poem, I believe there are too many images between them, so "kinesthetic" loses its effectiveness as a modifier for me and adds to my confusion. A syntactical change may work, such as

Kinesthetic, I pace
the perimeter of
my heritage

On the other hand, if the word was used metaphorically to the turning and quivering of the parchment leaves, I need more to point me in that direction. I have no understanding as to why.

Of course, "vibrating" refers to the "I," so the first impression is probably the correct one.

I found "wait" to be too passive a verb to combined with the previous "vibrating." A word or phrase suggesting you're about to spring into some action I believe would work better.

I'm curious about your next version of this. I like how spare the language is and some of the images I have in my mind, but I'm just not sure where you're taking me yet.

gm, you are an absolute treasure of the PF&D - blending the willingness and energy to critique poems with the insight and words to do it constructively. I wish I could do it as well as you do, for myself and for others.

Yes. It needs work. Good thoughts, all.