Buildings ........ Double Blind poems

The Stones of Avdat

I'm always impressed buy those who write in form - and I thought this was an Italian sonnet for the first 8 lines although the line length and scansion were a bit ragged. But rhyme was abandoned for the sextet and I'm not sure what it is.

I don't have a clue who wrote it.

UnderYourSpell said:

Just a Little House

She needed to go, leave her home,
place of desolate feel,
find a new place, all on her own.
This move has such appeal.

There are books lined up on the shelves,
about fleeing women
from a perfectly happy home,
to exotic region.

She was not an abused woman,
Her life a normal case.
She didn't want to go to France.
Local, up country place.

Searching through country homes for sale,
she found what she wanted.
It was an old miner's cottage,
tall gum trees were planted.

It had three main rooms, front largest.
Front had kitchen one end,
tiny sitting room, place for two,
open fireplace, for friend.

At the back there were two bedrooms,
tiny bathroom on side.
Much work needed to bring it back,
making it clean inside.

Decisions made, contracts were signed.
At last this house was hers.
It smells really bad and dirty.
Much work, each one concurs

New walls, new floor, new everything,
Yet all its charms remain.
It kept its old world feel, no smell.
White paint inside the main.

Outside had a new, red tin roof,
boards painted sandy brown,
the trim deep red to match the roof.
A veranda to crown.

Now bring it back from house to home
a place to lie my head,
it was the small one on the right,
room for one single bed.

The next bedroom was much larger,
in there was a double,
for any friends to stay over,
always good, no trouble.

Two chairs in front the old fireplace,
two bookcases behind,
books in place, within easy reach.
Old chiming clock, great find.

Across the room, simple kitchen,
looks like such a poem,
with dark stained, timber floors, throughout.
Now's time to call it home!

Click to expand...

The rhyming scheme of this is all over the place and very Yoda speak in places. If you have to force a word in to fit ........ don't!

UnderYourSpell said:

The rhyming scheme of this is all over the place and very Yoda speak in places. If you have to force a word in to fit ........ don't!

Click to expand...

ditto

Yoda said:

Racist you are.

Click to expand...

Fyi GM

greenmountaineer said:

The untitled poem that begins "My fascias are peeling" made me laugh. I think it's a parody by UYS about our Lit friend, Ash who likes to write playful verse about BDSM.

Click to expand...

GM it might be about the Profumo scandal which rocked the British cabinet in the 50-s or was it 60-s ?
The Russian defence attache as well as Lord Profumo favoured a certain Madam's establishment & it was rumoured defence secrets were passed onto Russia via a callgirl inadvertantly by the lustlorn ( is there such a word?!) Cabinet minister .
He lost his ministry & the establishment fell into disrepute and was forced to close : the callgirls were into sadomasochism , caning , paddlings ....the full works !!!

Magnetron said:

Would that be an Ashesh lashing or a Magnetron lashing?

Click to expand...

LOL - that would be telling...

Magnetron said:

Click to expand...

Funny you are.

In general I am not too disturbed by Yoda speak or other verbal "contortions" if the sound natural and not contorted when in context. The context is everything.

That said, A Little House is not my favorite, for many of the same reasons the first poem of the challenge isn't. Possibly they are by the same author. I agree with the other comments made, especially Mags's - the interesting story is the owner, why s/he moved, and why/how the new house corrects the shortcomings of the previous one. As it stands, it is largely a realtor's house tour. Please forgive my bluntness.

Stones of Avdat - I'm trying to figure out if a near-sonnet is worse (or not)
than notasonnet.

Magnetron said:

Click to expand...

Speak odd you do

legerdemer said:

Funny you are.

In general I am not too disturbed by Yoda speak or other verbal "contortions" if the sound natural and not contorted when in context. The context is everything.

That said, A Little House is not my favorite, for many of the same reasons the first poem of the challenge isn't. Possibly they are by the same author. I agree with the other comments made, especially Mags's - the interesting story is the owner, why s/he moved, and why/how the new house corrects the shortcomings of the previous one. As it stands, it is largely a realtor's house tour. Please forgive my bluntness.

Stones of Avdat - I'm trying to figure out if a near-sonnet is worse (or not)
than notasonnet.

Click to expand...

I suppose that depends upon if it was supposed to be a sonnet or not! Personally any sonnet would have to jump up and bite me on the bum before I would notice

Time to call for revisions I think, same rules send them to me and I'll post with your name attached.

UnderYourSpell said:

Time to call for revisions I think, same rules send them to me and I'll post with your name attached.

Click to expand...

I knew I was forgetting something.

Magnetron said:

I knew I was forgetting something.

Click to expand...

Don't worry about it, I've not even looked at mine!

Sorry I've deserted you for a while, but I have a lot of commitments at the moment which should ease a bit after this weekend.

The Stones of Avdat
legerdemer

Now kissed by restless, churning sands of time
high arches, windows blind, and gutters dry.
Since candles flickered meek against the lime
the emptiness declaims, its ghostly sigh
a sign that no one waits within cool shades
that hide among these ruined, crumbling stones
which once bore silent witness to crusades
and sheltered nomads come to rest their bones.

But these high walls no longer laugh: they mourn.
Back then the Nabatean traders turned as priests
rang times for prayer, men - elder or infirm -
sat cross-legged, pipes in hand, to sip their tea
and gossip, spitting mint on the woolen rugs
for womenfolk, timid and veiled, to clean.

Among The Living
Magnetron

Feeling cornered
the walls closing in
I remain a prisoner in this
never ending Victorian nightmare

another hostage in a bizarre
bazaar of bad dreams
or even worse
a television reality show

where there are no ashes to ashes
we are just curiosities gathering dust
too large for display in a curio cabinet
each cast member a larger than life celebrity

including those of us living onward in infamy

I would say, It is the damnedest thing!
but in this house of fixitious immutability?

We are the epitome of things damned

So, come on in!
Join the party!
The more the merrier!
Discuss your politics!
Feel free to wax poetic!

And perhaps when no one is looking
I will throttle one of you meat sacks
drag the poor sap across the room by the neck
kicking
gurgling
gasping
into the broom closet
where we will swap duds
before I walk right out the front door
with the other Lookie Lous!

A Hall To Call Home
Hard Rom

Odin, the Old One, hear this ode
to our hall, our home and hearth.
Long and lumber built with vaulted loft.
Tightly thatched that kings and thanes
might meet, talk and moot.
We boast, brag, drink mulled brews,
feast and fete by warming fires.
While winds outside whistle,
snow swirls and warmth is scarce,
inside are mead, meat and folk merry.

High on a hill sits our hall.
People protected by palisade
are safe, secure and snug
from forest beast and human foe.
Braziers blaze 'tween the benches,
trestle tables and posts of timber.
Sword and spear hang with shields
on woven tapestry hung wattle walls.
Torch and tallow candle light our toils.
God and goddess icons stand on guard.

Children feed fenced in fowl.
By warp-weighted looms toil the women.
Smells of overwintered stock mix with smoke.
Played harps, barking hounds and clucking hens
contend with conversing folk in a noisy choir.
Homely is the hall upon the hill.
Frigga, Freya and Yngvi Freyr
see us safe through this season.
Bless and bestow on man and beast
protection, prosperity and peace.

Wrap Around Porches
greenmountaineer

On Monday through Friday after school
Bobby and I delivered The News,
he as black as the projects were
from broken street lamp shards of glass

on "step on a crack, break your mother's back"
sidewalks that led to dead bolt doors
and stray dogs Bobby couldn't keep
because no dogs were allowed.

He gave what he earned to this mother
for cardboard boxes of Hamburger Helper,
two pounds of meat to last through the week,
and the rest for beer, two booze, mostly root.

Bobby knew how to fold each paper
before you could say Jack Robinson,
and none of them ever fell apart
he tossed as a test for Mugs to fetch

while I told him all the dinnertime jokes
Dad liked to tell Mom, Kate, and me
with Sunday's pot roast, carrots, and peas
I promised Bobby he could come to some day

and wouldn't have to tell his mother
if we made money mowing lawns
where houses had the finest front porches
that wrapped around Sycamore Street.

Tonight on my wrap around porch
with two smooth fingers swirling in ice
while Dexter fetches a sycamore stick,
I wave to Mr. and Mrs. Wright,

sitting on theirs across the street,
who wave back to me, the wife, and two kids
before Sunday dinner always at six
with pot roast, carrots, and peas.

Belmont
rawsilk

Home was built one thirty years past
Small and gracious farmhouse.
The etched red glass surrounds front door,
lacy edged veranda bows.

Entrance hall is papered gold'n
- Pre-Raphaelites adorn.
An island in a sea of land,
the sounds of sheep, forlorn.

A kitchen garden flourished fine.
Grating o' windmill heard,
along with nature's calls from wild,
Magpie, crow and bell bird.

Throughout the years good times they had.
Family growing bigger,
more walls, red roof, new boards went on,
with style, grace and rigour.

Bow windows holding on to walls,
flooding the rooms with light.
Garden growing tranquil beauty
flowers' gay - blooms delight.

Warm and welc'ming place inside,
fine entrance greets the guest.
To the left a large lounge room,
with blazing fire is best.

The Family portraits grace most walls,
large leather chairs around.
The warming, kitchen welcomes you,
blue willow plates abound.

Grand dining room inviting you,
gleaming marble fireplace,
enormous sideboard carved ornate,
fine dining here with grace.

Place for twenty at the table,
now the family fourteen.
The wars and conflict took some sons,
marr'age of girls was seen.

Old parents dying caused great woe,
just leaving single son,
burden of all the work was his.
So hard for only one.

Dick and his dog carried the load,
last it got too heavy.
He clutched his chest and passed away.
Drank his final bevy.

Abandoned, alone, deserted
no laughing people there.
The house was slowly robbed of grace,
falling to disrepair.

They sold it for development,
at last, its fate was sealed.
Such sadness felt to see it go,
no island in the field.

Mobile Home
AlwaysHungry

Like a hermit crab, he finds the one
that seems to fit;
(he's sampled many, and he feels
the Target® carts are best,
the reddest and most sturdy.)
Then carefully he adds each precious thing,
the bags and boxes, random scraps
one needs from day to day,
or vestiges of memories he can't explain.
Might there be family photos or a purple heart?
He couldn't tell you.
He drags his shell along with him,
bulky like a freighter
that navigates the narrow channel of the sidewalk.
He envies folks whose colored tents
form colonies beneath the bridges
but erecting those requires a science
that now is closed to him.

Across the street in a Prius
a veteran of the Summer of Love
casts frog's eyes at him and sees nothing.
She wonders if she can get
an appointment at the spa,
and whether they will legalize pot.

Interiors
GuiltyPleasure

It must have been impressive once
but passing time and cigarette smoke
have reduced it to this present state of
gloomy melancholia.

Only at night in the light from
the bar, filtered through regiments
of amber bottles, does the memory revive.

Fresh smoke covers the old,
and ample bottoms cover battered barstools. ]
The center of attraction is solid mahogany,
burnished to a glow by generations of
barkeepers’ cloths, eager elbows and
the occasional drink-flushed face.

The floor, seldom seen, is carpeted,
a pattern long gone and the weave
worn thin beneath the stools.
There’s a raised area, hardly a stage,
but now, with live music a memory,
the only slow-dancers are tables and chairs.

Exodus
GuiltyPleasure

He remembers those looming walls,
the barred windows where pale faces
pressed for freedom, howling soundlessly
behind the glass high above
the beautiful grounds. Manicured lawns,
scarlet flowers like blood on soil
lost to the impatient patients inside
looking out for another world.

Now the windows are empty eyes,
the gardens overgrown,
the blood lost to fallen leaves and weeds.
He can hear the howling now
on the streets muted by the medicine
of the world-weary who look out
of their own barred windows
and pretend it is all right.

If I've missed you out or posted the wrong revision feel free to yell at me, but I felt I had left you hanging long enough! I haven't even done my own revision because I simply haven't had the time due to family commitments and for much of the time not even being in my own house! I'll get there sometime I hope! Thank you for your patience and if I've learned anything from this, it's don't run a Challenge close to Christmas when everyone wants a piece of you and aren't willing to wait for it

legerdemer said:

#4 Mobile Home - The first stanza delivers a gut punch to armchair liberals (like me, I suppose); the second is almost aggressively in-your-face, but I know the poem has a political point to make (and axe to grind ).

Click to expand...

greenmountaineer said:

Mobile Home is my kind of poem. I was confused at frst with pairing of the title and "Target." The "aha" came with the purple heart and the sidewalk. I began imagining a war veteran with PTSD pulling a little red wagon, perhaps so paranoid he couldn't bring himself to joining other homeless people living in tents.

The contrast between him and the woman in the Prius was very skillful.

Click to expand...

Mer and GM are both hip to my tricks at this point. When I started blurting this one, I said to myself, I am on a journey to GM-land with this one. Except that GM's poems are generally not political. Mer has me pegged; I do have an axe to grind here.

I left it ambiguous as to whether my protagonist is a war veteran, and I did not think of him as paranoid; I just conceived of him as a guy whose cognitive powers have diminished so much, over time, that he can no longer solve the simple engineering task of erecting a tent. I have seen newly homeless people in my neighborhood deteriorate very rapidly.

GuiltyPleasure said:

I love this poem but found the final verse lacking, almost unnecessary. Perhaps the Prius owner needs expanding. more lines?

Click to expand...

Magnetron said:

I would jettison the entire 2nd stanza. It adds nothing, while the pot reference becomes a distraction.

Stanza 1 is perfect as is.

Click to expand...

Mer is right (GM too) -- I was griping about liberals. I went to San Francisco last year on Gay Pride day, and there were thousands of affluent hedonists out to celebrate, as well as thousands of dejected homeless people, silent and ignored. Being a liberal once meant being compassionate for victims of economic injustice, but towards the end of the 60s liberals seemed to lose interest in that, and became selfishly preoccupied with "lifestyle issues" (as did the conservatives).

I intentionally made the second stanza perfunctory and rhythm-less, in an attempt to underscore the lack of empathy on the part of the Prius lady.

Exodus

He remembers those looming walls,
the barred windows where pale faces
pressed for freedom, howling soundlessly
behind the glass high above
the beautiful grounds. Manicured lawns,
scarlet flowers like blood on soil
lost to the impatient patients inside,
looking out for another world.

Now the windows are empty eyes,
the gardens overgrown,
the blood lost to fallen leaves and weeds.
He can hear the howling now
on the streets muted by the medicine
of the world-weary who look out
of their own barred windows
and pretend it is all right

Magnetron said:

Because of the title ands lines 1 thru 6, I get a sense of a school year ending and children fleeing the building.

Which makes me want to replace "impatient patients" with "imp-atients".

Click to expand...

Was you’re school that rough, “barred windows”? Thanks for reading it.

greenmountaineer said:

I usually don't like the use of pronouns in poems, in the case of "Exodus," "He," because they're non-descriptive and usually a missed opportunity to personify the him or her of the poem. In this case, however, I think it's effective at creating an impersonal tone that permeates the entire poem.

Click to expand...

I toyed with the narrator being a child, mainly based on personal memories, but deliberately left it impersonal in the end for the very reason you say.

greenmountaineer said:

The building in the first stanza I took to be a wing in a mental hospital. The second stanza for me suggested life after discharge. "The prison of the mind" alluded to in the second stanza I thought was very effective.

I have mixed feelings about the use of "lost" in the first stanza because I'm not sure the flowers, described as they were in the previous line, would have been lost on the patients.

Nonetheless, this somber poem was a worthwhile read, getting me to think about things we usually don't think about.

Click to expand...

The whole point of the pristine gardens being “lost” to the patients is to underline the irony of creating beauty they don’t/can;t appreciate. Perhaps they’re there to impress the healthy…..? Thank you ,gm.

Interior

It must have been impressive once,
but passing time and cigarette smoke
have reduced it to this present state of
gloomy melancholia.

Only at night in the light from
the bar, filtered through regiments
of amber bottles, does the memory revive.

Fresh smoke covers the old,
and ample bottoms cover battered barstools.
The center of attraction is solid mahogany,
burnished to a glow by generations of
barkeepers’ cloths, eager elbows and
the occasional drink-flushed face.

The floor, seldom seen, is carpeted,
a pattern long gone and the weave
worn thin beneath the stools.
There’s a raised area, hardly a stage,
but now, with live music a memory,
the only slow-dancers are tables and chairs.

UnderYourSpell said:

Punctuation is everything ............... stale and ample bottoms?

Click to expand...

Fixed, thanks, and thank you for staging this DBC.

Magnetron said:

This feels incomplete; the ending does little justice. .

Click to expand...

Interesting that you felt that, it’s part of a collection.

Magnetron said:

And aside from what Annie pointed out,
never use bottom and stools in the same sentence.

Click to expand...

No comment. I did change it but, on 2nd thought, prefer the original, thanks for the suggestions tho’..

greenmountaineer said:

"Interior" felt like a snapshot with a nice little twist at the end that drove the point home. However, I thought "memory" was vague. I wish the poet would have made the memory more personal: .

Click to expand...

You want me to sing it? Careful what you wish for.

greenmountaineer said:

I'm guessing Guilty Pleasure is the poet, maybe UYS.

Click to expand...

Bingo! Thanks for the in-put.

Lyricalli said:

The comma at the end of the first stanza turns the first and second stanzas into a long, and slightly awkward run-on sentence/thought. That comma could be a full stop, perhaps a semi-colon, because the second stanza is a full thought by itself.

In the first stanza, I wonder if "its present state of" is necessary. We already know that it will be contrasting then and now because of the beginning "it must have been."

A comma is definitely needed after "stale". Adding the 'bar' to 'stools', "ample bottoms cover battered barstools," adds another bit of alliteration, and I like it without 'the'.

Click to expand...

I think/hope I’ve addressed all those points. Thanks calli and thanks to everyone, especially UYS.