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Vignette Challenge: poems and discussion

#10 End of Autumn

leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow.

Someone already noted the “almost haiku” aspect of this, few words, vivid image but, again, is it a vignette?
 
#15 Kathie rides the bus

Kathie rides the bus an hour each day to reach
the club. She's saving her pennies, last week the
phone company shut her off. Less than a month
overdue but they keep single mothers on edge.

An A-list gymnast till she had a serious back
injury, she recovered to be a provincial junior
diving champion yet never finished high school.
Two past husbands one a cop, “never marry a cop
always angry sometimes rough and after no support."

Thirteen years working one club or another
and never think it isn’t work. At first she reveled
in the attention, a smile led to a dance, perhaps
a rub as an extra and her purse was full.
It sure beat waitressing or other menial jobs.
But somewhere along the line, it too became a
job; these days dances don’t come so easy
and the liquor and drugs are harder to resist.
After the dance, she takes her money having
tickled his fantasies for this week and wanders
through the bar looking for another customer.
She yearns for a shoulder to lean on, perhaps
a ride home or at least to the subway, but these
have a price she’s no longer willing to pay.

Then at six, Katie’s on the bus, heading home
to her basement apartment and her five
year old daughter, the light of her life.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#15 Kathie rides the bus

Kathie rides the bus an hour each day to reach
the club. She's saving her pennies, last week the
phone company shut her off. Less than a month
overdue but they keep single mothers on edge.

An A-list gymnast till she had a serious back
injury, she recovered to be a provincial junior
diving champion yet never finished high school.
Two past husbands one a cop, “never marry a cop
always angry sometimes rough and after no support."

Thirteen years working one club or another
and never think it isn’t work. At first she reveled
in the attention, a smile led to a dance, perhaps
a rub as an extra and her purse was full.
It sure beat waitressing or other menial jobs.
But somewhere along the line, it too became a
job; these days dances don’t come so easy
and the liquor and drugs are harder to resist.
After the dance, she takes her money having
tickled his fantasies for this week and wanders
through the bar looking for another customer.
She yearns for a shoulder to lean on, perhaps
a ride home or at least to the subway, but these
have a price she’s no longer willing to pay.

Then at six, Katie’s on the bus, heading home
to her basement apartment and her five
year old daughter, the light of her life.
Click to expand...

This one needs metaphor, IMHO. It has a rather dry "Just the facts, Ma'am" quality to it.
 
#11 Chilled Party Favors

The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.

The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight
and eclipse the brief discomfort of heavy lifting?

I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.


The first verse seems disconnected from the other two although I do love lines 1, 2 and 3. the lovely vignette of the dog at play stands alone without the puzzling preamble. The title puzzles me too but I'm easily confused.
 
I am so very sorry. I promised to try to comment on all the poems but I'm finding that with the visit here from a family member and the anticipation of a long-planned, long-awaited, longed-for return to Europe followed by a visit to Florida has me and my mind unable to dedicate any coherent thought.. Know this though, I have read all of them, have considered the critique on mine and will assuredly work on improving it. Brilliant work everyone. I always enjoy reading the poems here on this little patch of purity on a long robe of smut (LOL).
 
champagne1982 said:
I am so very sorry. I promised to try to comment on all the poems but I'm finding that with the visit here from a family member and the anticipation of a long-planned, long-awaited, longed-for return to Europe followed by a visit to Florida has me and my mind unable to dedicate any coherent thought.. Know this though, I have read all of them, have considered the critique on mine and will assuredly work on improving it. Brilliant work everyone. I always enjoy reading the poems here on this little patch of purity on a long robe of smut (LOL).
Click to expand...

Bear in mind that you have another two weeks left in which to post critiques. The re-written poems will be posted at the end of the month, along with the identities of the authors.
 
GuiltyPleasure said:
#11 Chilled Party Favors

The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.

The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight?

I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.


The first verse seems disconnected from the other two although I do love lines 1, 2 and 3. the lovely vignette of the dog at play stands alone without the puzzling preamble. The title puzzles me too but I'm easily confused.
Click to expand...

Like you. GP, I was puzzled by the title.

I liked the poem without the first stanza because IMO the physical discomfort was small compared to the psychological elation that came after it.
 
Last edited:

12

Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'
and I felt sorry for my namesake.


I am having a problem critiquing because I’m not sure exactly what a vignette looks like. Is it this little piece of rather inconsequential info? Is it .the longer but evocative “prairie” pieces? Or is it those slice-of-life poems? I just don’t know and hereby recuse myself from further comment.
 
#16 A Walk in the Afternoon

The scent of linden flowers, smushed on the sidewalk,
mixed in with the smell of diesel and the leaded gas of rattling trucks
rumbling on cobbles to disturb the silent streets.
All that and the city's debris, rustled by wind,
accompanied by a quiet, syncopated limp:
step...draaaag... step... grandfather's footfalls steady,
reassuring, from old, perforated-leather buckled shoes
through which beige socks peeked out.

I skip ahead now and again. I'm maybe five or six,
a child unaware except of reassuring love,
the safety of my grandfather's calm smile
to dote on his single grandchild.
The rest are gone, to freer, warmer climes.

I turn to watch the weary, patient smile,
the hand bent--unnaturally sharply and held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, visible trace
of injury nearly as old as his long life.
A dapper man, his pants' ironed crease
exactly so, a woman's touch, his brown cardigan
buttoned against the breeze off the river bringing the smell
of the delta and the sea into the city streets.

The tree-shade offers its cool embrace
against late-summer sun.

He tells me stories, sings me songs - speaks
in soft tones of people and places far away,
in lands I don't dream to ever know. It's just another
afternoon, returning from a shopping trip,
a net bag dangling from his good hand.
And on ahead I skip, enjoying sunshine
fractured by the canopy above.

We pass the house with flowers planted
'round the sidewalk trees, the roses in full
bloom wafting their sweet, intoxicating scent.

I swoop and break one off to take with me
in memory of the day, and laugh with deepest glee
when, out of nowhere, whack!
The slap was loud and hard.

The wizened woman crackled with fury, and roared,
"How dare you? Are those your flowers?
Is this how you were taught?"

My eyes streamed tears, as much in shock as pain.

"Those are my roses! I worked hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home and think on your mistake, and if I catch you
tearing them again, you'll hear from me!" And she stormed off.

I looked for my savior to protect me. But all he said
was, "If you want one, ask. They were not yours to take."
 
Last edited:
AlwaysHungry said:
#16 A Walk in the Afternoon

The scent of linden flowers, smushed on the sidewalk,
mixed in with the smell of diesel and the leaded gas of rattling trucks
rumbling on cobbles to disturb the silent streets.
All that and the city's debris, rustled by wind,
accompanied by a quiet, syncopated limp:
step...draaaag... step... grandfather's footfalls steady,
reassuring, from old, perforated-leather buckled shoes
through which beige socks peeked out.

I skip ahead now and again. I'm maybe five or six,
a child unaware except of reassuring love,
the safety of my grandfather's calm smile
to dote on his single grandchild.
The rest are gone, to freer, warmer climes.

I turn to watch the weary, patient smile,
the hand bent--unnaturally sharply and held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, visible trace
of injury nearly as old as his long life.
A dapper man, his pants' ironed crease
exactly so, a woman's touch, his brown cardigan
buttoned against the breeze off the river bringing the smell
of the delta and the sea into the city streets.

The tree-shade offers its cool embrace
against late-summer sun.

He tells me stories, sings me songs - speaks
in soft tones of people and places far away,
in lands I don't dream to ever know. It's just another
afternoon, returning from a shopping trip,
a net bag dangling from his good hand.
And on ahead I skip, enjoying sunshine
fractured by the canopy above.

We pass the house with flowers planted
'round the sidewalk trees, the roses in full
bloom wafting their sweet, intoxicating scent.

I swoop and break one off to take with me
in memory of the day, and laugh with deepest glee
when, out of nowhere, whack!
The slap was loud and hard.

The wizened woman crackled with fury, and roared,
"How dare you? Are those your flowers?
Is this how you were taught?"

My eyes streamed tears, as much in shock as pain.

"Those are my roses! I worked hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home and think on your mistake, and if I catch you
tearing them again, you'll hear from me!" And she stormed off.

I looked for my savior to protect me. But all he said
was, "If you want one, ask. They were not yours to take."
Click to expand...

Very vivid descriptions. My one suggestion is that if might have more emotional immediacy if the the grandfather were named "Gavin." ;)
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#15 Kathie rides the bus

Kathie rides the bus an hour each day to reach
the club. She's saving her pennies, last week the
phone company shut her off. Less than a month
overdue but they keep single mothers on edge.

An A-list gymnast till she had a serious back
injury, she recovered to be a provincial junior
diving champion yet never finished high school.
Two past husbands one a cop, “never marry a cop
always angry sometimes rough and after no support."

Thirteen years working one club or another
and never think it isn’t work. At first she reveled
in the attention, a smile led to a dance, perhaps
a rub as an extra and her purse was full.
It sure beat waitressing or other menial jobs.
But somewhere along the line, it too became a
job; these days dances don’t come so easy
and the liquor and drugs are harder to resist.
After the dance, she takes her money having
tickled his fantasies for this week and wanders
through the bar looking for another customer.
She yearns for a shoulder to lean on, perhaps
a ride home or at least to the subway, but these
have a price she’s no longer willing to pay.

Then at six, Katie’s on the bus, heading home
to her basement apartment and her five
year old daughter, the light of her life.
Click to expand...

I find the narration a bit clumsy, mostly because of the misplaced commas and especially with this ( bolded ) line in Stanza 3.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#12

Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'
and I felt sorry for my namesake.
Click to expand...

Strike "and" from Line 6 and we got a Winner.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#13 Cold

He watches her walk away
then the trees hide her progress.
Still he stands silently at the edge
of their lives together until
the distant “clunk” of closure
as the car door slams shut
and she’s gone. He returns
to the sunlit kitchen
and the two cups of cold coffee.
Click to expand...

Strike "then the" from Line 2.

Split this into 3 parts.

He watches her walk away.
Trees hide her progress.
Still he stands silently at the edge
of their lives together until
the distant “clunk” of closure
as the car door slams shut.

She’s gone.

He returns to the sunlit kitchen
and the two cups of cold coffee.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#14 In The Fiddler's House

Here in Kazimierz buildings sit close
to the cobbled streets, which teemed
with tourists earlier but now are empty
save these few old gentlemen

who come to meet in a courtyard,
shuffling toward one another similarly
white headed and bowed as if related
by more than culture and tradition.

Meeting is a blessing, a triumph--look
at their broad pink faces, how they smile
and clasp hands, greet in the mother
tongue. May you live one hundred years,

no small wish considering their histories:
the immigrant who fled into uncertainty
and helped build a nation; the survivor
who resisted, prevailed even as his family

perished and who says "There are 200
Jews living in Poland today."

A gaggle of ragged musicians arrive
with the old songs. Perhaps they play
now for only the greening stones
in the adjacent graveyard but the clarinet

giggles a waterfall of notes and fiddles,
an accordion join in as if to awaken
the cool, falling night.
Click to expand...

I feel the narrator is too seperated from the observation.

The last stanza feels like a simple editing oversight.

giggles a waterfall of notes. Fiddles
and an accordion join in as if to awaken
the cool, falling night.
 
I'm jumping back on my Norman Rockwell hobbyhorse for a moment in order to make a general comment. For me, poetry is always about that which cannot be communicated with prose. Take a look at the image below, which depicts an incident that was well covered in press accounts, but see how the image activates the imagination of the viewer. The whole story is implicit in the picture of Ruby Bridges. You can imagine the leering, rage-filled faces of the Arkansas racists, but the painter evokes them without showing them explicitly. It is a snapshot which unlocks an entire chapter of history:

8141730_orig.jpg


Another painter who is probably the greatest master of the vignette in known history is Rembrandt. Here, with a simple gesture, shows Potiphar's wife, who had the hots for Joseph but was spurned, falsely accusing him of rape:

20161126203209%21Joseph_Accused_by_Potiphar%27s_Wife.jpg
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#16 A Walk in the Afternoon

The scent of linden flowers, smushed on the sidewalk,
mixed in with the smell of diesel and the leaded gas of rattling trucks
rumbling on cobbles to disturb the silent streets.
All that and the city's debris, rustled by wind,
accompanied by a quiet, syncopated limp:
step...draaaag... step... grandfather's footfalls steady,
reassuring, from old, perforated-leather buckled shoes
through which beige socks peeked out.

I skip ahead now and again. I'm maybe five or six,
a child unaware except of reassuring love,
the safety of my grandfather's calm smile
to dote on his single grandchild.
The rest are gone, to freer, warmer climes.

I turn to watch the weary, patient smile,
the hand bent--unnaturally sharply and held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, visible trace
of injury nearly as old as his long life.
A dapper man, his pants' ironed crease
exactly so, a woman's touch, his brown cardigan
buttoned against the breeze off the river bringing the smell
of the delta and the sea into the city streets.

The tree-shade offers its cool embrace
against late-summer sun.

He tells me stories, sings me songs - speaks
in soft tones of people and places far away,
in lands I don't dream to ever know. It's just another
afternoon, returning from a shopping trip,
a net bag dangling from his good hand.
And on ahead I skip, enjoying sunshine
fractured by the canopy above.

We pass the house with flowers planted
'round the sidewalk trees, the roses in full
bloom wafting their sweet, intoxicating scent.

I swoop and break one off to take with me
in memory of the day, and laugh with deepest glee
when, out of nowhere, whack!
The slap was loud and hard.

The wizened woman crackled with fury, and roared,
"How dare you? Are those your flowers?
Is this how you were taught?"

My eyes streamed tears, as much in shock as pain.

"Those are my roses! I worked hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home and think on your mistake, and if I catch you
tearing them again, you'll hear from me!" And she stormed off.

I looked for my savior to protect me. But all he said
was, "If you want one, ask. They were not yours to take."
Click to expand...

My biggest concern with this is Stanza 2 slipping from "a being in the moment observation" to an out of body experience like being under hypnosis.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#1.

We set out for Madagascar where
Jimmy Fowey said we'd make our fortunes.
He was well read up on such things
from a book his Grandpa gave him for Christmas.

The boat had once belonged to his Pa,
but Ma Fowey stopped him using it when
he rolled home smelling of cheap perfume
and booze, just one weekend too many.

We never did make it, or our fortunes,
and I can still recall the look of horror
on my Ma's face when we were dragged
unceremoniously home by the Coastguard.

Neither me nor Jimmy could sit for a week
and the Hen house had never been so clean.
Years later we lost Jimmy to a landmine, and me?
Some stroke of irony fetched me to the Coastguard's chair.
Click to expand...

This poem reminded me of some I read written by eagleyez before he passed away. I recall several with folksy rural charm in the narrative and sometimes monologue. It brought back memories of the Maine coastline and its quaint villages I have visited many times where he and Angie lived for a while. Perhaps for that reason, I think she might be its author.

I do like proper nouns in a poem if they're not overused and add something to the reader's imagination but do not become a focal point. "Madagascar" is a great choice. It's foreign and exotic with just enough familiarity, and with its 4 syllables in the line it rolls off the tongue nicely.

On more than one occasion my reach has exceeded my grasp, but as I read this, I thought it would have been intriguing to allude to Voltaire's Candide, i.e., travelling the world seeking fortune, only to realize you left good fortune at home.
 
Last edited:
AlwaysHungry said:
#16 A Walk in the Afternoon

...
I turn to watch the weary, patient smile,
the hand bent--unnaturally sharply and held in front, The adverbs here are crying out for punctuation.
his elbow tight against his side, visible trace
of injury nearly as old as his long life.
.
Click to expand...

The adverbs here are crying out for punctuation.
 
greenmountaineer said:
This poem reminded me of some I read written by eagleyez before he passed away. I recall several with folksy rural charm in the narrative and sometimes monologue. It brought back memories of the Maine coastline and its quaint villages I have visited many times where he and Angie lived for a while. Perhaps for that reason, I think she might be its author.

I do like proper nouns in a poem if they're not overused and add something to the reader's imagination but do not become a focal point. "Madagascar" is a great choice. It's foreign and exotic with just enough familiarity, and with its 4 syllables in the line it rolls off the tongue nicely.

On more than one occasion my reach has exceeded my grasp, but as I read this, I thought it would have been intriguing to allude to Voltaire's Candide, i.e., travelling the world seeking fortune, only to realize you left good fortune at home.
Click to expand...

Nope, not me! FYI, Eagleyez grew up in San Francisco and was much influenced by the Western Beat-era poets, mostly notably Gary Snyder (though he was also a big Bukowski fan). He spent a lot of time hiking in Marin County and the hills around Yosemite when he was a teenager and I hear those experiences very much in his poems. He did write some lovely stuff about Maine, too, with that same focus on the natural world. :)
 
a stab at guessing

Very, VERY rough guesses

#1 -- ???? maybe gm, or maybe someone posing

#2 Dirty Sock poem -- Mags or UYS, who else? it's the humor of the piece; but which one, I'm not sure; I read it with a smile on my face, and the smiles didn't fade on further readings, though my nose did wrinkle a bit

#3 Soledad -- gm - several of his fingerprints (or someone who did a hell of a job playing him) - I liked it a lot

#4 Chinook -- Piscator (he of the interest in haibun and hiking/fishing/Canadian references); I enjoyed its sweep, whatever its form

#5 (Maggie Lynn) -- gm or AH

#6 Lichening -- gm? not so much the style, though it is consistent (not the most gm-ish, however) or possibly Minervous? I really enjoyed this one - scarily evoking the vines starting to grow...

#7 My Father's House -- GP

#8 Sun Danced -- Mags?

#9 Flat Earth -- Piscator, I think - both subject matter and form

#11 Chilled Party Favors -- champs, perhaps

#12 (Pa) -- Piscator -- I think, not sure; maybe UYS?

#13 Cold -- Minervous (?)

#14 In the Fiddler's House -- Angeline

#15 Kathie Rides the Bus -- Ishtat

#16 A Walk -- Ishtat ? not sure at all, but it reads a bit more like a short story than a poem (similar to #15 in this sense)

I enjoyed these - even those who were less vignettish and more snaps, or impressions. Perhaps the latter are at the impressionistic or psychological extreme of vignettes?
 
#2 (re-write) -- Leighton's New Socks

Leighton usually uses cotton,
but tonight he's knitting with wool,
nostalgic for a road not taken

when he had wet feet, so to speak,
with Catherine, prim, proper, and coiffed,
and Leighton wore his new set of clothes

with Argyle socks, perhaps like Yeats
in a parlor with a fireplace
reflected in Maude's green eyes.

Leighton's come a long way since then,
knitting the occasional sweater,
but prefers the weaving of socks,

and he's not sure why he likes them so;
perhaps it's because they're simple
in the head down to the toes

he thinks as he tries his new ones on
before he puts them in his drawer
along with the many others he wove.


======================================

Original version: The Poem Is a Dirty Sock

Frustrated, you crumple and toss it
into the hamper but then retrieve it.
Who knows? Maybe one or two

more lines is all it needs to be clean,
something neatly folded
you'd gladly put in your drawer

by the one you wrote and liked last year
with three maybe four in the back
you hardly ever wear.

You've laundered it so many times,
and look! There's another new hole.
Christ! You just spelled "sole" as your soul!

Embarrassed, you are reminded
it's time again to trim your nails,
and then in disgust you toss it
because it really does smell,

but when you finally retrieve it,
you burn it instead in your stove
to get the stink out of your head
that's all the way down to your toes

before you grab some loose leaf paper
to start all over again. Who knows?
perhaps even the beginning of
an emperor who has new clothes.
 
Last edited:
#12 (re-write)

Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'.
I felt sorry for my namesake.


====================

Original version:

Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'
and I felt sorry for my namesake.
 
Last edited:
This has been an interesting, if confusing, challenge for me. I have a hard time wrapping my head around how a vignette should work in a poem. I think of a vignette as a colorful snapshot or portrait and those when conveyed with words are descriptive. But the best poems don't describe: they show. So a vignette poem needs to find a balance between those two. I think there are a lot of good poems in this challenge, but few that work well as poems and vignettes. That's just my current understanding and maybe by the time we have more discussion I'll have a better fix on how to accomplish it.

A few guesses (bearing in mind I'm usually wrong):

#1 I think this is a ringer by AH, writing a GM-like poem. It presents a story that unfolds over time and place, so not really a snapshot to me. It's lively and good reading, but hard to suspend my disbelief. How did two guys who sound like they're from a farm somewhere in the West (USA, Canada?) end up trying to go to Madagascar in a boat? I need more info.

#2 I love this poem, find it clever and working as both something concrete and as a metaphor, but I don't see it as a vignette. I think this is UYS because it sounds like her sense of humor.

#3 Another poem I really like because the images are so strong, but not sure it's a vignette because of the scene shift (and in such a short poem). I feel like it could be longer. No clue who wrote it.

#4 One of the best in the challenge imho because it successfully combines a picture of a place with a metaphor about a relationship. The distinct parts (prose and haiku) mirror and support each other. I think this is Piscator.

#5 This has got to be GM. It just sounds like his to me. And it works well to me as a narrative poem, but as a vignette I feel like it shouldn't be covering so much time. If I'm misunderstanding what a vignette is, someone help me understand! That said, I love the poem. It's colorful and engaging. I can see and hear it as I read.

That's it for now. I'll be back.
 
Last edited:
Angeline said:
This has been an interesting, if confusing, challenge for me. I have a hard time wrapping my head around how a vignette should work in a poem. I think of a vignette as a colorful snapshot or portrait and those when conveyed with words are descriptive. But the best poems don't describe: they show. So a vignette poem needs to find a balance between those two. I think there are a lot of good poems in this challenge, but few that work well as poems and vignettes. That's just my current understanding and maybe by the time we have more discussion I'll have a better fix on how to accomplish it.....
Click to expand...

The form is confusing me too. I read "impressionistic" and "descriptive" and wonder how much of "the rest of the vine" should be shown or told about, if at all.

I dusted off Lewis Turco's Book of Forms, 3rd ed.(2000), but it wasn't listed in the index.

What I like about the form challenges is the practice of conforming your poem to the format, which I think is a great exercise. If the ensuing discussion brings the Vignette into sharper focus for me, I'll probably change my submission and post it somewhere.
 
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