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Vignette Challenge: poems and discussion

Oddly enough, when I started the challenge, I was not aware that a Vignette was a recognized poetic form. I just used the word because it seemed best suited to describe the approach to poetry which GM employs.
 
GuiltyPleasure said:
I'm not even guessing until AH spills the names, like you, Ange, I'll be wrong fer shizzle.
Click to expand...

They are spilled! Hold my hand and we'll be wrong together. :D

AlwaysHungry said:
OK, here's the scoop

16 poems

11 poets, to whit,

Magnetron
champagne1982
legerdemer
Angeline
AlwaysHungry
greenmountaineer
UnderYourSpell
Piscator
Minervous
Ishtat
GuiltyPleasure

Let the ID guessing begin, along with additional critiquing and re-writing. The re-written poems will be posted as I receive them, and author attributions will appear on March 31. What do you think -- should we vote on our favorites? We haven't done that in a long time. We could also have a "Miss Congeniality" vote, on the vignette that most closely resembles the style of GM without actually being GM's.
Click to expand...
 
AlwaysHungry said:
Oddly enough, when I started the challenge, I was not aware that a Vignette was a recognized poetic form. I just used the word because it seemed best suited to describe the approach to poetry which GM employs.
Click to expand...

I think this challenge is bringing up a lot of questions and thought about what constitutes a poem as well as what makes a poem a vignette. And that is nothing but good imho!
 
AlwaysHungry said:
Oddly enough, when I started the challenge, I was not aware that a Vignette was a recognized poetic form. I just used the word because it seemed best suited to describe the approach to poetry which GM employs.
Click to expand...

Angeline said:
I think this challenge is bringing up a lot of questions and thought about what constitutes a poem as well as what makes a poem a vignette. And that is nothing but good imho!
Click to expand...

I agree! Such an important idea of art in any of its expressions IMO is to challenge the status quo of human experience. This challenge has made me think about the balance between "show and tell" in such a way the reader remains interested.

There is a lot of good stuff here, whether they are vignettes or not, and AH deserves a cyberspace pat on the back for that.

PS: The list is impressive.
 
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greenmountaineer said:
I agree! Such an important idea of art in any of its expressions IMO is to challenge the status quo of human experience. This challenge has made me think about the balance between "show and tell" in such a way the reader remains interested.

There is a lot of good stuff here, whether they are vignettes or not, and AH deserves a cyberspace pat on the back for that.

PS: The list is impressive.
Click to expand...

I have to agree with AH, greenmountaineer - you seem to write vignettes on instinct. I think your poems are perfect and very successful examples of the form. Which is not meant to downplay any other poems. I'm just going by what I read on your thread.

I'm not sure if this is the case or not for what an actual vignette is about, but to me it seems more focused on action and somewhat less on psychology.

But I may be entirely wrong on that, and I could argue that the most successful vignette includes the effect of the action on the protagonists/ players, even if those effects are sketched extremely lightly, subtly.

Just trying to work this out myself - talking it out helps me.
 
legerdemer said:
I'm not sure if this is the case or not for what an actual vignette is about, but to me it seems more focused on action and somewhat less on psychology.
Click to expand...

Speaking as one of the blind men copping a feel from the elephant, it seems to me to be about leading the reader to psychology through action: what do a few spare brushstrokes of activity tell us about the depths of the individual being depicted in verse, and consequently about universal humanity?
 
From what I gathered on the Internets, a vignette is a poem or prose that is at least colored with the perceptions of one of it's characters, even if that character is just an observer.

It's the Heisenberg Principle in action. Whatever is being observed is altered by the observer.

And the writer must become that observer for the time being.
 
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#16 (Re-write) A Walk in the Afternoon

The scent of linden flowers, trampled on the sidewalk,
mixed in with diesel and the leaded gas. Rattling trucks
rumble on cobbles, 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, then turn back to the patient smile,
the hand bent sharply—unnaturally—held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, trace
of an injury nearly as old as his long life.
His pants' ironed crease exactly so (a woman's touch),
the brown cardigan buttoned against the breeze
off the river, wafting the delta and the sea into the city streets.

The lindens offer their shade, a cool embrace
against late-summer sun.

He tells stories from operas, 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, 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 'round the sidewalk trees,
the roses in full bloom sharing 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, roared,
"How dare you? Is this how you were taught?"

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

"Those are my roses! I work hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home! and if I catch you tearing them again,
you'll hear from me!" And with an evil eye, she left.

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

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


Original version: 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:
Nota bene -- I'm not certain that all those asterisks in the re-write of #16 are intentional. I'm waiting for a reply from the author to my query.

Edit: the asterisks are now history.
 
Last edited:
preliminary guesses......

Magnetron - socks
champagne1982 –flat earth
legerdemer - wedding
Angeline - sundance
AlwaysHungry - tamale
greenmountaineer – Madagascar
UnderYourSpel - autumn
Piscator - prairie
Minervous - lichen

subject to revision. :cool: Some very good poems resulting, many thanks to AH for the idea.
 
GuiltyPleasure said:
preliminary guesses......

Magnetron - socks
champagne1982 –flat earth
legerdemer - wedding
Angeline - sundance
AlwaysHungry - tamale
greenmountaineer – Madagascar
UnderYourSpel - autumn
Piscator - prairie
Minervous - lichen

subject to revision. :cool: Some very good poems resulting, many thanks to AH for the idea.
Click to expand...

Madagscar was the farthest thing from my mind when I wrote my submission.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#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.
Click to expand...

Holy crap. It's a totally different poem now.

Can I steal the old one?

The Poem Is A Stinky Fart
 
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...

Champagne?
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#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.
Click to expand...

If I didn't know that this was a re-write, I don't know that I would see the socks=poems metaphor. It's very understated in this version, despite the Robert Frost reference and the mention of Yeats. And now the characters have names -- I'm thinking that "Leighton" is about as close to "Gavin" as one could get. :rolleyes:
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#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.
Click to expand...

This one, on the other hand, is almost identical to the first version, except that now I'm thinking of cigarettes.
 
AlwaysHungry said:
#16 (Re-write) A Walk in the Afternoon

The scent of linden flowers, trampled on the sidewalk,
mixed in with diesel and the leaded gas. Rattling trucks
rumble on cobbles, 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, then turn back to the patient smile,
the hand bent sharply—unnaturally—held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, trace
of an injury nearly as old as his long life.
His pants' ironed crease exactly so (a woman's touch),
the brown cardigan buttoned against the breeze
off the river, wafting the delta and the sea into the city streets.

The lindens offer their shade, a cool embrace
against late-summer sun.

He tells stories from operas, 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, 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 'round the sidewalk trees,
the roses in full bloom sharing 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, roared,
"How dare you? Is this how you were taught?"

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

"Those are my roses! I work hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home! and if I catch you tearing them again,
you'll hear from me!" And with an evil eye, she left.

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...

This one has been polished and improved. I found "sunshine fractured by the canopy above" to be a lovely and effective image -- it makes you stop and think what is meant, but upon reflection, it rings true. I also like "laugh with deepest glee" -- very musical.
 
#6 (Re-write) - Lichen on my mind

Lichen grows grey green upon your stone
and in my mind, remembrance fades.
I remember.... remember your love.... our love,
so many years ago.....

So many many years.... too long.

And if our child's not busy
I'll come again to see you.
To sit, to watch the lichen grow
so slow, so very grey green slow.

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

Orginal version: Lichening.

Lichen grows grey green upon your stone
and on my mind, obscures.
I remember as I visit with you.

I remember remember .....
your name?
so many years
so many, many ..... Joan!

And if young Joan remembers.
I'll come again
to see you, see the lichen grow,
so slow, so very very grey green slow.
 
Last edited:
#7 (Re-write) -- My Father's House

Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone saps.

And looming above,,
threatening, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.

Fourth floor walk-up, sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be somewhere else.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking.

I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.

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

Original version: My Father’s House

Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone stooges.

And looming above as if to
threaten, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.

Fourth floor walk-up sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be elsewhere.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking, I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.
 
Last edited:
#9 (Re-write) -- The Flat Side of the Earth

On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon, when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.

Grandpa used to say, “You could see your dog running away for the next three days.” although our dogs always came back after a few minutes chasing the rabbit, coyote or deer they were after. Then they’d lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat.

He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went over in the two World Wars and never came back. “It’s all in your history books,” he’d go on “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating and shiny. When the ice was solid, he’d sail along the river in an iceboat he’d build from old sled runners and scraps of wood. Then he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell, “There was always the wind, even when you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."

The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.

The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada; eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo, which had disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.

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


The Flat Side of the Earth (original version)

On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.

Grandpa used to say “You could see your dog running away for the next three days” although after a few minutes, our dogs always turned back from the rabbit, coyote or deer they were chasing to lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat. He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went in the two World Wars and never returned. “It’s all in your history books” he’d continue “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating, shiny and he’d sail along the river in the iceboat he’d build himself from old sled runners and wood scraps. Then, he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell “There was always the wind, even if you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."

The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.

The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada, eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo which had already disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.
 
#13 (Re-write) -- Cold

He watches her walk away
then trees hide her progress.
Still he stands silently at the edge
of their life together until
the distant “clunk” of closure
as the car door slams shut
and she’s gone.

He turns back
to the sunlit kitchen
and the two cups of cold coffee.

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

original version -- 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.
 
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