Sleeping on the Wing Challenge: Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

Let's start with a poet I know many people here love. Some have tried to emulate his style already, but maybe will want to try again with this information.

First, Some of his poems:

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.

**********************
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among twenty snowy mountains
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn wind
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflexions
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The Mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
for blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar limbs.

**********************

Metaphors of a Magnifico

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crosssing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages.

Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.

This is old song
That will not declare itself. . .

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are

Twenty men crossing a bridge
Into a village.

That will not declare itself
Yet is certain as meaning. . .

The boots of the men clump
On the boards of the bridge.
The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.

The first white wall of the village. . .
The fruit-trees. . .

**********************

Depression Before Spring

The cock crows
But no queen rises.

The hair of my blonde
Is dazzling,
As the spittle of cows
threading the wind.

Ho! Ho!

But ki-ki-ri-ki
Brings no rou-cou-cou,
No rou-cou-cou.

But no queen comes
In slipper green.

**********************

Ploughing on Sunday

The white cock's tail
Tosses in the wind.
The turkey-cock's tail
Glitters in the sun.

Water in the fields.
The wind pours down.
The feathers flare
and bluster in the wind.

Remus, blow your horn!
I'm ploughing on Sunday,
Ploughing North America.
Blow your horn.

Tum-ti-tum,
Ti-tum-tum-tum!
The turkey-cock's tail
Spreads to the sun.

The white cock's tail
Streams to the moon.
Water in the fields.
The wind pours down.

**********************
Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

**********************

Gubbinal

That strange flower, the sun,
Is just what you say.
Have it your way.

The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.

That tuft of jungle feathers,
That animal eye,
Is just what you say.

That savage of fire,
That seed,
Have it your way.

The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.

**********************
Anecdote of the Prince of Peacocks

In the moonlight
I met Berserk,
In the moonlight
On the bushy plain.
Oh, sharp he was
As the sleepless!

And, “Why are you red
In this milky blue?”
I said.
“Why sun-colored,
As if awake
In the midst of sleep?”

“You that wander,”
So he said,
“On the busy plain,
Forget so soon.
But I set my traps
In the midst of dreams.”

I knew from this
That the blue ground
Was full of blocks
And blocking steel.
I knew the dread
Of the bushy plain,
And the beauty
Of the moonlight
Falling there,
Falling
As sleep falls
In the innocent air.

**********************
The Brave Man

The sun, that brave man,
Comes through the boughs that lie in wait,
That brave man.

Green and gloomy eyes
In dark forms of the grass
Run away.

The good stars,
Pale helms and spiky spurs,
Run away.

Fears of my bed,
Fears of life and fears of death,
Run away.

That brave man comes up
From below and walks without meditation,
That brave man.

**********************

A Rabbit As King Of The Ghosts

The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur—

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten on the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,

You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone—
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.



And there you have it. Ten poems from Wallace Stevens. Why not read them and chew on them for a while. I'll be back in a nonce with some information about Stephens. Feel free to peruse info on your own, too. No restrictions on learning.

I've found a site where you can download and listen to a recording of Mr Stevens reading some of his poems.

And now some background

One of the first things you notice in Wallace Stevens's poetry is how full of bright, gorgeous things it is--fruit trees, feathers, red weather, elegant gestures, beautiful clothes, delightful-sounding words. This has something to do with Wallace Stevens's ideas. He had, in fact, very strong ideas about what things were like, how people should look at them, think of them. In his later poems, he often wrote about these ideas. He thought the world, if you saw it as it really was, was beautiful and dazzling, that you could be constantly discovering its amazing beauty, if you gave what you were looking at all your attention, using your imagination, seeing it as if for the first time, seeing everything always in a new way. He thought that this was the most exhilirating, joyful, best and truest way to see anything, to think of it, to write of it. It's more comfortable to see and think of everything in the same old way. People are very drawn to what is familiar. It seems easiest if it is all known in advance, if everything always makes the same kind of sense and nothing is unusual or unexpected. But that keeps you from discovering the beuaty all around you. It keeps you from the new things that you could see and think and say.

_____Stevens's idea was that even plain, simple things, like a blackbird or a ploughed field, are exotic and amazing. Think, for example, of the rain. You look out the window and it is raining. You think, "I need my umbrella today." You're used to the rain. You look at it, but in a way you don't really see it. But what if it were the first rain you ever saw? If you didn't know what it was? If you could forget, for a moment, everything but the rain? How would it look and feel and small and sound? What would you think or write about it? Wallace Stevens thought that it was possible to look at things that way, that we have a choice about the way things are, and that what they are depends on our own imaginations. He thought that poetry wasn't a way to figure out and give order to the past, but a way to start again, to begin something new. You start with nothing except what is there; with no ideas except what you are just beginning to think. The poems are not about eternal truth but about the truth of the surface of things, the truth of the way things have just begun to be.

_____"The poem," he said in one of his poems, "refreshes the world." He thought words were a way of expanding the senses--that is, words were a way of discovering things, and of making them new, To describe the sun as a "savage of fire" is to see it as if for the first time; to describe it as an "animal eye" is to see it as if for the first time again.

_____Stevens's poems, in their exhuberance about refreshing the world, are full of colors and full of all kinds of details of shape and hardness and softness and fragrance and smoothness and shine and coolness and elegance and warmth and sound. They are full, too, of all kinds of strange-sounding, unfamiliar words (ceintures, periwinkles) and phrases (slipper green, bawds of euphony, barbaric glass) and sometimes, sound imitations (rou-cou-cou and tum-ti-tum). There is a richness in the way the poems sound. There is a lot of alliteration ("The houses are haunted," "But no queen comes"), and rhyming sounds are scattered throughout ("In red weather," "By white nightgowns").

_____In "Disillusionment at Ten O'Clock," Stevens is writing about people who don't use their imaginations. He makes the poem funny and sensuous by talking mostly about what they are not wearing to bed, and what they are not going to dream. In Stevens's view, they're missing a lot, in contrast to the sailor who, although he may be drunk, is better off because he at least is having exciting dreams--his imagination isn't dead.

~ excerpted from Sleeping on the Wing, Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell, eds.

And now on to the exercise!

Wallace Stevens--Poetry Exercise 1

There are two exercises related to Stevens's poetry in Sleeping on the Wing. You can do one or both of them. You can write as many poems in response to these exercises as you want. You can write in any format: free verse, form poem, illustrated poem, whatever strikes your muse. You must, however, follow the directions of at least one of the exercises.

You have one week to respond to this challenge, so you kust have at least one poem posted in this thread by Monday, March 17, 2008. Let's say by midnight, PST. That's one week (and a few hours) from now. And remember, if someone critiques your poem, you must respond in kind. Or in other words, if you read a poem you want to critique, go for it. You'll get a review in return.

Write and have fun!

Exercise 1

Write a poem like "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock." Try starting with the ordinary way things actually are--say what things people are wearing, for instance, or doing or building or carrying or saying. But make most of the poem about the way things are not. You can make the poem about the world in general or about a particular place or group of people--your school [Ange's note: this is geared to students, so if you're not in school, be creative and substitute age-appropriate things], your house, your block, your city, your state; teachers, parents, bus drivers, doctors, politicians. Write what people are not going to wear, what they're not going to think of or talk about or dream of, what the buildings do not look like, what colors and shapes things do not have. Make this "not" part of the poem very sensuous and particular and extravagant: balloons and banners, for example, are not in the windows, policemen are not dressed in gold armor and directing traffic with bugles and gongs, classrooms are not the shapes of hearts or stars, houses are not being built in the clouds. Try using very beautiful or very strange-sounding words, words you've never used before. You might go through a dictionary and find some. Or make up some sounds like rou-cou-cou. You can use alliteration, too, and internal rhyme--whatever makes the sound of the poem rich and interesting.

~ excerpted from Sleeping on the Wing, Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell, eds.

Wallace Stevens--Poetry Exercise 2

There are two exercises related to Stevens's poetry in Sleeping on the Wing. You can do one or both of them. You can write as many poems in response to these exercises as you want. You can write in any format: free verse, form poem, illustrated poem, whatever strikes your muse. You must, however, follow the directions of at least one of the exercises.

You have one week to respond to this challenge, so you kust have at least one poem posted in this thread by Monday, March 17, 2008. Let's say by midnight, PST. That's one week (and a few hours) from now. And remember, if someone critiques your poem, you must respond in kind. Or in other words, if you read a poem you want to critique, go for it. You'll get a review in return.

Write and have fun!

Exercise 2

Another kind of poem to write is one like "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." In each stanza of this poem, the blackbird is different because of a different way of seeing it--it has a different place in the world, a different place in Stevens's imagination. In the first stanza, Stevens sees the blackbird as if in a black-and-white movie, with everything around it white and still--only its eye is moving. In the second stanza, he sees the blackbird as part of a comparison: his three contrasting opinions are like three blackbirds. The third stanza has the blackbird whirling in the wind as if it were part of a theatrical performance, a pantomime show. In the fourth stanza it is part of a philosophical proposition; in the fifth the subject of a speculation about music; in the sixth, part of a frightening story; in the seventh, like something in the Phrophets part of the Bible; in the eighth, part of a statement about psychology; in the ninth, like something in mathematics. The tenth stanza talks about the kind of music the sight of blackbirds would inspire. The eleventh stanza sounds like something from an old novel--here blackbirds are only inside someone's feelings as part of a fear. The twelfth stanza is like nature lore, something a farmer would know. The last stanza is, again, like a black-and-white-movie, but different from the first time: here the blackbird is completely still and it is the white snow that moves.

Write this poem about something rather ordinary--an orange, a window, clouds, fir trees, a cat a lake, whatever. Your poem can be in three parts or five or six or ten or thirteen or fifty. Begin again with each new part, thinking about the subject in a new way--the way it is in summer, in winter, in your thoughts, in your dreams, up close, far away, in the rain, in the dark, in your memories, in China, in the desert, in outer space, moving or very still. Think of it, too, perhaps, as part of some other subject you know about--maybe music or chemistry or physics. Or think of it as it would appear in a newspaper article, a story, an autobiography, a history book, an essay. Each time, imagine something very clearly and particularly. Some parts can be shorter, some longer. Don't try to make the parts go together in some way or another or try to come to some conclusion at the end. Thirteen ways of imagining a subject should be a little like having thirteen different subjects.

~ excerpted from Sleeping on the Wing, Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell, eds.

Angeline said:

There are two exercises related to Stevens's poetry in Sleeping on the Wing. You can do one or both of them. You can write as many poems in response to these exercises as you want. You can write in any format: free verse, form poem, illustrated poem, whatever strikes your muse. You must, however, follow the directions of at least one of the exercises.

You have one week to respond to this challenge, so you kust have at least one poem posted in this thread by Monday, March 17, 2008. Let's say by midnight, PST. That's one week (and a few hours) from now. And remember, if someone critiques your poem, you must respond in kind. Or in other words, if you read a poem you want to critique, go for it. You'll get a review in return.

Write and have fun!

Exercise 2

Another kind of poem to write is one like "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." In each stanza of this poem, the blackbird is different because of a different way of seeing it--it has a different place in the world, a different place in Stevens's imagination. In the first stanza, Stevens sees the blackbird as if in a black-and-white movie, with everything around it white and still--only its eye is moving. In the second stanza, he sees the blackbird as part of a comparison: his three contrasting opinions are like three blackbirds. The third stanza has the blackbird whirling in the wind as if it were part of a theatrical performance, a pantomime show. In the fourth stanza it is part of a philosophical proposition; in the fifth the subject of a speculation about music; in the sixth, part of a frightening story; in the seventh, like something in the Phrophets part of the Bible; in the eighth, part of a statement about psychology; in the ninth, like something in mathematics. The tenth stanza talks about the kind of music the sight of blackbirds would inspire. The eleventh stanza sounds like something from an old novel--here blackbirds are only inside someone's feelings as part of a fear. The twelfth stanza is like nature lore, something a farmer would know. The last stanza is, again, like a black-and-white-movie, but different from the first time: here the blackbird is completely still and it is the white snow that moves.

Write this poem about something rather ordinary--an orange, a window, clouds, fir trees, a cat a lake, whatever. Your poem can be in three parts or five or six or ten or thirteen or fifty. Begin again with each new part, thinking about the subject in a new way--the way it is in summer, in winter, in your thoughts, in your dreams, up close, far away, in the rain, in the dark, in your memories, in China, in the desert, in outer space, moving or very still. Think of it, too, perhaps, as part of some other subject you know about--maybe music or chemistry or physics. Or think of it as it would appear in a newspaper article, a story, an autobiography, a history book, an essay. Each time, imagine something very clearly and particularly. Some parts can be shorter, some longer. Don't try to make the parts go together in some way or another or try to come to some conclusion at the end. Thirteen ways of imagining a subject should be a little like having thirteen different subjects.

~ excerpted from Sleeping on the Wing, Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell, eds.

Click to expand...

http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=320981

mercifully I cut it short

..........

The ladies will never ever dance
in the puddling laking streets
no splishy splashing
stomping wellie deep
Their rainbow brollies
flashing at the thunder clouds
amassing.
No tarradiddle ha de ha
homespun pleasures
without crumpets dripping butter
waiting where no log fire blooms.

The 2nd Door is closed.
The stage is empty. No
gut-bucket blues to wake
the dead, no red skirts flare,
no black ties care, no thigh
to shy from share. No one
is aware where ghosts don't
lean insoucience in freedom
from the blue-eyed stare
gives nothing up to keys
that bell or horns that bask
in midnight's blare, Goodnight
sweet ladies and your juketown
swains who wake the sidewalk
passing knit together by
the empty window, broken chair.

Nine Pianos

I
A red tinted woodfleshed piano
Narrow and richly carved;
Shaped with plane
And turned on lathe.

II
Keys move up a ladder
Of progression. White black
White white black --
The unsteady footsteps
Of drunken musicians on
Uneven thresholds.

III
Piano melodies
Heard in a birdsong
Or water's rill;
Casual cascades of noise,
Muted tonality blue
On chartreuse or even
Pomegranate; music.

IV
Baby grand with sensual
Curves seducing
Johann, Ludwig, Amadeus
And virgins playing
In the parlor washing scales
From infant eyes.

V
The overture to the opus
Always heard
Background to lyrics
Of your creation.

VI
Piano notations, such
Softness stammered
Through velvet hammer
On metal strings
Flesh on tooth or ebony
Grained fingers stroked
In C Major riffles.

VII
Borne on the backs
Of Hindi castes, native
Birch bark to Fort Simpson;
Civilization played on piano.

VIII
Marches, requiem,
Sonatas serenade the moon
Prayers to heaven for man
Piano whispers to God.

IX
A repetoire of religion
Depressed and held, legato
Pinched and plucked, staccato
Arpeggio on eighty-eight keys.

champagne1982 said:

Nine Pianos

I
A red tinted woodfleshed piano
Narrow and richly carved;
Shaped with plane
And turned on lathe.

II
Keys move up a ladder
Of progression. White black
White white black --
The unsteady footsteps
Of drunken musicians on
Uneven thresholds.

III
Piano melodies
Heard in a birdsong
Or water's rill;
Casual cascades of noise,
Muted tonality blue
On chartreuse or even
Pomegranate; music.

IV
Baby grand with sensual
Curves seducing
Johann, Ludwig, Amadeus
And virgins playing
In the parlor washing scales
from infant eyes.

V
The overture to the opus
Always heard
Background to lyrics
Of your creation.

VI
Piano notations, such
Softness stammered
Through velvet hammer
On metal strings
Flesh on tooth or ebony
Grained fingers stroked
In arpeggio riffles.

VII
Borne on the backs
Of Hindi castes, native
Birch bark to Fort Simpson;
Civilization played on piano.

VIII
Marches, requiem,
Sonatas serenade the moon
Prayers to heaven for man
Piano whispers to God.

IX
A repetoire of religion
depressed and held, legato
pinched and plucked, staccato
arpeggio on eighty-eight keys.

Click to expand...

Send this off somewhere for publication! And be quick about it!

...........

Misapprehension Of LaLeche

Sports bra clad slimness
behind jogger borne progeny
no jiggle, wiggle
impossible when so tight
held high on mammalian
breast, suckled
nose buried in lactic
salaciousness squirted
on voracious baby
yum-yum slurple
vibrating on spin wheels
while Mommy gets fit.

Jamison said:

I don't expect a review, but I had to say what a fun poem this is, especially from the aspect of where I live and what I had to drive in this morning. I really do enjoy the alliteration in this, how alive it sounds (and if you could hear me reading your poem with my accent, you'd laugh yourself silly)! This poem makes me think how sad it is for the ladies not to know what it is to walk in the rain.

Click to expand...

Thanks for articulating that. I love the way Annie writes because she always projects such a clear, unique voice. The sounds are great, too. There's much to see and hear in her poem.

I think hearing it in Cajun drawl would be pretty cute.

Angeline said:

Send this off somewhere for publication! And be quick about it!

Click to expand...

I can never send them off hot like this! I still haven't submitted Sonate (ad libitum) a violin anywhere, maybe I can get a series of music poems together. Besides, I have to find the perfect venue, unless you have a publication you'd recommend.

Jamison said:

Devastation of Having Tea

Standing on the outside
between every corner, sneering
at those on the inside
are the espresso stand snobs.
They are not ordering
double hazelnut mochas,
no triple French vanilla lattes.
There are no decafs and half-cafs
with half-n-half. No carmel machiatos,
wet cappuccinos with extra foam.
Goodness no, Americanos served
or frappuccinos with whip,
no whip. No hot cocoa, not so on
a whole lotta chocolaty sprinkles.
Those snobs are not drinking
coffee, flirting with baristas.
They don't buzz on caffeine or stay
wide-awake in early morning dead-lands.

Click to expand...

Who are these snobs and what are they drinking? Inquiring minds want to know! I'm betting it's booze.

Angeline said:

The 2nd Door is closed.
The stage is empty. No
gut-bucket blues to wake
the dead, no red skirts flare,
no black ties care, no thigh
to shy from share. No one
is aware where ghosts don't
lean insoucience in freedom
from the blue-eyed stare
gives nothing up to keys
that bell or horns that bask
in midnight's blare, Goodnight
sweet ladies and your juketown
swains who wake the sidewalk
passing knit together by
the empty window, broken chair.

Click to expand...

This is a good exercise from you and that's all it is from my seat. There are great visuals in this poem: no thigh to shy from share and insoucience in freedom are delicious to say aloud.

So, I know you created this beat and rhyme on purpose but Ms Jazzaline, I like parts of it although, at this moment, parts of your poem leave me wincing in my chair from that blare, glare, stare. Beware.

IMO you're too concious of those rhymes and where they fit rhythmically. It sounds like swing jazz though -- the drums and strings then a blast with all of the "air" rhymes. Maybe that's what's wrong, there are plenty of rhyming structures but not enough assonance.

Dog Shows

I

Boring waiting
benched dogs yawning
not judged
till way after lunch
chat with old friends
oh hurry we are in the ring!

II

Lap around turn left
never block
the judges view
cardinal sin
will it be us?
just even look this way!



III

Stalls galore
beds, toys and hacking jackets
cost a fortune shall we dabble
save your money
for the greasy burger.

IV

Cacophony of barks
only the owners growl.
Did you qualify for Crufts?
Oh how delightful
for you
no, no we didn't
still always next time!

V

Litter strewn benches
rosettes proudly displayed
half chewed bones
and chicken sandwiches.
Heading home
nursing a full blown headache.

VI

Never ever again
no more over blown
entrance fees
and boring waits to be
end of the line.
That is until the next time!

Angeline said:

Who are these snobs and what are they drinking? Inquiring minds want to know! I'm betting it's booze.

Click to expand...

Tea? They are drinking tea aren't they? Mind you they can keep it I will go for all those yummy sounding cups of coffee that are jumping off the page for me

champagne1982 said:

This is a good exercise from you and that's all it is from my seat. There are great visuals in this poem: no thigh to shy from share and insoucience in freedom are delicious to say aloud.

So, I know you created this beat and rhyme on purpose but Ms Jazzaline, I like parts of it although, at this moment, parts of your poem leave me wincing in my chair from that blare, glare, stare. Beware.

IMO you're too concious of those rhymes and where they fit rhythmically. It sounds like swing jazz though -- the drums and strings then a blast with all of the "air" rhymes. Maybe that's what's wrong, there are plenty of rhyming structures but not enough assonance.

Click to expand...

Hmmmm. I think the assonance is in the rhyming words, which I wondered about--whether it was all too much word play. I think what's missing is alliteration and sound. I've edited it once already and am gonna give myself some space from it, then take another pass on it.

Thank you for the critique. Here, as promised, is mine.

Nine Pianos

I
A red tinted woodfleshed piano
Narrow and richly carved;
Shaped with plane
And turned on lathe.

II
Keys move up a ladder
Of progression. White black
White white black --
The unsteady footsteps
Of drunken musicians on
Uneven thresholds. [lovely strophe!]

III
Piano melodies
Heard in a birdsong
Or water's rill;
Casual cascades of noise,
Muted tonality blue
On chartreuse or even
Pomegranate; music. [ditto this--great strophe]

IV
Baby grand with sensual
Curves seducing
Johann, Ludwig, Amadeus
And virgins playing
In the parlor washing scales
From infant eyes. [these last two lines seem like an odd mix of metaphors to me and scales falling from eyes (even washed has a touch of cliche to me]

V
The overture to the opus
Always heard
Background to lyrics
Of your creation. [these two lines are the weakest imo; I feel like you could say something more meaningful here--"lyrics of your creation" sounds to trite and abstract to me--but maybe that's just me!]

VI
Piano notations, such
Softness stammered
Through velvet hammer
On metal strings
Flesh on tooth or ebony
Grained fingers stroked
In C Major riffles. [Great! Wasn't sure about riffles at first but it grew on me lol]

VII
Borne on the backs
Of Hindi castes, native
Birch bark to Fort Simpson;
Civilization played on piano. [Is it just civilization? Seems likes there's another word or phrase to capture the hard third-world labor, the real journey that allows flourishes of civilization in a "more genteel"world]

VIII
Marches, requiem,
Sonatas serenade the moon
Prayers to heaven for man
Piano whispers to God.

IX
A repetoire of religion
Depressed and held, legato
Pinched and plucked, staccato
Arpeggio on eighty-eight keys.

And the last two strophes look just right to this reader's eyes.

Angeline said:

<snip>Thank you for the critique. Here, as promised, is mine.

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Angeline,

Thankyou. I was wondering what made it so strong in your eyes and now I have a better understanding. Thanks for the compliments about this piece. I try to answer some of your suggestions with a bit of explanation of how I arrived at the word choices and phrasing I used below. Included for those who like to see other people's process, I tried a quick rewrite of each problematic section, just to play with it for a bit.

As you say, this will be put away for a bit so that when I come back to it I'll see with the scales cleared from my vision.

IV
Baby grand with sensual
Curves seducing
Johann, Ludwig, Amadeus
And virgins playing
In the parlor washing scales
From infant eyes. [these last two lines seem like an odd mix of metaphors to me and scales falling from eyes (even washed has a touch of cliche to me] Maybe I was trying to include too much here. I wanted curvy virgins involved in being coquettish for those 3 men. Then scales to allude to first, the actual technique practice of playing them in multiple octaves and second, the blinders on Victorian eyes as the sexuality played out in parlours by polite society. The washing is that sweeping motion, (would swept work better I wonder) a pianist's body and arms go through. Finally, the infant is both the virgin and the baby grand piano. V
The overture to the opus
Always heard
Background to lyrics
Of your creation. [these two lines are the weakest imo; I feel like you could say something more meaningful here--"lyrics of your creation" sounds to trite and abstract to me--but maybe that's just me!] Not so, you're in perfect harmony with my thinking. I want to do something with this strophe, but the rest of the writing of the poem got in the way. Hmm. VII
Borne on the backs
Of Hindi castes, native
Birch bark to Fort Simpson;
Civilization played on piano. [Is it just civilization? Seems likes there's another word or phrase to capture the hard third-world labor, the real journey that allows flourishes of civilization in a "more genteel" world] How about God Save The Queen? It's all about the British Empire and primarily Victorian when the fine arts of Music and Literature were all that was proper in society. Now, I don't know if these are improved but it was fun doing a public workshopping.

I don't think performed is the right word either I am very sorry but my imagination just went into overdrive

UnderYourSpell said:

The ladies will never ever dance
in the puddling laking streets
no splishy splashing
stomping wellie deep
Their rainbow brollies
flashing at the thunder clouds
amassing.
No tarradiddle ha de ha
homespun pleasures
without crumpets dripping butter
waiting where no log fire blooms.

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Under Your Spell

This is delightful. I like it , a lot. Now let me see if I am able to critique without sounding boorish

The first line did indeed grab me, sent my mind wondering about those pudding lake streets. I love that line.

The entire rhythm is ticklish. I like the thought of playing around in the rain with a brollie.

One thing that stood out was the word "amassing" in a line of its own. Now, i stepped back and thought about it, amass means to gather in group so your idea of putting it on a line alone speaks to me in a different way. Think about what is being amassed. You have made it an important word by singling it out. I need to think on that a bit more.

Overall, your use of words is terrific. And your "made-up " words made me smile. The end where you bring it all home wraps up nicely and makes me long for a crisp fire and a soft blanket. I feel sorry for those who do not have those simple pleasures.

good work, I truly enjoyed this poem.

NJ

Just because I liked the title...


Shoegazing

Sturdy lace pulled thru
this way, that way,
zig zag strangulation
cutting off all
circulation.
Wriggle toes and flex
an ankle, let your
skin breathe. Then
tie a knot and take
that first step.


*

We all walk an inch
off the ground.
Only a few actually
levitate.

*

You can tell a man's sin
by his soles. Superbia is worn
at the toes, poised for charge.
Avaritia grinds heels
into the ground, traction
to pull wants closer.
Gula is a sole never worn
before replaced and piled.

*

Silent wish from a shoebox:
Take me out, pick me up
fill me, fullfill me,
take me dancing.


*

Chaplin gorged on leather
shaped liquorice. Things
were easier in monochrome,
when smoke and mirrors
were indeed smoke
and mirrors
and sweet liquorice
shoes.


*

Doug choose shoes.
Doug's dog chews
shoes Doug choose.
Dog: "Shoe, Doug?"
Doug: "Shoo, dog!"
Shoo dog, shoo.

These are all terrific! This challenge is yielding some great writing, as I believed it would. And it'll keep eliciting interesting poems.