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Old 12-06-2009, 06:38 PM   #51
greenmountaineer
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
dawn raid


black shapes
with their black sounds
drop black tears on a
sleeping city

day erupts
bright with pain



for Mike


feet sunk in mud
grasping at stars
the poet does
all he can

to build a bridge out of words

there's dirt on his hands
a sheen on his brow
his belly's full of acid, meat and dreams

born with that need
to embrace it all
he's torn -
inhabiting some desperate place




i want to catch a

thought in all its glory -
a threadbare leaf
against a bright blue sky




love comes quietly


there is no grand parade, no clarion call
for magic happens in quiet quarters
small gestures, in the catching of an eye
back alleyways, the vistas of a sigh
in dusk's cool plums - that backdrop to starlight
and mists across the moon on autumn nights.

laughter, warm and fresh, can swell a heart
enmesh it, happily, and two hands held
in firelight's soft red and embered glow
will hold the memory of that touch although
the snow lays all around, and freezing hail
vies with the bitter wind to no avail.

Time teaches us best listen to the breeze
for truths are small and love comes
quietly.
Loved the music in every line, particularly "For Mike," which evokes all sorts of ideas with me, but I would have substituted for "clarion." It's a little too heraldic for me.
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Old 12-07-2009, 08:27 AM   #52
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
I've gone as far as I can with polishing these. maybe fresh eyes or time might lend new perspective but, for now, they are what they are.


bleeders

with experience comes
a thinning of the blood
a coolness of the brain that
lifts the mists

and in the grass
the liars sharp as glass
are easier to see

handy that
for bleeders
such as me

...
I like this one the best. I think I get the thinning of blood thing, but could you please explain what you mean by 'bleeders' anyway? In America 'bleeders' is sometimes used as slang for teenage girls. I don't use it, I didn't make it up.
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Old 12-07-2009, 08:37 AM   #53
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Quote:
Originally Posted by bflagsst View Post
I like this one the best. I think I get the thinning of blood thing, but could you please explain what you mean by 'bleeders' anyway? In America 'bleeders' is sometimes used as slang for teenage girls. I don't use it, I didn't make it up.
bleeders is a term for someone whose blood doesn't clot as it ought to when they're cut - hemophiliacs. here i used it metaphorically of course - as an emotional bleeder.

and thankyou, btw
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Old 12-07-2009, 08:42 AM   #54
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
Loved the music in every line, particularly "For Mike," which evokes all sorts of ideas with me, but I would have substituted for "clarion." It's a little too heraldic for me.
thankyou so much for reading an commenting, gm. I opted for clarion to get that specific image of love being heralded in loudly only to be saying it isn't that way. But it is a word that doesn't sit well with me either. I was unable to come up with something better whilst retaining the meaning of the line, but would gladly take any suggestions on board!
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Old 12-07-2009, 08:47 AM   #55
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trumpet maybe but that's still much of the same
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Blessed are the cracked for it is they that let in the light
They say a smile is a gift which is free to the giver and precious to the recipient.
But giving the finger is free, too, and I find it more personal and sincere.
If at first you don't succeed....skydiving is not for you ....
If you don't pay your exorcist .... do you get repossessed?
I shall always decide not to decide, unless of course I decide to change my mind.
....But I, being poor, have only my dreams, I have spread my dreams under your feet,Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.......
Nil Caborundum illigitimi
Sestina slut
Annie submits

Last edited by UnderYourSpell : 12-07-2009 at 08:47 AM. Reason: sssssssssss
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Old 12-07-2009, 08:58 AM   #56
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
bleeders is a term for someone whose blood doesn't clot as it ought to when they're cut - hemophiliacs. here i used it metaphorically of course - as an emotional bleeder.

and thankyou, btw
that's what I was thinking. Now the poem is perfectly clear to me and I like it even more.
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Old 12-07-2009, 10:43 AM   #57
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Does anyone know the plural for beaux? oops forget I asked I think that is the plural lol
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Blessed are the cracked for it is they that let in the light
They say a smile is a gift which is free to the giver and precious to the recipient.
But giving the finger is free, too, and I find it more personal and sincere.
If at first you don't succeed....skydiving is not for you ....
If you don't pay your exorcist .... do you get repossessed?
I shall always decide not to decide, unless of course I decide to change my mind.
....But I, being poor, have only my dreams, I have spread my dreams under your feet,Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.......
Nil Caborundum illigitimi
Sestina slut
Annie submits

Last edited by UnderYourSpell : 12-07-2009 at 10:45 AM. Reason: oops
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Old 12-08-2009, 03:19 AM   #58
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Quote:
Originally Posted by bflagsst View Post
that's what I was thinking. Now the poem is perfectly clear to me and I like it even more.
cool! kind of you to say.

Quote:
Originally Posted by UnderYourSpell View Post
Does anyone know the plural for beaux? oops forget I asked I think that is the plural lol
lol
yes, beaux or beaus
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Old 12-08-2009, 03:25 AM   #59
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Quote:
Originally Posted by UnderYourSpell View Post
trumpet maybe but that's still much of the same
yup. thing is, I like the sounds within clarion call, and it was the image I intended to communicate, but greenmountaineer is making me think again about whether or not that is the best-suited image with its attendant connotations. And right now I am unable to find something more suited. Maybe, being kind of fond of it to begin with (the image), I'm not looking hard enough or in the right places
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Old 12-08-2009, 07:20 PM   #60
greenmountaineer
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
yup. thing is, I like the sounds within clarion call, and it was the image I intended to communicate, but greenmountaineer is making me think again about whether or not that is the best-suited image with its attendant connotations. And right now I am unable to find something more suited. Maybe, being kind of fond of it to begin with (the image), I'm not looking hard enough or in the right places


"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"

How about "water music" instead of "grand parade?" I could Handel "clarion call" with that.

Great stuff in any event.
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Old 12-08-2009, 07:34 PM   #61
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"

How about "water music" instead of "grand parade?" I could Handel "clarion call" with that.

Great stuff in any event.
Zadok the Priest!
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Old 12-08-2009, 07:44 PM   #62
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"

How about "water music" instead of "grand parade?" I could Handel "clarion call" with that.

Great stuff in any event.
I feel completely lost, for,
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"
contrasts in dramatic strength
with the love and life
addressed in the poem
that moved me magically
to quiet awe.

"water music" requires I know Handel
which I barely do, and thus, for me
the water music conflicts
in its similarity with the poem
after the clarion call. Thus
I wonder what my green hero knows
that passes me by.
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Old 12-09-2009, 12:09 AM   #63
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post

and still i stare

her hands, her dress, her hair
all fail
to tear my gaze aside

from eyes
whose sadness is a shockwave
breaking over me

they say she's crazy




the somewhere other-looking boy

with filthy hair and mis-matched shoes
eyes soft-focus dreaming blues
this boy is somewhere other-looking

with the mind of a child
and the body of a man
he only knows pleasure
in the palm of his hand
he walks like a sleeper
a smile coasts his lips
and he's treading on water -
a silence in his fingertips
I like how you have these two grouped together. It reminds me of silhouette pictures, those oval ones. The poem about the girl brings to mind the eyes of that Afghani girl on the cover of that one National Geographic. Like Lorencino, I identify with somewhere other looking boy. Where did the inspiration come from? I feel like I see a little of myself in there I feel like I might be embarrassed by that





Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post

and you and you and you


too soon, too soon, the eagle flew
while you were busy drawing down
the moon into those icy hands,
purchasing one-eyed wisdom
to crowd your poppied mind
until you could no longer stand
but gently tumbled tousled thoughts
to fall asleep in twilight lands,
asleep in the laps of legends.

and, as you dreamt, a river of woe
washed over you and carried you down
to those blasted banks, where the rocking stone
could be toppled by the gentlest touch;
you stroked the smooth-skinned serpent's egg
and, though asleep, you cried real tears
for emotions that somehow eluded you
and for the names of the faces
you seemed to remember
with a distant and palsied anxiety.

and you dreamt you wrote a mystic piece
where vague and shuffling demons danced;
where Odin cast aside his mask
and settled on your shoulders, round
a mammoth task:
a burden irredeemable - a lance;
a lance to bear in diamond jousts,
advancing through the teeth of fear
to seize that chance to win the soured prize.

Methusulah, with his long grey beard
whispered in your sleeping ear
of fools and wise men, sons and daughters
the Devil's love for holy water
of a single, human footprint in the sand;
of the perils of duplicity
the rigours of respectibility
of such passions as can tear apart a man.

and on the sharp infliction of
such sorrows' textured wounds, you woke
with knotted hair and eyes still chasing phantoms;
and even though the darkstream coursed
still dully in your veins, you spoke
of fields of blood and lonely Death's cold tantrums;
and lifelong cravings threatening to choke ...
to strain and break the slenderest of throats.

with that distempered mind you reached
for lightless needles littering the floor;
and, as a stray dog to its vomit, warm,
to poisoned dreams did you return, once more.
This is some damn powerful writing! I'm interested in the theme or subject matter. It reminds me of something inspired by American Indians, particularly the southwest of the US. So many interesting images, I like how they all swirl together, it reminds me very much of a dream or just a neat way to put things together. But in general, I think the pace and momentum and solidity and even the length create the power. Good job!
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Old 12-09-2009, 03:55 AM   #64
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"

How about "water music" instead of "grand parade?" I could Handel "clarion call" with that.

Great stuff in any event.
you're too generous with that praise, there, gm
now I need to go the work to see how it might work for me. And then sort out the metre, lol.

Quote:
Originally Posted by bflagsst View Post
Zadok the Priest!
ah, kings and queens - i was kind of working off an idea from another poem about what's often promoted as being love is, in reality, some kind of mad parade. I do need the pomp but think maybe Zadok the Priest is a bit more upmarket than a travelling circus hitting town

Quote:
Originally Posted by lorencino View Post
I feel completely lost, for,
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"
contrasts in dramatic strength
with the love and life
addressed in the poem
that moved me magically
to quiet awe.

"water music" requires I know Handel
which I barely do, and thus, for me
the water music conflicts
in its similarity with the poem
after the clarion call. Thus
I wonder what my green hero knows
that passes me by.
Maybe we'll both learn something

Quote:
Originally Posted by Palba_Noruda View Post
I like how you have these two grouped together. It reminds me of silhouette pictures, those oval ones. The poem about the girl brings to mind the eyes of that Afghani girl on the cover of that one National Geographic. Like Lorencino, I identify with somewhere other looking boy. Where did the inspiration come from? I feel like I see a little of myself in there I feel like I might be embarrassed by that
thanks PN. the first is a dramatically shortened piece homing in on just that one image, really, of her eyes - it used to end with 'I'm not so sure' but I felt able to leave that last line off after feedback from other writers I respect. I didn't group them together with any forethought either, but like that silhouette image it evokes for you.

The second piece: well readers seem to be getting something different out of it here than elsewhere it has appeared - not that this is a bad thing. I like diversity It actually came from the thoughts about how autistic or 'other-looking' people often end up on the streets, wandering about in a state of self-neglect; amazing minds are often there, not harmful, sometimes serenely beautiful minds. I suppose it wasn't really my intention to show this person as autistic, it was more just where my own thoughts took me and I like how it takes people to places 'other', depending on our own experiences.


Quote:
This is some damn powerful writing! I'm interested in the theme or subject matter. It reminds me of something inspired by American Indians, particularly the southwest of the US. So many interesting images, I like how they all swirl together, it reminds me very much of a dream or just a neat way to put things together. But in general, I think the pace and momentum and solidity and even the length create the power. Good job!
Thanks, again
premise behind this - the dark dreams of a drug-addled, literary mind. The images are all from myth and legend. The voice of the narrator is the friend/partner who watches this self-destruction and is quite impotent to change things.
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Old 12-09-2009, 08:51 AM   #65
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Quote:
Originally Posted by lorencino View Post
I feel completely lost, for,
"there is no grand parade, no clarion call"
contrasts in dramatic strength
with the love and life
addressed in the poem
that moved me magically
to quiet awe.

"water music" requires I know Handel
which I barely do, and thus, for me
the water music conflicts
in its similarity with the poem
after the clarion call. Thus
I wonder what my green hero knows
that passes me by.
You may be right Lorencino. Your reply brings up an interesting point. Metaphors and similes sometimes elicit reflection and curiosity for me, rather than immediate comprehension. I donít think itís bad that a reader may feel challenged to go to the dictionary, Google, or Wikipedia to discern a different perspective on a word or phrase, although when I do, I do so only after reading the entire poem, and I have to like it as I do with these by Chipbutty. I furthermore see that as a once or twice occurrence in reading the poem; otherwise it feels like work, rather than enjoyment. There is too much of the obtuse in modern poetry in my opinion, and I would agree that the allusion to Handelís Water Music Concert may fall into that category, particularly if it butted its head against another metaphor or simile in the poem that I didn't understand...

which took me back to the poem for my "Lesson for Today" (i.e., mine, not yours. Frost went to the graves for his. I much prefer the internet.) I do like how clarion contrasts with the way Chipbutty ended the second line, and water music obviously would freeze if the allusion later in the poem to winter remains.

So I'm going to excuse myself now because I've only managed to put half of my ego back in its cage and have some work to do.

But Handel aside, water music does have a nice soft sounding trickle to it, don't you think? (Down Ego! Down! Did you forget it's winter? Get back in your cage!)

I find this thread and the other one about what makes a good poem two of the most thought provoking on the site.
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Old 12-09-2009, 10:43 AM   #66
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Quote:
Originally Posted by greenmountaineer View Post
You may be right Lorencino. Your reply brings up an interesting point. Metaphors and similes sometimes elicit reflection and curiosity for me, rather than immediate comprehension. I don’t think it’s bad that a reader may feel challenged to go to the dictionary, Google, or Wikipedia to discern a different perspective on a word or phrase, although when I do, I do so only after reading the entire poem, and I have to like it as I do with these by Chipbutty. I furthermore see that as a once or twice occurrence in reading the poem; otherwise it feels like work, rather than enjoyment. There is too much of the obtuse in modern poetry in my opinion, and I would agree that the allusion to Handel’s Water Music Concert may fall into that category, particularly if it butted its head against another metaphor or simile in the poem that I didn't understand...

which took me back to the poem for my "Lesson for Today" (i.e., mine, not yours. Frost went to the graves for his. I much prefer the internet.) I do like how clarion contrasts with the way Chipbutty ended the second line, and water music obviously would freeze if the allusion later in the poem to winter remains.

So I'm going to excuse myself now because I've only managed to put half of my ego back in its cage and have some work to do.

But Handel aside, water music does have a nice soft sounding trickle to it, don't you think? (Down Ego! Down! Did you forget it's winter? Get back in your cage!)

I find this thread and the other one about what makes a good poem two of the most thought provoking on the site.
*sniggers*

it has a wonderfully soothing quality, which matches up with my memory of water music and is why I was having trouble considering using it as a substitute for clarion call, an understandably brasher, showier, makes-you-wince-unless-its-note-perfect sound

edit: oops, gm said use it instead of 'grand parade' not 'clarion call'. sorry! *embarrassed*

thanks for your considered replies, though, gm. much appreciated.
I'm glad these topics brought about even more than I could have hoped for in the way of responses
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Last edited by chipbutty : 12-14-2009 at 01:34 PM.
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Old 12-14-2009, 06:02 AM   #67
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all i know is

that i heard
the death-bird softly warble
and its soft song was so gentle
didn't want it to stop singing





(i far prefer the first 3 verses)

all strangely


from storm-swept heights an ill-light spills
a pooling murk that, slouching, slips
and slithers into dip and quiet hollow.

it settles yet still sinuously stirs
unspooling lazy, lissom coils that
feel and flow as loose as thought itself.

it steals the breath from small burrow,
it sucks reflection down; no light escapes
from torvid depths; all-muffled, sound.

halfways betwixt liquidity and gas,
its source unguessed, it lays a noose
around the neck of this, the sleeping land.

a stifled dawn creeps slow upon the
field of the standing stone - a sentinel
in this brambled place, all overgrown.

no creature moves, for only death where
this denaturing foul breath has fouled -
but vanished now: all strangely as it came, it's fled




bridge

a favoured place for suicides
this massy bridge, so it is told
but i would rather stand and watch
the waters flow
the fog slip by in silent drifts that
come and
mizzling
go






a longer, old one - but as i read it i switch between liking phrases and wanting to get the damned garden shears out


built on ruins

faded sense-degenerate
run to earth by dusty answers
spectral flutterings of ravens

cogency emulsifies
denied impulsive outlet

and i would gouge and claw and tear
escape the mundane spheres
become as abstract Time
ribboning through nothingness
flanked by great and wheeling fields of stars

far cry from cool, sequestered vale
this clasp and grasp attainted masqu-
-erade of life we live
where second-sight is demonized
and, like a leper's charms, is veiled

chryselephantine castles spore
superior cachet but are
no more than empires built on ruins
and in this natural ampitheatre
bootleggers swathed in samite throw
back the sad bread they'll not touch
for to dine and die in Paradise
is their intended portion
but

such fatal gifts, tossed with disdain
suppress the nap and nibble
strike a spark
and, wrongwise rubbed, the underbelly
pivots
dabbles
sways
sets in sequence consequential randoms
a dark chapter of accidents
in a programme of progressive power
running riot beneath water canons

the masses are outwitted, trampled and subdued
ballooning emancipation
with its pretty word empowerment
drifts with ribbons cut across
retarded, dismal skies

once more we cough and doff our hats
with lowered eyes

as a stone within a stone within a stone am i

and this is why

i would gouge and tear and claw my way
escape the mundane spheres
seize with timeless eyes and ears
the pulsing, massed event of man
flanked by great and wheeling fields
of stars





heretics and half-lives

in this world of heretics and half-lives
sinners, oracles and lies
i'll lay flat on my back
in the damp evening grass
and raise a finger of black to the skies
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Old 12-14-2009, 02:04 PM   #68
lorencino
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Thumbs up I like but

Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
all i know is

that i heard
the death-bird softly warble
and its soft song was so gentle
didn't want it to stop singing





(i far prefer the first 3 verses)

all strangely


from storm-swept heights an ill-light spills
a pooling murk that, slouching, slips
and slithers into dip and quiet hollow.

it settles yet still sinuously stirs
unspooling lazy, lissom coils that
feel and flow as loose as thought itself.

it steals the breath from small burrow,
it sucks reflection down; no light escapes
from torvid depths; all-muffled, sound.

halfways betwixt liquidity and gas,
its source unguessed, it lays a noose
around the neck of this, the sleeping land.

a stifled dawn creeps slow upon the
field of the standing stone - a sentinel
in this brambled place, all overgrown.

no creature moves, for only death where
this denaturing foul breath has fouled -
but vanished now: all strangely as it came, it's fled




bridge

a favoured place for suicides
this massy bridge, so it is told
but i would rather stand and watch
the waters flow
the fog slip by in silent drifts that
come and
mizzling
go






a longer, old one - but as i read it i switch between liking phrases and wanting to get the damned garden shears out


built on ruins

faded sense-degenerate
run to earth by dusty answers
spectral flutterings of ravens

cogency emulsifies
denied impulsive outlet

and i would gouge and claw and tear
escape the mundane spheres
become as abstract Time
ribboning through nothingness
flanked by great and wheeling fields of stars

far cry from cool, sequestered vale
this clasp and grasp attainted masqu-
-erade of life we live
where second-sight is demonized
and, like a leper's charms, is veiled

chryselephantine castles spore
superior cachet but are
no more than empires built on ruins
and in this natural ampitheatre
bootleggers swathed in samite throw
back the sad bread they'll not touch
for to dine and die in Paradise
is their intended portion
but

such fatal gifts, tossed with disdain
suppress the nap and nibble
strike a spark
and, wrongwise rubbed, the underbelly
pivots
dabbles
sways
sets in sequence consequential randoms
a dark chapter of accidents
in a programme of progressive power
running riot beneath water canons

the masses are outwitted, trampled and subdued
ballooning emancipation
with its pretty word empowerment
drifts with ribbons cut across
retarded, dismal skies

once more we cough and doff our hats
with lowered eyes

as a stone within a stone within a stone am i

and this is why

i would gouge and tear and claw my way
escape the mundane spheres
seize with timeless eyes and ears
the pulsing, massed event of man
flanked by great and wheeling fields
of stars





heretics and half-lives

in this world of heretics and half-lives
sinners, oracles and lies
i'll lay flat on my back
in the damp evening grass
and raise a finger of black to the skies
I like the longer one very much and the last one is a gem. I googled unsuccessfully to find what a "massy" bridge looked like or what the sort of feelings a "torvid" depth would arouse in me.
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Old 12-14-2009, 03:30 PM   #69
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heretics and half-lives

in this world of heretics and half-lives
sinners, oracles and lies
i'll lay flat on my back
in the damp evening grass
and raise a finger of black to the skies

I like this. Sometimes your language is too impersonal (of the bridge "it is told", but better "I am told"), but this roots the writing in the personal and makes you wonder at the state of mind. I like "raise a finger of black", although I'm not sure black is the right word, and I like the sensuality of the situation. x
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Old 12-14-2009, 04:15 PM   #70
butters
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Quote:
Originally Posted by lorencino View Post
I like the longer one very much and the last one is a gem. I googled unsuccessfully to find what a "massy" bridge looked like or what the sort of feelings a "torvid" depth would arouse in me.
ah, thanks, lori that comes from using an old dictionary as i was so fond of doing.

adj. massy - to have bulk and weight

so it was a chunky, old bridge, heavy-looking, stone

torvid - stems from torve, or torvus, meaning sour, stern, grim.

I wonder what those words made you think before me telling you, though. Was it anything like their real meaning? This is one from the days where so many different words all wanted to come out to play. It had to happen. I still think it's a shame language is so often curtailed now. But poems do read 'cleaner', for the most part, with more modern idioms. sigh.
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Old 12-14-2009, 04:40 PM   #71
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Originally Posted by fridayam View Post
heretics and half-lives

in this world of heretics and half-lives
sinners, oracles and lies
i'll lay flat on my back
in the damp evening grass
and raise a finger of black to the skies

I like this. Sometimes your language is too impersonal (of the bridge "it is told", but better "I am told"), but this roots the writing in the personal and makes you wonder at the state of mind. I like "raise a finger of black", although I'm not sure black is the right word, and I like the sensuality of the situation. x
hello

hmmm - i suppose that'd work, though it was a less personal sense of the stories being related over and over by the locals to anyone who'd listen i'd aimed for. There's no reason why it can't be personalised. thanks!


heretics:
this one arose from my attempts to write 'shorter'. it's really a state of mind of flipping the bird to all the cheats, liars and assorted con-artists (funny, really all one person, come to think of it, )

the finger of black - i guess it was a physical description of how, held up to the late evening skies, the finger appears black and it was supposed to echo the angry 'fuck you' sentiment behind the action. i suppose i hoped the sensuality of the grass, its dampness, being laid out beneath the wide open skies ... i guess i intended them to act both as a contrast to that and as a sense of how i felt more attuned to Nature than to people, saying 'this is me, angry, but sensuous' lol. But, as you know, fridayam, sometimes people don't see what we intend for them to see, not having that experience themselves and no reason why they should read further than what's in front of their faces. I didn't do the job if people don't see it.


that's why I find looking back over older work frustrating at times. some of them, well, most, are crying out to be rectified - but i'm not sure i have the impetous right now. Still, it's interesting to see how my styling has changed year to year!
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
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Old 12-14-2009, 06:23 PM   #72
fridayam
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I am only commenting on the physical reality of the finger against the night sky--it would still appear lighter. The physicality of you lying on that grass is evident and strong, and sensual without belabouring it. The shorter format suits you, I think, lets you be more open and open-ended.
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Old 12-14-2009, 09:37 PM   #73
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post




(i far prefer the first 3 verses)

all strangely


from storm-swept heights an ill-light spills
a pooling murk that, slouching, slips
and slithers into dip and quiet hollow.

it settles yet still sinuously stirs
unspooling lazy, lissom coils that
feel and flow as loose as thought itself.

it steals the breath from small burrow,
it sucks reflection down; no light escapes
from torvid depths; all-muffled, sound.

halfways betwixt liquidity and gas,
its source unguessed, it lays a noose
around the neck of this, the sleeping land.

a stifled dawn creeps slow upon the
field of the standing stone - a sentinel
in this brambled place, all overgrown.

no creature moves, for only death where
this denaturing foul breath has fouled -
but vanished now: all strangely as it came, it's fled



I like how sometimes, usually toward the end of stanzas, certain sounds seem to stand out, I mean in general terms.

But also in this poem, the quiet hollow fairly screams in the first stanza because of the foreignness of the sounds

quiet

quite a violent word from a vocal-apparatus perspective, especially in the context of the other sounds.
kw, t ... glottal stops or something, aren't they? I don't remember the terms anymore, but I think very effective there.

i think you've done a beautiful job with sound in this poem! my god i haven't even looked to see what the words mean!


I love a stifled dawn creeps slow upon

I read the first line of the third stanza like this:
It steals the death from small bur-OH
(so caught up in the sound was I)

well done
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Old 12-15-2009, 04:49 AM   #74
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Quote:
Originally Posted by chipbutty View Post
all i know is

that i heard
the death-bird softly warble
and its soft song was so gentle
didn't want it to stop singing





(i far prefer the first 3 verses)

all strangely


from storm-swept heights an ill-light spills
a pooling murk that, slouching, slips
and slithers into dip and quiet hollow.

it settles yet still sinuously stirs
unspooling lazy, lissom coils that
feel and flow as loose as thought itself.

it steals the breath from small burrow,
it sucks reflection down; no light escapes
from torvid depths; all-muffled, sound.

halfways betwixt liquidity and gas,
its source unguessed, it lays a noose
around the neck of this, the sleeping land.

a stifled dawn creeps slow upon the
field of the standing stone - a sentinel
in this brambled place, all overgrown.

no creature moves, for only death where
this denaturing foul breath has fouled -
but vanished now: all strangely as it came, it's fled




bridge

a favoured place for suicides
this massy bridge, so it is told
but i would rather stand and watch
the waters flow
the fog slip by in silent drifts that
come and
mizzling
go






a longer, old one - but as i read it i switch between liking phrases and wanting to get the damned garden shears out


built on ruins

faded sense-degenerate
run to earth by dusty answers
spectral flutterings of ravens

cogency emulsifies
denied impulsive outlet

and i would gouge and claw and tear
escape the mundane spheres
become as abstract Time
ribboning through nothingness
flanked by great and wheeling fields of stars

far cry from cool, sequestered vale
this clasp and grasp attainted masqu-
-erade of life we live
where second-sight is demonized
and, like a leper's charms, is veiled

chryselephantine castles spore
superior cachet but are
no more than empires built on ruins
and in this natural ampitheatre
bootleggers swathed in samite throw
back the sad bread they'll not touch
for to dine and die in Paradise
is their intended portion
but

such fatal gifts, tossed with disdain
suppress the nap and nibble
strike a spark
and, wrongwise rubbed, the underbelly
pivots
dabbles
sways
sets in sequence consequential randoms
a dark chapter of accidents
in a programme of progressive power
running riot beneath water canons

the masses are outwitted, trampled and subdued
ballooning emancipation
with its pretty word empowerment
drifts with ribbons cut across
retarded, dismal skies

once more we cough and doff our hats
with lowered eyes

as a stone within a stone within a stone am i

and this is why

i would gouge and tear and claw my way
escape the mundane spheres
seize with timeless eyes and ears
the pulsing, massed event of man
flanked by great and wheeling fields
of stars





heretics and half-lives

in this world of heretics and half-lives
sinners, oracles and lies
i'll lay flat on my back
in the damp evening grass
and raise a finger of black to the skies
I understood 'massy', I thought it was a good usage. 'Betwixt' is one of those words that might never be good to use unless it's the punch-line of a joke, irony or something. Bridge and Heretics are the two I like best. All Strangely, I couldn't help disliking everything after the first three verses, because you told me to. I had to empathize with you.

That's something I'd like to talk about, people do that in prose and poetry, say 'Read this, it's good, but this part sucks, or this I don't like at all.' I think it's better to keep quiet on what you don't like in your writing, it skews the reader's opinion and criticism. If you know something is lackluster you can still get the criticism for it and go on and make the changes. I just don't think it's good letting people in on the flaws of a specific poem before they read it. We actually had an unfinished poems thread, but I'd try to stay away from presenting any poem as unfinished, have someone tell you why it's incomplete.

Last edited by bflagsst : 12-15-2009 at 04:51 AM.
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Old 12-15-2009, 01:54 PM   #75
lorencino
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mizzling

The use of mizzling: an interesting juxtaposition between the Middle English meaning of a rain finer than drizzle as the "fog" that appears before and the slang meaning of a sudden departure like the "go" at the end. Was this intended?
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