butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[bflagsst]

perhaps

when the sun scoops low to the wave
when the sauce
bubbles slowly in the pan
when words fall
or fail
depending on the quickbreath in my ear
when something screams a chill right up your spine
i'll look and find the hammer's in my hand
and how the last nail glimmers
rightly mine

Very good poem. I had a little trouble with the 'when something screams...' line. I'm still thinking about it. The second person doesn't seem to fit quite right. Best wishes.

 

[butters]

Very good poem. I had a little trouble with the 'when something screams...' line. I'm still thinking about it. The second person doesn't seem to fit quite right. Best wishes.

thanks for taking the time to read and comment, bflagsst i think i know exactly where you're coming from, as it reads a smidge off to me as well - it feels more suited for that line to still be the narrator addressing their own feelings; what i wanted to show, however, was the chill of prescience the other would experience as the N found they had both the hammer and the nails (metaphorical or no) to drive home in their possession. perhaps i need to adjust the poem to read 'right' even if it means altering its original intention.

 

[butters]

cataloguing

eleven


the clouds pile in
and i need a little traction
gotta crawl me outta bed
gotta get a little action
gonna write me down some words
gonna hope they wanna stick
before the grey screen stares
before the red light blinks

and it's raining hard again
washing mirrors of the mind
washing all the words away
in a poem i can't find
and somewhere there's a sun
and it's shining high and bright
but here beneath the clouds
it's just another long grey night




ten


each curve of line that never should lie straight
each swell of blood-pumped muscle catching light
each lift of head, of tail, and burnished mane
proclaims a haughty sense of reined-in power
a pent-up well of thorougbred on the move
as sun bright-sparks from dancing oil-lit hooves

the bold and focused eyes, the fluid ears
embrace each flying pennant and each cheer
this flesh, this skin, that takes the flying whip
still shivers should a dark fly land on it





nine



to peer into the pool
dip
notice how the light changes things
changes thoughts
is distraction enough
from finding the poem
waiting to be summoned
from a silty bed





eight


he lights her mind
electric lights chasing
chasing
like the lights that dance atop tsunamis
a matter of matter
in motion
or a mind
mindful of electronic fields
till it rides her - a surfer -
hair standing on end
waiting for her wave to break





seven


seven toes
a magic number
no shoes required
for pink-pads and ice-pick claws
her skills outnumbering
her lesser toed compatriots
all possessed of pink, rough tongues
a love of cream
and all of them innumerate





six


sleep dances
somewhere on the sodium horizon
partnered by night and the soft drawl of passing traffic
it's no sweep
yet there's a beauty to the wetly gleaming tiles and watchful windows
the sympathetic beat of falling rain




five



keep your eye on the feather
so soft
so white

don't let your sight
fall between its scarce-formed ladders
to the mud beneath

or lift beyond
to the torn and the ravaged
open-beaked misery

keep your eye on the feather




four


finest grains of dust
settle on mirrored plane
without murmur

no breath of sound
disturbs the non-sentient state

somewhere from within
a bubble rises
to ripple empty skies




three


dusty highway dreams
make for parched thoughts
that crave incessant heavy rain
where a throat may open
channel a flood
wash the self away




two


the scraped canvas tells a story all its own
of imprints left
clogged pores that never breathe again
left-handed sweeps of anger or disgust
ridges
smears
that remain to skew perspective
despite being dressed anew
that throw odd shadows
no matter how good the light



------------------------------------








thanks to tzara's comment for the inspiration.


two - 2


the scraped canvas tells a story all its own
of imprints left
clogged pores that never breathe again
left-handed sweeps of anger or disgust
ridges
smears
remain to skew perspective
(despite being dressed anew)
to throw odd shadows
no matter how good the light





one



his mind computes
playing cat's cradle with theory
bathing in the random noise of neurons firing
an interstellar solar flare that
lights his eyes
renders us invisible
except as statistics on a screen
devoid of messy interactions
and, for the most part, unnoticed
like the stains on his shirt
the hole in his sock
the coffee rings and empty cups

 

[butters]

twelve


threadbare fred
exposed his heart
to her and said
here it beats
it beats for you
all i have to offer, true
then fred stared straight ahead
(thought it better than the ground)
till she touched his earnest cheek
till his chin her fingers found
and she stood upon tiptoe
and she whispered in his ear
there is not another heart
i could better wish to hear
with my cheek upon your chest
and your hand upon my hair
with a tremble on his lips
and a wetness in his eyes
threadbare fred embraced his love
shyly smiled his heart's surprise





thirteen


when nothing springs to mind
let's con the air to cede its diaphanous secrets
let's weave the wand that catches hold the threads
about ourselves until we've something pink and
maybe fluffy
warm and sweet and
insubstantial since it melts upon the tasting
leaving nothing much behind
except the stick




fourteen


when you're stuck in a box
six sides all clamped about you fast
the mind's a wonderful place to go
a tropical paradise or a glacial field
a surf-fringed beach all golden heat and glistening bodies
or the grass-rippled steppes
the undersea caves
the magical tour de force of imagination's flood-plain

time skips past
wings away on a blood-orange sunset
and when you finally open your eyes
adjust your vision
it surprises you
to find the cardboard crumbled away
and a real breeze ruffles your hair




fifteen


found
tense moments
in 140 characters or less
it's all about the company
twerpy twirpy cheap cheep
i#chirps
oops
tweets
small thoughts couched in smaller nests
back from the brink
a fair isle juggles americana
winging it




sixteen


uncharted territory
not exactly unexplored
he just never bothered
making a map
remembering the way
sailed right on to the edge
and over
forgetting the need for sails and
rounded horizons




seventeen


he pointed to the impossible erection
said "it's gonna be like climbing cheese"
now i like cheese
but i never planned on strapping on climbing boots
to reach my summit

 

[greenmountaineer]

"twelve," .i.e., "threadbare fred," was good enough on its own to savor for more than a while. Rhyme IMO is tough writing, but you pulled it off. I'll read the rest tomorrow.

 

[butters]

"twelve," .i.e., "threadbare fred," was good enough on its own to savor for more than a while. Rhyme IMO is tough writing, but you pulled it off. I'll read the rest tomorrow.

very kind of you, gm x

 

[butters]

leaf-eaters grace the temple
sun-warmed and gentle-fingered
grooming in quiet reverence
this open-aired honoring
on rounded, care-worn stones
dappled with lichen
cushioned with moss
where prayer has no words but half-closed eyes and bowed heads spell peace






in my garden
when the sun's gone down
and the shadows pool
cool
ripe
the air waits
waits for the climbing of the moon
waits for her bone-white face to slip the purpled haze
waits for the last bird plumed in night to spill its liquid prayer
then smiles a smile of red brush and white whiskers
of neat and tapping claws and catch-light eyes





his lips caress the shaping of the word
cerveza
where liquid light all gold and beaded with chill enough to make a nipple rise
spills over tongues and seeks the deep pink path
involuntary swallow
an erection of pale, fine hairs
i stroke the cold and slender neck
taste the errant dribble

 

[butters]

comments on poetry really suck

said the girl with the screwed-up mouth
making me think of lemons
and tansy
more bitter than its name implies

perhaps a little sugar
would sweeten the infusion
make the medicine easier to swallow
words more ... digestible

 

[butters]

I really want to buy a motorcycle

something sleek
and red
and japanese
or maybe gold
with fat tyres and a throbbing engine
chrome exhaust
and an arse-hugging saddle
take in the world
my leathers and i

but i don't like petrol
nor rubber
don't have a passport
or a license to drive
so maybe i'll just drift -
wish to memory -
and enjoy being a passenger
face pressed to skin
thighs gripping tight
being taken for a ride

 

[butters]

autumn challenge ottava rima

now autumn is upon us and i fear
that work and work and work will make me miss
the rustic glaze till i am rendered drear
and longing for the cider-apples' kiss
when stuck inside beneath fluorescent cheer
my bread is dry so sandwich words like this
no berry juice to lick from fingers, stained
poetic license stretched, and little gained

 

[twelveoone]

I really want to buy a motorcycle

something sleek
and red
and japanese
or maybe gold
with fat tyres and a throbbing engine
chrome exhaust
and an arse-hugging saddle
take in the world
my leathers and i

but i don't like petrol
nor rubber
don't have a passport
or a license to drive
so maybe i'll just drift -
wish to memory -
and enjoy being a passenger
face pressed to skin
thighs gripping tight
being taken for a ride

maybe I should just pull over

 

[butters]

maybe I should just pull over

pullovers are better than cardigans

 

[butters]

beneath the distant, pristine dome
all's blue and buff and varnished sands
and rippled flats and grey-board pier
that rails on out on legs of steel
grown massy with their mollusced load
stood ankle-deep in soft green swells

that beckon from between the planks
and promise soon to rise to meet
the hand that trails, the thoughts that fall
into the plum-hued hush of dusk...

look up - and live the transient moods
no brush in hand could hope to match
as sea-birds swoop to chase their shades
escape the boundaries of flesh
from sea to sky, from fowl to fish
as fleet as light upon the breeze

a pinpoint anchored to the planks
in Moment's vital part of all of this




..............................................................................................................

this isn't the poem i want to write but haven't the skills to write the one i want to. so much skimmed over, so much omitted. i haven't the words to explain, to make anyone else really feel, that breaking down of barriers between being the individual and being everywhere a part of the whole thing, only anchored as a tiny spot at the heart of what i was seeing. how can i explain i was overbrimming with the marvel of it all, that as the birds flew i went with them... that i was the sky as much as i was the water, and the light, and breeze, and the weed that waved and the cry hanging in the air of the distant gull? only when other people were passing me by did i get back inside my head behind my eyes, guilty to think they might see me so - disembodied

fuck, nature-drunk

 

[greenmountaineer]

Very nice, chipbutty, dream-like, mystical, and very lyrical

"a pinpoint anchored to the planks
a moment's vital part of all of this"

I liked the surprise change in meter in the last line but it sounded off to me.

"....to the planks/in Moment's vital part of all of this." shortens the pause just a bit which makes the transition a more fluid transition to conclusion while keeping the beat, at least, for me.

I put caps in "Moment's" because I happen to believe in the Mystery which I thought about when I read your original prose, but perhaps that wasn't your experience and, of course, I can't speak for you.

Nice poem as always.

 

[butters]

Very nice, chipbutty, dream-like, mystical, and very lyrical

"a pinpoint anchored to the planks
a moment's vital part of all of this"

I liked the surprise change in meter in the last line but it sounded off to me.

"....to the planks/in Moment's vital part of all of this." shortens the pause just a bit which makes the transition a more fluid transition to conclusion while keeping the beat, at least, for me.

I put caps in "Moment's" because I happen to believe in the Mystery which I thought about when I read your original prose, but perhaps that wasn't your experience and, of course, I can't speak for you.

Nice poem as always.

thankyou, gm, for reading and offering me something i can use. whether or not is was 'the Mystery' is open to interpretation, i guess, but it wasn't something i was deliberately pushing forward ... for me, it was more about a dissolving of ego, a becoming one with everything about me whilst that small pinpoint of my id remaining fixed to the central point from which all else radiated out. your suggestion does work for this write, being better than i had, and i'll use it unless something better arrives. thanks again

 

[butters]

a poet cannot paint with light alone
for light would be too lonely, too obscure,
crying for embodiment, a foil,
weeping for the shadows' dark allure









this is the only line i want to use:
a poet cannot paint with light alone

i've yet to find the poem.

 

[HarryHill]

a poet cannot paint with light alone
for light would be too lonely, too obscure,
crying for embodiment, a foil,
weeping for the shadows' dark allure









this is the only line i want to use:
a poet cannot paint with light alone

i've yet to find the poem.

..
God! I want to steal this line. I also paint, so, an answer springs immediately to mind.

 

[butters]

..
God! I want to steal this line. I also paint, so, an answer springs immediately to mind.

use it! in fact i wish others would take it, too, just to see what happens within different heads, different hands....

 

[butters]

The Perfect Marriage...

would have to be
bacon (from the bacon tree)
wed to scarlet orbs so plump
tomatoes curvy as a rump
bed between white linen slices
(gawd knows we'll pay our due for vices)
but should I add a splash of brown sauce
(for foody spice and inbetween intercourse)
would that be infi-deli-ty
or stretch of vows from two to three?

 

[Desejo]

Without the brown sauce, it just becomes a BLT. So I say...go with the sauce!
Very cute, I like it.

 

[butters]

Without the brown sauce, it just becomes a BLT. So I say...go with the sauce!
Very cute, I like it.

cheers, Desejo

 

[butters]

what with the american elections about to be held...

the noble lie

look us straight between our eyes and
smile
those politickers

high on our applause they point
and raise both hands awhile

proving sure as i stand here
there ain't no god

they will count you for your taxes
they will keep you for your head
they'll befriend the scumbag bankers
who will toss you out of bed
they will promise and they'll posture
watching how the swathes of colour
wax and wane, then bend their tongues
till you've voted -
then
it's
done.

noblesse oblige's fairytale
as held close to our hearts
survives the sighs of you and i
who know the noble
lie.

 

[DeepGreenEyes]

I can almost feel the spittle as you expel the foul word "politickers" from your body!

You're the more visceral, pirate-in-the-corner () to Walt Whitman's election day poem:


Election Day, November, 1884
by Walt Whitman

If I should need to name, O Western World, your
powerfulest scene and show,
'Twould not be you, Niagara--nor you, ye limitless
prairies--nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite--nor Yellowstone, with all its
spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies,
appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon's white cones--nor Huron's belt of mighty
lakes--nor Mississippi's stream:
--This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now,
I'd name--the still small voice vibrating--America's
choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen--the act itself the
main, the quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous'd--sea-board
and inland--Texas to Maine--the Prairie States--
Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West--the
paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling--(a swordless
conflict,
Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern
Napoleon's) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity--welcoming the darker
odds, the dross:
--Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to
purify--while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

 

[butters]

ha, yeah thanks for the read and comment dge

it projects rather more animosity towards politicians than, in truth, i feel but the poem sort of required it (it told me so!)

whitman is far more elegantly eloquent than i

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I love the sun scoops low to the wave. That is gorgeous.