pick one of your poems and tell me all about it

[butters]

one at a time, but not restricted to just the one. one per post, to be clear.

much as poems fascinate me in their own right, all too often i'm left wondering what was behind it all - the thinking processes, the inspirations, the choice of nuances, the whys and the wherefores ... . i'm aware that some poets prefer to leave the whole dirty business a mystery, with the intent of allowing the poem to stand on its own two feet (or more, depending on the form *grins*), but experience tells me there are many more who love talking about how the creative process works for them.

humour me, please, i've an itch needs scratching

 

[Guest]

one at a time, but not restricted to just the one. one per post, to be clear ..... humour me, please, i've an itch needs scratching

What a Fantastic idea....
I will update this post later with details about my poem "Above"...

8/10 5pm - I haven't forgotten.....




The following poem was conceived from a real life event and there are 2 things that will help put the poem into context. Of course as the author they are obvious to me but several LIT-friends have asked about the poem’s context so I am excited about this forum which has motivated me to explain it.

A) I have a very sexy friend who lives far enough away that frequent encounters are not practical but the one’s we have had have been sensational. The last one in particular was a 5 hour marathon of nearly nonstop screwing, licking, sucking and other such activities. My favorite position is her on top. It may be hers too because she squirts more frequently in that position, but she has orgasms in “every” position so I can’t say for sure. Regardless, I can see every twitch on her face and she can control the rhythm when she’s riding “Above” me. Every inch of her tastes wonderful and her sex-scent keeps me hard for ridiculously long periods of time.

B) The second thing is more about my life. There is the physical location of my home which is a rural property that requires quite a bit of physical labor to maintain. I constructed the entire poem while I was shoveling dirt, thus the heavy influence of that activity in the poem. Also there is the influence of my day job, in a large city over an hour away, which requires me to accrue time off. There are other real-life things weaved in there that I can’t articulate, for example the authentic and rare smile . . . you would have to know me if you don’t understand.

So, there I am at home shoveling um-teen yards of dirt because I had seriously fucked up my lawn earlier this summer. I appreciate physical labor, especially in contrast to my pencil pushing day job, and the line “dignity of labor” is a quote I learned while earning a degree at a technical college I attended. Also, I am a volunteer fireman and it is always hard work in that role so I guess I love to work my ass off, I think I sleep better. Anyway, the sun is setting and I begin to sweat. I am reliving the events of the day, calling in sick to work, driving hours to see her and then, all of a sudden, her scent wafts over me, yummy…then a couple minutes later, POW… there is an huge rush of “her aroma” and nearly knocks me to me knees in lust. I could still smell our rendezvous. It was delicious.

The term “Rustic Bliss” appears twice and was under consideration for the title. Because she’s a country girl as well, it weaves all the themes together. My hope was that the last stanza articulates that the “Rustic Bliss” is a combination of having alone time to relive the rendezvous while working….The mixed aromas, of earth and her, enhanced my normal enjoyment of rural life and made it poem worthy.

In the end I called it “Above” to keep it focused on her and our encounter.


"ABOVE"

Dusk nears, illuminating task
a spade gouges, then withdraws
earth’s freshness saturates and
labor's dignity infuses my soul

This rustic bliss, urbanity balanced
the day deserved; accrued in deceit
metropolis survived my absence
my cravings to fulfill

The spade unrelentingly descends
yet, her sweet trace lingers
my smile, so rare, exposed
neither would I wash away

Toiled sweat collects
crevice and cloth restrained
exploding in musky waves
rendezvous intensity revealed

Eyes shut to see, above once again
her movements measured, with intent
engulfed she clasps my chest
screaming, releasing, flooding

The rustic bliss resumes
the trace satisfies, for now
my smile, so rare, exposed
neither would I wash away


Thanks everyone!!

 

[butters]

please do! i look forward to reading all about it.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Sometimes I like to write about ordinary people who do extraordinary things. The following poem is about an elderly black woman who operated an elevator in a formerly elegant hotel in some disrepair where I attended a business conference in the late seventies. She stood there next to her stool wearing pink bedroom slippers. When she engaged the elevator, she began singing a gospel song in almost a whisper with one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard. She wasn't doing it for my benefit. In fact, her singing was barely audible above the sound of the elevator, but the rhythmic movement of the elevator in combination with her beautiful voice was the closest I ever came to "poetry in motion."

Lady Elevator Operator

Aretha read the Daily News
Upon her stool
About the club
Where white folk drank
And no one dared
Speak too easy
When Papa played the saxophone.

She sang each day
With Papa on her mind
And did so now,
Rubbing her stand up feet
While waiting for the theater crowd.

“Evenin’, Retha.
Twenty second, please.
Clogged again, the folks at 2-2-3.”

“Hey there, Sugar,
While you’re at it,
Your handyman would like to hear
Some ‘Stormy Weather’ you used to sing
Like Lena Horne
To tease us boys in Sunday school.”

Now as her rocket droned and rose,
Aretha magic rose as well,
And even though
Ain’t no sun up, Retha’s goin’
Lordy, Lordy, praise You, Jesus,
Up, up, up in the sky.

 

[champagne1982]

one at a time, but not restricted to just the one. one per post, to be clear.

much as poems fascinate me in their own right, all too often i'm left wondering what was behind it all - the thinking processes, the inspirations, the choice of nuances, the whys and the wherefores ... . i'm aware that some poets prefer to leave the whole dirty business a mystery, with the intent of allowing the poem to stand on its own two feet (or more, depending on the form *grins*), but experience tells me there are many more who love talking about how the creative process works for them.

humour me, please, i've an itch needs scratching

On Waking Up Before Dawn

I wish that I will never return
to that place where night wraps tight
her sheets and tucks me in beneath
a star bright canopy nor watch the milky way
spill across the sky then disappear
when I close my eyes.

What's there beneath the horizon
and beyond? My Love, whisper now
and promise me there is more,
more than darkness over the edge,
more than the centre of the night,
more than cold, dark sleep.

I fear the loneliness that lies close
on the other side. I have been and back
and knew only dreamless sleep;
there is no comfort in this. Wake me
into your morning, so that I may see
the day and know the warmth of you.

I wrote this when I was recovering from my first OH surgery in 2000. Prior to my experience, I'd had questions about dying and what comes after and now, I'm happy in what I believe because of what happened when my doctor killed me on the operating table. Now, you may say that I never really died when my heart no longer beat, my body was cooled to around 23 degrees celcius, and I was in circulatory arrest; if that`s not dead... So, even though my affairs were in order, and are still in order, I`m not ready to die yet. I am not ready for that ending.

p.s. I had a second in 2006 after my first implanted device got gummed up in the works through no other fault than my gene pool.

 

[butters]

Sometimes I like to write about ordinary people who do extraordinary things. The following poem is about an elderly black woman who operated an elevator in a formerly elegant hotel in some disrepair where I attended a business conference in the late seventies. She stood there next to her stool wearing pink bedroom slippers. When she engaged the elevator, she began singing a gospel song in almost a whisper with one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard. She wasn't doing it for my benefit. In fact, her singing was barely audible above the sound of the elevator, but the rhythmic movement of the elevator in combination with her beautiful voice was the closest I ever came to "poetry in motion."

Lady Elevator Operator

Aretha read the Daily News
Upon her stool
About the club
Where white folk drank
And no one dared
Speak too easy
When Papa played the saxophone.

She sang each day
With Papa on her mind
And did so now,
Rubbing her stand up feet
While waiting for the theater crowd.

“Evenin’, Retha.
Twenty second, please.
Clogged again, the folks at 2-2-3.”

“Hey there, Sugar,
While you’re at it,
Your handyman would like to hear
Some ‘Stormy Weather’ you used to sing
Like Lena Horne
To tease us boys in Sunday school.”

Now as her rocket droned and rose,
Aretha magic rose as well,
And even though
Ain’t no sun up, Retha’s goin’
Lordy, Lordy, praise You, Jesus,
Up, up, up in the sky.

Aretha magic rose as well .. sublime, gm, simply ... sigh

now this is exactly the kind of thing i mean: a fascinating write, but the back story (whilst glimpsed in the poem) fills this write right out to something even better. some published guy i used to write with a little was also a fan of bucking the trend a bit, and would happily include foot or header notes with his works.

 

[butters]

On Waking Up Before Dawn

I wish that I will never return
to that place where night wraps tight
her sheets and tucks me in beneath
a star bright canopy nor watch the milky way
spill across the sky then disappear
when I close my eyes.

What's there beneath the horizon
and beyond? My Love, whisper now
and promise me there is more,
more than darkness over the edge,
more than the centre of the night,
more than cold, dark sleep.

I fear the loneliness that lies close
on the other side. I have been and back
and knew only dreamless sleep;
there is no comfort in this. Wake me
into your morning, so that I may see
the day and know the warmth of you.​

I wrote this when I was recovering from my first OH surgery in 2000. Prior to my experience, I'd had questions about dying and what comes after and now, I'm happy in what I believe because of what happened when my doctor killed me on the operating table. Now, you may say that I never really died when my heart no longer beat, my body was cooled to around 23 degrees celcius, and I was in circulatory arrest; if that`s not dead... So, even though my affairs were in order, and are still in order, I`m not ready to die yet. I am not ready for that ending.

p.s. I had a second in 2006 after my first implanted device got gummed up in the works through no other fault than my gene pool.

ahh, thankyou, champers, for this insight. the poem itself is quite wonderful, sound-wise, its pacing, imagery ... and the contrast between what you experienced and what you wake to, cold v warmth, darkness v light, is vivid. i think you took a pretty awful experience and drew something intimate yet immediately recognisable from it. it must have been well skeery 2nd time around.

 

[Rayven101]

Lady of the Flames

This is about empowerment from within. There was at time when I was trapped, and through my devotion to HER I found my power to leave, I found my strength to look my fear dead in the eye and say NO MORE. I left a very abusive relationship and on the day I took back my power - Sekhmet was there.... So this is to honor her and my standing up to be counted.

Lady of the Flames

As I sit at your feet Oh Radiant one,
I open my heart to you
Sacred flames centered within my heart

Filling myself with your golden radiance
Lighting my path before me
I am able to see with great clarity

You stood in with me in my darkest moment
And roared to the heavens at my sorrow and pain.
You gathered me in your healing embrace
And brought back the light into my world

Rising now to stand in front of you
No longer cowering at your feet
I stand face to face with you,
I see my radiance reflected in your flaming eyes…..

Sa Sekhem Sahu….

My thanks to the Lady of the Flames - Sekhmet

Rayven

 

[butters]

empowerment is a wonderful thing. it's not surprising that you had to write about the sensations.

 

[nerk]

This is a wonderful idea/thread ... thank you Chip
and thanks to green and champ and ray for putting yourselves out.
I'm looking fwd to reading more

 

[greenmountaineer]

one at a time, but not restricted to just the one. one per post, to be clear.

much as poems fascinate me in their own right, all too often i'm left wondering what was behind it all - the thinking processes, the inspirations, the choice of nuances, the whys and the wherefores ... . i'm aware that some poets prefer to leave the whole dirty business a mystery, with the intent of allowing the poem to stand on its own two feet (or more, depending on the form *grins*), but experience tells me there are many more who love talking about how the creative process works for them.

humour me, please, i've an itch needs scratching

I always enjoy the threads that you initiate and no less so with the poems in this thread thus far by Champagne and Rayven.

I hope you'll consider contributing one of your poems with a narrative about what was behind the making of it.

 

[Angeline]

Chambers Street
by Angeline©


Storky got busted,
nabbed right in front
of his variety store,
by the cigars and news,
sundries in dingy cases,
on splintery shelves.
In the back the boys sit,
drink grappa,
play the numbers.

Maybe you get ahead,
gliding past factory mornings
that unfold on gray streets.
Maybe no more cardboard cups
from the Kwik Coffee truck,
no more nickel-plate grind
through years, Taryton
or Camel packs rolled tight
in white t-shirt shoulders,
or dropped in starched
bowling shirt pockets,
anticipating Friday league night.

Daddy says Storky's alright.
He just tries, like Gino
from Naples, with his no speaka English
gold tooth smile,
or the gypsies who wear gold chains
and flash their eyes at me.
JP brings me Italian nougat candy,
and Andy the retired strong man,
the carny, has two yellow teeth,
and can tear a Manhattan phone book
in half, lift a kitchen chair
with two fingers.

Daddy says they're ok,
just poor slobs, working stiffs.
Sometimes they buy 20-dollar
gold pieces from us. Andy
lifts me up with one big hand,
the gypsy lady says I'll travel,
I'll be lucky in love.
Gino gives me a free slice,
Neopolitan style, and a Coke.



Great idea, Chip.

This poem is very dear to me because it's about the neighborhood where I grew up, specifically the street where my parents' store was, the people we met there and the neighbor store owners. I think I did a pretty good job with it and also captured the young voice of me when I was there. And it's all true.

 

[nerk]

seems to me like you got it just right. You can't read this and not imagine that kind of neighborhood, in any city.

Chambers Street
by Angeline©


Storky got busted,
nabbed right in front
of his variety store,
by the cigars and news,
sundries in dingy cases,
on splintery shelves.
In the back the boys sit,
drink grappa,
play the numbers.

Maybe you get ahead,
gliding past factory mornings
that unfold on gray streets.
Maybe no more cardboard cups
from the Kwik Coffee truck,
no more nickel-plate grind
through years, Taryton
or Camel packs rolled tight
in white t-shirt shoulders,
or dropped in starched
bowling shirt pockets,
anticipating Friday league night.

Daddy says Storky's alright.
He just tries, like Gino
from Naples, with his no speaka English
gold tooth smile,
or the gypsies who wear gold chains
and flash their eyes at me.
JP brings me Italian nougat candy,
and Andy the retired strong man,
the carny, has two yellow teeth,
and can tear a Manhattan phone book
in half, lift a kitchen chair
with two fingers.

Daddy says they're ok,
just poor slobs, working stiffs.
Sometimes they buy 20-dollar
gold pieces from us. Andy
lifts me up with one big hand,
the gypsy lady says I'll travel,
I'll be lucky in love.
Gino gives me a free slice,
Neopolitan style, and a Coke.



Great idea, Chip.

This poem is very dear to me because it's about the neighborhood where I grew up, specifically the street where my parents' store was, the people we met there and the neighbor store owners. I think I did a pretty good job with it and also captured the young voice of me when I was there. And it's all true.

 

[Angeline]

seems to me like you got it just right. You can't read this and not imagine that kind of neighborhood, in any city.

Thanks. Someone here once told me if you write the truth, you can't go wrong. And I spent years around those people and that place, so it's all ingrained in my memory.

Now. Are you going to post a poem?

 

[nerk]

Thanks. Someone here once told me if you write the truth, you can't go wrong. And I spent years around those people and that place, so it's all ingrained in my memory.

Now. Are you going to post a poem?

if i ever write one that's more than a few words long

and I am working on one.
turns out, poems ain't easy.

 

[Angeline]

if i ever write one that's more than a few words long

and I am working on one.
turns out, poems ain't easy.

Why not try to write three or four short poems (of a line or two each)? If you write them around the same subject or theme, you can then try to string them together.

Really what is most takes is practice. Or write a found poem. Take anything someone else wrote and move the words and/or sentences around until you have something new. But original: like I'm not sure "Winter is the now of our discontent" is really kosher. But I could be wrong.

 

[nerk]

Why not try to write three or four short poems (of a line or two each)? If you write them around the same subject or theme, you can then try to string them together.

Really what is most takes is practice. Or write a found poem. Take anything someone else wrote and move the words and/or sentences around until you have something new. But original: like I'm not sure "Winter is the now of our discontent" is really kosher. But I could be wrong.

that this resolve would melt, and dew itself into too sullied flesh
Oh, a thaw too,

 

[UnderYourSpell]

This may seem a flimsy poem to be repeating here but more than anything I would love to get into writing original poetry for children (if I only knew how) and that's why this was written

Higgledy piggledy everso squiggerdly
rolls the dung beetle all over the land
picking up masses and even morasses
making the most of whatever's at hand.
Little dung beetle, oh little dung beetle
why does your heart sing for buckets of it
life rolling onwards backwards and forwards
shovelling up elephants bit after bit.

 

[butters]

This is a wonderful idea/thread ... thank you Chip
and thanks to green and champ and ray for putting yourselves out.
I'm looking fwd to reading more

i'm glad to see i'm not alone in wanting to hear about the processes involved in the making of poetry

 

[butters]

I always enjoy the threads that you initiate and no less so with the poems in this thread thus far by Champagne and Rayven.

I hope you'll consider contributing one of your poems with a narrative about what was behind the making of it.

hiya, gm - that's good to know and it is, so far, throwing up some interesting pieces i've not read before, too. if there's one thing i can count on here it's interesting poems and even more interesting people

yeah, i intend to soon. i have to have a little time to sort through which one to use, and time is at a premium right now with work and decorating. i've just washed out the paint pad and brush, cleaned the tray and cooked pizza but had to stop in to see what was happening. i'm glad i did!

 

[butters]

Chambers Street
by Angeline©


Storky got busted,
nabbed right in front
of his variety store,
by the cigars and news,
sundries in dingy cases,
on splintery shelves.
In the back the boys sit,
drink grappa,
play the numbers.

Maybe you get ahead,
gliding past factory mornings
that unfold on gray streets.
Maybe no more cardboard cups
from the Kwik Coffee truck,
no more nickel-plate grind
through years, Taryton
or Camel packs rolled tight
in white t-shirt shoulders,
or dropped in starched
bowling shirt pockets,
anticipating Friday league night.

Daddy says Storky's alright.
He just tries, like Gino
from Naples, with his no speaka English
gold tooth smile,
or the gypsies who wear gold chains
and flash their eyes at me.
JP brings me Italian nougat candy,
and Andy the retired strong man,
the carny, has two yellow teeth,
and can tear a Manhattan phone book
in half, lift a kitchen chair
with two fingers.

Daddy says they're ok,
just poor slobs, working stiffs.
Sometimes they buy 20-dollar
gold pieces from us. Andy
lifts me up with one big hand,
the gypsy lady says I'll travel,
I'll be lucky in love.
Gino gives me a free slice,
Neopolitan style, and a Coke.



Great idea, Chip.

This poem is very dear to me because it's about the neighborhood where I grew up, specifically the street where my parents' store was, the people we met there and the neighbor store owners. I think I did a pretty good job with it and also captured the young voice of me when I was there. And it's all true.

i think the fondness you harbour for this, for your memories and their charm, shows through strongly. it conjours, angeline, it conjours - you've shared a moving mind-picture with us, and the childlike you views things in simple caricatures that stick!

 

[butters]

if i ever write one that's more than a few words long

and I am working on one.
turns out, poems ain't easy.

a small poem
can be bigger
on the inside

those tardis poems! i'm sure you have some of those lurking ... . get to it

 

[butters]

This may seem a flimsy poem to be repeating here but more than anything I would love to get into writing original poetry for children (if I only knew how) and that's why this was written

Higgledy piggledy everso squiggerdly
rolls the dung beetle all over the land
picking up masses and even morasses
making the most of whatever's at hand.
Little dung beetle, oh little dung beetle
why does your heart sing for buckets of it
life rolling onwards backwards and forwards
shovelling up elephants bit after bit.

hey gurl

there's always more than meets the eyes to these types of poems. and they're hard as deuce to get 'right' for the market. sometimes excellent poetry will be bypassed for something strung together by a not quite so 'of the moment' celeb but a name that'll garner sales figures.

having said that, i can imagine small kids being quite taken with your first line
for me, that last line's great! and buckets of 'it' ? hahahaha

 

[UnderYourSpell]

hey gurl

there's always more than meets the eyes to these types of poems. and they're hard as deuce to get 'right' for the market. sometimes excellent poetry will be bypassed for something strung together by a not quite so 'of the moment' celeb but a name that'll garner sales figures.

having said that, i can imagine small kids being quite taken with your first line
for me, that last line's great! and buckets of 'it' ? hahahaha

Aha you noticed the 'IT' lol

 

[nerk]

This may seem a flimsy poem to be repeating here but more than anything I would love to get into writing original poetry for children (if I only knew how) and that's why this was written

Higgledy piggledy everso squiggerdly
rolls the dung beetle all over the land
picking up masses and even morasses
making the most of whatever's at hand.
Little dung beetle, oh little dung beetle
why does your heart sing for buckets of it
life rolling onwards backwards and forwards
shovelling up elephants bit after bit.

I think this is wonderful.
I'm not 100% sure the children of the world are ready for it.
But I'm pretty childish, and I liked it