The Secondary Vlad the Poet "Sleeping" Challenge Thread

[unpredictablebijou]

I really want to see some of the work being generated by this week's challenge, and until the original thread is demilitarized I thought this might be a good place for people to post their work.

Let me remind you about Angeline's review suggestion:

2. If someone critiques your poem, you must return the favor and critique theirs. The are no set criteria for what a critique should include, but here's a guideline we've had on the site for a while:

Guidelines for Feedback


1. Say whether or not you liked the poem overall and why.

2. Name at least one specific thing you liked about--
____subject
____language use
____format

3. Is there anything you just don't understand in the poem? What?

4. Can you think of a better way to say anything in the poem. If you can, suggest it!

5. Do you know of another poem or link that you think would help? If so, include it.

Always try to make specific suggestions for improvement. Ranting that a poem doesn't work or raving about it without saying why doesn't help the writer. Above all, be truthful but kind. Write the kind of review you'd like to get.

And if the snark doesn't settle down, I'm going to suggest that Angeline impose a penalty challenge: a week of Gertrude Stein's poems. That'll teach you.

bwa hahahaha.

C'mon, kids. Get yer dramatic asses in here and post some stuff. I really like this guy and I'm finding him very inspiring.

bj

 

[champagne1982]

This is the 3rd or 4th reply on the challenge thread...

Rain For A Joshua Tree

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

A new fold in the calloused crust irritated
by man's constant picking. Layer upon layer
of rawhide dried by the dessicating desert
moans over sifted sand. Mourning brings tears
to dew the Joshua tree but not enough to drink.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart
remarked that I was to see the Master
of my fate immediately.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life
again.

No tormentor's torture would feel so naked,
a brand pressed to my skin--
its stink reminds ashes to ashes
and chances shake my roots
grown shallow in youth. I never thirsted
as the desert pine, the well was mine
until siphoned dry with your sucking
lips that deny how ill I feel.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'll copy mine in here too.

I'm not even assuming these pieces, which are first drafts, are in the right order, but I'm putting this on the block to see if it's even worth banging on.

It's funny, I kept feeling like I was veering off into T.S. Eliot as I was trying to play with a voice like Vlad's.

anyway, here. again, shred away.

***

I can't control
the red stilettos
favored by my guardian angel
she dresses as she likes
and she does not help me
with you.

it is fitting a waterfall
into a kitchen faucet
the pavement rumbles and explodes
it is putting a grenade into a shoebox
it is asking the volcano to fuel a car
just write
just write about it and the volcano
says yes, yes yes I will but what
will I do with the rest of it? What
can hold it? Where can it go?

it peels paint, it breaks glass
makes speakers squeal with feedback,
it is a hard arrow out of my chest
teeth-grinding, crawling like
horns or thorns across my shoulders
lightbulbs blow and sparks jump
and my back is like clenched teeth
and I am a river all day

O god
we will sit with a table between us
o god
we will embrace twice, arriving and parting
and our pelvises will not touch
and it will all go on in midair above us
and we should probably pretend
not to see it.

 

[Senna Jawa]

Why should poetry care for a pronoun? Indeed, a pronoun carries no image, is a wasted chance for carrying poetry. Already the first "you" in your text, ub, is hanging undefined for a while. And then there is that it-it-it-... almost for the whole length of the poem. I am not even sure what does that "it" stand for?

UB, I may look more into your poem, but I wonder if you were willing to take care of those pronouns first? I am just asking a question--I'll comment more about your poem either way, regardless of your answer.

Best regards,

 

[thepaleeyes]

as this poem has come alive in literotica today, i have removed it..

 

[thepaleeyes]

about the previous two poems here, in my humble opinion, my ears just failed to catch the rythm there.. the poetry... BJ's poem echoed 'it, just, yes, o god'.... and somehow, i couldn't remember, and my mind wouldn't either, i guess....


'my erratic heart' is the only phrase that i could decipher in C1982's poem... i should reread them several times, i guess.. but, for now, these are just first impressions and second too, i guess..

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Why should poetry care for a pronoun? Indeed, a pronoun carries no image, is a wasted chance for carrying poetry. Already the first "you" in your text, ub, is hanging undefined for a while. And then there is that it-it-it-... almost for the whole length of the poem. I am not even sure what does that "it" stand for?

UB, I may look more into your poem, but I wonder if you were willing to take care of those pronouns first? I am just asking a question--I'll comment more about your poem either way, regardless of your answer.

Best regards,

Okay, interesting points.

I can't lose the "you" because it's the point of the poem. Ideally, the reader might imagine that he or she is the "you" being addressed.

Your point about using "it" is a good one. Lemme see what happens when I clarify.


***


I can't control
the red stilettos
favored by my guardian angel
she dresses as she likes
and she does not help me
with you.

just write
just write about it, she says,
And I say yes, yes yes I will but what
will I do with the rest of it? What
can hold it? Where can it go?
Turning this to words is fitting a waterfall
into a kitchen faucet:
the pavement rumbles and explodes.
It is putting a grenade into a shoebox;
it is asking the volcano to fuel a car.

This fierce star that gathers
around your hands, around the idea
of your mouth, is an explosion.
It peels paint and breaks glass
makes speakers squeal with feedback,
it is a hard arrow out of my chest
teeth-grinding, crawling like
horns or thorns across my shoulders
lightbulbs blow and sparks jump
and my back is like clenched teeth
and I am a river all day

O god
we will sit with a table between us
o god
we will embrace twice, arriving and parting
and our hips will not touch
and it will all go on in midair above us
And I will be the only one
who can see it.