who do you think you are?

[butters]

not a challenge (inspired by one someplace else), just a thread, to post your poetry about what makes you you


here's mine:

who do i think i am?


think? i know:

i am dust and starbrites
collective consciousness of nanoseconds
a cumulative mass of memories
responses-past of physical
and emotional
stimuli

i am
white-water and the sunlit stream
waves and rain and colder condensations

i am prism
mirror
pupilled iris and lake's surface
—way-station of oxygen
human-manufacturer of other, older gases

i am the electric spark of life
the pump and slew of bodily parts
their flex and calcification
the untold power of a mind
that lives beyond parameters of flesh

i am the hand held out
the shoulder
the soft heart and the wise
bender not breaker
adapter-survivor
honed where once blunt
tempered by trials

stripped naked
—the learner of lessons—
i clothe myself in light and shade
of my own choosing,
in humility, honesty & understanding
aware of my own faults

i am
celebrant of humanity
judge of transgressions
the mouthpiece and the scales
in balance
in justice
in honour and in truth
for it matters
to me
who. i. am

​

.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Good idea, I change with the tides but I'll have a think.

 

[HarryHill]

not a challenge (inspired by one someplace else), just a thread, to post your poetry about what makes you you
here's mine:

who do i think i am?


think? i know:

i am dust and starbrites
collective consciousness of nanoseconds
a cumulative mass of memories
responses-past of physical
and emotional
stimuli

i am
white-water and the sunlit stream
waves and rain and colder condensations

i am prism
mirror
pupilled iris and lake's surface
—way-station of oxygen
human-manufacturer of other, older gases

i am the electric spark of life
the pump and slew of bodily parts
their flex and calcification
the untold power of a mind
that lives beyond parameters of flesh

i am the hand held out
the shoulder
the soft heart and the wise
bender not breaker
adapter-survivor
honed where once blunt
tempered by trials

stripped naked
—the learner of lessons—
i clothe myself in light and shade
of my own choosing,
in humility, honesty & understanding
aware of my own faults

i am
celebrant of humanity
judge of transgressions
the mouthpiece and the scales
in balance
in justice
in honour and in truth
for it matters
to me
who. i. am

​

.

..
wow
I was really surprised when the following posts never referenced this first poem.

Introspection is a funny thing, soul searching another, and hindsight compels me to award the poem the after trying to describe how i liked the delivery

i clothe myself in light and shade
of my own choosing,

lovely

 

[Tzara]

Sisyphus

I settle into angst
as if it were a snowbank

where I had lost control,
one I spun my life into

with too much pedal on the gas
on a curve I misjudged.

I'm now trying to work the gears,
reverse and low, reverse and low,

to rock myself loose
from the slush I've accumulated

in sixty-some years of not
paying attention.

I forgot to bring chains, of course,
and could use a little push.

But that would mean I'd have to ask.
So fitfully, I keep rocking gears.

 

[butters]

damn, that's so good, tzara. title works brilliantly with it, too. thanks for playing!

 

[butters]

..
wow

 

[Piscator]

Sisyphus

I settle into angst
as if it were a snowbank

where I had lost control,
one I spun my life into

with too much pedal on the gas
on a curve I misjudged.

I'm now trying to work the gears,
reverse and low, reverse and low,

to rock myself loose
from the slush I've accumulated

in sixty-some years of not
paying attention.

I forgot to bring chains, of course,
and could use a little push.

But that would mean I'd have to ask.
So fitfully, I keep rocking gears.

Yup already happened to me, although less adventurous than what you describe. I was late getting snow tires mounted trail lot to walk dogs but missed entrance and found snowbank. I tried to back out but no traction, called my partner and she came but we were still stuck. There was an interminable line for road assistance but then a good Samaritan stopped and we got car out. Next time I'll bring a harness for the dogs

 

[butters]

Good idea, I change with the tides but I'll have a think.

looking forward to reading it, annie

..
wow
I was really surprised when the following posts never referenced this first poem.

Introspection is a funny thing, soul searching another, and hindsight compels me to award the poem the after trying to describe how i liked the delivery

lovely

a nana? i'm immeasurably pleased *bites head off nana*

Yup already happened to me, although less adventurous than what you describe. I was late getting snow tires mounted trail lot to walk dogs but missed entrance and found snowbank. I tried to back out but no traction, called my partner and she came but we were still stuck. There was an interminable line for road assistance but then a good Samaritan stopped and we got car out. Next time I'll bring a harness for the dogs

there's a poem in there, you know it

mounting trail to walk the dogs

late getting snow tires
missed entrance
found snowbank

next time
i'll bring a dog-harness

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

..
wow
I was really surprised when the following posts never referenced this first poem.

Introspection is a funny thing, soul searching another, and hindsight compels me to award the poem the after trying to describe how i liked the delivery

lovely

It is lovely but there is only one post after TOP...……….you're a little too gallant me thinks.

 

[HarryHill]

There were 4 posts made before i edited to add additional content.

 

[butters]

i'm just delighted people post a poem

 

[AmericanTrash]

I am the girl who died three times
in three cities. First
under the weight of a man
full grown, the metal
of his buckle clanking on the wood
of my twin sized bed.

When I woke, I was silent as spring,
Persephone walking to the surface, quietly.
Walking back to my mother's helpless arms.
What joy voice was left had curiously
hidden in my pencil.

I am the girl who died three times
in three cities. Second was at nineteen
skidding on black ice in a '62 Chevy Impala.

When I woke, I was Odin under gauze,
having traded pretty in the night for a different
if not better sight. I am the girl who died

three times in three cities. The last time
I died of heart attack, finally noticing
my husband's belt buckle in the videos he hid.
I used my last breath to call the authorities.

When I woke, I was the Phoenix,
flying south to my city,
ashes in my wake.

 

[Piscator]

I am the girl who died three times

Damn this is powerful

 

[Piscator]

Sisyphus

i worked hard, Sir
and well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked harder, Sir
still well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked faster, Sir
and longer, Sir
but not so well, Sir
and my kids forgot my face.

To my distress, Sir
you said the quality
of my work had dropped
and still was not enough

So i work harder, Sir
still well Sir
waiting for the day, Sir
with your behind me, Sir
i step aside, Sir
and let you taste my rock


After reading Tzara's opus on with the same title, I dug this out of my files. It was written from work on a glorious Sunday when i should have been walking through the changing colors with my family

 

[AmericanTrash]

Sisyphus

i worked hard, Sir
and well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked harder, Sir
still well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked faster, Sir
and longer, Sir
but not so well, Sir
and my kids forgot my face.

To my distress, Sir
you said the quality
of my work had dropped
and still was not enough

So i work harder, Sir
still well Sir
waiting for the day, Sir
with your behind me, Sir
i step aside, Sir
and let you taste my rock


After reading Tzara's opus on with the same title, I dug this out of my files. It was written from work on a glorious Sunday when i should have been walking through the changing colors with my family

And let you taste my rock. That is a solid dismount. It redeems the pride of the voice.

 

[Tzara]

I am the girl. . .

I would like to comment on this poem, which I think is really good but also difficult and in some ways problematic, but I'd like to make sure that it is OK with butters, as OP, to comment in this thread as opposed to an external thread, and that it is OK with AmericanTrash that I comment on the poem at all.

 

[butters]

I would like to comment on this poem, which I think is really good but also difficult and in some ways problematic, but I'd like to make sure that it is OK with butters, as OP, to comment in this thread as opposed to an external thread, and that it is OK with AmericanTrash that I comment on the poem at all.

oh, please do as far as i'm concerned... i'm lacking time right now but there are some wonderful things being posted!

 

[AmericanTrash]

Tzara, if it is worth your time to comment, then I am grateful to have your commentary. It was a quick write, but I always appreciate your feedback.

 

[AmericanTrash]

oh, please do as far as i'm concerned... i'm lacking time right now but there are some wonderful things being posted!

Thank you for the inspiration.

 

[AmericanTrash]

Tzara, if it is worth your time to comment, then I am grateful to have your commentary. It was a quick write, but I always appreciate your feedback. Hours later, it feels a bit derivative and topheavy. I do kind of like the cities bit.

 

[Tzara]

This is the poem I am commenting on.

OK, here goes. I apologize in advance for the pretentious graduate student tone of the following. I'm taking some philosophy classes at present and that seems to makes one's narrative style all twisty and dense and Kant-ish.

As I mentioned earlier, I think this poem is especially good, in particular in its use of concrete imagery and in its use of allusion (to both Greek and Norse mythologies). As Piscator said, I think the poem is emotionally very powerful, even disturbing, as it seems to reference--particularly in the first section--very dark events. I also mentioned that I found the poem problematic, mainly in the third section, though that may be because I think AmericanTrash has stated in the past that she treats many of her poems here as drafts or "quick writes" (as she explicitly does on this poem), so my comments on what I think could be improved should be taken more as suggestions on where she might want to develop the poem further rather than suggesting quite how she does that.

Anyway--the poem. It is based on what I think is a really well-chosen structural metaphor: the repeated line of "I am the girl who died three times in three cities." From a structural standpoint, this clearly breaks the poem into three sections and gives it a kind of timeless, mythological feel. It implies not only that the narrator has gone through three life-altering experiences (deaths), but that she has gotten through them (resurrected herself) as well, though not without damage. Also, that the three deaths occur in three (different) cities reinforces the idea of separate trials that the narrator has undergone and survived.

The use of the number three is especially interesting, as it appears often in mythology or fairy tales as a number related to trial and change; think of the three wishes granted to Aladdin, the three ghosts of A Christmas Carol, the three Fates of Roman mythology (or the three Norns of Norse mythology), the three Furies. In this poem, the three trials seem (to me, anyway) to be emotional, physical, and (perhaps) spiritual (the last is not well defined in the poem, which where my main criticism of the poem is found).

The first section is extremely powerful. Unless I'm an idiot (which is entirely possible, even likely), it describes the narrator being raped by an adult ("under the weight of a man" . . . "his buckle clanking on the wood" of her bed). This experience is then in the next strophe likened to that of the goddess Persephone, abducted by Hades and taken to the underworld, returning in springtime to her mother (Demeter in the myth), though forever changed through her being bound to the land of death. The poem states that the effect of the abuse on the narrator was to confine her expression to writing (poetry?): "What joy voice was left had curiously / hidden in my pencil."

The next section describes a physical trauma--an automobile accident ("skidding on black ice"). For me the detail of naming the car as a "'62 Chevy Impala" both helps to make the image of the event concrete, but also to fix it somewhat in time, probably making the narrator somwhere in the vicinity of my own age. (I'm guessing the event described would be late sixties to seventies, probably not later than the eighties.) This event causes a physical trauma, specifically loss of or damage to an eye, based on the Odin reference. (Odin, the lead god of Norse mythology, gives away one of his eyes to gain knowledge, or deeper Sight.) The trade of eye for Sight is not as advantageous in the poem, however, as the narrator describes this as "trad[ing] pretty in the night for a different / if not better sight."

The transition to the final section signals a change from the first two, in that the signature line, "I am the girl who died three times in three cities," is enjambed significantly differently. In the first two occurences of the line, the break follows the words "three times" and the line begins a strophe. Here the line is broken at "died," giving that word particular emphasis, which is further exaggerated by making it a cross-strophe enjambment. It is as though this time, the death is different, more real.

But here's the problematic part of the poem for me. This third (metaphoric) death is not described in any detail: "The last time / you were there. You know how and why."

It's a good line, but a frustrating one. It's perhaps the poet being too enigmatic; as a reader, I want something more at this point, even if what is given to me is obscured by metaphor or simile. The poet, who has done a fabulous job of bringing me along through this poem, has suddenly gone too private for me, as reader.

1201 once remarked on one of my poems that the word "you" was a difficult word to use in a poem. There are places where it works well--the closing sentence of Rilke's "Archaic Torso of Apollo," for example, where it is clearly intended to reference the reader, all readers, of the poem.

The use here seems to be more specific--an unnamed "you" the narrator seems to be addressing directly. This person knows the "how and why" of the third death.

The problem is that I, the reader of the poem, do not know the "how and why," and am not given any indication of what that might be. This is fine if the poem is written for the specific "you" referenced in the poem--that person would presumably understand the reference--but it leaves a big hole in the poem for the rest of us reading it.

The poem's final lines, referencing the phoenix rising from its own ashes, represents renewal and the narrator overcoming her "deaths." It's a fine closing image, but I as a reader want to know more about that third death, however traumatic it might be.

As I said at the start, I really like this poem. I think it has the potential to be an excellent poem, and is to a large degree, well on the way to being excellent.

I just think that third section needs some filling out.

Anyway. Superior job, AmericanTrash. Thank you.

 

[AmericanTrash]

Tzara I am overwhelmed with gratitude and respect. Thank you.

 

[AmericanTrash]

Plus you are right that I robbed the reader on the third death. It was cowardly avoidance. I will get around to it when I am braver.

 

[Fermina_Daza]

I’m a little bit of laughter
and a little bit of sadness.
I’m a little too open and forgiving
and a little too closed off, too guarded.
No one will likely ever really know me now
as I stopped trying to figure out who I’ve become.
So I live in the magic of my own little world,
happy to simply have visiting hours
knowing eventually I will get to be alone.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I was chameleon,
blushing a new hue
according to my situation.

This new and classless society
bereft of the snobbery
I grew up in allows my
true colours to remain
stable after a youth of
camouflage in hostile scenery.

Learning to live in relative
harmony on both sides
of the tracks, doing the
bidding of the blue-bloods
then slipping into the
salt-of-the-earth side
of this family forged by
misfits and inflated egos.

Now I am free, free of
the acquisitiveness, the one-
up-manship, the acid-green
eyes of envy and the terrible
toploftiness of adults who
should know better.