quote:These poets all used rhyme fairly often, wrote in intelligible English, and didn't produce images that were TOO hard (except possibly in Eliot's case -- but the beauty of his poesy is strong enough that you'll enjoy his poems even if you don't "get" them.)
Didn't Eliot himself address that last bit? Something about it being possible to apprehend a poem before actually understanding it?
Posts: 2443 | Registered: Apr 2002
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"I've noticed a tendency for your poetry to sound (or at least look) like song lyrics; any of them put to music?"
One of my friends used to play bass in the background when I was reading poetry aloud in coffeehouses (*cringes self-consciously*), but I've only set ONE poem to music in my life -- not least because I believe pop music killed the poet, insofar as any aspiring poet who could play a guitar became a rockstar instead.
This is the one that came with music (quite appropriately, too):
The Newborn Baby Boogie I got my diaper and my bottle and I'm learning how to toddle away; I can gurgle sixteen letters and my bladder's getting better each day; I got a brand new fuzzy teddy and when we snuggle up in bed we both say, every day:
Oh, baby (ooh aby daby) (gooh aby daby) (goo goo), we do the newborn baby boogie. (goo goo) (gooh) (gooh) I still got twenty years until the varsity drag, but for now I get the spotlight with a cool crying jag. (ooh ooh aby daby) (gooh aby daby) (goo goo) We do the newborn baby boogie. (goo goo) (gooh) (gooh) I got all my fingers and I got all my toes, and I got some things I can't use yet but I'll figure out those.
I got a woman here who feeds me and who says she really needs me around; I got a room with cool wallpaper of rhinoceri and capering clowns -- but there's simply nothing finer than this catchy forty-liner I sing: I may not know how to speak yet, but you've got to take a peek at how I swing. Wow, I swing. Take it, Teddy.
(Improv. sax solo: lots of waah-waah)
And I tell ya, baby (ooh aby daby) (gooh aby daby) (goo goo), I do the newborn baby boogie. (goo goo) (wooh) (gooh) If you see me standing up, please just don't knock me down; I'm getting old enough now to be getting around. There's a flat stretch of floor there, and nowhere to fall -- and I sure as hell ain't gonna wait to learn how to crawl. (waaaah--goo aby daby) (gooh aby daby) (goo goo) I do the newborn baby boogie. (goo goo) (gooh) (gooh) I simply got no reason to be singing da blues 'til I gotta go to preschool and start tying my shoes.
posted
thanks Tom, I tend to be overly critical of myself, so when something goes wrong, I assume there is something wrong with me and get all broody and sullen, and that is usually where my poetry comes from. Your poem seems to come more from frustration and yearning, and your use of repeatition enforces that well. The two different approaches may tell quite about about the differences in our two personalities and how we cope with pain, but then again, maybe not and they're just some silly little poems Posts: 748 | Registered: Dec 1999
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*grin* That's a poem from my senior year of high school. But Christy and I have been talking. *laugh*
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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Is it too much to ask, For my brain to silence? To sleep just a bit? My body would enjoy it, I'm sure. Its not a difficult task, It doesn't need violence, But I'll have a fit If I don't get sleep true and pure.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
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Here's a hastily-written poem for my mother, who's livid that her Mother's Day card didn't arrive:
Appointed Rounds An Apology for Undelivered Mail
I like to think there is a young man in Guatemala, or maybe Spain, who has for years been receiving mail in a language he does not understand, and – impressed by the paper, and the bold handwriting on the mangled envelopes – has incorporated them into a thousand pieces of paper-mache, his masterworks: donkey pińatas and brightly-painted bowls, Icarus gliders and reproductions of Rodin and other great artists this young man has always admired, and by whose names he is determined to see his own someday. He hopes.
There is a young girl nearly starving in Tibet – her father killed in riots by the Chinese occupation – who tiptoes out onto a perilous ledge every Sunday at three o’clock. And, as she waits, a single yellowed envelope flutters down, its sides stained and bulging. Sometimes she opens it, shaking out sparkly confetti or a fading picture, and traces with her fingers the lines of text, looping and curling each “o” and “a” and marveling at the foreign shapes; there is little beauty in these blocky letters, but perhaps they are still more beautiful for that. She brings them home, these letters, and lays them in the fire that keeps her mother, sick in bed these last five years, from shivering and coughing in her sleep. Someday, she thinks, a letter will come for her, in words she understands, and it will tell her why the world is the way it is, and what to do about it. She hopes.
I have sent a hundred letters. A thousand. May as well say a million, although the cost of stamps alone would bankrupt me, if so. The people who wait for them – bill collectors, anxious lovers, friends and family and state and federal governments – cry out, sometimes, in the face of cruelty. They wait to be touched, to be reassured, to be paid or pandered or informed. To know that I am tied to them by the threads of the United States Postal Service, and the occasional private carrier. But things do not always arrive. As I said, cruelty; still, they hope.
And I could send them certified, and I could type the addresses, and I could find the hunchbacked man who sits in the darkness of a Midwest dispatch to pluck out the mail with my address on it and stick it in a random bin, bound for Tibet, or Spain, or Guatemala, and ask him to please stop doing it. I hope.
But I like to think that there must be a higher purpose, that things go missing only so that they’ll be found; and maybe in a village tucked up in the Himalayas, someone’s grateful someone’s straying far from his appointed rounds.
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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posted
It may have been hastily-written, but it's also rather good, and could be really good with a little work. The last stanza falls flat on its face, though, particularly the very last line.
Posts: 2443 | Registered: Apr 2002
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Heh... I was just going through a bunch of old stuff on my computer and I ran across this little gem. I wrote this after I had my heart broken for the first time. It's really, really awful, but it does have a couple individual lines and word combinations I enjoy and I have a sentimental attachment to it, of sorts. Anyway, here it is, Another Beautiful Love Story.
It was just another beautiful love story Another Romeo and Juliet with a tragic end Another Bonnie and Clyde with nothin' but dead left behind But that's just life 'round here
And when they say that time heals all wounds I don't believe them, it just dulls the pain And all the flattery in the world doesn't make up for a broken heart And a few scattered dreams
With our fragile hearts plastered on our sleeves We say with conviction that we will survive But it's just a matter of time until someone takes the knife to them And big wheeles just grind on
Knowing all the answers just makes things worse Just because answers can't replace your dreams So damn the hypocrisy and damn the pride, just let me curl up and cry Take me someplace I can hide
We're just a bunch of orphans of God Lost out here under the stars of eternity Lost with a bunch of kissers and killers and the lunatic fringe Trying to make some sense out of this
Posts: 1295 | Registered: Jan 2003
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posted
Done, I'm done! I've finally compiled all the poetry from these pages into word files per username. Is anyone interested in such a thing? I had thought about printing them out and compiling a Hatrack poets book of sorts, but wasn't sure if the poets would be keen on this (and seeing the number of pages I have, perhaps my home printer wouldn't quite be up to the task of more than a few printings). Any suggestions?
I'm going to search the rest of hatrack now for other miscellaneous poetry to add.
Btw, I had posted a start to this compilation on fugu's site, but can no longer get to it. Does anyone know if its still around?
And for goodness sakes, where are all the poets? Don't let this lovely thread die!
Posts: 1777 | Registered: Jan 2003
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Scott R- I love Robert Frost, and was somewhat sad I forgot to mention him in my Landmark post. But since I feel ill at ease about editing it, I'll just put what I would have said about him here, "I love Robert Frost because he says the things that I would say about the world, only more beautifully."
And here's a little Robert Frost Homage poem.
Waiting for my Ride on a Windy Afternoon. (A little homage to Robert Frost)
The wind outside is bitter cold, I don’t know what would make it bold enough to challenge such as I, one who is cast from a frozen mold.
But still I freeze, and wonder why, as icy breath falls from the sky. And then I lean upon a pole, as folks in cars are driving by.
I frown and squirm and am, in whole, A miserably cold Scandinavian soul. The passers honk and sometimes jeer, I remain silent in my frozen role.
Miserable, I move to the pole’s rear, And then around the pole I peer, And see a van that’s drawing near. I smile and wave without fear Oh, good, I’m free, my ride is here!
(just for fun, is all)
Posts: 4816 | Registered: Apr 2003
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How did I miss those poems, Scott? Those were priceless! I especially like Creep in the Bathtub - such a childish quality, with a little Poe and Baudelaire and Edward Gorey, all to a 1980's rhythm. Love it - keep it up.
Here are some of my more recent ones:
Elastic Skin
Occasional Tuesdays I come home And put on my elastic skin.
When I'm falling out, My parts falling out, My head falling out, My soul falling out, It holds them in.
I am suspended from infinitely high Cold cavern ceilings.
I pull out straps, Straps, Perhaps A web of Straps Will hold me in.
Horsemen
I always dreamed of horses; black, white, red, pale.
I always hid from horsemen, whores, and dragons.
I cried in terror at the specters that appeared outside my window in the darkest winter stirrings when the beast inhaled my sleep.
I never thought to look around, to doubt the horses in my kitchen.
I never thought to see the horsemen sleeping in my den.
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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THEY SHOOK HIS BODY from between the cracks, That pierced the bitter land across its waste. His eulogy cut short; they threw him in a sack, And carried his body away to hell. They laughed and laughed and laughed.
I
THE DEAD MAN PULLED his blackened lips from teeth, That seemed to be dark tombstones in a smile, He cried out for relief, and I stood by, He begged me, pleaded as I watched in horror With eyes downcast; I heard him screaming all the while. There were no eyes in all the world for him to see. The sun had burned them from his lids, The vultures taken them as toll.
No man crosses my desert. No man may pass. This is the place where I will die.
II
THE END OF THE EARTH is two miles away, To the left. I have been there, on sunny days, And rainy days, and foggy days through mist. Across the sand I came, from the dream lands. Over hills and fields and valleys, Across mountains and through rivers I came, To the end of the world; THE END, All I found there was a box With a child's corpse inside.
It said "BEGINNING" on the box; It was a cruel joke. It was then that I wished to die.
Posts: 1744 | Registered: Jul 2001
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My great-granddad, the only granddad I've known, died earlier this month. I'd written this toward the end, when the illness was its worst and while we were reading the Book of Job. It's a sort of pastiche, cuts of verses culled from the NRSV, and I can't get the lines to transfer right, but here it is.
[In Memory of H. E. Grimes, Sr.]
A Psalm of Job: Bear with me while I speak, and after I have spoken, mock on
Yet if I speak, my pain is not relieved; and if I refrain, it does not go away
But I desire to speak to the Almighty and to argue my case with God.
So man wastes away like something rotten, like a garment eaten by moths.
My spirit is broken:
'God stores up a man's punishment for his sons.' Let him repay the man himself, so that he will know it! Let his own eyes see his destruction;
when I think of all this, I fear him. God has made my heart faint; the Almighty has terrified me.
The groans of the dying rise from the city, and the souls of the wounded cry out for help.
Death is naked before God, who has made me taste bitterness of soul - the breath of God in my nostrils
posted
Chain and leash around my head, Plugged into a line of boredom Talking to parrots, Repeating a pointless process Of signing people up over the phone For something they don't want. Someone wants AOL, No credit card required, But give it to me anyway, Phone bill preferred Will it go through? No. Try again? Nothing. Ineligable. I go back to talking to parrots.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
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With my hands treading water I have shown you. With my cracked lips smoothed by indecision I tried to make you feel. With my slavish throat I heard your gurgling reverie And now I point it all out.
That there is your plate glass profits cutting away deadened wood.
And that there is inflated rice smoldering in the charcoal wet fields. That there is the harvester's cry when the winnowed stalks snap at his face. And that there is the dragon's breath misting its way into your paralyzed gold.
That there is the image of jackrabbit emotion faded onto gray.
And that there is the desert prophet eating honeyed shreds of filed documents. And that there is the brazen swallow plucked from the gripping furnace. And that there is the raised blistered hand swearing it has no need of salve.
And those are your glycerin manners. And these are your glossy apricot ways.
Posts: 3423 | Registered: Aug 2001
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Sorry, a little shameless self-promotion, but I felt I needed to immortalize this here:
The boy was selling kosher pickles, Trading passersby for nickles. I thought he was rather cute In his brine-encrusted suit.
I asked him for the deepest one, And kissed him when his work was done. His face blushed red from chin to tips, How salty were his kosher lips!
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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posted
I just want to point out that my poem above (which was written in 1995) prophesied Enron et. al. with stunning precision (or at least as precise as you're going to get with a poem filled with lazy, convoluted imagery).
Posts: 3423 | Registered: Aug 2001
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Dog breath in the face of the dreamer— Awake! There is life to be lived— Cannot convince him that the day is worth standing for.
Ah, but the sun! cries the frantic tail of Dog As the dreamer pulls folds of fabric round his cheeks And shuts his eyes to the eager rays scaling his windowsill.
While Dog’s nose lifts to the scent of bacon frying, The dreamer empties his cares into unconsciousness, The wasted morning as pricey as the yacht he sees with shut eyelids.
Annie, I love your poetry. Posts: 1903 | Registered: Sep 2003
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Ruth, I'm trying to like that poem even though I dislike dogs, and I think I'm succeeding!
I know this may be a little obscure, but I know that some of you are Frenchier than me and may be able to give me some thoughts on the sonnet I have to write for my French lit class. Here's what I have so far:
****************************
La Cuisine
Tu apparaissais en cherchant un goűt de lait, La femme qui cuisinait t’a reçu, t’a plu Chaque jour tu te couchais sur ma table nue Chaque jour dans ma cuisine je te langeais.
Je versais tout, tu as bu, tu as mastiqué Tes mots, tu as mâché bien les miens sur le plat Si chaud, comme le pain et comme l’odorat Comme l’haleine que nous partageons, piquée.
J’ai choisi avec soin les fruits de chuchoter Dans tes oreilles et sur ton sein, j’étais nourrice Tu as trouvé le meilleur feu dans ma matrice Tu étais lui dont mon four était ŕ côté.
Mon enfant, homme, dîneur : mange, mange-les. Donne-moi tes parties, et je vais les męler.
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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It's worth noting that she's wrong about culture, though. Lots of tools, transportation devices, military hardware, and hunting-related art have also survived. Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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a light in the faraway distance a train behind me walls to the left and right the only way to go is forward and the only way to think is ahead i can't go back i'm scared to go forward on the ceiling there is an opening can i reach it? no
i wish i was a poet then i could turn emotions into words feelings into song i wish i was a writer then i could weave a story with meaning and tell the world someone's life i wish i was a filmmaker then i could unite song and speech and cause someone to realize who they are
through a dark tunnel i crawl never knowing if it will end the events around me swirl into an undecipherable sphere shadows loom over me and trap me in their spidery arms
red blends into the orange and brown blends into the white it's all the same to me it compresses my imagination and hinders my sight if i had a ladder i could go out the window but there's not one around i can escape in my mind but can only go so far somewhere in the world there's someone thinking the same thing maybe we can find each other and escape to somewhere we can be at peace
i only seem to be able to write depressing poetry.
Posts: 1658 | Registered: Sep 2003
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posted
As I lay in bed reflecting on a night without a fear, I am startled into consciousness by a tickling in my ear. I gently press the offending one to rub the itch away, then jump and scream and hop and howl like a wretch on her doom day. For a gibber-gabbling has started now in an angry, alien tongue. And a frantic, squirming journey to my brain has just begun. "Out, Out!", I scream in terror at the squiggling in my head, then flail and thrash and beat about with a desperate pound of dread. When all at once the beast plops out, and flops onto the floor. It's an inch-long hairy centipede, and it wriggles under my door.
I stop and think for just a moment about the life that centipede has led, and the terrible mistake he must have made in thinking that I am dead. Or perhaps I have just kicked the bucket in my bed while fast asleep, and he is the first of many crawlers my harvest come to reap.
"Oh, no you don't," I think to myself, then run and grab a shoe. Now he is a feast for another beast, I think he knows it, too.
I just thought I'd share my morning:)
Posts: 240 | Registered: Jan 2001
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Can I get really quick input on this one? It's a hasty poem I've written for a friend on the occasion of his marriage, and I'm looking for concrete advice on it:
Two newlyweds were hurrying to refinish their home Ahead of winter weather and a second set of loans, But it always seemed, no matter what, their work was never done; No sooner would they patch a hole than find another one. And he grew tired of hammering, and she got sick of grout – So even as they fixed the house, each dreamed of moving out. The day they put the plumbing in, it nearly came to blows When he forgot to kill the main (so water overflowed And wrecked the downstairs drywall two days before her mom Had promised she’d be dropping by to see how far they’d come.) But as they sat there steaming, sunlight flashed and lit her hair In rivulets of cinnamon; she caught sight of his stare, And smiled wryly back at him, amusement in her eyes, Inviting him to lift her to her feet with a small sigh.
She wove her left hand’s fingers through the fingers of his right, Then passed him down the pliers; she took up the putty knife. Did it matter, the next morning, that the job took twice as long? They may have built it slowly, but they slowly built it strong.
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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posted
It is quite lovely. The last two lines rock.
If there's one rough spot, it's here:
quote:But as they sat there steaming, sunlight flashed and lit her hair In rivulets of cinnamon; she caught sight of his stare, And smiled wryly back at him, amusement in her eyes, Inviting him to lift her to her feet with a small sigh
The flow and imagery is really going here until we hit the ;. It's not the stop that doesn't work (because this is a turning point) but rather I think that it's the monosyllabic words and the internal rhyme of 'caught sight.'
But maybe this is just bugging me, and I'm totally wrong.
I have no suggestion for fixing it at the moment.
Posts: 3423 | Registered: Aug 2001
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posted
In honor of my newfound hope to find meaning in poetry (and my receipt of An Open Book), I'm bumping this, Orginal Potry, the oldest thread still on the forum -- approaching five years of age, and begun eight days after the birth of Hatrack UBB.
posted
*Raises a glass to the ghost of lukelmiller and to all lovers of orginal potry.*
I must admit, I have a hard time reading poetry, especially when it has a high degree of imagery or abstraction.
Posts: 5957 | Registered: Oct 2001
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I assume the limericks thread is purged? That's the only place you're likely to find my contributions.
Anyway, I was a bit curious to see Luke's name at the top of the forum, but not too surprised having seen the length and age of other threads you guys keep current. Then I clicked inside: holy moly does this bring back memories. As I got into choral music after my departure, the metaphor of the chorister's baton stayed with me -- but even Sr. Martindale's quip was shamelessly quoted at one sardonic moment. I suppose the most poignant observation for me is that enthusiastic newbies of the time like motu are just as dead (if not forgotten) as relics like IOhlander who had practically drifted away before the UBB. Maybe I'll write a poem about it.
Posts: 1839 | Registered: May 1999
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