posted
My favorite is "I Shall Bathe." The other I am not sure what you call, but it begins with something like (my planner's in the car, so I can't look) "Get in line, don't stand out/or we'll punch you in the snout."
I don't know the poetry market either, but I'll find out and post it if it means you'll submit some things.
Posts: 26077 | Registered: Mar 2000
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posted
I've got tons of epithalamia left to do. All possible permutations and combinations of four different fiances? We'll be here from now on! But I'm letting them percolate slowly to the surface now. And hey, Jorge's may totally not be suitable material for hatrack consumption. <@<@<@<@<@
[ September 09, 2004, 04:31 AM: Message edited by: ak ]
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posted
My dad writes a lot of poetry. Much of it is religious in nature and most of that is mind-numbingly simplistic in its message. (I'm not saying the two are inherently connected, so please don't misunderstand me.) He set up a poetry list and put all of his kids on it as well as a bunch of people I don't know. A few weeks ago he sent a series of poems that were all of the "God loves you so it's all OK" vein and this poem practically wrote itself in my head in response:
quote:I've never known a god to be Much interested in equality Or children starving in distant lands Or mothers beaten by father's hands Or general suffering of any sort. They sit on thrones, hold heavenly court, And watch us mortals down on Earth, Living and dying and giving birth And wondering why the pains and tears Cried up to heaven fall on deaf ears.
I decided not to send it by way of reply to the list. In fact, I didn't share it with anyone and only hesitantly post it here. I admit it is pretty bitter and that there are several valid religious rebuttals to its central idea, but it is representative of the way I feel when people get preachy on me and act like life would be so much simpler if I'd just surrender to Jesus.
Has anyone else read a poem they deeply disagreed with and wrote a poem of your own in response?
Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
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posted
I actually dislike most religious poetry, actually as much as I dislike most religious writing and almost all religious fiction. That's part of why I was so shocked by Scott's "I Shall Bathe" - it surprised me that I love it.
posted
This reminded me that a long time ago I wrote a response to this poem. It was a class assignment and short, but I thought it turned out pretty well.
Dear Sir, I find your rhyme Speaks most eloquently of time And of its lack thereof Yet in time will fade your love Unless I take much time to inspire The poetry of your soul, your desire
Posts: 11265 | Registered: Mar 2002
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posted
Last year, I posted my French sonnet on food here. Now, I have a polished version of it, and I've written a companion English version (I say version, and not translation) for those who are interested. Let me know your honest feedback.
La cuisine/The Kitchen
Tu apparaissais en cherchant un goût 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 et ton morceau de fruit piqué.
Môme de moi, tu étais toujours affamé Sur ton sein et devant le mien, j’étais nourrice Tu as trouvé le meilleur feu dans ma matrice Tu es mon sire et mon descendant à jamais.
Mon enfant, homme, dîneur: mange, mange-les. Donne-moi tes parties, et je vais les mêler.
***
You’d come in slyly with an empty glass The cooking lady liked you and would wink A friendly wink over a steamy sink My table was your bed and then your class.
I’d empty all my pitchers as you’d sip On milk and words and stutters in your bowl Warm from my oven, bread and fruit you stole We’d top it with our breath to give it zip.
Oh, baby boy, so hungry and so bright I nursed you as you nursed me in your arms My oven was the warmest of my charms My master and my child and my light.
Now come on baby, come fill up your bowl You give me all your parts; I’ll mix you whole.
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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posted
I'm rather impressed, Annie. It's very difficult to write an effective translation of a poem, even one you wrote yourself, and you've done an excellent job. Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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This is a poem from my son Sasha [Boshenka]. He said for me to tell you that some farmer from Idaho left it on a scrap of toilet paper in the bottom of a sack of potatoes he delivered for him. . . . . Apples and Bananas in Jimmy's throat. Mr. Joey Hotpants found out grandma didn't float. Went to save her, but it's too late now. All that's left in the water is her rose gown.
F**k Mr. Hawtpants, for he well knows his mistake He never loved her, no matter what she baked, That bastard took everything she gave She was his toady, that's the bitter truth of the day. And never to appreciate anyone at all Mr. Hotpants jumped and landed on a wall. A thirty floor jump makes Apples and Bananas Out of anything, including Monkeys and Ig-wan-uhz.
posted
You could've bumped with poetry Or sufficiently broken prose-ry Instead you chose A :bump:-- no rose! And I end this rhyme coquettishly.
Posts: 14554 | Registered: Dec 1999
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posted
I wrote a poem the other day, and its had mixed reviews from those that read it but here goes:
quote:Freddy Likes
Freddy likes his glasses clean A single smudge, a tiny scratch He wipes the screen; He likes them clean.
Freddy likes his glasses clean He likes to see through sparkling glass “Nothing in the way,” He likes to say.
But Freddy your glasses are filthy with grime. Freddy all you’ve ever seen (even with your glasses clean) Is white and black and you and them, Like a flashback (setback). And you don’t want them to be- Or you to see- Freddy there’s debris on your glasses.
posted
Teshi, I like the "Freddy" poem, although I think the last two stanzas are unnecessary, and I'd swap out the word "debris" for something more powerful and monosyllabic. The first two lines of the third stanza are also a bit expository; I think you can alleviate that feeling by tightening their meter.
posted
Here's my first attempt at poetry in, well, a long time. It comes in light of a couple of recurring dreams featuring a person from my past. Needed to express it somehow, so, here's the result.
Rip her up and down folks. ---
In circles round and seasons short and long (The ones that made and form’d my recent days) ‘Twas Mem’ries, Dreams, and Stories, (Love?) and Song That shone as beams of Light through thicken’d haze.
There was a muse I knew not long ago A cycle first begun, in motion set Yet of these turnings she may never know A word not written she will never get.
Her words filled up my soul like agéd wine Yet still I left those favored words to rot. My world was dark and she became a sign She does not know this for I told her not.
The Circle that was opened did not end. I wrote the words but then I could not send.
posted
...and another. I think I really enjoy the sonnet form. Really makes me think.
-----
A lockéd heart seems righteous at the first Affection neither sought nor entertained But what of when that muscle starts to thirst? It’s hard to hold a bev’rage when you’re chained.
A quitter loses taste for what he quits Yet still remembers every sense and more. Of what he cherished once he still admits: A thing that heals can also make one sore.
But is that pain a worthy price to pay? The key is in my hand, it never left. I will not turn it now, no not today. So now to take my heart it would be theft.
But maybe I’ll be ready one day soon. And maybe people live up on the moon.
Posts: 2689 | Registered: Apr 2000
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posted
I like them both very much, although I'm just going from my terribly uneducated eye (but that's a good thing, right, I like them as they are, most definately!). They make me think de DA de DA de DA de DA de DA, though .
I think the accents (like the one on aged) should be the other way around?
Posts: 8473 | Registered: Apr 2003
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posted
Taalcon, I really like sonnets, too; they're a lot of fun. I think you have some good ideas, but I have a few suggestions--which essentially all fall under the rubric of "style"--that you might want to consider.
I think the main weakness of both sonnets is the tortured syntax. Anytime you stick adjectives behind their nouns ("in circles round"), draw out lines unnecessarily ("she does not know this for I told her not"), or otherwise change normal word order ("so now to take my heart it would be theft"), it's going to call major attention to itself, and if there is not a strong, over-riding reason for having done so (i.e., if you've just done it to make the rhyme/meter work), it just sticks out like a sore thumb.
On a related syntactical note, I think you've definitely got to change the truncated (e.g., "Mem'ries," "thicken'd") and accented (e.g., "agéd," "lockéd") words. It worked in Shakespeare's time because words like that could genuinely be pronounced both ways, but in current usage no one says "thicken-ed" (so you don't have to truncate) and most people say "age-ed" (so you don't have to accent it). And no one says "lock-ed," so I would just take that out entirely.
Anyway, just a few initial observations from a closet Formalist-sympathizer and fellow sonneteer.
Posts: 1068 | Registered: Aug 2000
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There's a riddle here-- see if you can figure it out before my family does.
Welcome to Hoober-Town!
We've got thinggles and stinggles, whoppers and whams, Two trucks of treacle, and a bin full of yams; There's everything that's anything, in our Hoober-Town, So there's a place for you here- come right on down.
We were lunky and flunky, and all out of sorts Like there was a half-hitch knot in our undershorts, 'Till we heard and we knew the great gafferel news, That along came a someone-- and that someone was you!
And we shouted for joy! And why shouldn't we shout? Our flunky is gone, and the knot's straightened out! We shouted and sang, and made such a noise-y That we woke the old fitch that lives up in Boise.
We're ready for you, oh, we most certainly are! Whether you come by train or by goat or by car, The first thing you'll notice when you enter our place Is the welcoming smile on each Hoober-town face.
We've rolled out the carpet, and shined up our streets; We've swept out the cobwebs, and even washed up our feets! 'Cause you're a Somebody, and we're as happy as flim! And Hoober-town's a wonderful place to live in.
Let me tell you the things that make Hoober-town great: For first, there's the mayor, over there-- she's first rate! There was never a lady more smarter or kind To help you with grimmles or work out your grind.
And second of all, there's the Three Mighty Gamers! (They may look a bit wild, but you'll find no one tamer) They'll teach you the meaning of gremulous fun-- One word of caution-- just watch where you run.
There's me, of course, the town's erstwhile crier-- I let everyone know when there's a party or fire. I can see you'll fit in here, I'm sure that you will. And we'll fit to you, like a duck to its bill.
We're so happy to have you, to make you our own! And we'll give you ourselves so you're never alone. There's a big party for you, in the center of town-- We love you already-- dear Someone, come down!
Posts: 14554 | Registered: Dec 1999
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posted
no thanks to Dave I ended up writting two sonnets, this evening...
Sonnets of Lightness and Darkness
Darkness
A twisted cord of silence danced a song; A line of subtle joy and mirth. The strands Of gold were wrought, holding tales of lands Now ancient and forgotten. Shining dawn Would break, the string has told, and life was drawn From wells of liquid breath. The rolling sands Once flooded brilliantly, then formed by hands, So skilled, to coloured glass was formed, then shone. Then darkness came. It slipped in quietly At first. It stared at endless lines of gold, All turned upon themselves to form the sign Of power, light, and peace. A living sea. “An Alexandrian solution holds The key,” then struck, then broke the golden line.
Lightness
A reeling cry and day was split. A whine, Then shriek, of twisted joy echoed pain. Cold Began to spread o’er dying silence. Old And aching, silence ended, breaking time. A blast then struck the glass, so crystalline To shatter, raining coloured shards. Untold Lay beauty, living, once, now slain. The bold And sooty victor stood amidst the fine Glass, coloured pins, which held, unknown, a dream That held to darkness. Soon began to dance A silver line of light. It reached along To grasp the scattered seas of glass, formed seams Across the darkness. Beauty woke, then lanced Along the line. Deepened, there, light lived on.
Posts: 1158 | Registered: Feb 2004
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posted
I don't think I've posted in this thread before. But I do like your haiku, qs.
Okay, here is a poem I wrote a few years ago: Beneath the skin I seek you Drinking the vision of you I listen For a reflection of my feeling But between our two skins Will we ever meet Beyond the taste Of the same anticipation.
[ December 24, 2004, 07:17 AM: Message edited by: Trisha the Severe Hottie ]
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posted
Here's one of my poems... A multi-stanzad limerick! Entitled: "The Lame Poem Here, Mates!"
There once was a man from Berlin, He used to get drunk in the inn, Every day till midnight, Lest he’d sense there was light, And he never thought it was a sin.
Man! That German was almost insane, Every night he was drunk to the vein! “Please, just help him, alright? Oh, just please!” every night, Every night, said the barman in vain.
May he live and be sober once more He’d be able to walk – not on four, Else we’d feel he’s gone “Rest in peace”, and we’d mourn, (‘End this lim’rick, or you’d be so sore!’)
May his soul be forever serene! And in this way our conscience be clean, Till we help him, “But how?” “End his misery, now!” So why won’t we be, just once, mean?
[ December 24, 2004, 07:58 AM: Message edited by: Jonathan Howard ]
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posted
I'm so glad this thread is immortal now. There was a while (around page 4?) when I thought I was the only one who cared enough to keep it alive. No new poetry from me lately, alas.
Posts: 6246 | Registered: Aug 2004
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My father’s hands are pale white with a few scattered freckles; his fingers are short but strong.
He carves with them, causing wooden spoons and toys to appear from blocks of seasoned wood. The cyclic, deliberate motion is evocative of waves lapping at a sandy beach—on the kind of island that’s a poster child for tropical heaven. I ask him why the returning surf in the ocean is so soothing to watch.
He looks up and says, “I’m not making a beach scene— this is a hat rack.”
Posts: 119 | Registered: Oct 2004
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posted
Written back in the fall semester of ninth grade (1996) after reading a book with a similiar title.. comments, questions?
Home 'Fore Dark
I
Runnin' Screamin' Laughin' in the dark Little kids of no worries Endless summer nights Darkness falls Crickets chirp Lightning bugs light their flights A jar full to mama So she ain't 'fraid of the dark Mr. Monster is afraid of the light In the lighted jar Mothers all over say thank you Mighty nice night light Later as the children sleep They'll let the bugs fly free to Their own homes And to their own mamas Safe at home Home 'fore dark.
II
The light's on Shadow of a woman in the dimness No doubt worried No doubt anxious Little Suzy or Bobby ain't little no more The first party First date Imagining different scenes Tentative ones at first And then things changed It grows into a fear of an accident As the hours mosey on by Finally four hours passed Little Bobby comes in drunk Little Suzy smelling of sickly sweet cigarettes Mothers' eyes widen Some cry Some nag Others are just as bad 'Cause they do nothing but Let it go forgotten in fear that Father will wake And find little Bobby or Suzy like this Home 'fore dark.
posted
Here's a poem I posted at grenme.com about the aftermath of the Trojan War. For the longest time, I've been obsessed with the death of Hector's baby son at the hands of the Greeks: it has always sounded some strange chord of anger in me. Several times I've tried to write a poem that captured that emotion, and I think I might've succeeded with this one.
On a technical note, most of this poem is written in dactylic hexameter, though not the last six lines, which contain a Sapphic stanza and two glyconic lines (each with a bacchiac added). For those who don't know what any of that means, the upshot is that I used really hard-to-adapt-to-English Greek meter.
-------------------------- Andromache’s Prayer
Silent Andromache kneels in the shadows of Troy’s walls —gutted, Smoldering bastions of lost hope, death and degenerate hungers— Patting the mound of indifferent sand, the widow, unheard, weeps. Under her hand lies Troy’s sad destiny, shield’s curve cradling, Wrenched from his mother as uncles and grandsire had been as well, Noble Astyanax, prince of the city that Argives have murdered.
One above others Andromache curses: Achilles, the butcher, Father and brothers’ assassin, the slayer of Hector her husband, Sire of the villain who flung from the walls the innocent baby Buried today (shade winging its way to Elysian Fields, yes: Priam and Hector awaiting him). “Neoptolemus: New War. Bastard’s own name is a key to his nature,” Andromache mutters.
“Me? I’m War among Men,” she reflects with a hushed sob, pensive.
Standing, she lets tears dry on her face, looks sullenly seaward: Slave to him now, lone son of Achilles, a-glow by the black ships, Gesturing haughtily, Helen and Sparta’s old king in his shadow Lengthening ominously toward dead Troy now as Helios drops low. “Doubtlessly talking of marriage, those three; will Hermione shudder, Feeling those bloodstained hands on her? Gods, will you keep me from screaming?”
White-armed Helen appears to be laughing, but Hector’s new widow Hates not Zeus’s fair daughter; Andromache knows in her heart’s core Wars are not fought for the noble excuses, the specious incentives Men claim angrily spur them. The truth is the Argives have come for Glory and gold and the raping of women, their only true gods Death, Eros and War. To the last of these three now Andromache bows down:
“Hated Lord Ares, you bringer of slaughter, I yield you my one son.
Chomp his white corpse greedily —hurled from Troy’s heights— Calm your hunger, Widower, briefly: soon more Babies may you anxiously make us give you: Quench now your red thirst…
May you choke on his blameless flesh, you sick fiend!”
And she spits her libation out on hot sand.
Posts: 5663 | Registered: Jun 2000
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I have been slowly easing myself back into an appreciation for poetry since you posted some on the Spanish thread. I had burned out on it as a lit major in college and grad school, but now I'm daring to raise my eyes and see that there is some poetry out there that actually is meaningful and powerful without needing extensive decoding. (My occasional glance at this thread has helped with that too, actually.)
I might even decide to try writing some again some day.
So thank you, David, for reacquainting me.
Posts: 13680 | Registered: Mar 2002
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posted
You're welcome. You know, in teaching poetry to high school students, one of the things I've noticed is it really isn't nearly as dense and obtusely symbolic (once you ignore T.S. Eliot) as all of my professors made it out to be. You know what I do? I pretty much stay away from all exegeses of poems and just read them: their meaning and power leap out at me instantly that way, and my students get so much more out of their poetry lessons as a result.
Posts: 5663 | Registered: Jun 2000
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posted
That's really impressive, David. I could feel her fury and pain, especially toward the end.
I really loved this:
quote: White-armed Helen appears to be laughing, but Hector’s new widow Hates not Zeus’s fair daughter; Andromache knows in her heart’s core Wars are not fought for the noble excuses, the specious incentives Men claim angrily spur them. The truth is the Argives have come for Glory and gold and the raping of women, their only true gods Death, Eros and War. To the last of these three now Andromache bows down:
Discussions of the Trojan War are so often about the beauty of Helen and the cleverness of the Horse ruse (or gullibility of the Trojans, if you prefer). Your poem really brings to light the suffering of innocents caught in the middle, and I think that is very important, today as much as in ancient times.
Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
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posted
Thanks, Karl. I'm glad it makes the impact I'd wanted. You're right: it is always a mistake to forget the horrible secondary effects of war, one of the biggest being the slide into inhumanity that the power felt by the winning army typically occasions.
Posts: 5663 | Registered: Jun 2000
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posted
I wrote this when I was at the beach in Oregon.
Between the Tides
Gentle ripples tumble over my toes But stinging cold reveals the ocean’s true nature That all life within exists only as she allows Inside its strength a calmness The ability to destroy, but not the need It renders all defenses irrelevant
At that’s why we wander in between the tides to consider Before coming we’re busy at being or not being for others And stop seeing ourselves But all of that is an afterthought here Without the consequences people bring You stand alone With the horrible but bearable realities Of who you have become and are becoming Then you can decide, and leave
Posts: 159 | Registered: Jan 2005
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posted
Didn't OSC write something about why poetry is a dying art?
Also, it sure seems more fun to write poetry than to read it. If you posted a poem here, do you regularly read poetry or buy/check-out books on poetry, or are you like me? The only poetry I read lately are Haikus on OpinionJournal.com (as people dropped out of the presidential campaign.
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