_Peerless_

$3.97 for lunch and $15 in the gas tank.
Three hours and three grain elevators later,
I pulled off at a brown sign.
I talked with the senior class - three girls.
They envied my cup from McDonald's.
The horizon was a Mobius strip.

Postcards from visits litter my desk.
A piece of postcard-sized letterhead
Says "Peerless" in black ink.
My wall is covered with men who will never love me
And works of art that no one will ever see.
The window is shrouded in branches.

I am a mosaic of poster putty and compact disks.
None of my plastic voices can comfort me-
My neighbors can't hear my stereo.
The wind whimpers, wounded by the mountains.
The answering machine stares at me with one eye,
All-knowing, unblinking.

In Peerless, girls with beautiful hair
Wake up early and curl it painstakingly.
Thirteen people see it.
I stick pictures on my third-floor window and
Three hundred people pass. I wish loneliness
Came in neon tubes.

Now Sam’s pate is not so dark.
The little bird has found her mark.
His wit is stumped of things to say
To gentle Annie but – “Touché!”

Annie, your poem is great. I felt melancholic and lonely reading it. The book on poetry you're using seems to be giving you perfect advice. I'm curious, what do you not like about your poem? Maybe it's Peerless, Montana that you don't like. But I like the choice of your poem. Peerless--the name is ironic because it means "without peer, unique." And that makes it a lonelier place than other places that may physically compare with it.

Sarfa, a darkness hovers over your poems. There is death, tiredness and a sort of meaninglessness to existence. That is what I'm getting. I do not sense hope, just terrible lonely endings. I'm curious about Point Zero Eight. Did the drunk driver die or were you wishing him dead in your poem? Just curious.

What would I have been
if she wasn't born
those many long years ago
I was already here
just two years old
on my way up to Idaho

My birth had begun
in a southwestern town
with tacos and cacti galore
And here I am now
in a southeastern town
where she's blessed me with so much more

What do I owe her?
The list never ends
She's given me peace and joy
She gave me a baby
now a two year old girl
(when at the time I wanted a boy)

She gives me good sense
when it's not to be found
in my shallow and empty brain
She keeps me in line
and guides me home
when all others have dropped the reins

Her birthday's today
She is lonely, depressed
Her spirit is withered, fatigued.
She holds in her hand
the key to my heart
And thus I too have grieved.

No, I did not want the drunk driver to die (and he didn't). The poem is not even losely based on the story behind my friends death, I just transfered some of the feelings I had during the event to a made up circumstance for poetic purposes.

To her what meant more
than gifts from some store
was to do what came akward to me
So I did my best
to grant her requests
to do what came unnaturally

I must have looked foolish
or crazy to some
but I went and "took one for the team"
But when it was done
we had loads of fun
and her eyes had recaptured "that gleam"

On that note, here is a real oldy (I'm almost out of recent material, guess I'll have to get depressed so I can write more poetry ) If you haven't noticed, I finally took the time to check the FAQ to learn how to make those smilies.

FOR THE ACCEPTANCE OF THE UNWORTHY

Stumbling across a cluttered room,
he was a befuddled giant, trying in vain
not to crush the petrified villagers
below with his immense feet. His eyes
shifted nervously as he stifled soft sobs.
"At least I made them laugh," said the jester
as his finger traced the sinuous scar
that traversed the breadth of his temple
like a dried up worm on sun scorched concrete.
He turned away and began foraging
through the decrepit shelves that lined the walls,
mumbling to himself as his fingers grasped
the smooth, cool surface of a large glass jar.
He hobbled over to a plush sofa,
setting the jar on a desk as he melted
into the inviting folds like a stick
of butter over an open flame. "I got drunk
and broke a broomstick over my head,
today." His inebriated state caused
him to slur his speech. The only response
that seemed appropriate was "why?"
"I thought it was funny," but his careworn
expression revealed more than his meager
words ever could. I knew that he had failed
again; laughter does not equal affection.
He was a convict incarcerated
in a prison of his own design;
the eternal ouroborus, doomed
to forever devour his own tail.
"I should use this more often," he muttered
as he tapped the jar, causing the content
to stir. I could only grimace and nod
He plunged his hand into formaldehyde,
extracting the shriveled mass of flesh
that rightfully belonged in his vacant skull.

When I sparked that recent little sparing match with Annie with my smart alecy crack about the early bird, I was trying to convey a grumpy attitude. I most definitely was in a wonderfully happy mood. Wide awake, and the time I would have to start hating my alarm clock again was many days in the future. Of course that was just a bit of doggerel and I don’t know how well I succeeded. Serious stuff, though, takes more work.

I have a copy of Judson Jerome’s “Poets Handbook” and in there he quotes an old poem by I-forget-whom in which the poet is saying that he tried to learn all the forms and tricks of the trade of poetry but couldn’t seem to get it right. Then he was inspired by some Muse or something to just “reach into thine heart and write.” Jerome points out that this brilliant little poem was crafted that way. There was very little of the spontaneity that the poem conveyed that went into the deliberate crafting of it. (I guess it is sort of like Scott Hamilton making skating look so easy.) Jerome says that a lot of crap has been written by people just trying to spew emotion on to a page and calling it poetry. That’s not to say that a well-crafted poem can’t be composed quickly. I’ve seen examples of that, but even then some polishing is usually needed. I tend to agree with Jerome on this. In my own case, I tend to agonize over every word and comma, and then I’m still not sure I write it right.

I had to laugh when Scott R said, “For a long time I hated rhyming poetry. If it rhymed, it sucked.” It tickled me because I started out on the other side of the boat. Because of my basic ignorance, I thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. To me, if it didn’t rhyme, it was prose. Oh well, you live and learn. I think that we should bring back all the old forms as well as experiment with new. I think we should also break the “rules” if we want as long as we can make it work. I think we should master every tool and use whatever it takes to craft for the effect we want. I think that we shouldn’t be scared to use poetry to just describe – say a pretty flower for instance -- if we want to just because some snooty avant-garde fad says, “Oh! Flowers are so not with it, man. You dig?.” On the other hand, if we want to explore some deep dark emotion, then I say, “Go for it.” I guess what I am saying is there is only one rule – “Craft well.”

Not too long ago I was in on a scifaiku (science fiction haiku) list and the first poem I posted was one in which I was trying to convey what Clarke’s space elevator from “The Fountains of Paradise” would look like off in the distance with the already set sun hitting just it. I had also just seen a program on the History Channel about the transcontinental railroad meeting near Promontory, Utah and how it had ushered in a whole new era of commerce and communication. So I wrote the following little thing and posted it. I was mildly chided because it . . . RHYMED. Oh my! I had broken a rule. I don’t know if it worked well enough to justify the crime. You judge.

Distant shining trace –
a golden spike through the clouds.
Railway into space.

-- Sam

Usually some phrases or words just start coming to me, then I go over and over it searching for what is in the blank spots and finding a better word here or snipping something unnecessary from somewhere else. Once the entire meter changed after a day of playing. It always feels like I'm discovering something which is already there rather than inventing something which does not yet exist.

I learned otherwise, and I hope my poetry reflects that. I may still be quite vague, but I'm not vague on purpose anymore.

I don't usually write fixed form poetry, but here is a sonnet about (sort of) a very bad relationship I had. I wrote it for a creative writing class I took a year ago 9which is the only reason I think I would write in fixed form). I did not like it much then, and still do not like it much now. Give me your honest opinions. (surprise, it's Dark )

INFECTION

A boy is wakened from his slumbering rest,
and lured beyond the confines of his walls
to meet a cunning mind with supple breasts
whose wicked plot it is to make him fall
in love. But he does not know love from lust;
his brain sees only perfect form, but her
perfection shrouds disease, which, like rust
decays the mettle of the boy. She butchers
his fledgling pride and laughs her caustic laugh.
She adds the broken boy to her batch
of cloistered shells with whom she vents her wrath
upon, releasing only to later catch.
The callused, clammy hands close around her,
to grope and bruise the flesh of a frightened daughter.

(The last two lines are supposed to be indented, but I could not get it to post that way)

I've been scribbling absolute heaps lately. Heaps of rubbish mostly, but here's one that I was quite proud of.

One Soul

He created you from one soul – Holy Qur’an
A Mu’min (believer) is a mirror for another Mu’min – Hadith of Prophet
Muhammad (s.a.s)

Once a unit, created together,
Why did we fragment
Into a crowd of broken mirrors
Glittering at each other;
Sharp at the edges, roughened
Or dulled by contact with evil and pain,
And a rare few polished,
Made clearer by love.

I long to be made whole again
And reflect the face of Allah
Entire in its glory.
But until the Last Day
I must be content to see my fragmentary
Reflection reflected in your fragment.

Now here is one for you pick apart. I also wrote this one for the same creative class as my last one. It is not fixed form, but it did have to be in iambic pentameter (which I can't stand when used throughout an entire poem). This is my least favorite of the poems I have written that could be considered passable. It is about integrity, Let me know what you think

PORCELAIN HANDS

A clever mind with dexterous fingers
can build a thousand wonders with sweat and steel;
massive girders that stretch their shining tendrils
upward, balancing clouds on fulcrum tips
like Atlas holding the sky aloft.

But Janus lurks within the engineer,
exchanging nimble digits for hooks and claws;
gnarled, ugly things that rend and tear the flesh.
Fragile limbs, cracked by twisted minds, attempt
creation like a cripple striving to walk again.

But shattered hands can never build;
once destroyed, they become a barren plot.
A simple gesture now draws blood;
to wipe a tear is to scar the face.
These jagged hands, they only kill.

[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 26, 2000).]

The Stars Shone bright,
With purity and prudence covering patient lips
Of people moving softly against silent halls of salient comfort.
They enter shimmered rooms that shone green shining trees,
A promise of glory making greatness the goal proscribed.
Houses are built for masses who start mirroring a master's heart
Among frames facing upright.
We must do and see, like Son for Father.
We will do and see, like Brother for Son.
We have seen and done, in turn back to Father.
The dreaded darkness vanished
And the ground does grow as against great skies
Forming brown seed against blue for a better day.
The bright sun emerges, stopped sudden by the moon.
Flapping wings arise with other wierd creatures new,
And thier kind and God's kind were kept together.
With rest reastablished the sacred.
A garden was given for two groveling folks
Who were tricked by the half truth of a trouble maker
Sent forth toward the field to fulfill a promise.
How great is our fortune
What delight now I see.
Not before, but now shall we be
Like a seed makes us He.

This is only the first part of a three part poem I am trying to write. Most people who read this will know what this is about. For others it might hold deeper meanings and for this reason I have to ask if the poem works. If it is badly written or seems to go too far in a certain direction I don't want to waste my time (because it took a long time to complete) trying to write the other three parts.

I corrected some of the punctuation.

Here's mine, redrafted.

One soul

He created you from one soul - Holy Qur'an
A mu'min (believer) is a mirror for another mu'min - Prophet Muhammad.

Once a unit, created together.
Why did we fragment
Into a crowd of broken mirrors
Glittering at each other?
Sharp at the edges, some roughened
Or dulled by constant scraping
Against the mud and stone
Of our own inhumanity;
But a rare few polished,
Made clearer by love.

I long to be made whole again
And reflect the face of Allah
Entire in its glory.
But until the Last Day
I must be content to see
My fragmentary reflection
Reflected in your fragment.

she hung it up on her wall.
she printed it herself
in the dark
focused on light and chemicals
the negatives danicing
searching for clarity
among lenses and filters.

she filtered reality
through the gray sheen of a 3x5 glossy
mesmerised by her past
by a moment
by an elusive smile on the face of a stranger.

one second that won't die
makes her afraid sad and sometimes
sends her into a religious ecstasy
and she makes ferverent promsises
obsequious and pathetic
she worshipped immortality
in a look that was immobile.

when she was sad the picture grinned
showing hunter teeth
displaying status
grinding into dust
her delicate webs of love.

and other times the picture smiled
it was redemtion
it was the love of a stranger
on a 3x5 glossy.

it was a photograph that she hadn't taken
on a negative she found on the sidewalk
and someone's camera
having captured the smile of a pedestrian
changes shutter speeds elsewhere.

she developed it herself
and now it hangs on her wall
and she looks at it
trying to understand
whether the woman paintedin chemicals
knows her
loves her
and wants her to live reflected
in her glossy eyes
in her glossy heart
in her glossy dreams

--

what do you guys think?

there should really be a separate forum for poetry.

Jettboy, it is good, though their could be some more puncuation. Run on lines without consistent puncuation can lead to much confusion, and take away from the poem itself. I loved the use of alliteration. there were a couple of lines I had a bit of trouble with:

"Bright sun emerging, stopped sudden by moon" and "Who were tricked by half truth of a trouble maker." you really need the word "the" before bright sun, moon, and half truth. You use complete sentences throughout the poem (even if the puctuation isn't consistent), the use of the fragments in those two lines break up the continuity of the poem. Other than the lack of the puncuation & a few missing prepositions, the poem is great, I look forward to reading the next installments.

unperfect: I really liked your word usage. The poem was vivid and profound, but please punctuate. It is very hard to tell where one thought ends and the other begins, it is really distracting, as a reader, to have to go back and re-read part way through the poem because of lack of commas and periods.

I wrote this one a couple of months ago, it is the most recent of my works.

Surrogate

code:

---

                        In
                    Men's Sight
  
All That hear me
   Fear not for Thy life
       Rather
       Listen To The quiet places
       And caution yourself
       Against the darkness
       That obscures The whispered protest
       They bring
Men all learn
                     one day or another
               the perilous Thinness
         of The Illusions
                  That preserve them
     from destruction
                  Those who stray too far
        from The lines of reason
                     And remain deaf
  
               Cannot withstand the morning light
                         Which dispels the shadow

---

The Moon makes them all
Come a little closer along the climbing latter
With a name in their hearts another never hears.
Those having washed hands shall wear white robes
Signaling the gratitude of glorious people grasped firm
In the love of the laborer who leads the thrones.
Those believing bow to the promise.
Innumerable Kings and Queens unite strong as a tree.
With Holy Heaven approaching,
The annointed are two of the heart, the humbled knee and hungered soul;
Having the past and present bound together to promise the future.
In circles do the commited try to conduct peacefully
As they pray for those persons who see problems of life
Ever growing carefully gaurded by a garden of thorns.
All holy houses stand forward.

This thread is number 18. Are our first 200 threads back, then?

Wow, that Survivor poetry is good! I think I may have another one somewhere to post.

code:

---

                                                 Creations
 
        I Sit here, by The soft hum and click of Idling
                                                                                           machines
 
        And Am startled by The light and far muffled Laughter
that Their smug semi-activity seems to emanate .
 
        And I must wonder, what do they show of their maker's
                                                                                                   soul .
 
        Each hum, every soft click, a Long suspended action
performed vicariously
                              To the artist by His artifact .
 
        And if They go awry
                        does Their artist not
                                                        feel that pain ?

---

by Survivor, of course.

Those Trains

Those trains slam into the sound of living here
Way too much; I can't even play guitar,
Without being forced to harmonize
With some godawful minor chord
Not quite in key, which drops about
A whole tone at the crescendo and fades away.

Lucky to go a whole song between two trains
With maybe a tortured diminished fifth next time...
And they crash my dreams as trombone tones in hell
And they clash with the Cure and Chrissy and Run DMC,
Adam Duritz' sweet pain, das Punkins, and TMBG...

But my beautiful Beck makes 'em sound so sweet
Like he knew they were coming and planned it that way,
And always above and behind the beat
Singing way too loud, coming in, sliding down
And finally, painfully, fading away...
Those trains just egg him on out there
Into weirder and groovier places inside the soul of listening to him.

Recluse

Let me write you long love letters
That I can spend hours composing
So rattling mouth and frivolous brain
Won't be allowed to betray me again.

This deep slow swell of serious joy
Quietly shining here alone
In your presence that shallow fear
Wraps blather around and bundles off
Before it can get any signal through
To let you know it's here.

*points at the the "original poetry continued" thread*

Hey, Lissande! Look on page one to find where I heard that Arthur / Eliot reference. Hahahahah!

Rest your head and fall alseep,
He is there your soul to keep.

When morning comes open your eyes,
He is there waiting to rise.

He always knows just what to do,
When his wife is feeling blue.

Watch her sleep all through the night,
Makes her feel like dynomite.

(laughs) can't wait to be married some day!!

SOME DAY

I suggest you should redo the last couplet, though. Rather than "any woman" I think the poem would be better if your words seemed to be about a particular women (even if non-specific).

Well, I just noticed that it's in second person all through until the last couplet. Why not just stay in the second person? Make the penultimate line "Watch you sleep all through the night"?

And then rewrite the last line.

To My Senses

Three months ago I thought
I could cut metal with my fingertips.
Said those exact words.
Not by bread alone I said.

But some kinds of bread are so tasty.
A long French baguette, I think I could eat a whole one
eat yards and yards.
And black pumpernickle rye with pastrami in the middle
(probably meat counts as bread in the proverbial realm)
and my dad makes such a loaf with that mix of his.

I could go on for a while and now I wish
I had more room in my belly for bread.

But somehow they feel evangelical, I think. Not only do they not like poetry but they think we shouldn't like it either. So they're kindly giving us the benefit of their viewpoint, I gather. Which we, of course, gratefully receive.

Sand-walker
How do you fly?
Across the shaking dunes
Across the swirling sky

Sand-walker
Where do you belong?
Come back to the rock
Where once you lived so long

You wander alone
As we lie on our stone
Safe here in our homes

O, why did you go?
O, what do you know?
O, why don’t you sink like the others below?

Skipping o’er the land
A master of the sand
You are at peace.

You really see
Truly free
Not like me
O, can I be
A sand-walker?

Meantime . . .

Tres, I like "Sand-walker."

Dean, I really like your haiku. Nice image. As for the phrase “fragrant later”: What aka said! She took the words right out of my keyboard.

BUT . . . you said that you are not poetically endowed. Endowed schmowed! It’s a craft that can be learned. Good haiku is not easy to write, or so I’ve read. This one either just flowed out of you spontaneously in it’s oh-so-smooth form or you took a lot of effort to make it look like it had. Either way -- nice work. Keep writing stuff.

Destineer, I like “My Senses.” I don’t completely understand it yet but each time I read it I get a little more. And it is very rereadable. I like the rhythm too.

Aka, what can I say? Of all the really good poets in Hatrack, you are certainly one of them. Thanks for posting “Those Trains” and “Recluse.” Are a couple of “wow”s in order here or what? However, I feel that I must critique one little thing you wrote. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can but two little words must be said in response to your statement: ”(Not original aka poetry, btw. Robert Frost. aka only wishes she could write something that good.)”

YOU HAVE.

The poem I’m about to post came close to being the first thing I was going to post on the Forum way back when. Then I chickened out and went for flippant instead. I’ve chickened out several times since then because I’m still not sure how I feel about this poem. But I’ll take a chance.

I wrote it and my sister-in-law composed music for it with the intention of entering it into a hymn contest which we did indeed enter. But alas, we didn't win. I have changed some of the words and polished it up some since then. This form doesn’t exactly fit the music anymore either. I have always felt that it isn’t worthy of her music. The music she composed for it is very good -- every bit as good as the music in many of the hymns that we use in my church. Maybe the judges weren't ready for a hymn which is, in part, about fractal geometry. Of course there is the remote possibility that they had a lot of better hymns to choose from that year. At any rate, here it is. <drum roll>

THE TOUCH OF THE HAND OF GOD

In keys of all nature, perfectly tuned,
Lilt worlds full of lyrical sights.
With scent, sound, and touch in harmonic blend
On rhythms of savory delights.
In flawless arraignment His masterworks roll --
Sonatas of God to enliven the soul.
Performed in one endless glorious round
By the touch of the hand of God.

A galaxy's ponderous pirouette
Is mirrored in eddies of foam.
The dance in which all God's creations are set
Are marvels of balance and form.
The beauty in all of His uneclipsed art
Both pleases the eye and gladdens the heart.
Choreographed in all the light steps of hope
By the touch of the hand of God.

If the thrill of discovery here heightens a sense
Of wonder that nearly overwhelms,
What might we see, from small to immense,
Amid God's celestial realms?
For eyes have not seen, nor have ears ever heard,
Nor have mortals imagined the great things prepared -
Serenity here; full happiness hence -
By the touch of the hand of God.

Samuel M Bush
Jan. 1993