yay! i love this thread! of course i find it three years later...;0) i've only written three poems ever, but i love poetry, and this is the only one i ever really liked.(that i've written) I wrote it after reading e.e.cummings "Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town" , quite possibly my favorite poem ever.
somebody read a poem all bent (with nary a clue as to what it all meant) saturday, sunday, monday, today somebody searched and strove for a way
to understand just what mr. cummings was stating when he said “up so floating” -- the question was grating. she searched and she worked and she toiled all the eve, till her sanity was ready to pack up and leave.
but suddenly (and in a flash of great joy) she saw what he meant, about the girl and the boy how they grew and they loved in their own special way from year to year, from day to day.
and quick as a flash she had tears in her eyes for the plight of the anyone was her in disguise. for she sang her didn’t and she danced her did, and longed for a noone, this somebody did.
and the story gave hope to a withering heart, with cheer in the message the tale did impart. and somebody, so glad of what to her it all meant, wrote words of a girl who read a poem all bent.
(edited for ambiguity)
[This message has been edited by Leonide (edited September 28, 2002).]
In a dingy, common attic we huddle together, one soul with thirteen bodies (or maybe twelve), all One, but with one who was before us, who sits before us. He is a stranger to me, this man who says he is in me, and I in him--his words come from my mouth (for we are one) and reach my ears but do not touch my heart.
“Eat,” he says, and I eat, rending the plain bread to manageable portions, chewing three times, then swallowing the unwieldy mass. It has no taste and sits heavy in my stomach.
“Drink,” he says, and I drink, letting the sanguine wine anoint my lips, feeling it burn my throat like bloody flame. The more I take, the more I thirst. “This is my body, this is my blood,” he says. But his body is my body and his blood is my blood for we are One. And as I eat his body and drink his blood he is in me, and we are one. And as he gives his body and sheds his blood, I am in him, and we are one.
But what will happen when I am no longer in him, when he has discarded blood and body and all my bread and wine avail me naught? And what will happen when he is no longer in me, when I have purged him from my body and blood and all my prayers and tears can’t bring him back?
And what will happen when I have consumed myself entirely, when I have eaten and drunk damnation to my soul, when I twist for a shred of thought or drop of pain and there is nothing?
Then I will have a holiday repast and swallow their stale bread and staler theology, and subsist on their sour wine and sourer hope. If they have kept his saying, they would shun mine also.
In a dingy, common Attic these things I have spoken unto you being not present with you. Eat your meals, you who have believed through my word, and pray you may not be one as I am.
Arise, let us go hence.
[This message has been edited by Dante (edited September 30, 2002).]
Excellent work, Dante! I'm a bit iffy on the bread stanza, but the rest of it is lovely. This is mine, on the same topic:
Mr. Fix-it (You've seen him on TV)
Hey there mr. fix-it man, i wanna, no, i gotta know if you can fix-it all up spic'n'span, find it in your master plan and
Hey there Bobby sleeping in the subway joking with the junkies looking for his own way home to the place where the marigolds grow and Susan and her children seem to know that God's in the Easter basket, God's in the air, God's in the resurrection, God's in your hair so
Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it? If not mr. fix-it, no-one can. Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it? We got no-one else but the fix-it man.
See em on the streetcorners slipping out of straitjackets working for a dime and handing out pamphlets now they believe and they know that it's so and telling you is saving you if only you'd go but God's in the street mime, God's in the prayer, God's in the caterpillar, God's everywhere so
What if mr. fix-it heard? What if mr. fix-it learned? What if mr. fix-it cried? What if mr. fix-it died?
Hey there preacher stitching up his sermon picking out a parable to make his point that he understands that He knows what he sows but he doesn't care 'cause He knows that you know that God's in the Sunday mass, God's in the teacher, God's in collection plates, God's in the preacher
We've all seen dear mr. fix-it; we've believed in mr. fix-it; we all need our mr. fix-it; (where in hell is mr. fix-it?)
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited October 01, 2002).]
My last two are, I think pretty obviously, the first and third sections of a longer poem. I haven't included the second because I thought it was the weakest in the poem. There are two final sections that I may post later.
Tom, I think some of the imagery in my last one is a bit heavy, but I figured that the images I was using were a bit trite and overused by their very (dual?) nature, so I didn't worry about it too much. As for your latest entry...I like it a lot. The choice of form and style is perfect, and your commitment to it is constant. The rhythm is absolutely delightful, and the mixture of a light sound and heavy meaning works very well.
Lord, in the shelter of thy name (a secret since the world began) we meet to praise thy son who came to dwell among us as a man. The darkness drowns the sun’s last ray-- Lord, let us see the break of day.
Too soon our Master leaves forever, his the glory, ours the loss. Deserted, we must learn together to bear the lash and mount the cross. Our mortal god must soon away-- Lord, let us see the break of day.
Another Comforter will come and teach us what we are to speak-- but now our faltering tongues are dumb, flesh unwilling, spirits weak. The world drowns out the words to say-- Lord, let us see the break of day.
Lamp, torch and hearth are shadows of the way our hearts have in us burned, yet, though the inward flame of love thy son has taught, we have not learned. The night obscures thy holy way-- Lord, let us see the break of day.
Now tears are shed for mortal grief as blood is shed for human sport-- the rising sun our sole relief, a day, a life, too soon cut short. Grant us the light! Do not delay! Lord, let us see the break of day.
Cradled in amongst the hair, Smells, and sounds of you, Undiscovered world view, So I lay me there. Survival is not our care, Death has lost its hue, Pleasures take we not a few, Gems no longer rare. Yet worthy still To grace us more Than life adored Through lonely will. Home of dancing melody: You're what's moving me.
(Okay, it's done, now. This is the last section. I promise...and congratulations to anyone who made it all the way through. I and my exceedingly Johanine imagery thank you.)
V. The Epyllion of the Revelator and the Beloved
I was in the beginning, and I was with God, but I was not God. I was in the beginning, and I was with the Light in the beginning, but I was not the Light.
I have borne witness of the Light.
How many times each dusty day and sleepless night among the smell of tar, and brine and fish I have borne witness! But not of me, no, never of me, for I am not that Light.
I cannot complain. I have received my wish. I last forever.
I am a holy Tithonus--preacher and vagabond, never a hero, sometimes a fool, often a nuisance. I am a good thing come out of Nazareth, led by the will not of the flesh, but sometimes not of God, usually in between. I am not free from fear, though I do not fear death.
I am a seer with his eyes wide closed, a prophet cursed to believe his own self-fulfilling prophecies, swooning in a trance of holy ecstasy, then asking for a modest fee. Food isn’t cheap, though love is free.
Black clouds gather to the east, blown by the awful wind of rushing wings, speaking of a storm yet to come, a storm I have seen over and over until it becomes almost a litany, until I would fix my eyes shut with nails to escape the sight, but I know that I would see more with my eyes closed. Nothing remains hidden long.
Oh, I will not bore you with details, nor terrify you with kingdoms to which you may belong. I could, you know, for I have seen it all: heads, whores, beasts, angels, tails, backs, plagues and horsemen. It would mean nothing to you.
I have told you only what I know, and what is true. The Light has not always been the same thing, but I have always borne witness of it. My light has perished, but the Light is everlasting. Increase, decrease...increase, decrease...
What I have written, I have written. I must have rest.
Spero enim me futurum apud vos et os ad os loqui, ut gaudium meum. . .sit.
I thought your second one was quite cool, Scott. It had a strong sound and message. Keep on experimenting.
Here's my latest:
Look Away, Lady
Listen listen The bus drove by and the squeal of its brakes matched the squeal in my mind. It wouldn’t have screeched that way if not for you but don’t give it another thought. The treasure shop has what you want. Nothing here but monstrous me.
[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited November 19, 2002).]
I just found out that my father's mother probably won't live through the weekend. I never knew her very well, and haven't seen her in years (she has alzeihmers and doesn't remember her own children). It seems very sad to me that the only really vivid memory I have of her is the cinnamon apples she used to make. Anyway, here's a brand new one, it is still very rough (wrote it tonight), and, as always, your criticism is more than welcome.
Brittle bones in sheets and skin …and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Autumn days on porch swings waiting for games of dominoes to begin …and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Needlework of tiny flowers on greeting cards, sewn expertly with a worn metal thimble, unworried by trembling limbs …and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Holiday feasts spent sitting across from her smiling face. As plates are passed around the table, no one thinks to ask if she is content to sit and listen. …and all I can taste are cinnamon apples.
Church pews creak, the service ends …and all I will remember are cinnamon apples.
Sarfa, I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother.
I really like the poem. I tend to like poems that repeat a single line.
This is my favorite part:
quote:As plates are passed around the table, no one thinks to ask if she is content to sit and listen.
Here's one I wrote about six weeks ago, after, well, a walk along the bayou. I also wrote it in sonnet form, but I think that this one, while very rough, is truer to my feelings at the time:
I see the coming storm before we set out (the sky so white above us, yet darkened grey to the south) but I take your former role and remain silent.
You glide ahead of me on wheeled feet, leaving me staring at your back. Yes, that's how it is. You circle, waiting for me to catch up, but I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around, you will leave me staring into a grey sky.
You point out the flowers in the grass beside us, entranced by splashes of yellow, purple, blue in this grey world, but my eyes just move to the white paper that litters the walkway, the green-brown sludge on the cement by the water. You skate on ahead. I watch you, wanting to shout out everything that's been on my mind, but I remain silent.
There are fish in the water. They fight against the current, struggle just to stay in one place. Some don't swim hard enough, fall back and drift silently in time with me. I can't spare any pity for them, too busy thinking of myself.
We head home, crossing paths with the man who lives under the bridge with the "No Camping" sign. "I hate crossing roads," you sigh as the rain begins to fall. I nod, and still remain silent.
[This message has been edited by Ophelia (edited November 23, 2002).]
thanks Ophelia (and, unfortunately, the docotor's were right, my grandmother passed away yesterday).
I really like your poem Ophelia. it's got some really good imagery, and I love the way the imagery hints at what is going on between the speaker and the other skater. without you having to explicictly come out and say it (especially in the 3rd stanza). Excellent poem.
I like the way it contrasts the monstrosity of the scene with the 'lady's' apathy.
The last line is well executed.
Sarfa- I can relate. My mom's mother died while I was in Italy. . . we didn't know eachother very well.
For the poem-- why is the second stanza only 4 lines long? The two after it have six lines. . . and the first and last stanza are composed of three lines each. Was there a conscious decision to make the 2nd stanza the odd man out?
Othewise, there is a palatable rhythm in your poem, despite the 'free-verse'ness construction. I rather enjoyed it.
The last stanza is the punch. . . nice.
Ophelia-- I really like the sense of conflict and loneliness you portray in 'Bayou.'
quote: . . .I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around, you will leave me staring into a grey sky.
quote: I can't spare any pity for them, too busy thinking of myself.
These lines make your narrator seem more selfish than I think was your intention. . . But maybe I'm interpreting wrong.
I got a good sense of longing and need. I found 'Bayou' to be haunting. . . I liked it, in other words.
This thread was one of the reasons I joined in the first place (nearly three years ago now). And then I didn't post here . I posted on the "Original Poetry Continued" thread. Which died. Silly me.
Scott--actually, I was feeling pretty selfish at that point (questioning my right to feel the way I felt and all that). But I'm not sure I want to keep the line. Thanks for pointing it out.
JD--if you want comments, you're going to have to post fewer poems at one time. There's just too much there for me to take in.
Scott, The number of lines in each stanza was conciously chosen. Originally I had a 2,4,6,8,2 structure, but I changed the 8 to a six for a couple of reasons:
1)The stanza read better as six lines
2)The line length of 6 just fit better with the mood, that is, originally, I wanted the reader to notice the lengthening of stanzas as the speaker remembers more and more about the grandmother, sort of mimicing the natural progression of thought processes (a sort of snowball effect of memories), but the second to the last stanza has an abrubt change in mood (and is a little less detail oreiented), and so the 6 line stanza is there to show the limit of the snowballing process (that is, the speaker could only remember so much), a petering out, if you will.
wow, that was a rather longwinded explanation, hopefully it made some kind of sense
(With a nod to katharina, I'm re-posting this. Comments are more than welcome. It's the first time ever I actually tried to rhyme in English , and I feel kind of weird about it. I also spent very little time, and I know it's not one of my strengths...)
When childhood dies, And our thrones grow thinner, When the armrests close in, And the floor meets our feet, - Stealth enters our eyes, As we sever our inner Smile from our faces, Preparing deceit.
When childhood dies, And our walk rises taller, When the ceiling drops near, And the sky marks our height, - Walls made of ice Crowd our faith ever smaller. The glittering pebble Withdraws from our sight.
When childhood dies, And the corpse is banished To a tomb that we carved From our innermost cell, - Alive the child lies, Forgotten, not vanished, Silently whispering To teach us the spell
Sal--I really like that, especially the first half of the first stanza. I love how the child doesn't get bigger, but instead everything else gets smaller. Beautiful. And your rhyme doesn't even sound stilted--something hard enough for native speakers to accomplish.
Here's a short piece I wrote exactly a year ago. I don't particularly care for the second stanza. But I like going through my writing and seeing exactly where I was one, two...I guess I have from up to six years ago now. Anyway (now that I've written more than is in my poem), here it is:
you left me waiting with your dead who rise and rise and rise refusing to remain buried refusing to remain hidden refusing to speak
and I can’t escape from their silence when they look me in the soul as though I am one of them