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Poetrial

 
  

Page: 123(4)

 
 
Princess
19:37 / 19.11.07
I liked this poem.
I think you need to work on the punctuation though. There are places where I had to puzzle over a line to get the sense, punctuation would help.

I was unclear about what the "smooth hands" are. Her hands? God's Hands? My Hands? What hands are we on about?

The eyelids/flytrap thing is lovely. The first line is compelling and the last line is effective. I'd like to see this poem in context of #1 and #3. As it is I feel like I've been given half a picture. Lovely imagery, but without context I'm not sure what to do with it.
 
 
deja_vroom
10:38 / 21.11.07
Hi Princess, thanks for the comments.

>>I was unclear about what the "smooth hands" are. Her hands? God's Hands? My Hands? What hands are we on about?<<

I think that in the context of the poem - even though it's not stated explicitly - "God's hands" would be closer to the mark, yes. The term "extrusion" comes to mind, for me, when I think about this part: the shaping of something as it is squeezed out of an outlet, someone being shaped into being through the process of mere living.

As it is now, there's just firecracker #3 - it's a bit of a joke that there's no part 1 and 2...


-----

Now this one I did after reading some about certain episodes on the life of E. Pound:


Shadowboxing

Outside my window where movement is

a currency of warmth, is:

bright commerce 24/7,

There I see (or I am told)
Of two men without dislike or suspicion,
5:30am the water spring at Hachiman*
and small mist is frost upon their breath as they talk.

one:
white in nautical vests,
transfixed 10 seconds, stuck in the snow;

the other:
will be caged, mad as the sun in years to come,
feast for the tyrannical brain in him
that blaring eye.

and yet another:
The black catalyst like a slow moving blot
sparks dark in the scene and pushes it forward:
there's now white in the mind
where one almost could write
a little song or a poem.

All effort spent,
the three of them gone,
I'm left to think of yesterday the long day.

I... hope their conversation endures
weather, iron, old age.
Filled with maddening trivia, and not too important:
A scream of minutia but silly, but small.

(I made to today,
from this day to the other,
by making small
unmeasurable wishes.

by winning bets on
unimportant matters).

----------------------------------

*- A water spring at 5:30
can be sharp in the way the
scene is severed the
way it's knit together, and glued.
 
 
astrojax69
02:37 / 01.12.07
i can't say i know very much about ezra pound, so i don't feel able to comment (though the correct spelling if a mispelling wasn't intended is 'minutiae') some nice allusions though, like making days as if a series of small wishes, small bets with yourself. nice.


sorry i can't be more constructive, perhaps others will eventually venture here and assist us - me with the following, which was written a couiple years ago now for a series i attempted on various exegeses - this probably was one of the two or three that worked, more or less...:





exegesis on love


there, just behind the guttering light
and moth’s flight, across the space separating
truth from derision, a note tolls…

its refulgence gleaming in the call of blood…

the timid sound quivers with its own resonance
calibrating itself to swing the mood of the intention
to the art of fulfilment with the quiet
of gin and jazz and a black and white ambience…

its timbre reaches into the cosmos and plucks
comets tails and galactic dust and sparkles
tinkling into silver flutes, evocative…

now your nostrils dilate and fibrillate
and your smile ignites! lips delight and tongue
shimmies with the freshness of guava in a mess of lime;
the universe flashes across my brain:


it is morning. lights fill the voids like fog growing brighter
in the twinkle of your inner eye’s electric pulses;
as you lie in the wake of a tragic past, basking
in that something called soul.

… like some unusual comportment that catches you unaware
as a step not there as you reach the bottom distracted
perhaps by that cool play of breeze you love to feel on your tongue
your back and calves, the skin tingling of ocean or everest
both descending and ascending stretching taut, a-quiver, alive
so excruciatingly alive. so alive


that all day, each moment, the slide of galaxies into their trajectories
takes your being and purifies it, distilled inside a sapphire –
you can look out, peering from your planet at creation, across time
all the dark matter neatly ignored to maintain equilibrium, and
see me –


fabrications of existence re-write themselves in the intricacies
of capillaries and neural pulses i constitute, becoming
although one soon adjusts and life goes on.

that feeling still gives me goose-bumps.


jacket hanging on a nail, furrows in a cushion
the musky smell of tea rising from the carpet in the dust
that settles, soon, on the gilded-paced eddies and tides
of artefacts and diaries, vegetable flowering history
that, as you try to feel, remember is attached
…perhaps.

or is it only me? are the rhythms twisting inside this pond
ripples extending to the shore of a land where dragons be?
untrodden, surreal, a kiss that lights up wilderness
like rainfall’s bounty is only sunken treasure in my own wan sea.
yet what possible fire than your existence could inflame me
could fuel this throbbing ritual through the drudgery
of daily getting on with normal life? it feels so real.




----------------------------------------------------
what does anyone make of this? any and all comments welcome...
 
 
Dutch
22:03 / 06.12.07
Thank you for your constructive criticism Astrojax. The poem for me was an expression of growing up under the shadowthreat of nuclear warfare. I‘ve always remembered the frightful narrations of what the atomic bombs did to the people of Okinawa and Nagasaki, and have always believed (from the tender age of 12/13) that my generation would be the last and that it all would end in a predictably gruesome apocalypse. This poem was an attempt to capture both the imagery of the horrible events of Nagasaki and Okinawa, and link them to the belief in the inescapability of humanity’s own destruction. Granted, the latter part is only implied very fleetingly and personal, with “I am become…oppenheimer’s shadow” and could be extended to include a more generalized or collective dread resulting in weak nihilism and defeatism. Maybe it should be extended, or be the basis for a different poem. As the one I’ve written here is more focussed on the impression one might get of the atomic bombs’ effects. You are correct in your judgement concerning “how the various images 'literally' hang together, what is their connection with one another.” - as my choice of words is not always the best, and perhaps too vague. Thanks for the heads up.

Now I’ll do my best to try and criticize you writing, but bear in mind that I hardly deem myself knowledgeable enough about such things.

I didn’t know what refulgence meant so I looked it up and apparently it’s radiant (-ly shining), brilliant, or “gleaming”. Now although I think the sentence sounds really evocative, and paints a striking picture, the words seem to say the same thing: like “gleaming gleaming”. Sorry if this seems a petty critique. For some reason, the first 11 sentences build up to an image that seems to me reminiscent of Pythagoras’ Harmony of the spheres, was that something that you intended to do – to connect the smallest with the greatest in one big theatre of cosmic musical harmony? From one note to the swing of jazz, to the immensity of the cosmos, changing of scales? It seems that throughout this poem the small and the long lasting or infinite are connected, except for the second part of the poem which seems to recede into bodily dimensions, and doubt that seems to indicate a flight of fancy, something fleeting and not at all as great as the picture once painted would make it seem. Was this an intentional critique on love’s character – beautiful and seemingly infinite but not long lasting? The part that begins with “or is it only me?”, turns the tone of the poem very blue – and it ends on a real down note.
 
 
astrojax69
05:45 / 07.12.07
wow, dutch, that's a great summary of the piece. the span from the infinitesimal to the infinite is certainly the sense i weanted to capture, and all that sensation that makes it up along the way. the 'down' note of the end is indeed the attempt to capture the realisation that, after all the flutters and gleaming bliss of the first throes of love, it is all centred in a fleeting body and is, itself, in many instances, something itself fleeting, unreal, intangible - and we move on. but.... sometimes... this time?? i wanted the sense at the end to be not so much down as 'teased', tantalised - which is what love does.

thanks so much for your reading and insights! (both to mine but moreso your own piece. you've got some ability and i wish you well in your endeavours to uleash it!)
 
 
deja_vroom
11:29 / 10.12.07
Hi, astrojax.

There's much to be commended for striking metaphors ("the throbbing ritual" is salacious but not vulgar, I liked it), musicality ("the quiet of gin and jazz and a black and white ambience") and clever use of verbs ("smiles igniting") in your poem.

However, I think you need to say it with less. The feeling I got was that one had to wade through long passages that were too much similar in construction to prose to get to certain gems. It's like it's poetic in places, and then prosaic, prosaic, prosaic. That is killing the poem, making it drudge. You're saying it with too much, laying the scenes and images in a system that's not that much different from a prose passage - you're only breaking lines for convention's sake.

Wanna make a test? Try to memorize the poem. Good poems are easy to memorize (right now I cannot think of one single exception to that rule) - their own inventiveness and airy-like quality contribute to that. I tried to memorize some stanzas of yours, and it just wasn't happening.

Another thing: Throughout your poem you never stick to a certain rhythmic pattern, and I think your poem suffers the more for that. This poem is huge, made out of compact blocks of text - with rhythm it would feel purposeful, righteous, unstoppable. Without it, it feels meandering, just "taking too long". I'm not saying that you should pick a meter and go marching all the way with it, but there's a reason rhythm should be prized, since it's the easiest way to ensnare someone's attention. Once you get the reader nodding along to a tempo, or feeling it inside his body - the more inconspicuously the better -, it will be a battle half-won already.

As a killer example of valiantly variant rhythm, check this out (by old E Pound):

Child of the grass
------------------

Child of the grass
The years pass Above us
Shadows of air All these shall Love us
Winds for our fellows
The browns and the yellows
Of autumn our colors
Now at our life's morn. Be we well sworn
Ne'er to grow older
Our spirits be bolder At meeting
Than e'er before All the old lore
Of the forests & woodways
Shall aid us: Keep we the bond & seal
Ne'er shall we feel
Aught of sorrow

Let light flow about thee
As a cloak of air

This is not rigid, right? But read it aloud and you'll know what I mean. I think you missed some chances to make your poem organically more alive, for instance the stanza

"its timbre reaches into the cosmos and plucks
comets tails and galactic dust and sparkles
tinkling into silver flutes, evocative…"

With some tweaking it could go chugging along real easy - the fall from COSmos to PLUCK, then a little afterwards gaLACtic DUST, you see what I mean? The ending, "evocative", is a double wammy in the sense that not only it tells us that something is evocative (when we should get that by ourselves), but that it also kills the rhythm that was sort of peering through the stanza.

"Excruciatingly alive" tells me nothing. It's one of those adverbs that help no more. The idea, the feeling, is of course right, I don't doubt the motivation behind it, but "excruciatingly" is one of "those" words to use sparingly, if at all.

There's some misses re: spelling, too, check them out.

The most important point, though, is the one I think bears repeating: Cut down on the prose passages - there's a leap from that sort of construction to the more airy space where poems are indeed poems, and that leap is near impossible to verbalize. It has to do with taking unexpected shortcuts, with having an eye for all the possibilities that words and sentences give you in terms of syntactical manipulation.

Let me know what you make of my comments.
 
 
astrojax69
04:14 / 12.12.07
hey deja, i make quite a lot of your critique and comments!!

thanks so much, a very thoughtful and useful commentary that i'll take away and use.

might be a while (am a bit embedded in a novel at the moment and this piece was from a series of poems i started on a couple years back) but i really want to reinvigorate my poetry and hoped some useful comments might help if i posted in this thread - i dared not hope for nearly so much you and dutch have given! many many thanks!!
 
 
Closed for Business Time
22:43 / 16.12.07
As most of the stuff I've written it doesn't make much sense as narrative - I tend to write looking for what sounds nice (alliteration?), and not think too much about meaning. Which of course is not meant to put you off critiquing it on that basis.

¨~¨~¨~¨

Nattery

The city has me

squared
quartered
drawn

across its sooty ledges
'round its swollen banks,
scratching my sleepy zeppeliner belly
with pigeons' wings,

and in its broken chandelier dusk I can forge myself a shape,
entrez-pass into molasses byways
now a sweet garbage robber fox,
a baron of forgotten delights and
squirrels' old leafy plights..

I am, then,
to the clean and cut-to-size - are they humants all or nouns none?
- an uncomely chameleon of planes and conjectures,
a fractured fluffy plinth -
a shivering base line, a thud and screeching to a halt of pixels.


For I am not alone or silent anymore,
in the city,
in this army of I's here now'ed:
I hover and defecate,
I laugh, bark and mangle the shit-stained spangles of City boys;
I weep into chimneys and salt the ovens below,
I choke you blue, gather your dying breaths outside the Eyennees, the burger stench is mine on a Sunday bright morning, and Turks' retch on Murder Mile.

And then I smile,
for it is fine.
 
 
Dutch
02:05 / 06.01.08
which one is better?

where a drunk cries out for his lost love
and a nihilist finds solace in nothing,
there tonight something is born
between the guiltridden and the doubt-torn
the dying fire of a lonely dream
finds a path to smolder in

---

old version

where a drunk cries out for his lost love
and a nihilist finds solace in nothing
there tonight something is born
between the guiltridden and the doubt-torn
the dying fire of a lonely dream
finds a path to smolder in

finds a way to hold her in
and keep her within
the confines of a lost love
forever to be bound
...

I wrote this years ago for a girlfriend of mine, for whom I secretly harbored feelings of love...
 
  

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