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Poetrial

 
  

Page: 12(3)4

 
 
ONLY NICE THINGS
22:32 / 24.08.02
Through the water, running water,
Came sweet Minnehaha's daughter,
Spouting revolutions
leide,
In trochaic tetrameter


If this is what is being aspired to, the above is doggerel.

Meanwhile, why does the lengthy structure of the opening lines relate to the terseness of the subsequent phrases? Why is there unnecessary punctuation between "freedom" and "you can give", unless the aim is to torture prose until it seeks refuge in poetic nomenclature to avoid further persecution? If there is a rhyme scheme, where is the rhyme for "saint"? "Malaise"? "Mistake"? And where does the idiomatic "and no mistake" sit with the Civics essay feel of the opening couplet? To express the stupidity and coarseness of anyone who disagrees with the central thesis?

Given the loose and inconsistent structure of the first stanza, the penultimate quartet's rigorous rhyme indicates little other than a sign saying "easy bit here", and the final couplet is a) an appropriation of precisely the idiom employed to show how stupid those who don't Get It are in a vacuous quasirhyme and b) possessing all the "this is how it is and this is how it works" certainty of Big Issue poetry.

The poet spins webs in which he hopes to capture girls....
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
23:10 / 24.08.02
Haus, your critique is probably better than the shit I espouse. I have to say I am from the “scratch your arse school of poetry”( your in a non specific, the royal “your” set) anyway here’s some more.


An understanding of London’s night bus scheme,
Is all that is needed to view the dark sick underbelly of the London scene.
You’ll wander lost in the city of dreams, never knowing what it all means
A sickness follows that cant be tamed’ your minds a sewer there is no drain,
Revulsion comes, is accepted as real.
Revulsion flows within your vein.
The streets they hold you, try to detain,
Your soul, your longing, you wont be the same.
I laugh at your torment
Stuck in this glue,
You’ll be fed to the pigs and eaten like slew.
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
23:26 / 24.08.02
Hold on, the punctuation between “freedom” and “you can give” is a response to the bourgeois obsession with spelling,
punctuation and grammar that exists on this board. I’m sure if I put no punctuation marks in I would be well lambasted.
 
 
ONLY NICE THINGS
23:44 / 24.08.02
And once more.

These marks are there for a reason. They are there to help people to understand writing. There is nothing bourgeois about that. If you want your work to be understood only by people who, as a result of their extensive and highly conventional education, are able to parse out the irregularities of your punctuation (or indded your refusal to use punctuation, go for it. Just don't claim that this is in any way democratic.
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
00:15 / 25.08.02
Bullshit, it is bourgeois.
But my claim was not that the use or anti use of punctuation was bourgeois or not. It was that I tried to conform to your bourgeoisie agenda by adding punctuation where it was not needed, due to confusion of the form, in a predominantly hostile medium.
Haus, I do think your criticism of the content is very good.
 
 
deja_vroom
14:53 / 28.08.02
MY SUN

I came from a wider Sun, more honest and simpler.
Pragmatic, it didn't stand on ceremony.
It spreaded upon us as some water,
As a woman stretching her backs.
It encompassed everything under the sky.
With each arm it saw
That every bird, every ballerina
Were evenly leveled.

It was always mid-day, and even at night
We felt the underground burning.
We did not use shadows. And days without blinking.
We were brothers to lizards; we almost ate leaves.
The sun followed us and licked our faces.
It shone specially in knive's blades.

Our Sun would meddle in the conversations,
It would emit opinions:
Anachronic, ridicule, travestied with a politeness
Strange for the current days.
Its constant murmur cradled the cats in the verandas.
Its clockwork pieces, probably made of gold.
 
 
Kase Taishuu
20:35 / 05.09.02
whatever happened to this thread? ^~

anyway, Jade:

keep the original title (I remember the sun), fits the poem much better. "it didn't stand on ceremony" sounds to me as having a bit of a defying tone not present in the portuguese version (and not making much sense in the overall context), but that could just be me. I also don't like the "strange for the current days" verse - the poem draws a sense of mythical, immemorial time and that reference to "current" days messes things up a bit (can't you just say his politeness was old-fashioned or antiquated and leave it there) Also, way too many periods keeping the rhythm from flowing adequately.

let me know what u think
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
00:14 / 08.09.02
Jade

Your poetry is good.

But just remember, poetry is the highest form of culture and is therefore the excrement of the ruling class. If your poetry can work on the streets, then it’s true. If not, then it is just the servile pinning for the upper class.

There are two options; write poetry for your masters or use it as a form of debasement, write for yourself and the situation of the people outside your window. Don’t give a fuck about the rules. They’re just a form of cultural elitism.
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
01:06 / 08.09.02
Pain

Pain
it hurts
I stub my toe on a door
I feel pain
I put my hand in boiling water i feel pain
Pain, it hurts
I'm walking down the street,
some guy takes a dislike to me
smacks me in the face,
I feel pain,
and humiliation,
another form of pain
Pain + pain
multiplied by pain
Eaquals 2 x pain......more pain
A psychological pain
Its all pain
pain
pain
 
 
The Apple-Picker
12:46 / 08.09.02
There are two options; write poetry for your masters or use it as a form of debasement, write for yourself and the situation of the people outside your window. Don’t give a fuck about the rules. They’re just a form of cultural elitism.

Panarchy, that's awefully presumptuous of you. The "rules" are there because they are effective. Many poets have broken them, though, and to great effect. It's pretty insulting that you seem to be assuming that if someone chooses to be guided by her predecessors, to use poetic tools willed to her, that she must writing to gain favor with some invisible masters, instead of the true goal of powerful communication.

I suppose it's a difference in taste, but I'd agree with what Dread Pirate Crunchy wrote:
if the argument is about lyrical politics, i would much rather listen to and think about the complex politics of 'apolitical' commercial pop than the semipolitical liberal posturings of self-consciously 'conscious' pop intellectuals - i.e. bootylicious is every bit as political as sarah jones, but since it doesn't try to resolve its contradictions into a polemic it leaves more room for thought. classic example of this is the abysmal 'we need a revolution' by dead prez, where they attempt to 'improve' aaliyah's 'we need a resolution' by dropping her (soft, feminine, emotive) lyrics and replacing them with their own (hard, masculine, political). the result is little more than whinging socialists with patently dubious sexual politics telling us we need revolution - a terrific insight, sure, but nothing on the way aaliyah's voice combined with timbaland's faltering beats on the original to evoke the tensions and doubts of a failing relationship (which has more application in my political projects than 'one solution, revolution' leninist crap). moreover, aaliyah says more to me about revolution than anyone who actually says 'revolution' ever has.
 
 
ONLY NICE THINGS
12:11 / 09.09.02
Pain

Pain
it hurts
I stub my toe on a door
I feel pain
I put my hand in boiling water i feel pain
Pain, it hurts
I'm walking down the street,
some guy takes a dislike to me
smacks me in the face,
I feel pain,
and humiliation,
another form of pain
Pain + pain
multiplied by pain
Eaquals 2 x pain......more pain
A psychological pain
Its all pain
pain
pain


Although I struggle to understand your poetics ("the excrement of the upper class"? "A form of debasement" - as that a good thing or a bad thing?), I assume that this is an evocation of it. If the only criterion of poetry is that it "works on the streets", then fair enough, but it does beg the question of why any of us are bothering to read or write it through a medium as bourgeois and decadent as the Interwebnet.

If we are to get any profit out of these poetics, then we have to ask what are the criteria for working on the street. Would the above, for example, work on the street? Because, as far as I can tell, it isn't actually a poem. It has no rhythm, no metre, no conceptual or linguistic play, no suspension of meaning - the one thing it does have is unity of thought, but since that thought is, essentially "pain is painful", I'm not sure what is achieved by it; what, beyond the line breaks, is "poetic" about it? I think that's a fairly basic question...
 
 
deja_vroom
12:39 / 09.09.02
But just remember, poetry is the highest form of culture and is therefore the excrement of the ruling class.

I don't see this connection. Furthermore, what this "excrement of the ruling class" thing means? What and who is the "ruling class"? Wht are their interests and how they relate to poetry?

If your poetry can work on the streets, then it’s true.

Previously we had Corgan saying that poetry is anything that is raw and pure and coming straight from your soul. That would be "true". Now there's another definition - if it works in the streets "it's true".
But these are highly inaccurate, subjective descriptions, and actually first we would have to establish what is "true". What does it mean, to be "true"? True in regarding to what and whom? I see the poetry I write as "true" because they couldn't be an inch different of what they are. But this doesn't mean too much: my definition of "true" would work only for me. I guess my mom would love it, and all my friends and wow I'm a poet, now *that* was easy! This "truth" tool wouldn't be helpful to evaluate the intrinsic value of what I have writen, my subjective impressons notwithstanding. And that's what certain rules are for.

Yeah yeah yeah follow your muse - but show some respect towards her, too.
 
 
deja_vroom
13:05 / 09.09.02
And while we're at it...

Pain
it hurts


Ah, I see now.

1) Stuff written from a highly personal, intimate point of view doesn't constitute poetic writing per se. If you're going to open your headspace to people, make sure yours is a place that people would like to visit.

I stub my toe on a door
I feel pain
I put my hand in boiling water i feel pain
Pain, it hurts
I'm walking down the street,
some guy takes a dislike to me
smacks me in the face,
I feel pain,


Here you list three things that hurt. But this is prose; you just gotta do something about the "Enter" key on your keyboard.

Then the thing spirals down into some stream-of-consciousness trip while banging incessantly the word "pain".

2) Stream-of-consciousness bad. Trust me on this one.

By the end of the poem we have this image of you as an extremely clumsy person who likes to put your hand in boiling water. Is this the message you want to get across?
On a metalinguistic level your poem works wonderfully, though. Ouch.
 
 
paw
13:27 / 09.09.02
theres more to style than honesty.
 
 
8===>Q: alyn
14:23 / 09.09.02
it does beg the question of why any of us are bothering to read or write it through a medium as bourgeois and decadent as the Interwebnet.

Because there's nothing happening on the anolog streets any more, Haus.

Whenever I read this thread I have the feeling I've stumbled onto a convoluted private joke, so I hope I'm not intruding with my small contribution:



Captree

I have held the door against the odes that march
upon the gentled waters of the Sound.
The season brings its storms.
They emptied my pockets to the tune of home
and hearth.

Gasoline,
that dulls the wave's knife edge,
follows in her dragnets like a shadow,
poison upon the Sound toward home
where I stand against the door and hear

the windsong, the sick wave, the ringing coin
 
 
deja_vroom
16:11 / 11.09.02
Kase Taishuu:

Yeah, I think there's no reason to change the title. I'll keep the original version, then.

As for the "didn't stand on ceremony", I'll ask around the anglophile people for suggestions. I'll come up with a revised version soon. thanks for the interest, man, and write more stuff on your blog you lazy bitch, we are starving here!
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
01:48 / 15.09.02
Jade, do you know what satire is? “Pain” was an attempt at satire, not a reflection of my soul or a direct expression of my headspace. Not every poem is a message or a cry from the soul. You seem to have bought into Corgans ideology, to some extent.
As for truth, this is a highly personal construct, no universal truths exist, and your truth is as valid as mine. If I were to accept the truths of others on grounds of general consensus or cultural dominance then I would be some sort of cipher or mental slave (yes, I am reading Stirner at the moment).

Haus, Jade, Apple. The “street” metaphor was very badly presented on my part, but was intended as a metaphor for that which is not “high culture”. Unrefined? Inarticulate? Guilty.
Pain is an anti-poem lambasting the soul wrenching of the average poet. It may be poorly constructed, but that was the intent.
 
 
The Apple-Picker
13:26 / 15.09.02
Well, Panarchy--it obviously didn't work for these people. They were telling you how and why your piece didn't work for them. If you're not interested in critique, why on earth are you posting your pieces to Poetrial instead of Daily Poetry or starting a new thread for showcasing work?
 
 
Kase Taishuu
00:55 / 16.09.02
Panarchy: I think the problem is that your impersonation of a 'whining "poet"' was so accurate it's hard to tell it from a poem seriously written that way. If you don't feel like touching that poem much, you could at least put something on the title that hints all its tongue-in-cheekness, because, really, it's hard to tell. Also, I think a satire is supposed to be fairly insulting to its target, and therefore that it should be a more grotesque and revealing representation of the original, instead of apish imitation resting on the ridiculousness already present there - if you read that in your closest circle of gothy, tortured artists, they would more likely to applaud you and say how breakthrough and innovative you are (the poetic equivalent of prog-rock!) than feel mocked and offended. So how good is that for a satire?
 
 
deja_vroom
12:14 / 16.09.02
I know this guy. I brought him here
 
 
Billy Corgan
18:34 / 19.09.02
What the fuck, Panarchy? That "Pain" poem sounds a little too much like one of my obscure b-sides.

I tihnk Panarchy is a confused guy - when he says "work on the streets", what he really means is "move units", preferably on a multi-platinum level. Yeah, if you want to be a megastar, you've got to be direct and fuck the bourgeouis system! The people want raw angst, stupid-style! The only true measure of artistic worth is what the masses think of you, and how many kids you inspire. Let me break it to some of you: kids are fucking illiterate these days. They don't give a fuck about punctuation or spelling, and neither should you. I would also recommend rocking really hard - that "Pain" poem might suck ass, but it would rock your ass just the same with a badass riff and industrial programmed drums. At least it did when I recorded it for the Machina II album, anyway.

We've got to break down the fourth wall, and reclaim the honesty of our very souls, and sell that honesty so we can live and be posh from our pain.
 
 
Billy Corgan
18:49 / 19.09.02
This is a very special poem to me - I wrote it on the first anniversary of 9/11. Please let me know what you think - I think it's the most touching and heartfelt poem that I've seen about the topic to date.

--------

9/11: The Apocalypse Day, Now Nothing But A Hellish Memory Of Sorrow


it was a year ago
the world fell into flames
the hate
the crying
the fear
the heroes
the world is not fair
because if it was it'd still be there
waving hello to the morning clouds
dirty animal men did this to us
who pray to an evil god of death
who will destroy us all
and let you have sex with virgins
but I believe in a God
who will let you have sex
with experienced ladies
who know what they're doing
and are kinky and suck your toes
this God is a great God
and he wouldn't tell you to destroy buildings
that people love
or crash airplanes
because airplanes are useful
and firemen are the best kind of people
other than celebrities
I mean it
the darkness shall never lift
because the evil God has won
for eternity
 
 
Strange Machine Vs The Virus with Shoes
22:52 / 21.09.02
Kase, satire is a broad church. It only needs to be overtly insulting if you’re presenting it to imbeciles, your “goth” circle for example. But this does not include the people of barbelith. I’m sure that the good folk of barbelith are not part of the cultural oligarchy that represents “the industry”.

I agree with Apple Picker that this may not be the place for our cultural assaults Bill. Now that the cat is out of the bag, a more focused attack, in a new thread, may be needed.

I’m happy to be back from the dead. Confused my arse.
 
 
gridley
20:49 / 24.09.02
nobody commented on my poem. does that mean it's beneath contempt or above it?

(or just too long to bother with?)
 
 
8===>Q: alyn
11:06 / 25.09.02
What he said, but me.

gridley, I didn't comment because I never have anything useful to say about poems.
 
 
The Apple-Picker
12:46 / 25.09.02
Gridley--I didn't comment because I'm not thoroughly confident in my critical skills, and try to be

We never leave the lights on for ourselves --It's kind of a no-no to put your own title in bold, or italics, or quotation marks, or to have it underlined. All to maintain the illusion of modesty, I gather.

We pledged to seek out the oh-so proverbial god in the machine,
you and me, Susie Q I'm not sold on "oh-so." I'm not sure you can earn the "oh-so" so early in this piece. Maybe, maybe....
—I call all the ladies Susie Q— --I was not particularly fond of these asides throughout your piece. I do like the meaning of this line, but the punctuation, the way the punctuation sets it out so far from the rest of the piece and the flow of the rest of the piece really bothers me. There are a couple different ways you could work this (and the others) in differently. You might want to experiment--with different kinds of punctuation, with changing to whom the speaker directs this line... other things.
me and you, kid explorers,
but we found no whispering secrets in their pried-off metal casings,
just a host of gears, wires, and bendy metal thingies --I think I see what you're going for here with "bendy metal thingies," and I like it, but that seems, maybe, inconsistent with the rest of your line. I know that children aren't stupid but "gear" seems kind of precise compared to "bendy metal thingies." I do like the assonance in this line, too.
that we’ll never get back together again. I really love how ambigously this line can be read.
So we went looking elsewhere.
We combed the earth in rocket ships pierced through with corrugated silver studs I really like how these explorers comb the Earth (capitalized) in rocket ships (are the studs corrugated? I don't think so, are they? The ships are corrugated and then pierced with the silver studs). The ships are earth-bound, Earth-bound just like these kids. The corrugated ships do comb the earth. It's a really, really cool moment, but...
and we plummeted into maps of churches I've not been sold that you can have it both ways with "plummeted." Just think about replacing that verb with one that doesn't rely on the depth of space.
bending roughly white lines on blue paper
written out before the day you were born.
We searched for the god in the sound of insects
and the god in the moon in the center of it all
and we searched for the god in the great Joseph K.
—I call only one man Joseph K.—
and throughout most of the places that were not prisons.
Betrayed by drink and incessant prattle, --"incessant prattle" is a cliche.
we even searched for a god in the lies that children tell,
but that too came to nothing but meanness and mudpies. --I like that when you start getting abstract, you then bring things back to something concrete.
So we looked for the God inside ourselves, perhaps a dash or a colon here instead of a comma?
me in you, and you in I, I guess, If you were to do the pulling back thing (which I mention in the next comment), I would use an elipse here. In any case, you need something other than a comma here--a full stop or a semicolon or the elipse with four dots; then capitalize "hell" on the next line.
hell, who bothers drawing lines once the clothes are off and on the floor. --"hell" and "I guess" seem pretty casual to me here, after the intimate tone you'd developed, like you were talking about something personal and meaningful with one other person, but things got intense, so you pull away (I use "you" here in reference to the speaker, but I'm sure you, Gridley, knew what I meant). I think that could work if you, Gridley, were at the end of your piece--but it gets personal and intimate again.
We sat there, atop each other, in turns and seasons, okay, I understand that you need "in turns and seasons" to clarify that you're not sitting atop each other at the same time, but "in turns and seasons" is pretty blah for the words, and you're ending your line with it. What about something like, "In turns, we sat atop each other" or just "We sat atop each other in turns." The rewrites may not be real sock-it-to-me kind of lines that way, but at least they eliminate (reduce?) the faux-importance implied by those commas and that diction.
savaging our bodies open with all the sharp knives of kitchen drawers, drop the comma. Drop the "all the." I'd substitute "from" for "of." I don't really like "savaging" as the verb here. Cutting up bodies with kitchen knives--yup, pretty savage. I guess I want my expectations challenged. I want the moment to be gentle instead of savage. It reads like destruction, when what you're really writing is a creation story, right? The destruction of the act would be assumed; let the language describe the act differently.
and anything else at hand,
what were those? meat scissors? I am not a fan of the rhetorical questions in here. If you mean to keep them, though, you'll need some different punctuation at the end of the preceding line.
And we searched, drop the "and." It really weakens the line.
pushing through our bellies with fingers,
like a sad man wading tentatively through a flooded basement,
filled with floating swampy mounds of paperback books,
water gone pulpy and softly thick,
in search of some lost golden ring.
And we smiled when we had failed yet again.
Smiley smiles. That sad man should have seen us. We should have seen us. "Smiley smiles" kind of made me cringe. It just seems a little too cutesy
But the truth is this, colon here? that I smiled just because you did,
and though I did not understand it then comma here?
I see now that it was the same for you.
And everything went mirrored memories around us,
and I will always believe you shouted out these following words: I would drop "these following words" and the colon. It really weakens the quote. If this were my piece, I would end the line on "out" and then put the quotation in italics instead of quotation marks.
“We should remember this when the shoe is on the other foot… but we won’t!”
and I am trying to tell us exactly that right now, with these very words,
because after that bit it was almost already over,
and then you turned yourself into your own world.
And I turned myself into mine. I like the sense of your last lines, but it all sounds pretty boring. It's a fairly weak ending that I'm sure you could rewrite to be more powerful.

For all the red marks on your paper, I did like this; you have some cool things going on here. I also want to thank you for writing in sentences.
 
 
The Apple-Picker
12:53 / 25.09.02
Oops. That first paragraph should have read "Gridley--I didn't comment because I'm not thoroughly confident in my critical skills, and try to be. Sometimes it takes me awhile to realize what I do and don't like about a piece--hence, the hesitation."
 
 
gridley
16:00 / 25.09.02
wow, Apple Picker, you should have more confidence in your critical skills. That was intense. I agreed with almost all of what you had to say. That critique really helped me. I'm definitely going to do a re-write. Thank you!
 
 
Mister Saturn
01:18 / 08.05.07
I agree, as much as I enjoy prose, I enjoy sentences in poetry - I suppose because they tell more than they would, as a tale, rather than singular words which would hint at more of the theme (emotions, etc).

Anyway, I'm more of a fan of short, haiku-influenced work (complete with illustrations, much like Kandinsky's poetry/print works), but I can't decide between those two pieces:

mortality is my husband;
immortality courts me;
but death is my eternal lover.

or,

mortality is my husband;
immortality courts me;
but death is my lover.

I'm not sure whether I should do away with the 'eternal' or even swap 'me' for 'I'.

I only added the eternal because it would balance out the syallables, but then again, I like the visual structure, with no adjectives and the such.
 
 
Dutch
23:21 / 07.08.07
...

Setthe will free you of truth
like a thousand rotting fountains
he wills you drenched with lies
Setthe will free you of truth
like the ancient city of Babylon
he wills you succumb to words
Setthe will free you of truth
like the infected flowing Ganges
he wills your death in religion's guise
Setthe will free you of truth
like the hermit's maddening shelter
he wills your thoughts unheard
Setthe will free you of truth
like jealousy after empassioned nights
he wills you bound to your senses
Setthe will free you of truth
like the rape of nature's beauty
he wills you end with suicide
Setthe will free you of truth
like the crawling of a once great lion
he wills you submit to decay
Setthe will free you of truth
like the shooting of a messenger
he wills you know how Theno died
Setthe will free you of truth
like the drowning of a holy child
he wills you baptised in this way

Setthe will free you.

Truth will not save you.

---

Setthe will free you of truth
like a thousand rotting fountains
he wills you drenched with lies
Setthe will free you of truth
like the ancient city of Babylon
he wills you succumb to words
Setthe will free you of truth
like the infected flowing Ganges
he wills your death in religion's guise
Setthe will free you of truth
like the hermit in his mad shelter
he wills you forever unheard
Setthe will free you of truth
like jealous thoughts on buried love
he wills you to your senses bound
Setthe will free you of truth
like the rape of nature's beauty
he wills you to progress in suicide
Setthe will free you of truth
like the crawling of a once great lion
he wills you submit to decay
Setthe will free you of truth
like the shooting of a messenger
he wills you know how Theno died
Setthe will free you of truth
like the drowning of a holy child
he wills you baptised in this way

Setthe will free you.

Truth will not save you.

Setthe will free you

Truth will forsake you


-----

What I am trying to find out is what the general feeling concerning the two different versions is, and also whether the differences between the two versions supply a different or perhaps wrong kind of meaning. Feel free to cry "Crap!" if one feels the need to.

The problem for me mostly is trying to find out what I mean when I write. As for the above two attempts at poetry, the first was more of a spur of the moment type thing, with a little thought given to structure and composition, but not much. Intuïtively, I've tried to rectify this somewhat in the second version, but it feels like there is something missing.*


*which probably means there's a whole lot missing, technically and poetically speaking
 
 
threepines
10:39 / 13.08.07
I noticed five lines you changed plus the two added at the end. I'm tired I might have missed something. My impression is that "he wills you to your senses bound" is better than the line it replaces, the sound is far stronger and more fitting. Otherwise each change, in my opinion, weakened the poem, and the two lines at the end added nothing particular, certainly nothing in the way of a punchline or a sting in the tail, they simply made it longer. In other words I found the first version significantly superior. And I wouldn't worry so much about what you mean as what the voice in the poem means. This voice, well, you could call it fictional or you could theorise (and go a little pointlessly bonkers). I prefer to think of them as voices, or even music, and leave it at that.

I mean that any undestroyed poem has it's own thing going, a thing that the writer should help not hinder. Forcing it to "make more sense" often hinders and hides what it actually is. I mean the first version is a bit creepy, but it's undeniably there. The second version is slightly less there. One example: the hermit's maddening shelter is -- well, what is it? A sentient house? It's a bit mysterious & the "wrongness" of the phrasing is the vehicle of this. In the second version this maddeningness has become descriptively "mad". There's a loss. I mean the house itself is active in the first version, in the second it's being described. This is true also of the changes to "thoughts unheard" and "impassioned nights" and "suicide" lines. Each time you tended to abstract and slightly draw a moral, gazing from outside a bit, whereas the original lines rather drew the reader's mind in. Into what is of course an entirely different question.

Poetry has always been a bit transmoral. These voices just don't care. They can be saintly or fey or or lewd or downright terrifying, sometimes within a few lines of each other in the same piece -- but they are close to the heart of what poetry is and arguably its true content. Shakespeare for example, from one perspective, was pure unfiltered voice, hence his bottomlessness. And then or now, it's probably always a matter of befriending rather than controlling them, and I'd submit that in 4 out of 5 cases you tried to control what you'd done, in the name of "rectification" (which is itself an interesting word to use).

I mean also, the poem itself, which is a wee bit beyond your control, certainly at present, is something like that hermit's house. I'd just accept it if was you, don't actually go mad, and be grateful that one of the lines you fixed might have actually helped. One good change out of five is not so bad. And by the way, obviously I don't think it's crap.
 
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
09:52 / 18.10.07
Bumping this in case anyone posting to Daily Poetry wants to have their poems discussed as well as read...
 
 
Dutch
03:17 / 21.10.07
I am become a man possessed
Of Oppenheimer’s shadow

Brilliance

*flashed*

…an instant passed…

All were made to watch

With terrifying bleeding eyes
And skin turning to bubbles
With the knowledge of a thousand Gods
And the minds of awestruck children

With their backs to walls forever
And their last screams undying
With blackened babies clutched so tightly
And pleading arms outstretched

So they were made to watch
Made to breathe their death
Made to drink the water that flowed
Glowing with burning cancer

So they were made to watch
Made to walk on mars
Made to stumble and dissolve
Into rivers of decaying kindred

I am become a man possessed
Of Oppenheimer’s shadow

Vengeance

*flashed*

A lifetime passed

All were made to tremble


(now I know this is a poor poem at best, but I was still wondering what barbelithers, if any, would think of it)

(this is ofcourse in reply to the previous [petey's] post, seeing as i'm a sucker for the idea that people actually read what I write)
 
 
astrojax69
18:45 / 09.11.07
i've read your oppenheimer piece a couple of times, dutch, and while i like some of the imagery, i'm not sure it strings together as a poem yet. 'all were made...', so why am only 'I' become possessed his shadow? why not 'all'? that said, i like that line!

but i struggle, too, with whose vengeance, and with the duality of time - 'undying' 'forever', yet things 'decaying'. which is happening in that instant? certainly some ideas worth working on in here, but i think you need to think about how the various images 'literally' hang together, what is their connection with one another.


anyway, have a crack at this one - posted in daily p, too, but thought i'd pop it in here as i wrote it on the ferry of the title last year but made some revisions in transcribing it just last week...




macau ferry

I
[en route]


instincts swagger on land legs
across swaying floors
flat horizon [corrupted
by islands and distant vessels;
receding] rising now, dipping
parallelograms of solo rhythms to tonal chatter
popping like children’s bubbles
then going quiet. nodules of tilted black
tufts, paused in slumber –
vik’s new shoes matching the décor;
lucky patch an omen for
so many chinese…

from the haze grows a destination
solidifying and becoming more than
bright silly commercial incessancy in plasma
pointing at

macau.


close now, twitter and peep of hand-held
conversations, volume rising in place of steam
in the chill cabin;
and beyond, the sky – a new world
awaits recollection




II
[return]


swirling into memory singular

small white tiles and green pipes stopped
in motifs, telling exotic lies, dried catch
of moist cod; incense and wines:

swarms of scooters
cackling in gaps not there. magic buses
filling, filling, filling, filling, filling, filling until we swoop away
and gasp like eels, heels snapping clunk stepping clack…


somewhere symphonic a man prone on a ledge, arm still
reaching
into air, stocking feet, the parade
passing by…

go up now, to cold canon taking impotent aim
at construction like reality, bamboo-clad, rising
to the mists; wanting more


without a sigh, leaving kittens on a stone
sleeping as the dead under glass, excavated
and displayed, bones from flesh pressed for time
- centuries, not seconds

but a day elapsed at last
like tides scooping the night across a journey
begun by instinct and ends
in a dreamless, formless now
 
 
deja_vroom
12:29 / 19.11.07
I did this one the other day for a lady. I have another recent one I did for Pound, but I'll save it for later.


firecracker #3

Look at her.

The globe of her eye the wet gem, the water in it, the humor;
Brothers to fly-traps the eyelids
For words that alight there.

Look at her. The bones in her.
The big smooth hands that shaped her.

The innumerable accidents.
 
  

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