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6020. arkymalarky - 11/5/2007 12:45:58 AM If that's what you're looking for, please don't run off. Why don't you throw something out that you're working with in class and we'll walk through it together? 6021. arkymalarky - 11/5/2007 12:46:58 AM What are you studying in class right now that you have questions about or want to discuss? 6022. Seamus - 11/5/2007 5:31:58 AM None of the poems looked very interesting to me -- hay going to church or something in one. I came from a farm, and believe you me, hay ain't that interesting. And then a bunch of really old fashioned dirty words in the other. And those words were not respectful of women, no matter what you say.
I'm thrilled, CC, to have you talk about *your* thoughts and reactions to the poems.
I absolutely respect your opinion that you find the one tedious and the other disrespectful. I've been inclined myself to wonder if hay going to church isn't too boring, so having another opinion confirm my worry is useful for me in considering where to go with that one. The second one, you don't like the words, and I also respect that. I note only that one should be careful not to equate narrator with writer. Once any writer lets a poem go, even if for comment as here, it belongs to the reader at least as much as it belongs to the writer. That is why you should indicate what your reaction is, just as you have finally done here, rather than asking the writer what is meant. A poem doesn't mean what a writer thinks it means--it means what the reader thinks it means. That's why a poem never means one thing, because there may be many different readings. Once you indicate your reaction, the writer can decide whether changes are needed or not, based on those comments. (btw, the really old-fashioned dirty words are very much in use today by irish teenagers, so maybe it's the irish who are old-fashioned.) But those words are the narrator's words.
Doesn't mean you need to like them, and I respect your opinion that you do not. It is *useful* to me to know what reaction a poem is getting. I may or may not make changes based on that type of reaction.
In this case, the poem was selected by an online poetry community's judge for inclusion in the IBPC international "best of" competition for a two-month period, so I won't be able to make any changes to it until it is judged in that competition.
You are mistaken if you think I'm offended that you don't like these two poems or the effin' one that has engendered so much controversy. Would it help you to know I don't think it's very good either, now, if ever? I'm not at all hurt or upset that you don't like it or anything else I write. Once again, your reaction is feedback to me as to how it is communicating. I can take that into account as I revise. I can promise that if you stay and get to know me, you will find there is no harsher critic of my writing than me--things I write often end up being defended by others against my own dissatisfaction with them.
Not at all sure certain what my age might have to do with anything, but I never said that I was here to teach you. If you look again, you will see that I said we could learn from each other. I've always felt that way. I learn from readers and I learn from other writers, such as you. So, I benefit if you stay and participate, because I gain from it. And were I you, I'd never want you to be some kind of poet like me--I wouldn't wish that on anyone.
I do not know what English 101 is...are you at university? I certainly hope this is not an introductory level class, because your writing is quite sophisticated, interesting and absolutely error free for your age, and your talents would be wasted in a basic level class.
We'd love to have you stay and participate. 6023. Crafty Critter - 11/5/2007 8:18:22 PM Thanks E1. Here's the deal. I quit school after my mom and dad split up a couple years ago but my dad says that if I want to keep the car he bought for me that I have to finish. So I went back, got my G.E.D. and now I am taking all of my general studies at a two year Tech school. Seamas, English 101 is basic English Composition. My plans are in Nursing and I want to continue to write on the side. I am moving in with my dad until February starting this weekend and he doesn't allow me to use the computer except for school work so, before I leave I was going to ask how I can make this poem better. I wasn't told to write it in any certain way, just to write a poem about an emotion and I picked Greed. I have to turn it in by Friday. Hopefully, I will get to talk more before I leave. If not, it's been ,well, ODD ! Smiles ....CC
Greed
This is the path
Of unrighteous woe,
Neither gleams, nor blooms
No, not this road.
Despair is its tree
Gloom, it’s rose,
Maker of mischief
Fog soon grows.
Shades of contempt
Waltz shamelessly by,
Snarling and envy
Fill the sky.
Anger and pity
Just hang around,
While judgmental crafts
Swiftly abound.
Deceit and treachery
Ride a wagon here,
Take one and all
For what they hold dear.
Rage with jealousy
In the dead of night,
Claim your soul
Without struggle, nor fight.
Travel this road
With care my friend,
Don’t dance in the dust
Most call mayhem.
CC
October, 2007
6024. NuPlanetOne - 11/6/2007 4:55:59 AM C.C.
'Greed' was a good first draft. The emotion you chose is a powerful one. Perhaps the most powerful one. And as such it incorporates and instigates a display of pretty much all the major categories of emotions. When you think about it, love, which might win the number one spot in a poll of what people would consider the most powerful emotion, is quite similar in ferocity to greed by virtue of the fact that the act of loving very often becomes a need to want all of the thing or person you love, and even more and forever more of it. In your poem you found yourself having to run through the various modes of emotion that were triggered by this one primal emotion, such as despair, gloom, contempt, anger, deceit and treachery. You did this because unconsciously you realized that these other strong emotions are, in your poem, step children of this greed you are trying to warn others off. Look at your poem. Don't try to ryhme anything. The first weak spot was when you tried to ryhme rose and grows in the second stanza. Try changing 'Fog soon grows' with something that helps the 'Maker of mischief' line sound more greedy because having recognized that these other strong emotions are driven by greed, you should avoid a throwaway metaphor, or an attempt at one, especially containing fog, as greed is a clear and focused entity. Then try the same process on the following stanzas and continue to link all these emotions to the fact that they are borne out of greed. In any case, were you to hand that poem into me I would have to pass you just as it is. But do work on it and let the others offer some help as well. 6025. TheWizardOfWhimsy - 11/7/2007 12:50:08 AM Please excuse the intrusion, but I was curious to see how the poets and word-junkies might respond to my attempt at visual poetry.
[This is the final version of the catalog, so please flag a screw-ups if you spot any before it goes to press at week's end.]
6026. Seamus - 11/7/2007 4:17:52 AM It's no intrusion, Wiz. That is one breathtaking collection. Nothing but admiration and wonder from these quarters. 6027. NuPlanetOne - 11/7/2007 4:37:00 AM Wiz,
As a word junkie I found the intro to the collection brilliant. Really, quite an elegant piece of writing. And as not so much a vagabond, but as the son of an Italian immigrant, my longing for the antique home of my paternal forbears, borders more on a yearning I had often observed in my father's mien when friends or relatives would talk of a recent trip back home to the Old Country. I do believe in visual poetry, it is a non-phonetic rendering of those same conflict stained or joy filled wondrous moments that need an outlet and memorial. The visual arts, as well as literary, music, dance, stage, film, oratory, et.al.,(in some defined order), are the statuary embodiments of those imaginings. And I have a paticular fondness for the Graphic Arts, as you described them, having dabbled briefly years ago with ink on rough hewn paper. But your querry is how as a poet, I or others equally self described might evaluate your attempt at an example of visual poetry. It goes like this. Were I to stroll casually through a well orchestrated gallery within a peaceful setting with my favorite Borolo in hand viewing these monoprints, it would be much the same as if I were sipping a wonderful Tawny Port by a fireplace reading a good poem. Going along from print to print would evoke, for me, the same quiet and private renderings that are suggested in frozen time on the face of each picture. So in that sense, it is poetry. More so, because they are a collection of similar ideas even though each one might provide a tangent as to close itself off. But they do ultimately hold to a theme that reaches back to the begining as in the way a poem should explain its purpose by providing some sort of connection to its premise. Oh, did I say I liked the prints? I do. Very nice. 6028. TheWizardOfWhimsy - 11/7/2007 6:36:24 AM Yikes--I wasn't expecting an embarassment of riches--thanks. Being dyslexic, painfully self-conscious of my writing skills and a very sloppy reader, this thread has always represented a snazzy restaurant I might get thrown out of–but this repast has been most enjoyable!
6029. NuPlanetOne - 11/23/2007 5:27:51 PM A Moment's Peace
What thanks are these
If you please,
We give again
Of course, to the Lord
But not for all we have
But for what
Lies ahead
I have more moments
To breathe, than some
Who are gone
And I wonder,
Gone where?
And I fear
They are gone again
And I hear
Are born again
In remembering
In recalling
Their faces
The times we had
Together, the dreams
We shared, the effort
And significance
And I see it
As I pass the potatoes
In blushed cheeks
And exuberant conversation
That this is the reward
The prize
We are thankful for
Even bitter animosities
Blink off intermittently
For a second
A feeling of inclusion
A moment of gladness
An awareness of purpose
By all means, thank you
Lord
But here, amidst
The jangle of China
And after Grace
Having had the luck
To sit and marvel
At the feast
At least
I had the moment
And now wish,
Uncertain,
For what lies
Ahead.
6030. wonkers2 - 11/27/2007 4:22:28 AM Here's one of my favorites by E.B. White, a precursor to another favorite, The Deadline Poet, Calvin Trillin. I Paint What I See 6031. Ulgine Barrows - 12/1/2007 10:55:06 AM I know this girl
As pretty as can be
The sign of an Aquarius
She was born on the 18th
UFOs, snakes and spiders
Give her the creeps
And she's got a half life, a half smile
And lives in semi luxury
Questions God, drugs and bullets
And the high school beauty queen
And she’s courageous but scared to death
But that’s what courage means
She’s looking for some courage
She feels faithless, she feels earthless
She wants to run
She’s strugglin’ for purpose
I tell her hang in you know it’s worth it
You’ve just begun
You’ve just begun
Her bedroom is her temple
The books and the stereo her muse
She feels humbled by this equation
And sets fire to all her shoes
Not because of Henry Miller
She’s just not leaving anytime soon
And as the smoke pours out her window
An image forms behind the moon
And it looks like the face of Jesus
But if it’s Jesus she needs proof
At the heart of the matter, and a matter of fact
The science of matter
She hopes that it’s true
She’s looking for some courage
She feels faithless, she feels earthless
She wants to run
She’s strugglin’ for purpose
I tell her hang in you know it’s worth it
You’ve just begun
You’ve just begun
And you’ve just begun
~Raine Maida 6032. NuPlanetOne - 12/9/2007 3:58:23 PM keeping thing out
in exile i have built
my fortress
yet,
it has no walls.
i am protected
from harm
yet,
i have no enemies.
i am in love
so deeply in love
yet,
i am alone.
i desire so little
i feel contented
yet,
i need so much.
i sip my wine
by the winter fire
yet,
i am cold.
those around me
accept my advice
yet,
i know nothing.
i built my walls close
many years ago
yet,
they are not so high.
and yet,
i know,
walls keep things in. 6033. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2007 5:30:41 PM The Boy Who Saw Santa.
I was frowning and cold
As I jumped swiftly into bed
Knowing the coals in the fireplace
Were long since dead
Shivering to bring warmth
Pulling the blankets ‘round my head
Waiting to be cozy and safe
Yet feeling just colder instead.
Outdoors,
The wind whistled
Inhaling the heat
From every crevice
From every corner,
From both of my feet
Now shuddering,
On this cold Christmas Eve
Then smiling
For I so wanted
To believe,
In Santa.
My big bossy sister,
She declared it was silly!
“It’s illogical, only boys
would believe in such things,
could believe someone brings,
all those toys.”
“Yes! You are a gullible little goof.”
She would recite with a snare
“You will never find proof, Ha!”
“And you have waited all year!”
“But Oh!” What is that? Up there?
Up above on the roof?
Is it the sound of a sleigh?
“Is it the tap of a hoof?”
I strained. I listened
Outside the snow glistened
Then all quiet, all still
As I listened until
My ears ached.
Determined, I promise
“I will see him this night!”
I must stay awake.
“Could the storm
slow his flight?”
Surely Santa,
Will take his time.
“But I know he’ll arrive!”
“I will prove he’s alive!”
Just let me survive,
This wait.
Now if I could just catch him
If he slid down the chute
Somehow nothing could scratch him
Or could smudge that red suit
Is it magic? Is he real?
Is there truly such a being?
“Tell me, what’s the big deal!”
What’s the mystery about seeing,
This jolly old man.
Now all were sleeping
On this snowy Christmas night
I had to keep keeping
My eyes from shutting tight
I could hear gentle snoring
From my tired old Dad
My eyelids drooped heavy
As if they had had,
Rocks tied to their lashes.
Then suddenly, so strangely!
It seemed I could hear
Through a silence in the storm
There was something drawing near
I thought I heard bells!
I was tingled with fear
With wonder, with smells
With the scent of reindeer!
Had my eyes now closed?
Could I now be sleeping?
Dare I move, dare I speak?
And as I went leaping
I knocked over the bed table
As I crashed, as I fell
Could he hear me!
Would he spare me?
Shall I ever live to tell?
So I crept from my room
Like a cat on its paws
Off to find Santa
To see Santa Claus!
On tip-toes, on knees
With my heart beating quick
Like the blind man who sees
Through the dark with his stick
Silent as a snake
That glides across the ground
So careful not to make
Even a tiny little sound.
Till, crouched on one knee
At the living room door
My eyes strained to see
Tried to focus, to be sure
As through a mystical glow
His image I now viewed
Like a silhouette in the snow
Moving fast, moving slow
As if all time must wait
While he emptied his sack
Spinning, twirling, sideways
Now back!
And if he could see me
He did not seem to mind
For even through the blur
He looked gentle and kind
“But goodness!’
Did he grin?
As his eyes saw my face
Then a jolly good laugh,
And he was gone from the place!
Yes, as quick as it started
As quick did it stop
Like the rabbit that darted
Then ended its hop
I now stood there amazed
Like a statue with eyes blinking
Not moving, but dazed
Like I was frozen but thinking
Then quietly I came to rest
Back safe in my bed
Swallowed back up in blankets
Covered up to my head
I didn’t move,
I didn’t think
I didn’t dare take a breath
For it was all in a blink
And I swear to my death!
I will always believe,
In Santa.
And as for big sister
With her theories and laws
Only those who believe,
Can see Santa Clause!
Merry Christmas!
6034. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2008 5:33:20 PM Bad Memories
That decade is gone
And, looking into
The next one,
I see nothing good
I know that is what
This moment suggests
But, past and future
Are only this moment
And because it is always
Now, every time I try
To look ahead
I’m right back at the beginning
So fuck that nonsense
Give me another yesterday
That time I was happy
Even better, let me forget
Every old moment
Except the good ones
Let my reflexes remember
The dangerous shit
I won’t touch a burning flame
And I damn sure won’t remember
You.
6035. NuPlanetOne - 1/29/2008 11:06:40 PM The Crazy Chef
Like January
My heart thawed
Briefly, gently
Amidst a stormy
Season of cold
And nasty temperament
I wonder if I am sick
I thought
Smoking outside
After exploding, again
This smoke, this time
Feeling a sudden calm
A surprise at my seriousness
A difference in myself
That I tried to recognize
Was it time to quit?
The cigarettes too,
But quit the whole
Environment
Love what you do
Grandpa said,
And it is not work
He made shoes
I make bouillabaisse
And my face
Grows long
Not for hating it
Or the stew
But because he knew
The difference.
6036. Seamus - 2/8/2008 8:23:09 PM I quite like this, Nu.
What an amazing punch in this:
He made shoes
I make bouillabaisse
And my face
Grows long
Not for hating it
Or the stew
But because he knew
The difference.
6037. NuPlanetOne - 2/12/2008 11:48:59 PM Thank you Seamus. I must accept that there is heat in the kitchen. 6038. NuPlanetOne - 2/12/2008 11:49:32 PM Pass. Fail.
Funny thing, regrets
Those lessons learned
When suddenly it turned
Out bad
And,
When finally you put them
To rest
They become, morph
Into little quiet daydreams
It seems, with time
It is not regret at all
That tips the pail of water
Into the stream
Because how often does it seem
You chose wisely
Or had no choice
At all
The little voice
Saying you should have
Judging now
Judging how
It might have been
Has no echo
Is always fresh
And as you play it out
And as you say it out
Loud, lament
Curse and sigh
You wonder, no
Long
Only for something different
That, what could have been
Is just one more yearning
Are you finally learning
The lesson is your life?
6039. Seamus - 2/20/2008 4:55:34 PM --------------------
roundabout
at last she dead drops
hope away he'll ever haul
half a ton, go—no, he'll always be
one more guinness, one more something sweating
this way comes all the pretty ponies
he'll still wring from her hand, taking hold of her
today so she never knows tomorrow
will be another bleeding from between the cold-circle
--------------------small of her
--------------------back against
the grown-grey walls of a flat,
--------------------and a face
--------------------come now to be
the last thing she skives away slow
every old forever night
and the brisk, round mask she molds
each nevermore morning
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