verse seeking help

a kid's piece:

Time Piece
a metrical exercise

How ironic is a clock
that can only say tick-tock
and spin around in never-ending
circles with its never-bending
hands that just complete
a turn before they must repeat
and turn around again
and when
they do
that cycle too
is run again
before the clock is done again
to start again and go until
they find a way to stand time still.

more help?

Subjective Tense

Was everything I
Chose To remember and
Still
Shifted uncomfortably
All the dark day.

Is perhaps, most
"real" for the missing
Bits

Will be
All the more
Entertaining for
What I will
Someday recall

Like a string
Returning
(almost) to its line,
Blurring and
Thrilling the air.
Over time casting
Shadows that moment
Over shadows
That arc.

OK BSH I have questions -

How ironic is a clock
that can only say tick-tock
and spin around in never-ending
circles with its never-bending
hands that just complete a turn
before they must repeat and turn
around again and when they do
that cycle too is run again
before the clock is done again
to start again and go until
they find a way to stand time still.

reset - it manages 4 stresses per line with one "stray" line out of couplet style (but with an odd internal rhyme available) and reads more like a metronome? Broken down into odder lines as in #1, it seems to me to read evenly, then faster, then slower - until it stops - looking to make time fly? or?

we tried it last night

I get that it's one unpunctuated sentence and the ugly "tick-tock" sets a pace. It does speed up with the shorter lines and quicker rhymes, then slows again until the stop at the full stop. I see the cycle working - some kind of drinking game? or just a demo of how to force a reader's pace? I'm sure there's intent here - give . . .

LOL

I like the way you think - for me, a one breath reading exercise demonstrating how to speed up or slow down a reader without punctuation - but it has some "clunk" to it . . . but a drinking game? How does that work?

#2 I see Subjective Tense's "was, is, will be" as useful, but a bit awkward - but the last 4 lines? You lost me

I like the never ending never bending aspect of time
just can't catch a break with that time dude
no matter what
although there seems to be a magical time of day when
time
seems to
stands still..

To Time

You, who incognito
Interrupt us with reason’s
Right head, and right away,
Turn the other round in wine,
Sing your songs too fast,
Daring the dancers’ feet to follow.
Second thoughts come too late
To save us from our past,
But you sing, still,
Or, like a broken string, lie.
You decant, a disdainful muse,
Playing to an audience of statues,
Frozen by belief.

You, who incognito
Interrupt us with ourselves
Come round again, are nothing
But our lying together,
Frozen, into a habit
Of past tenses.

Chez, thanks for the invitation. I don't stop by often anymore, but maybe this will give me a reason.

BSH, I like Time Piece just as it is, so if there's something wrong with it, I would have to concede a problem with my judgment, as well. It has a lovely rhythm and, like its subject, it comes full circle. :)

thanks lorsomething - I've missed seeing your work (and your comments) - anything to share?

Nah! I'm leaving poetry to those who actually have the gift. Wishing doesn't make it so. I'll read yours instead. :)

OK then, here's one of my minimalist pieces:

PAVEMENT

I have paved my streets
with unturned stones;
I didn't mean to.

very zen - and perfect - and I think it says more about time than the above

if not one way streets, perhaps hope

You are very kind, BSH. I wish I could agree with you. But still I play. I am forever in awe of real poets and their biggest fan. (For instance, Matt has a blog. Now there's a poet!)

Is it stalling out already? My fault, apparently. Sorry.

This one might excite some discussion:

Facsimile Edition

Books with stealth
can steal your hours,
replacing them with
second-hand living.
Beware the turning
of the page.

ah, I love these clock obsessions - hours and second hands. I like the last 4 lines - a cautionary bit with apt warning. Even the "turning" turns at the end line - just wish something clicked the piece shut with "page" - a small echoing rhyme or is that overkill?

"Books with stealth" doesn't convince me whether I read one way or another - the "with stealth" just seems awkward and extra.

Can a metaphor be a fake simile?

Imagine

Old and old
Stories told that
Have lost their roots,
Their language even;
New myths spring
Up in digital format and
New verbs inform.
No mandrakes, no
Shudders, but new
Archetypes for tomorrow,
But, probably,
Not beyond. New,
All new, but
What doesn’t grow
From a seed?

"Books with stealth" is a bit awkward. But the books steal so deftly and quietly. How can I say books sneak up on you and make it lyrical?

I can't think of anything else to end it. It said what I wanted it to say and so it felt finished. :) I'll think on this.

Your poem, as many of your poems do, flew right over my head. I really had to think about it, but when I did, the phrase "nothing new under the sun" came to mind. Am I close?

a suggestion, lor,

since Facsimile refers to book, why not rethink the thought, clipping a word here or there:

Facsimile

hours stolen

life now second hand

this page drawing me slowly

to another

..................

and let the reader fill in the gaps. my 2 cents. i toyed with the "stealh" thing and couldn't find a fit in my voice, but i'm sure you can with yours. just let it steep a bit.

Thanks, tcw. I appreciate your comments and I like your verse.

I used Facsimile Edition because I was trying to differentiate between the book and the fax machine. I guess that wasn't necessary. :)

It is one of my great poetic frustrations that I will write something, think it is done, and find later that it isn't finished at all. I am forever revising. (Another reason to leave it to the real poets, I think.)

Your "letting it steep" advice is useful. And something I recognize as a problem. I'm too off-the-cuff. Thanks for that.

Hi Lor

goal met if you really had to think about it :)

wanted to suggest -yes- nothing new (apparently obsessed with TSE's Tradition and the Individual Talent) - but also to pursue the transient notion of "fashion" in art(s) . . . and perhaps to complain (I'm a complainer) between the lines about the emphasis on the novelty that passes for creativity.

I liked the last 2 lines of tcw's take (and the physical "turning" of the lines) - but I don't think the first few lines quite set it up. I hope it's a steep climb rather than a descent

Hi BSH,

Can you annotate your posts? :) I'm assuming TSE is Eliot and I'm unfamiliar with "Tradition and the Individual Talent." I haven't read that much Eliot, though I do like some of his poetry. Will look it up sometime soon.

I'm wondering why the notion of "fashion" in art would be transient? It occurs to me that art has always had to endure an element of "fashion," sometimes so much so that the fashion supersedes the art. Is that what you mean by novelty passing for creativity?

I don't mean to bog us down in Q/A sessions, but I would like to understand. The more I'm exposed to your thinking processes, the fewer questions will emerge. That's hopeful, isn't it? :D

(Will post a new version of the poem when one drifts by.)

the limit of gestures

setting the sails
as a storm
comes quickly
across the lake

the hug
holding the broken heart
again

biting
the tongue

sigh

Hi Lor

yes. Tradition, etc is a terrific essay by Eliot (oft anthologized and in Sacred Wood or Collected Essays, at least) it's well worth reading. I like some of Eliot's poetry, but suspect he was even better as a critic. No doubt can find on line.

yes

yes :) assuming I actually have thinking processes (opinions vary)

isn't everything about Q & A? did you like that? did it work? why? how? what did it mean to you? and how is that different that what was intended, if there was intent? what happens between writer and reader ? and ?

Will read... soon.

Thanks.

Only those who have them can question whether they exist. :)

No. Not everything.

"if there was intent?" I like that, as so often I will find a painting (or any art) which has been analyzed beyong recognition, I look at it and think, "It's just a painting; it means nothing, except what "I" take away from it." In other words, it means something different to every person who sees it. I feel the same about poetry, most of the time, though I know there are those who do employ symbolism. In my case, it usually falls short of its mark. I just take what I can find.

Chez, I like your poem, though there is a lot left unsaid. Maybe that's another of my problems: I'm always looking for the big picture. :)

a glass
circle
gathering
light
warm by
my chest

just a
small bead
on a chain

I like this one, Papagaio. Every word is necessary to paint the picture and there's nothing extraneous. Nice one. The only word I might change is "warm on my chest" instead of "by," but that may be nit-picking.

nit-picking is good and I'd agree; "on" for "by" brings it closer and makes it more personal.

concise! Nice!

I tend to be too minimal
picking away
until there is almost nothing left

I posted this one
thinking it needed a lot of help

and appreciate
all input
on change and revamp!

Thank you!
&
Have at it!!!

Where now?

That damned red wheelbarrow
Haunts – the commonplace
Now always less common
Because . . .

And that peach . . .

Words and ideas at such odds

And each to each.

Small wonder suicide.

Supposing

Like everyone
I suppose
I suppose too much;
The imagination
Unfurls its colors
In every windy direction,
Small devils whirling
And despair.
I suppose shared childhoods
Make for some small
Connections or
Understanding (perhaps
Forgiveness?) later, excuse
Our seeming self-
Determined lies.
I suppose my good
Intentions are the bumpy
Cobblestones of a road
To meaningful
Human interaction.
I suppose my children
Will come to understand
My intentions as
They too kick
Hours to the curb.
I suppose those discarded
Hours aren’t
Really gone.
I suppose my attempts
At meaning leave
The universe giggling.
I suppose

I suppose
that unread words
are the echo
of the sound made
by that tree
falling
in the woods

empty sounds
filling
empty ears
killing
empty fears

spilling

empty

tears

oOH stop
I don't know what happened to me
but your poem was good Bookstop!

Suppose I shoulda said so after I read it this morning.

empty praises
stilling
empty hearts
willing
I suppose

very catchy - kudos

thanks - you made me laugh. I've been reading Fernando Pessoa and I no longer know what to make of me

that sounds interesting

I will read Pessoa also
and find
not
what to
make
of me as well

uh oh

the unassuagable ennui of existential doubt has got me. Even loving Pessoa (now deep in THE BOOK OF DISQUIET,) even as I admire his perceptions, I am convinced by him that it is all about "me." What to do? Stop reading ? send help!

or at least something to read

I'm trying to remember Pessoa. Is he the one who threw his hat at strangers to catch them off-guard and make them smile?

For the record, it is all about you and yet not: the inevitable dichotomy of the universe. :)

Is he the one? He had the hat, but . . .

A perfect goblet stands in praise of wine

They laugh like flutes
And wave their tendrilled hands;
They make demands
That bring us mute, like
Listening fields. We call
Them as dreams come
With the force of pain, perched
On a nerve – lightning
Etching glass.

These are not lyrical dreams
With lines like following
The body’s curves, not songs
Like pale light because it’s morning.

These are visions, hard pits,
Ground on emery and
Sharp as traffic -
Not isthmus or smoke or prayer.

They dance their coming, arcs
In an autumn sky and stones,
Broken glass and stars.
They laugh like flutes and come,
Like holidays, like
The wind in our eyes. They read
Arrows like pages and depart
As frozen morning follows.

ah

So you too have seen
The lunar spring unwound,
And seen paralyzed April
On the verge of trumpets. Why
Not go bald? Why not reveal
Old wounds, old scars?
It is only dances that separate us
And only dreams that turn
Desire into words.

Lost the thread, lost
The thread like smoke or
Bread crumbs, the twang
Of a bow hunting hope.
It’s that moment again,
Falling between and
Wedging apart.

eyes grinning

ewes laughing (a sheep shot)

how does a flute laugh?

it's a champagne flute

Nothing betrays a sunset like a cloud
Just at the horizon, but drifting to us,
Allowing, finally, one last ray
Of light’s escape to brightly tease,
Between uncurling fingers, palm down,
Smoothing the world.

aye
eye
I
need glasses
to make out
your high flutin'
meaning -
uncurl them fingers!

Tickling an angel
is delicate as memory;
who recalls each detail
well enough
to map, to brush,
to mold? My hand
paralyzed, uncertain,
terrified to offend.,
as if I’ve never
held a dream.

meaning?
unclench them fingers

In the end
Isn’t it mere
Curiosity that drives us
From person to
Person, act
To act or
Page to page?
Not knowing rubs
Our fur the wrong way,
Pricks our need
And itches
Like the devil
Until, finally,
We know.

Or simply
Choose.

need to
know as sin-
cerity

or knead
to no?

on message 32, only months late,

I am an echo of

"...the echo
of the sound made
by that tree
falling
in the woods"

Not dead, not living,
a surreal mode--
subsistence
existence at a realm
hard to imagine

not still at all
though still
not still

"....unread words"

"I suppose"

I play with yours.

Will you pardon me?

Bureaucracy is the craZy
on my bureau

Ich bin the burro,
Ich bin tired

I am here now--
Solomonic statement

phew!

ouch
If not now
Zen?

Take those old
Words and borrow;
Odds are
They’ll be new
Tomorrow.
You may with mine;
I’ll play with yours.
Bureaucracy
No doubt ensures
Forgiveness
Or at very least
A stubborn
Refusal to
Merely echo
Burden’s beast
Or least tractable
What?

Still,
It’s only words

playing

omitted blue?
or just implied?
serious?
you decide

That pretense of eternity
At which the stones snicker
Is merely self-indulgence
Having a laugh of its own.

Each moment’s cardinal
Or jay disturbs an oak’s
Last curled clinging leaf,
Bruising the cold snow
With memories of fall.

Unlike the lake, which
By its freezing grows,
Words and ideas compress,
Until fusion brings
Confusion and the blank
Pages and stares of
Failed memory.

And finally winter sheds
Its soft dirty coat
And wrens clack
And rustle in the brittle
Brush, building
Empty nests.

Synergy is often
Not as exciting
As it’s cracked
Up to be. It sounds
Good, but is
The whole really . . .?
Or just some white
Hole or holy
Object, subjectively
Viewed, sort of,
Obviously?

Riot.

If a bear in some exotic wood
Shat, then leaned back on a tree,
Toppling it, do you think he could
Hear it in eternity?

is the poop catholic?

yes, but you've confused "bar time" and "bear time"

my goodness!

was Hopkins right? Do
Erato and erratum make
common
sense? And is what
a muse meant once
seriously gone to the dogs?
and (parenthetically)
y? Is that why slant
and cognizant rhyme?
does who go there?

aaaaahh

Unbend

Beneath every domesticated
Eye lowering, head bowing
Sigh and smile, there is
A feral wink. Hope can take
Flight with the merest second
Thought; doubt becomes
Laughter as it unfolds.

Surely

A father’s death untethers us,
From the child we were; small jobs,
The sound of meadow larks
And morning glories and
Snap dragons to mow around
Desert us. The distance between
Memory and being hurts. Time’s
Certainty alone holds us down;
Gravity indeed. We move on,
Hoping, into a new dream.

or

into a new world
with old dreams.

?

Pecking order

Jewel eyed crows
Pecking at unidentifiable
Remains on a dark
Limb, just a shadow
Approaching.

Some wind or
Some noise casts
Black wavy lines
Against the clouds.

So many quiet, cowardly,
Aborted thoughts –
So old the scabs come off
Without blood, just
A little weeping flesh.

Tenderer in memory
And so, placed farther away.

And taking quill in hand,
I inhale and stop . . .

The tracks converge;
Nails fall from fingers

And deposit the (many) failures
Of my lives like crumbs
Into the hungry mouths of crows –
Who fly, finally
Disinterested, to some bloodier
Feast

And finally order
From the chaos, history
Tucked away and tomorrow
In our sights.