:: Poetry ::

:: Thursday, December 05, 2002 ::

Uh, dudes, lets get smart here. Important people look at this page daily to check on our progress. Someone say something nice to Josh and let's read MORE OF MY STUFF.
:: Sean 12/05/2002 10:44:00 AM [+] ::
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Guys, I've been driving all day, so I'm whacked out, but think about this: we each pick ten poems or twelve, and we put a little chapbook together and either print it ourselves or put it online for a suggested donation to our publishing company Joshuabones or something, and . . . Anyway, just a crazy thought right now, but think about it. Sure it'd be self-publishing but what would we have to lose, and I'd love a copy myself--we could even have a chapter of commentary. Let me know what you all think. Great to have seen you all, except alas, for josh--we were 75% complete. Talk to you soon.

:: Sean 12/01/2002 11:17:00 PM [+] ::
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First of all, what a nice little idea--this spell angle is pretty sweet. You could do a whole section of a book with these. All right. Why have "Sub-urbs" like that? I can't figure it out, and the only whadyacall for it that I found was "universal request broker" which is all right I guess, but I doubt that's what you had in mind. Fine title otherwise. Hey, by the way, look at me--it's 6:19 on a Friday and I'm drinking a 16oz of Bud and eating a package of NipChee crackers. And talking about poetry. Whoo Hoo.

All right, now here it gets a bit strange. What if, just follow me here, what if you cut the word "takes" in line two? Is that too much verb play for you? Lines three to five don't do it for me. I might have an unusual bias against that style: A and B are ADJECTIVE thing, but I think you should too. I mean even my manly hair is thinner than a book. But I liked that "book based on the movie line" so work with that for me. Then it gets good again--I like the idea of the light, but isn't the light activated by the detector? Right now it sort of feels like the detector is giving off light, and that's just crazy talk, right? "light / after the motion detector" is more like it, but then, that's not sweet talk, so fix it up. That's a great sick light that you talk about though. Ah, "what oft was thought but ne'er so well expressed" but you could make it work better, I think.

Then you . . . you bastard. What nice enviable stuff--all those sweet, sweet "isses," I like that a lot, don't be embarrassed by that. Then all is cool pretty much till the end, though I'd cut the last line--you can't do that after "the earth speaks with its mouth full." Can you end it there? I'm not sure, but I like it so much it actually makes me not like the "heart is an open mechanism" as much. But I like this idea so much, and though this poem isn't about me, it could be, and that's what poetry is all about. Talk to you all later.
:: Sean 11/22/2002 05:34:00 PM [+] ::
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Paul, I don't think there'd be anything wrong with taking some time and spelling all your good ideas out, then putting them in there--the old over-write, then cut trick. I understood all that in there about the speech etc., just spend some time gettin' all political on our asses--most people, well, me at least, are too afraid to do that.

I'm applying to whatever as an exercise of sorts. I'm collecting letterhead basically. No Phd, no way. I do believe Josh is up with a clever little narrative about a funny thing I said once on the way to a movie. Josh, work your magic on that moment. If he balks, I've been writing a lot of stuff real fast. And whatever happened to Rob? That bastard.
:: Sean 11/18/2002 07:39:00 PM [+] ::
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Paul, I like the size of this poem. Perfect heft. I also like the long title with it, but would rework it for clarity:
"The adjunct lecturer lectures his Continuing Education students on Gulliver's Voyage . . . while the Pres . . ." Not a big difference really. I like the two lines: "Outside (always outside) it is dark now," and "It is fall/(always fall in the halls of literature)" both clear and true. Maybe cut the "now" on line one? I understand the idea of the students being unable to see out because it's dark, but I'm not sure about reflected in the pages and that whole first statement. I mean, it's dark outside, the window reflects them but with all the commas, I get lost a bit. It seems like you're talking towards an understanding of your own words. I could be wrong, but I'm not sure you couldn't say this clearer. That way, some of the good stuff: "where they can't see for the laughing faces" won't be buried.

Outside (always outside) it is dark.
Laughing faces reflect in the windows
In here they laugh (while??? I can't get that thin pages thing to fit, or I'm unclear on it.)
outside, they can't see for all the laughing
faces. It is fall (always fall in the halls
of literature), yet the leaves haven't left

After that, and I know I'm changing this poem too much already, I think the "grown/groan and clause/causes" is too strong. I like the idea in here, as I see it, that we have come so little a distance since Swift told us all this, but I can't see your ideas clearly yet. Could you maybe talk a little about what you want to do here? I don't know that I'm being that much of a help, but it seems to lose solidity near the bottom and then "our faces" could be the watchers of tv or the readers, but I think there needs to be more to explain that. Maybe you could respond to these ramblings, and I'd have a better plan of attack(poor choice of words, I know) and get back with more random talk.

:: Sean 11/07/2002 11:15:00 AM [+] ::
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Paul, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I'll try to put up some comments today. Applying for schools and what not.

:: Sean 10/31/2002 10:30:00 AM [+] ::
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I'd give a good poem for a fried pie right now. Thanks brother Paul--very good and helpful writing. Yeah, I was just reading Dolor the other day. Someone here reminded me of it. He's pretty good that Roethke guy. Thanks to you both Josh and Paul (screw a bunch a Rob). Now Paul, I think you should write a little ditty for the board. And let's let Rob come crawling back to us, when he's ready. Thanks again for you smart guys. At least I think it's Paul's turn. Go, Josh if it isn't and I'll try to be good to you both.
:: Sean 10/20/2002 10:12:00 PM [+] ::
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Quite a few changes really, so Josh you might comment again. Very strange things here for me.


Johnstown, After Class

In the afternoons, after talking commas
and the power of pause—the dash—its feint
and sleight of hand, I leave my dull classroom
and wander through the hallways looking in
as others struggle with understanding. Chalked
and chartered, divided and ruled, the words
litter the boards: scene, drama, image, verb.
These dull days after class, the air thick, stupid
with boredom, I go outside. The air clamors
for attention, licks and rubs at my feet.
The Johnstown mist—heavy, gray beautician—
spins my hair to curls every time it rains.
I go left, then right, then back through the door
until I’m again in the office, curly, damp
and tapping keys—finding ways to say
what doesn’t need to be said: I’m gray,
there is no drama. Verbs charge and swerve
through my hands—tadpole away until
all that’s left is to rain, hush, tire, and sleep.

:: Sean 9/21/2002 11:33:00 AM [+] ::
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Johnstown, Afternoon

In the afternoons, after talking about commas
and the power of pause—the feint and sleight
of hand of the dash, I leave my dull classroom
and wander through the hallways looking in
as others struggle with understanding. Chalked
and chartered, divided and ruled, the words
litter the boards: scene, drama, image, verb.
Now outside, the air clamors for attention, licks
and rubs at my feet, spins the wheel which
kinks my hair into curls everytime it rains.
On dull days after class, the air thick, stupid
with boredom, I go left, then right, then back
through the door I just clicked closed until
finally I’m back in the office, tapping keys
and finding ways to say what doesn’t need
to be said: I’m gray, there is no drama, verbs
charge and swerve through my hands—tadpole
away until all that’s left is rain, hush, tire, sleep.
:: Sean 9/19/2002 02:41:00 PM [+] ::
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Hey, I wanted you all to enjoy some of Chris Carpenter's crazyness if you haven't seen it. Read some of the reviews on divingbirds.com
It's some very funny, well-written stuff. Josh, Chris is a friend of all of ours but you, you loser.

man

anyway, poems?
:: Sean 9/19/2002 11:13:00 AM [+] ::
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Boys, it's a new semester, leaves are turning already up here, and the sounds of cheerleaders can be heard from the high school across the road. This means time to crank up the Poetry Machine that is THIS. Exercises? Sonnets? Poems with dwarves in them?

Let me know if you're in. Yours, sbchapm@uark.edu

:: Sean 9/16/2002 11:43:00 AM [+] ::
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Josh,
Are you going to be anywhere near Evansville when you come up IN way? If so, give me a call, and I'll buy you a beer. 473-0361
:: Rob 7/08/2002 10:12:00 AM [+] ::
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Josh,
Thanks for the comments and help -- I blush. Seriously, both you and Sean make such smart comments that I feel like hunching my shoulders and saying, "Aw shucks. I just likes to talk pretty." I appreciate all the help and look forward to seeing one of you guys offer something up when you get a chance. Who's our next contestant?
:: Rob 7/05/2002 10:22:00 AM [+] ::
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Josh, you kid.
:: Sean 6/25/2002 04:08:00 PM [+] ::
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Thanks for the comments, Sean, and there's no worry about your "getting schooled" on what you missed. You missed nothing. As usual, you put your finger right on the problems. I now return to the poem with a sense of renewed hope that it doesn't have to be incinerated in order to improve it. Thanks for the help--

And Josh, don't sweat it. I think we've all been kind of buried under this, that, or the other (I prefer the "other" personally), but I do hope we keep this clambake going.
:: Rob 6/25/2002 12:45:00 PM [+] ::
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Good to hear from you both. I have a copy on the "cold men" poem in my little notebook which is a good sign. I've been marking on it lately. So far my thoughts are that that "cold men" line is for me a bit cute. (This coming from the guy who wrote that "personals" poem). I don't mean throw the book into the fire cute, but I wonder if that doesn't detract for some readers from the fantastic next few lines about the oak. I loved that. Really solid line break. I got my copy out, so I'll go ahead and go. I usually rely on Josh or Paul or You to help me see things that I should have, but I wonder if putting the infinitive "to drown" doesn't make the reader work too hard. Or the problem is for me with the semi-colon. But then I got confused with the "their" in the last stanza. I love it from the second line of the last stanza on--"lamping black . . . sea-shimmer . . . a lens of glass" "sails of shroud" all that is good shit. I think I also got confused with the second line of the second stanza--is the narrator waiting? I think the ships are waiting, and I assume they're imagined, and maybe "imagines" not "sees" would help the simple folk. I think I'll go ahead and put this up and be prepared to be schooled about what I missed. I'm feeling dim.
:: Sean 6/24/2002 07:26:00 AM [+] ::
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I'd be up for more workshopping; it's been helpful and entertaining. However, it would be nice to get some feedback on these poems before we moved on to something else.
:: Rob 6/19/2002 12:33:00 PM [+] ::
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Yeah, Rob. Way to go. It was fun before you came in and ruined it. But really. I wanted to say I'm sorry I haven't been talking at all lately. I just got out of the habit of looking I guess. We could get the band back together and try again, or say, job well done. What do you guys think. I'm at Conway for the summer, very bored, so I'm up for more workshop. Peace. Oh, yes, a new and sparling Nancy cd is out, "Who's Your Boyfriend Now?" is the title, and I even like it.
:: Sean 6/17/2002 09:12:00 PM [+] ::
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Wow, two months, and no talky talky. My stellar versification brought this workshop to its knees like a bad, bad girl.
:: Rob 6/11/2002 02:55:00 PM [+] ::
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Ah, married life not quite what you'd hoped, eh Rob?
:: Sean 4/18/2002 02:58:00 PM [+] ::
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OK, here's my exercise poem, only about a month and a half late.

KILLING DELIA

Humped beneath the comforter, she snores
enough to crack the house. In the dining room, the plates
shake in the cupboard, the fragile glass
and china shiver with each breath, and he thinks again,
“I can’t get this diesel off my hands.”
He drifts to sleep, the sound rubbing his bones like a cat.

He dreams of slim women and cool skin
then wakes and slogs into the kitchen, his glance sliding
off his wife’s bulk. Wrapped in terry cloth
the blue of glaciers, she smiles into her shoulder, turns
the bacon with an upside down fork.
Rat poison? Sleeping pills like babies’ teeth in her grits?

The seeds of apples hide cyanide.
How many would he need to crush with mortar, pestle?
“Would you stay and hold me for a bit?”
she asks and puts his plate before him. He nods and dreams –
a thousand red and perfect hearts, cored
beside the back porch, rotting in shade and a blank sun.

:: Rob 4/17/2002 11:50:00 AM [+] ::
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Ok, here goes a form one. I'll try the exercise poem and maybe put it up later. Thanks!

GLUGGATHYKKN

“Dense clouds with openings in them,” Old Icelandic, from Grettir’s Saga

That is no country for cold men, he thinks
And sips his beer beneath the braces, booms,
And sails of a Spanish oak. This Memphis summer,
So far removed from North Atlantic ice,

He sees the narrow ships riding the gloom,
Waiting for a blade of moon to cut the clouds
Before slipping up the cold shingle
To tumble sod, thatch, and stone; to drown

The stars and tremble clouds with fires of their own.
To have a word for those gaps – those sudden
Windows of stars and lamping black, of ink
And moon – would be, he thinks, like holding sea-shimmer,
A lens of glass and lightning that makes him wise,
That lets him see the world past sails of shroud.

:: Rob 4/15/2002 07:30:00 PM [+] ::
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Just wanted to say it's nice to have you all back, and me too. Thanks for the comments Rob; you should assign yourself the same thing and have it up in a day. I guess you're next with a poem though anyway, so I'll look for that. Josh, I have nothing to say to you, it's all there, just let it out. Paul, what are your plans for the fall?
:: Sean 4/14/2002 10:06:00 AM [+] ::
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Josh,
Since you've given us a a revision of the "Dear Reader" poem ("Zombie Sunday"), I'll just jump in with that one. First off, I've got to agree with Mr. Bone on how well your "voluminous, various imagery" and your tonal mix work, line after line. Also, there are more good lines in the poem than a group of hyperactive Cub Scouts on cocaine could shake a stick at (favorite: "There are 101 dolphin-safe poems"). My only substantive suggestion would be to pare it back a bit in order to focus it and to bring into sharper relief the best of the imagery and humor. Specifically, the lines beginning with "I promise / to allow these several objects" down to the end get a tad prosy. I think that some judicious cuts there and maybe elsewhere would help the poem pack a larger wallop; I also suspect that cuts are going to help relieve what you saw as a "blocky" resolution. That all said, I'm very interested in this poem, and I'm quite jealous that you were able to effortlessly work in the word "esemplastic."
:: Rob 4/12/2002 04:16:00 PM [+] ::
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Josh,
Loved "For Medusa." Funny and beautiful all the same time. Bastard. My favorite lines or phrases were, "the bastard-hitch, the chthonic-double-upside slip, and the loathsome and mobius overhand delight," "where ropes are straw and you are stone," and "that coils the wayward moon to the bedframe" -- the last is fantastic.

I wish I had more to say, but the only real suggestion I would make would be to modify the final line so that the best language isn't buried at the front. "that, while I dream, coils the wayward moon to the bedframe."
:: Rob 4/12/2002 03:14:00 PM [+] ::
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Sean,
Remember when Cokes were only a nickle apiece? Remember when a man first set foot on the moon? Remember when you posted a poem called "Mark the Memory Down"?

Again, really great poem, especially considering its humble beginnings as an assignment poem. Start with what I like -- "autumnal smell of smoke ghosting," "quilts me in memory of a girl," "spent cracking pecans in the shadow / of that fall," "I stare at black and white snow," "Teens with warm beers and sweethearts turning to giggle / in their necks. Listen to my voice boys...." Really good lines, and in the case of the first two, great transformation of those nouns into verbs.

My only two reservations are small ones, petty even. The first is in the final line of stanza 3. "Talk" looks, momentarily, like it's the verb for county (i.e. county talkS of the past), in which case the agreement is wrong. The meaning straightens itself out in the next stanza with "infests," but that momentary hitch kind of drops me out of the poem for a second. The only other thing is the final line; I like "slow son. Mark the memory down," but the final two sentences might be too much together. Maybe pick one? If so, I'd opt for "Slowly go."


:: Rob 4/12/2002 03:06:00 PM [+] ::
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Paul,
Think back to a period, geological ages ago, when you wrote a poem beginning with the line, "Will you stay and hold me for a bit...." I'm working my way slowly back to the present, and I just looked at the poem -- I like it, especially for an "assignment" poem. Its sense of play with language is particularly fun and effective; the line break in, "When you fall asleep in the middle / of a story..." is really clever, and it works too. "Sparrow down," "shoulder and shadow," "navel still pretty," and "read it to the end" are all my favorites. I guess my only qualm is a minor one: the poem's rhythm doesn't really seem sure of itself until the third stanza; up until that point, the endstops break it up for me a bit too much, but I think that' s easily smoothed out.

Still swimming toward the present, a stroke closer with each line. Also, I should have a new one up on Sunday, and you guys can pay me back by not commenting on it until Israel and Palestine sign a lasting peace agreement.
:: Rob 4/12/2002 02:40:00 PM [+] ::
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Fellers,
Grovelling apologies to all. I'd love to say that I'd been in Sumatra for the past month hunting the Berry-Belly Orangutan when I came across a village of fierce, yet oddly sexy pigmies. They took me in, bathed me, fed me nothing but hot buttered rum and scones (the national dish of Sexy Sumatran Pigmies) then gave me an old and battered map of the jungled mountains that surrounded them. I followed the overgrown footpaths until I stumbled, literally, into a Berry-Belly Orangutan. We danced, oh I can tell you we danced! But I knew that I had a neglected poetry workshop, and so we parted, tearfully. And so, there will be miles to go before I dance again, miles to go before I dance again.

Like I said, I'd LOVE to tell you that was true, but (and you'll be surprised here), it's not -- I made all that shit up.

Seriously though, I'm on it -- looking at you guys' poems and working on a new one of my own too.

And Sean, congratulations! If you're driving to PA, feel free to drop in at Evansville and stay a while. I'll get you drunk and we can go watch some baseball.
:: Rob 4/10/2002 01:46:00 PM [+] ::
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Hang on. I've been crazy I think lately. Me confused about meaning of this and everything, but lately, I'm feeling better, so don't give up hope, keep up the good fight, and I'm sorry I've not been inputing enough. Where is Rob? Whose poem is next? This is fun. OHHH. I took a job in Johnstown PA living with my good friend Jon and teaching comp AND tech writing, BUT I have four day weekends and only teach three classes, BUT I get paid waiters wages; however, I'll be in a NEW place. That's about it.
:: Sean 4/10/2002 01:51:00 AM [+] ::
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Shit! Another damn poem about Hot Dogs.
:: Sean 3/20/2002 08:16:00 AM [+] ::
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Yeah, Paul, it was no big deal, and man the rush when I looked up at the clock last night. I was at work in the Writing Center and had just had a cancellation, so it worked perfectly; I locked myself in a room with a mac and set to work. I was reading to myself madly and tapping the ol' desk with my fingers for the count. Really fun, and yes, this is very good for us. I don't see the harm in one a week or so. And Jesus, boys, from the looks of these poems we need to get on more dates!
:: Sean 3/14/2002 08:31:00 AM [+] ::
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Mark the Memory Down

I can't get this diesel off my hands
and the autumnal smell of smoke ghosting the leaf pile
quilts me in memory of a girl
in a dress with sunlight shining through. Long afternoons

spent cracking pecans in the shadow
of that fall. She loved me, I'm sure of that. And stillness
and smoke sooth me into believing
love exists still in this county which talk of the past

infests. I stare at black and white snow
on my set between cars and see possibility
in the shifting shapes of the hissing
tube. Cars bullet past my station, smash the dull hissing

and explode down the highway. I see
them. Teens with warm beers and sweethearts turning to giggle
in their necks. Listen to my voice boys:
slow son. Mark the memory down. Slow son. Slowly go.


ps how about a heads up next time? I found out about this at 5:15. Actually little time probably helps. Nice assignment, Paul. I'd love to do one of these a week and not spend too much time workshopping them, but just say, "dang, you boys is the shit!" or something to that effect.
:: Sean 3/13/2002 06:00:00 PM [+] ::
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I'm up for the sonnet exercise if everyone else is. Who's up on the regular rotation anyway? Josh?
:: Rob 3/11/2002 01:49:00 PM [+] ::
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You mean what does "Nolan" mean? He was the coach of the Razorback Bball team and was fired for being sassy. I liked him; thus, I'm sad. Tell me what you all would think about an exercise--say, write a sonnet or something in 24 hours; then we could all see the results. I wouldn't want to do it if it wasn't fun, but I was thinking about those song-writing competitions where Hank Williams or someone would write a song in 20 minutes. I thought it might be a nice break from putting quality stuff (I should say that the song I'm thinking of was that Jambalaya song which is um . . . good http://www.guitaretab.com/gtab/t/20923) out there and would allow us some fun. We could let one of us come up with the assignment to be posted by noon on Friday and have to post our poem by noon on Saturday, or better yet, I think, 2:00 on Friday. Just pick a time when we're all there at the keyboards. Less time the better. Also, have you all heard anything about our president waving at Stevie Wonder during the White House gala? He got no response and slowly lowered his arm. A friend said he'd seen it in the Washington Post, and I thought it would brighten your days. Oh, I just published a couple of Ronsard poems at thedrunkenboat.com. They'll be out in the spring issue. My first translations to hit the presses! Any other pub news? or is that tacky?
:: Sean 3/07/2002 07:53:00 AM [+] ::
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Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's 5:21 in the AM, and I'm on my way to Bayou Meto to teach kids how to be poor and fairly high-strung. I'm very sorry that I didn't get to comment yet. I tried a couple of these once, and boy . . . I've been too upset about Nolan to write you guys, but I think I'll be better when I get back. Talk to you later. Just kidding about Nolan.
:: Sean 3/05/2002 05:22:00 AM [+] ::
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Paul, villanelle -- ambitious -- mainly working -- my telegraphic style of writing -- ending now.

OK, Though you say you are not wedded to to the form, I think you're pretty much stuck. If you unravel too many loose ends in a piece like this, I think it's going to fall apart on you entirely. But that's okay, you want to keep it as is because this is a good villanelle with some great lines (right now, I'm muttering "You bastard" under my breath, but take that as a compliment).

What's working best: The line "We make love once a month and die in our sleep" is good in all of its permutations, as is "We want to ask each other what's left to keep." I also like "The speech of dreams goes unmentioned...," "we don't hold between us in the leaps / from death to breath and back again to night." The variations, too, are really good, keeping the poem surprising and turning it at all the right spots.

What's holding the poem back for me: There are a few lines that don't seem as tight as the rest of the poem, and these are bringing down the dramatic tension, I think. "Of course ... heap," "Turn over here ... not right," "the way ... to help," "with this ... escape," and "this wish ... flightless" seem more prosy than the rest of the poem and seem to be working too hard to advance the dramatic situation. Also, while I really love the beginning of the line "It seems a shame we've portioned out," I think that "the rate of love" is a letdown in that "rate" seems a forced mis-rhyme. "Weep," too, seems forced both for the rhyme and the tone; if the woman is talking, I have trouble hearing her refer to the man's crying as weeping. Finally, while I love the title, I think that "Uncurled from the tongue of sleep and forgetfulness" should be saved for another day.

Overall, I really admire this poem for what it says and how it accomplishes it. However, I guess I just want to see the middle lines of the final two stanzas have the same intensity and naturalness (is that a word?) as the rest of the poem.
:: Rob 2/27/2002 11:24:00 AM [+] ::
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Paul, I just wanted you to know that I printed it up, and will have a post up IN SEVERAL DAYS.
:: Sean 2/20/2002 02:43:00 PM [+] ::
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As I explained in my post, which you were too busy eating BAP to read, is that there is no major change. We couldn't get to some of the old posts before. Now it goes back to november. There. But now you mention it, let's have some different colors!!
:: Sean 2/13/2002 11:09:00 AM [+] ::
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BAP is a tasty, crusty roll. Mmmmmmm, Best American Produce.
:: Rob 2/13/2002 09:18:00 AM [+] ::
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You guys are too sweet. Thanks. I had fun writing it, and I'll send it somewhere for sure. Rob, I see you were rejected by "The Onion Fucker Review" as well. Sorry. I think that I'll change "inside" near the end to "within" but tell me if that's too poeticy, and I'll try breaking out of the shape of the poem, but that's really what saved the thing in the first place--being forced to shorten my lines. I'll try it and see if I can live with how it looks. I see what you're saying though. The real reason I'm writing this is to ask if you guys think the 2001 Best American is confusing. I have found some good ones for me--Lucia's poem I'd read before but still really like, and I liked Bishop's, but much of the book I can't understand. I'll spend more time on it and all, but I was wondering what you thought. It's all

the magic-markered mugs
of afronauts
with new spaceships
not manufactured

up south. . . .

Any comments? There are some ponderous poems here. And Paul, I think you're it when you want. I do like the idea Josh had of slack. So, when you're ready.

:: Sean 2/10/2002 10:13:00 AM [+] ::
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From: Muscle-Bound Rob
Sean, like everyone else, I don't think there's much for to say; the poem is really about done and ready to send out (to someplace really good too, not "The Onion Fucker Review"). Just to wake things up, I thought about beginning this post by saying, "Wow. I've really got to disagree with you guys on this one. This poem makes dogshit pallatable by comparison. I'd bite off my right ball to keep from writing this poem." Of course, I didn't say that.

My only suggestion would be to consider the last line. I'm always wary about one word on a line by itself, even when it's a heavy-hitter like "heart." It draws alot of attention to itself, and to be honest, I think the word is on the line by itself to fufill the visual form and not the rhythm. To me, I hear "your open heart" all on one line for one reason: if the heart is open, I want a rhythm that mimics that. Having the poem contract completely to a point on the word "heart" seems to work against that sentiment rhythmically. In other words, it seems as if the poem wants to open up rather than contract on that last line. I could be over-thinking this one though.

Great lines, great images -- send send send.
:: Rob 2/09/2002 02:10:00 PM [+] ::
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You're right Paul. I figure if you can't steal from yourself (or your friends) then what. Glad to hear from you again, and look forward to getting your comments.
:: Sean 2/07/2002 11:44:00 AM [+] ::
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Only change really is the word "prickle" not "nourish" which sounded a bit sweet. Does "charm your father" work. I kind of would like for this guy to want to be tough--SUV, prickle, seed etc, but ultimately to be suburban. Does "sleep inside your heart" work?


I want

to ring the word “darling” into your wet mouth
to seed your pager with gentle obscenities
to sparkle your lawn with tonic and gin
to SUV my hands around your hips
to diesel my voice into your neck
to email your bedroom smell
to the bachelors of Chicago
to prickle you with kisses
to surrender, my outlaw
to charm your father
to finish this note
to sleep inside
your open
heart


:: Sean 2/06/2002 10:11:00 AM [+] ::
...

Here you go. Thank you Josh. I love your idea and made some really funny joke about it in a post, but it's lost somewhere. What is that Poe wrote about unheard melodies (or was that purloined claret--haw haw). I thought a real place where it's cold and full of bachelors (what a great word) like Chicago would work better than Atlantis. Thanks buddy.


I want

to ring the word "darling" into your wet mouth
to seed your pager with gentle obscenities
to sparkle your lawn with tonic and gin
to SUV my hands around your hips
to diesel my voice into your neck
to email your bedroom smell
to the bachelors of Chicago
to nourish you with kisses
to surrender, my outlaw
to charm your father
to finish this note
to sleep inside
your open
heart


:: Sean 2/05/2002 04:00:00 PM [+] ::
...

Oh really, what the hell. I mean it's just poetry right? Hope this finds you well. I'll have questions for you later, and as you know, perhaps a revision in an hour or so.

I want

to ring the word “darling” inside your wet mouth
to seed your pager with gentle obscenities
to sparkle your lawn with tonic and gin
to SUV my hands around your hips
to diesel my voice into your neck
to email your bedroom smell
to nourish you with kisses
to surrender, my outlaw
to charm your father
to finish this note
to sleep inside
your open
heart


:: Sean 2/05/2002 09:47:00 AM [+] ::
...

Has anyone heard from Paul? Maybe he's out fishing or something. We need your comments Paul. Um, yeah, I guess it's my turn, but I have to wait until tomorrow to write something if that's all right. I should have something up tomorrow morning. This is still fun for me, and I was worried about that, but this is staying fresh and helpful I think, so good job everyone. See you tomorrow.
:: Sean 1/29/2002 10:01:00 AM [+] ::
...

Thanks guys for the comments and suggestions -- I started working on a revision this last weekend based on what you said, and I've got to say I feel pretty good about where it's going now. I especially liked the ideas about switching the 2nd and 3rd stanzas; there was something about the last one that felt kind of phonily optimistic to me too, and it was good to have someone articulate it for me.

So who's up now? Are be back to Sean?
:: Rob 1/28/2002 03:03:00 PM [+] ::
...

nice to see josh showing his ass again. I just wanted to mention how nice it is here for me to have all your faces and voices and general styles of dress in my head (raven-haired josh and muscle-bound rob and wise-cracking paul and of course me with the diamond in my tooth) I hope that we could all meet in a real time somewhere and eat fried pies or something, maybe roll a bank.

So, I'll pull a Josh here, and say, "yeah, what he said." First, Paul. I agree with Rob and Josh now that you shouldn't get rid of the father but should perhaps incorporate him more. I was taking the easy way out, but I don't think it left you with as good a poem. I didn't notice the meter, so, duh on that one. You know my leaning away from form (when I can pick it out, that is). I'd like to see your revision when you get one up.

Rob. I love parts of this poem. I mean, fuck you for "he knows that soon he will forget / the names he shaped, like urns, to hold his fears"--that got four checks! I had done the same edit on the bedroom thing that Josh pointed out, mine reads, "Shuffling through the bedroom / piles of fig leaves on the floor / in the morning kitchen stacks of dirty plates and cups rising . . ."
I think you could leave out the words "at the bristles" a few lines down. That would give a bit more surprise when we get to "hairy teeth". I was at first struck by "stitched across the sky" and thought it too good to be new, and looked around. It's a perfect and popular description of birds these days--this year's "the knives sing in their drawer" maybe. I love it, but maybe it's used too much.
I like Josh's idea of moving the stanzas around. At least look at it. I hadn't considered it, but I like it. On the last stanza (as you have it) I changed the words "every spring", to "each spring" I suppose because I like the sound with "catch" but I don't know. Also, could you cut "as always"? I think it's implied enough--the always, and to me it sounds like a move I'd do. Something for the ladies to remember I'm a poet. I like the rhythm better with the cut.
An aside. I showed this to James Katowich (A FICTION WRITER) and he said he questions poems from poets about words. He was feeling poorly at the time, but it's a view that's out there, I suppose. I have never given it a thought, and if poets can't talk about language, then fuck. I just thought we could have a laugh at the poor old twisted fiction people and their funny quirks.

Good job and well done.
:: Sean 1/25/2002 09:21:00 AM [+] ::
...

OK, a rough one, but here goes --

ADAM, AFTER EVE

After grief, alone again with the world,
he finds those little pleasures, so long misplaced,
turning up like unlooked-for coins
in pockets or the bottoms of drawers.
Shuffling in the morning kitchen,
piles of fig leaves on the bedroom floor
and stacks of dirty plates and cups rising
from the sink like a miniature Babel,
he picks up a dish brush dripping with soapy water
and stares at the bristles. The only words
that come are “hairy teeth,” and he turns
to ask Eve for the word he’s lost.
But all that is left of her is emptiness,
a dull ache in his side on rainy days.

He knows that other words are escaping too,
flying south like the blackbirds
stitched across his autumn sky,
and he knows that soon he will forget
the names he shaped, like urns, to hold his fears.
And when their clay cracks and crumbles,
he knows that "wolf" will become "hunger,"
"water" will become the "cold beast,"
and the clematis outside his kitchen window
will become the "slow destroyer" –
word by word, the world uncreated.

But this too, he thinks, is wrong,
for he suspects that, nameless or not,
the waxwings will still settle
in the tall grass, the dogwood
will catch fire every spring,
and the wren outside his window
will sing as always.

:: Rob 1/14/2002 10:47:00 AM [+] ::
...

Okay, I put these comments up a while back, and evidently they either didn't take or I didn't post them correctly or the Universe is against me (the latter is probably most true).

Anyway, here goes: Like Sean, I also like this poem, and I like the way it tells a fairly long and potentially involved story with such economy and without getting too confusing. I'll begin, however, by partially arguing with Sean: I think the father is necessary in the poem since, for the first half of it, the father-to-be is absent. In fact, I kind of wanted to see just a little more of the father and his reaction to this whole situation.

That said and having looked at Sean's revision, I think that he and I agree on a couple of points (if I misrepresent you Sean, kick me in the teeth and tell me to fuck myself). I think the phrase "she remembered" is completely unncessary. It sets up a frame story that doesn't add much to the poem or its resolution, and it DOES set up a potentially confusing verb tense problem wherein you would have to follow that phrase with lines such as "she had heard her father's Blueticks," "she had woken," "So that was it," etc. I like the immediacy of the poem better without the "she remembered."

Meter: I would abandon the loose iambic pentameter. It's too irregular to really be heard (too much syncopation), and it's forcing you into some verbose passages that I suspect you would have avoided in your ususal free verse. For example, in the first line, the phrase "one night" is kind of superfluous, and later in that stanza, the phrase "of a tree" dissapates the great energy you create with "Blueticks pulled up short."

Stanza 4: I was a little confused about the narrative in these lines. I assume that he re-enlisted and then came home just long enough to get married. Am I right, or am I a wanker on this one? Maybe simply add the word "briefly" to describe his return home.

By stanza 7, the poem really seems more certain of itself and where it's going. In fact, you've got so many good lines that I don't want to take the time to re-type them all. I think my favorites, though, are the ones around "catty glasses" -- great descriptions and really distiguished and controlled language throughout. Me jealous because of my own cave-man use of words. Ugh. Go home now and beat wife with club. Scrawl pictures on cave wall. Shit in corner. Fuck dog.

But I digress.

Sorry that it took so long to get this stuff re-posted (or posted, who the fuck knows).

:: Rob 1/10/2002 05:06:00 PM [+] ::
...