:: Poetry ::

:: Thursday, April 18, 2002 ::

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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