If Britney Spears lays one more track
I think I’ll have a heart attack.
If she goes out and shaves her head
the men will flee her silky bed.
She may not have been innocent
but at sixteen seemed heaven sent
She wiggled thrusted; soft core porn,
in that infamous uniform.
Oh how we see the mighty fall
she’d filled the Royal Albert Hall
her work with Disney just a waste
with Miley Cyrus she’s replaced.
If you’re one of her die-hard fans
then just ignore this silly pan,
forgive me in my little joke
at least she wasn’t caught with coke. . .
Thursday, March 26, 2009
You’re long and thin and golden through,
And bend as breeze may push you so.
A collage of stalks upright they stand,
The sun reflects a calming glow.
Your tips and tops will flower up,
So small they bloom form tips of wires.
An ocean of cattails waving high,
The water looked like a million fires.
You’re insignificant alone,
But with abundance and your flower.
Ground into stone until powder,
Your form becomes a different flour.
You’re helpful in the kitchen now,
To make a loaf, add water, make dough.
Till golden brown on cusp of bread
You’ll bake until I tell you so.
Why we broke you down one sunny day,
Will lie in mind for years to come.
Had we not and left you alone,
You’d drown me in your plain boredom.
You’re more then fires upon the tails,
Of cats running through your rolling hills.
How gold and bold you sold your self,
to be taken away to mills.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sunny
Black on white and ink in skin
To burst upon the elbow.
Your face exists in photographs,
Your name upon my elbow.
Skittles and oreos, now on the floor
Brown stain still sits in rug.
You never yelled or raised your voice,
I threw up, I got a hug?
You’re not gone, you’re not dead,
But time is running out.
I want to stop your aging years,
“Don’t die,” I want to shout.
The sting, the numbness, I endured,
To make you permanent.
A hundred dollars is much to little,
For what the ink really meant.
Mom and Dad, did not approve,
Your brother especially.
They felt I left them off my frame,
The heart is where they’ll be.
To touch and burn the human flesh,
Is a sacrifice to me.
To show my respect and dying love,
So that you will see.
You’ve shaped and guided my short life,
From birth to this very day.
Murphy died I didn’t know,
How she use to play.
Don’t change, don’t stop, I miss you babe,
Your love I want to take.
If you let up, or ever stop;
The ink is a mistake.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Brennan, The Zamboni Driver
She smiled and pulled the trigger back,
a slam of sound did ring.
"Look what you've made me go and do.
Now take back your god damned ring."
Two bodies lay in the room with him
and hour before he rose
with cold hands that dripped with mistress blood
and stained sheets around his toes.
no sirens came to comfort him,
no lights or suits of blue.
He wished to God that there was time
to make this scene untrue.
He picked the magnum .45
up from the grisly floor.
He put it into his mouth and then
he shuddered to his core.
He had not resolve to join them both, but
his scarred face shows his regret;
His still pink wounds and patch of flesh
will not let him forget.
With ruined, shambled life and cast,
he left town without a word
and now he rides the great Zamboni,
but of this I'm sure you've heard.
He came to this town in hopes that he
could live without explaining
just what had brought him to live among us
or tell of all his failings.
Now watch yourself, don't let him know
of all the things I've told.
It's quite a shame what's happened to him
in his life so bleak and bold.
a slam of sound did ring.
"Look what you've made me go and do.
Now take back your god damned ring."
Two bodies lay in the room with him
and hour before he rose
with cold hands that dripped with mistress blood
and stained sheets around his toes.
no sirens came to comfort him,
no lights or suits of blue.
He wished to God that there was time
to make this scene untrue.
He picked the magnum .45
up from the grisly floor.
He put it into his mouth and then
he shuddered to his core.
He had not resolve to join them both, but
his scarred face shows his regret;
His still pink wounds and patch of flesh
will not let him forget.
With ruined, shambled life and cast,
he left town without a word
and now he rides the great Zamboni,
but of this I'm sure you've heard.
He came to this town in hopes that he
could live without explaining
just what had brought him to live among us
or tell of all his failings.
Now watch yourself, don't let him know
of all the things I've told.
It's quite a shame what's happened to him
in his life so bleak and bold.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Critical Response #2-Christina
Christina Ledesma
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response #2
March 5, 2009
Critical Response to Salta by Whitney Moore
I enjoyed the pantoum “Salta” by Whitney Moore. The images throughout her poem helped paint a picture of a beautiful landscape in Argentina. Personally, I have never been to Argentina but after reading “Salta” I was able to visualize the images in her poem through her descriptive writing. The language in her poem is very beautiful, some of the lines that stood out to me were “Green-dusted, meandering hills / Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns” and “Fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile”. The poem was written in pantoum style which helps gives it a nice rhythm. Each stanza is packed with great images so the repetition in the poem gives the reader a new visual by rearranging the lines in each stanza. I think Whitney did a good job picking and choosing the order of lines in her poem. The poem flows together beautifully and each stanza has a good transition into the next stanza. However, I do think Whitney’s poem could be better if she only focused on the strongest lines in her poem. I think if she eliminated the weakest lines and just used the strongest lines she would have a more effective poem. The poem would be stronger all around and it would help create a better visual for her reader.
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response #2
March 5, 2009
Critical Response to Salta by Whitney Moore
I enjoyed the pantoum “Salta” by Whitney Moore. The images throughout her poem helped paint a picture of a beautiful landscape in Argentina. Personally, I have never been to Argentina but after reading “Salta” I was able to visualize the images in her poem through her descriptive writing. The language in her poem is very beautiful, some of the lines that stood out to me were “Green-dusted, meandering hills / Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns” and “Fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile”. The poem was written in pantoum style which helps gives it a nice rhythm. Each stanza is packed with great images so the repetition in the poem gives the reader a new visual by rearranging the lines in each stanza. I think Whitney did a good job picking and choosing the order of lines in her poem. The poem flows together beautifully and each stanza has a good transition into the next stanza. However, I do think Whitney’s poem could be better if she only focused on the strongest lines in her poem. I think if she eliminated the weakest lines and just used the strongest lines she would have a more effective poem. The poem would be stronger all around and it would help create a better visual for her reader.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Mere Anarchy is Loosed Upon the World
The falcon never heard his call,
it never wanted to.
It danced and it turned and it laughed
as man below withdrew.
One man in the pouring rain stood.
The falconer fell quiet,
as if struck on the hand by God.
The bird winged to a riot.
In the sky in their aeries high
the falcons spun and twirled.
At the highest point in their dance
they forgot man and his world.
But man made a point to show himself
when joy began to peak.
The avian armada flew
And left behind the weak.
Now scores of the sickest and sad
falcons are slaves once more.
Their brethren left them all behind,
they cried and looked for doors.
The falcon never heard his call,
It never had a chance.
It howled and it screeched and it shook
as man below advanced.
Of the free birds that kept their wings
if any still felt bold,
they would not show it in their eyes
with brothers in the cold.
All the free peoples of the earth--
the birds and beasts and bugs--
have lost their place, their space erased
by portly pink-fleshed thugs.
it never wanted to.
It danced and it turned and it laughed
as man below withdrew.
One man in the pouring rain stood.
The falconer fell quiet,
as if struck on the hand by God.
The bird winged to a riot.
In the sky in their aeries high
the falcons spun and twirled.
At the highest point in their dance
they forgot man and his world.
But man made a point to show himself
when joy began to peak.
The avian armada flew
And left behind the weak.
Now scores of the sickest and sad
falcons are slaves once more.
Their brethren left them all behind,
they cried and looked for doors.
The falcon never heard his call,
It never had a chance.
It howled and it screeched and it shook
as man below advanced.
Of the free birds that kept their wings
if any still felt bold,
they would not show it in their eyes
with brothers in the cold.
All the free peoples of the earth--
the birds and beasts and bugs--
have lost their place, their space erased
by portly pink-fleshed thugs.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Valentine’s day to do list:
Number 1: Embody, recreate and reminisce on any love moment together.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
Letter
Dear Tony,
I read your book, Sad Jazz: Sonnets. After reading this, I found that this book is my favorite collection of contemporary poetry. I appreciated that is was a conceptual book rather than the ordinary book of poetry where the poems don’t necessarily relate to each other, although their may be a theme. The few sessions I sat down to read the book came with great ease as the poems flowed from one to the next, giving me an image of who the protagonist and the antagonist (I guess I use these terms because I sympathize with the protagonist) are. No poem seemed out of place or thrown in carelessly. It was obviously well-thought out structurally,with the way in which is was divided into sections. And on a side not, I initially became interested in this book of poems because of the cover; it reminds me of a Matisse artwork.
Specific emotions were re-invented through the book, here are a few: Love, fear, self-esteem (or the lack of it), anger, rage, sadness, yearning, sexual, lust, impassion. I could almost feel all the intense emotions myself while I read the concentrated imagery and tonal rhythms from this book of poems. For example in Spider Women, you write …”and she goes down and can’t boot up, just lies/ in bed in her pajamas, staring up / at cobwebs in the corner, and can’t stop / her brain from spinning, spinning, spinning like / a spider given acid, a mad web.” I can see this image exactly as it is described, however, this is not just an image, this is an image through the eyes of someone who loves the person going through this deep depression/insanity. That, simply, makes the heart swell.
A few other poems that really jumped out at me, where I had to read it a few more times, and even out loud were: Insect Wings, Zombies, Things in the Mirror (The section, “Things in the Mirror” seemed to be my favorite), Screw The Beatles, Bad Drivers, The Ghost Limb, Barbeque, Heart Sushi (this title is my favorite!), Nathan Tells him (What Nathan says reminds me something my mom would tell me). I can honestly say, and this is a big deal for me because I can be very critical, I had no qualms with Sad Jazz: Sonnets. It was heart wrenching, hilarious, thoughtful, and built from experience.
Thank you for sharing!
Dorothy Tunnell
I read your book, Sad Jazz: Sonnets. After reading this, I found that this book is my favorite collection of contemporary poetry. I appreciated that is was a conceptual book rather than the ordinary book of poetry where the poems don’t necessarily relate to each other, although their may be a theme. The few sessions I sat down to read the book came with great ease as the poems flowed from one to the next, giving me an image of who the protagonist and the antagonist (I guess I use these terms because I sympathize with the protagonist) are. No poem seemed out of place or thrown in carelessly. It was obviously well-thought out structurally,with the way in which is was divided into sections. And on a side not, I initially became interested in this book of poems because of the cover; it reminds me of a Matisse artwork.
Specific emotions were re-invented through the book, here are a few: Love, fear, self-esteem (or the lack of it), anger, rage, sadness, yearning, sexual, lust, impassion. I could almost feel all the intense emotions myself while I read the concentrated imagery and tonal rhythms from this book of poems. For example in Spider Women, you write …”and she goes down and can’t boot up, just lies/ in bed in her pajamas, staring up / at cobwebs in the corner, and can’t stop / her brain from spinning, spinning, spinning like / a spider given acid, a mad web.” I can see this image exactly as it is described, however, this is not just an image, this is an image through the eyes of someone who loves the person going through this deep depression/insanity. That, simply, makes the heart swell.
A few other poems that really jumped out at me, where I had to read it a few more times, and even out loud were: Insect Wings, Zombies, Things in the Mirror (The section, “Things in the Mirror” seemed to be my favorite), Screw The Beatles, Bad Drivers, The Ghost Limb, Barbeque, Heart Sushi (this title is my favorite!), Nathan Tells him (What Nathan says reminds me something my mom would tell me). I can honestly say, and this is a big deal for me because I can be very critical, I had no qualms with Sad Jazz: Sonnets. It was heart wrenching, hilarious, thoughtful, and built from experience.
Thank you for sharing!
Dorothy Tunnell
Her Wild Demure
She clings to bold voice slips,
Unfolding like oragami
Of crisp and bare sheets, vul-
nerable listeners stormy.
Unfolding like oragami
Of crisp and bare sheets, vul-
nerable listeners stormy.
A Bus in Madurai
Dented metal, chipped paint,
Overflowing people
Crowd in
inflation.
Bodies of life and chrome tip and dip
forty five degrees
towards the stacking, forgotten
shops and shop keepers
slows and goes
off and off
on and on
always.
Overflowing people
Crowd in
inflation.
Bodies of life and chrome tip and dip
forty five degrees
towards the stacking, forgotten
shops and shop keepers
slows and goes
off and off
on and on
always.
Happy Beggers
Children go to homes
for a tumbler full of rice
on Navaratiri
Navaritiri - is a festival in autumn that lasts nine nights. It literally means "nine nights." It celebrates multiple goddess': Durga, Sarasvuti, Lakshmi. Puja (prayer ritual) is done every morning when the sun rises where the goddess' names are repeated 100 times.
for a tumbler full of rice
on Navaratiri
Navaritiri - is a festival in autumn that lasts nine nights. It literally means "nine nights." It celebrates multiple goddess': Durga, Sarasvuti, Lakshmi. Puja (prayer ritual) is done every morning when the sun rises where the goddess' names are repeated 100 times.
And So He Fell to Earth and This is What He Saw - Dorothy Tunnell
He jumped from the sky, upon the earth's
demise he stole an orange to suck the
peels of whole life unearthing sickening.
He's pleased finding green monsters that cling,
unmeshing between rocky and dirty meadows.
But lost to upright bodies meandering
in distant oblivious minds. He fears
For their mistaken luminosity.
demise he stole an orange to suck the
peels of whole life unearthing sickening.
He's pleased finding green monsters that cling,
unmeshing between rocky and dirty meadows.
But lost to upright bodies meandering
in distant oblivious minds. He fears
For their mistaken luminosity.
Modified Pantoum
Amma and Appa
Every day she wakes when the moon
Falls into the slit of rising sensations.
The bell rings in the puja room for Vishnu
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
She wears an unstarched, purple cotton sari
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And begins her daily “works” in the kitchen
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Her sweet gestures swim into an unbearable aroma
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And every day, he picks crimson hibiscus and offers them to the gods
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Every day she wakes when the moon
Falls into the slit of rising sensations.
The bell rings in the puja room for Vishnu
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
She wears an unstarched, purple cotton sari
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And begins her daily “works” in the kitchen
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Her sweet gestures swim into an unbearable aroma
Falls into the slit of rising sensations
And every day, he picks crimson hibiscus and offers them to the gods
And the picture of her sister still stands beside the gods.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
They Drank the Midnight Oil
He stopped just short of total commitment.
She stunk like wine and Marlboros and love.
They drank the midnight oil; it burnt their guts.
Bent on a sweet if foolish plot, to live
as animals. She felt down; beat by youth.
He often heard how old he looked and felt.
Running with Gazelle, breaking free from age,
They bounded over mossy rocks and time.
He became fast and young at once. She felt
her hair fade quick. She felt too tired to run
or leap. A stag began to run and leap
in the wallpaper plastering her mind.
He took no notice, flying fast by her;
His feet were hooves; they trimmed the grass he flew
over. Her feet were mossy boulders; stuck
In time or realizations, coldly watching
his flight from age which plagued his life before;
an afterthought, now burnt her thoroughly.
She aged without a sound, fell quiet like
a tree. Her roots became a shriveled cage.
He bounded like a river, cutting rocks
and beating time. A life refreshed with youth
She stunk like wine and Marlboros and love.
They drank the midnight oil; it burnt their guts.
Bent on a sweet if foolish plot, to live
as animals. She felt down; beat by youth.
He often heard how old he looked and felt.
Running with Gazelle, breaking free from age,
They bounded over mossy rocks and time.
He became fast and young at once. She felt
her hair fade quick. She felt too tired to run
or leap. A stag began to run and leap
in the wallpaper plastering her mind.
He took no notice, flying fast by her;
His feet were hooves; they trimmed the grass he flew
over. Her feet were mossy boulders; stuck
In time or realizations, coldly watching
his flight from age which plagued his life before;
an afterthought, now burnt her thoroughly.
She aged without a sound, fell quiet like
a tree. Her roots became a shriveled cage.
He bounded like a river, cutting rocks
and beating time. A life refreshed with youth
San Francisco
Blanketed in a still grey fog,
rolling hills of ghosts,
Wrap around orange towers,
the great Golden Gate.
Rolling hills of ghosts,
Pass through our bodies.
The great Golden Gate,
Steals tourists' attention.
Pass through our bodies,
Never ending fog also,
Steals tourists attention,
coldness creeping on.
Never ending fog,
Let up your wrath.
Coldness creeping on,
The lights come out now.
Let up your wrath,
lay your blanket low.
The light come out now,
Building tops poke the sky.
Lay your blanket low,
So clouds may rest on water.
Building tops poker the sky,
Nighttime remedies.
Sweetheart
I pull my knees in close to my body
Remembering how you once use to feel.
Smell of vanilla coke, burning my nose,
You were here last night I want to believe.
The white sheets pulled tightly around the bed.
A piece of your hair lies on the corner,
Obsessed, gently I put it to my lips,
I suck it till I taste your spearmint smile.
Then the familiar feel, of a cold glass
Bottle, washing you down into the past.
You always pinched my ass before we ate
Breakfast down stairs with toast and black coffee.
I take my coffee like my women, straight!
You loved that joke your nose would crinkle up,
That one time OJ came running out too.
Falling on the floor, kitty licked it up.
Tiger Lilly, grey fur all so shaggy,
Your freckles danced and blurred across your face.
My hands longing to love your waist again,
Or feel your sweetened Splenda coated tongue.
I suck on sugar packets to remember,
The days we spent sun bathing in the front
Yard, naked, the neighbors left us alone.
Those scandalous summer Sundays, no God.
A piece of your hair tastes a great story,
I'll forget by the end of the night.
The List
His walls were lined with gifts from patients that
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.
I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.
had passed – a painted mug that
read “catch a big one,” with a purple fish
along the side; a hand-sewn
doll that had blood-red pigtails made of yarn
and wore a dress made from the
maker’s hospital gown.
He said I had, at best, a few more years
before the cancer worked its
way past my breasts and into other organs.
He started listing drugs and
procedures, but my only thoughts were on
my list and items from it
that would have to go un-done.
I wrote the list before my diagnosis,
an exercise to help me
find some direction in my life, some kind
of order. Sitting in this
bar I think back – I wrote the list in that
left corner of the room, a
lit cigarette between my lips and beer
that I had not paid for, that
was always “on the house.” The bartender,
Ritchie, was always sweet to me.
I wonder if he’ll miss me when I’m gone,
I wonder if he'd notice.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Roots
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
The youth in her eyes fell low and sunk into her skull
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Same olive smooth skin
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Same olive smooth skin
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
She tightly wrapped her wings around my youth
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
The youth in her eyes fell low and sunk into her skull
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Her salt and pepper hair waved over her head like a field of curls
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
The wrinkles around her mouth helped curve her smile
Same olive smooth skin
We mirrored each other through a portal of generations
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Same olive smooth skin
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Honey hinted eyes glowed around the almond shapes
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
High structured cheekbones brushed off with rose petals
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
Black thick eyebrows arched like mountains
She tightly wrapped her wings around my youth
Her long glowing pearls draped over my collarbone
My fingers traveled over the roots engraved in her hand
Nightmare
Black silk sheets lay over my memory
Diamond dust sprinkled over my young dreams
Loose vivid images hidden as a fable
Evil seeps through the cracks of my wooden floors
A cold presence stretches hair on my skin
A glowing light sketches a male figure
His molded musk climbs into my nostrils
Vile from my core peels the paint off the walls
I lie there chained to my white pillow
Sinking deeper into my sailing dream
Diamond dust sprinkled over my young dreams
Loose vivid images hidden as a fable
Evil seeps through the cracks of my wooden floors
A cold presence stretches hair on my skin
A glowing light sketches a male figure
His molded musk climbs into my nostrils
Vile from my core peels the paint off the walls
I lie there chained to my white pillow
Sinking deeper into my sailing dream
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
CLASS RENGA!
Class renga! Dorothy has posted the haiku below to start us off, and then each class member must add one stanza to the poem. Look at T&W Handbook (159), but remember I want you to count your syllables: 5/7/5 for the haiku, and 7/7 syllables for the linking poem. Remember to alternate 3-line poems with 2-line poems. This is a collaborative exercise, so try to get into the mood of it. If it’s a funny poem, be funny; if it’s serious, be serious.
Each student should copy the whole poem into his or her comment and then add his or her own stanza, so that the whole poem keeps growing.
family of five
saddle the motored horse ass
towards destiny
Each student should copy the whole poem into his or her comment and then add his or her own stanza, so that the whole poem keeps growing.
family of five
saddle the motored horse ass
towards destiny
The Golem and the Blacksmith
A blacksmith banged on wood chips at a rock forge.
As he tempered hardened oak like steel
the bellows blew. Hot wood was dancing red
in his coal black eyes beneath knotted brows.
From deep in flame a shape began to show.
The blacksmith drew a Golem from the forge.
He told the creature “live!” And gave it breath.
The Golem started stirring; slow at first.
Its eyes then cracked and creaked and oak lids split.
The blacksmith laughed at what he’d made appear,
“Golem,” he said “you’ll jump if I shout jump.”
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared.
Not one to stand for wooden eyes or minds,
the blacksmith set the Golem fast to work.
He sought for answer’s veiled from mortal men;
as Faustus had from Mephistopheles.
The blacksmith marveled over what he knew,
His wisdom like an oak it grew and grew.
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared
He knew the Smith and watched his hubris grow.
As he tempered hardened oak like steel
the bellows blew. Hot wood was dancing red
in his coal black eyes beneath knotted brows.
From deep in flame a shape began to show.
The blacksmith drew a Golem from the forge.
He told the creature “live!” And gave it breath.
The Golem started stirring; slow at first.
Its eyes then cracked and creaked and oak lids split.
The blacksmith laughed at what he’d made appear,
“Golem,” he said “you’ll jump if I shout jump.”
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared.
Not one to stand for wooden eyes or minds,
the blacksmith set the Golem fast to work.
He sought for answer’s veiled from mortal men;
as Faustus had from Mephistopheles.
The blacksmith marveled over what he knew,
His wisdom like an oak it grew and grew.
The Golem simply cocked his head and stared
He knew the Smith and watched his hubris grow.
Critical Response to "Come One Come All" by Alex-Celina
Alex, this is a very beautiful and intriguing poem. The language gives it the jumbled feel of a circus, yet meanwhile there’s a darkness looming over it. Very beautiful. As for some more technical things, the line “The men and women of the show did so much else than perform feats and tricks” could be worked on a little bit. It seems as though the line is more for moving along the story, than for lyrical aesthetics, however, it should contain both because I noticed it seeing as it is a major turning point in the poem. I realize this is hard considering the meter, but if you wanted to keep it a simple line, make the idea of revealing something about the performers even more simple and blunt, creating a haunting effect. I do however like the “feats and tricks”; I suggest you keep that in there.
I like how you take a subject so magical and fantastic and hit it with splashes of reality like the line “they would play the songs of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah” and “Hidden from paying eyes, the people under the grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.” You play with an interesting idea by describing such a mystical place and bringing concrete and almost humorous light to the scene. The end lines “and whisper tunes in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds of mandolins and banjos under the deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight” are magical and haunting, tying in all the different tones of the poem.
I like how you take a subject so magical and fantastic and hit it with splashes of reality like the line “they would play the songs of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah” and “Hidden from paying eyes, the people under the grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.” You play with an interesting idea by describing such a mystical place and bringing concrete and almost humorous light to the scene. The end lines “and whisper tunes in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds of mandolins and banjos under the deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight” are magical and haunting, tying in all the different tones of the poem.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Come One, Come All
The Circus; such a dirty phrase that does
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
no justice to the old magic of the
word Carnival. The Carnival was such
a place of intrigue, false identities
and shrouded faces which we flirted with
as children, peeking from behind our parents legs.
The men and women of the show did so
much else than perform feats and tricks. Hidden
from paying eyes, the people under the
grease-paint and top-hats, stage lights, leotards
and glitter, lived in trailers cracked with rust.
With no one watching, they would play the songs
of home – of Spain, of Sweden, of Utah –
to children of their own, and whisper tunes
in French and Gaelic over tinny sounds
of mandolins and banjos under the
deflated Big Top and ice-white moonlight.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
After-Thought (Ghost Life)
I’ve decided it’s my armpits
I miss most.
Or maybe that left ankle
that clicked incessantly.
The best of me
is toast.
I miss most.
Or maybe that left ankle
that clicked incessantly.
The best of me
is toast.
Fried Plaintains-Celina
She knew that love had found her, shivering scared,
because clandestinely it seized her veins.
Like prodded clams, her heart’s brute clench holds tight.
Their sacred shields only held for so long,
Then gradually their case sighed broad and calm
Accepting bitter-sweet and watery fill.
She’s saturated with the stuff of jewels
Opened her waxy hill and trench of palm
To universe and particle alike.
Driven and fierce, her pearl sought out his ear.
The night he peeled and chopped and scattered bits
Popping and bubbly grease held his response;
From cast-iron, fried plantains were cooled and smiling.
They filled her nostrils with sweet-steam offerings
Presented like a delicate newborn.
because clandestinely it seized her veins.
Like prodded clams, her heart’s brute clench holds tight.
Their sacred shields only held for so long,
Then gradually their case sighed broad and calm
Accepting bitter-sweet and watery fill.
She’s saturated with the stuff of jewels
Opened her waxy hill and trench of palm
To universe and particle alike.
Driven and fierce, her pearl sought out his ear.
The night he peeled and chopped and scattered bits
Popping and bubbly grease held his response;
From cast-iron, fried plantains were cooled and smiling.
They filled her nostrils with sweet-steam offerings
Presented like a delicate newborn.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Blank Verse
Recognition
As I emerge from bracken walls
My long shadow is comforting
It warms the pale, damp, dying light.
A dark piece leads me down the path,
Tempting me to follow slowly.
Eventually it hides behind,
Racing between dark silhouettes,
Fleeing from the open abyss-
Fleeing superfluous freedom.
I pull my thin coat round my self,
Covering my ashen shoulders.
Something sinister closing in...
Moving effortlessly towards...
Following too quickly behind,
Biting, clamoring at my heels,
It has found me and it wants me.
In the open with no control,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go
In this bleak, faintly breathing world,
My shadow finds me. It claims me.
As I emerge from bracken walls
My long shadow is comforting
It warms the pale, damp, dying light.
A dark piece leads me down the path,
Tempting me to follow slowly.
Eventually it hides behind,
Racing between dark silhouettes,
Fleeing from the open abyss-
Fleeing superfluous freedom.
I pull my thin coat round my self,
Covering my ashen shoulders.
Something sinister closing in...
Moving effortlessly towards...
Following too quickly behind,
Biting, clamoring at my heels,
It has found me and it wants me.
In the open with no control,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go
In this bleak, faintly breathing world,
My shadow finds me. It claims me.
Pantoum
She stalks and prowls deep
In the heart of the forest
A vile, seducing power
Leaking out her golden bulbs
In the heart of the forest
She treads lightly, her evil
Leaking out her golden bulbs
Calling our attention
She treads lightly, her evil-
Nothing but gorgeous nature
Calling our attention,
And she's licking her lips in response
Nothing but gorgeous nature
In the throbbing heart of the forest
And she's licking her lips in response
A vile, seducing power
In the heart of the forest
A vile, seducing power
Leaking out her golden bulbs
In the heart of the forest
She treads lightly, her evil
Leaking out her golden bulbs
Calling our attention
She treads lightly, her evil-
Nothing but gorgeous nature
Calling our attention,
And she's licking her lips in response
Nothing but gorgeous nature
In the throbbing heart of the forest
And she's licking her lips in response
A vile, seducing power
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