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Jul. 3rd, 2006 09:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labellementeuseThe other thing I've been doing is working on two poetry collections for a writing competition. I know I won't win, because a) they never give prizes to poetry (it's open format, but the winner will be a short story or essay or script, not poetry. Poetry is too subjective) and b)I haven't got a quantity of stuff I think is really good that also fits together, so I've jammed some good stuff with some less good stuff (I'll admit it: I really like, and am proud of, some of the poems here. Some of them I hate.) Anyway, these are the two collections as I'm probably going to submit them; I'd really appreciate any criticism, including placement of poems and collection titles. Some of this is older material; some of it's new.
BRIEF LIVES
that girl walking
I saw this girl walking down the street today
just out of the corner of my eye:
long hair long skirt but
what really made me turn was the way she was walking
across the street broadly stepping
head high like she owned the world
and for a second I thought it was you
and then I
remembered
that it
couldn't be;
you don't walk like that any more
call me Alice
Rapunzel woke up this morning
and looked at her hair in the mirror.
then she went into the bathroom,
took the sharpest pair of scissors,
and cut it till it barely brushed her ears.
she opened a packet of dye, pink,
and brushed it through her hair.
while it dried, she pulled pink pantyhose
and orange leg warmers from the closet,
along with winter boots
and a black lace petticoat,
which she put on.
she dried her hair with a white cloth,
then cut it into a shirt
and spiked her hair with water.
she changed her name when she walked out the door.
after Alzheimer
bodies betray, it is expected,
he never was surprised when his eyes grew old.
and hearing is the next thing gone
along with his back, his legs, his lungs.
his breath comes heavier every day
he no longer leaves the house, he eats, sleeps alone
and does not travel.
but this is not the surprise.
he is surprised when he wakes
and realizes he’s not sure what day it is.
he is surprised when the date on the newspaper
is not days or months but years ahead of where it should be.
he are surprised by his birthday,
and for the first time since the advent of television advertising he is surprised by christmas.
he is surprised by his children
when they wake him in the afternoons, and bring his grandchildren
along with supper.
and so he is becoming angry.
he is not surprised by his age,
only by the manner in which he fears it.
for Josephine
she spends her mornings reading love poetry
and listening to reggae.
The taste of coffee in her mouth
as she opens to the page
of the poem that reminds her of him.
when she opens the curtains
blinding sun and the chill of morning
pour in and over her
until she blinks back tears.
from the corner, the sound of men singing
and colours like red, yellow, green
flash across her closed eyes
shoes lie in a heap; the heel of one
sits in the other, like a child crossing her legs.
her feet are pale against the carpet, the book
is cupped in her hand. she is untired;
she opens the door into the day.
MABEL FORGETS HOW TO SING
I want to write you poetry
instead of letters: what
I write in prose comes out clumsily.
I want all the words I send to you
to be whole and precious
like a fruit picked as it comes to ripening
perfect and round on my page
cupped in my hands
juicy.
instead of conversations,
I want to write you notes
and leave them where you
find them unexpectedly, tucked
inside your wallet and coat.
I want to say it all, compressed
everything
down to one word.
I don't know what it would be.
but I want to share it with you,
juice staining our face
and hands
ever, never, forever
blue jeans and washing basket
returned to me in a dream
about cleaning
and dust grew between my feet
thick on the ground
and our bed, cloaked
the window sill: I opened
the curtains, coughing, crying
eyes watering
and saw dust silvering
softly, silently drifting
over the garden and the mountain
the buildings across the street
and a wind came up
and blew it all away
laughing on the inside
let me down I said
and shook on the inside
flung myself wildly against the walls
collapsed on the floor and laughed at myself
my backbone on the carpet
of my bedroom
I reach out to the bars of my bed
grip them
curling my fingers about:
you shouldn't have to
write down your feelings
hunched over a notebook falling to pieces
on the late bus home
(so why does my heart feel like it's losing all its pages
like they're flying away down the street
and I can't get them back.)
what it's like
I thought the other day I'd call you.
and then of course I didn't,
I don't know why my subconscious mind
doesn't know what's good for me,
like hearing your voice on the other end
of the line, after months
and time away. Well I guess it's
not all wrong, I'm not sure
if I'd have anything to say; we might
stay on the line and listen to each other
breathe. I can't help thinking that
silence maybe just what I need,
strained through filaments like
I think we are sometimes, when
we sleep at the same time but never
realise it, except if I might see you in my dream--
I thought this morning that I'd call you tonight
hope you'll still be awake when the phone rings.
BRIEF LIVES
that girl walking
I saw this girl walking down the street today
just out of the corner of my eye:
long hair long skirt but
what really made me turn was the way she was walking
across the street broadly stepping
head high like she owned the world
and for a second I thought it was you
and then I
remembered
that it
couldn't be;
you don't walk like that any more
call me Alice
Rapunzel woke up this morning
and looked at her hair in the mirror.
then she went into the bathroom,
took the sharpest pair of scissors,
and cut it till it barely brushed her ears.
she opened a packet of dye, pink,
and brushed it through her hair.
while it dried, she pulled pink pantyhose
and orange leg warmers from the closet,
along with winter boots
and a black lace petticoat,
which she put on.
she dried her hair with a white cloth,
then cut it into a shirt
and spiked her hair with water.
she changed her name when she walked out the door.
after Alzheimer
bodies betray, it is expected,
he never was surprised when his eyes grew old.
and hearing is the next thing gone
along with his back, his legs, his lungs.
his breath comes heavier every day
he no longer leaves the house, he eats, sleeps alone
and does not travel.
but this is not the surprise.
he is surprised when he wakes
and realizes he’s not sure what day it is.
he is surprised when the date on the newspaper
is not days or months but years ahead of where it should be.
he are surprised by his birthday,
and for the first time since the advent of television advertising he is surprised by christmas.
he is surprised by his children
when they wake him in the afternoons, and bring his grandchildren
along with supper.
and so he is becoming angry.
he is not surprised by his age,
only by the manner in which he fears it.
for Josephine
she spends her mornings reading love poetry
and listening to reggae.
The taste of coffee in her mouth
as she opens to the page
of the poem that reminds her of him.
when she opens the curtains
blinding sun and the chill of morning
pour in and over her
until she blinks back tears.
from the corner, the sound of men singing
and colours like red, yellow, green
flash across her closed eyes
shoes lie in a heap; the heel of one
sits in the other, like a child crossing her legs.
her feet are pale against the carpet, the book
is cupped in her hand. she is untired;
she opens the door into the day.
MABEL FORGETS HOW TO SING
I want to write you poetry
instead of letters: what
I write in prose comes out clumsily.
I want all the words I send to you
to be whole and precious
like a fruit picked as it comes to ripening
perfect and round on my page
cupped in my hands
juicy.
instead of conversations,
I want to write you notes
and leave them where you
find them unexpectedly, tucked
inside your wallet and coat.
I want to say it all, compressed
everything
down to one word.
I don't know what it would be.
but I want to share it with you,
juice staining our face
and hands
ever, never, forever
blue jeans and washing basket
returned to me in a dream
about cleaning
and dust grew between my feet
thick on the ground
and our bed, cloaked
the window sill: I opened
the curtains, coughing, crying
eyes watering
and saw dust silvering
softly, silently drifting
over the garden and the mountain
the buildings across the street
and a wind came up
and blew it all away
laughing on the inside
let me down I said
and shook on the inside
flung myself wildly against the walls
collapsed on the floor and laughed at myself
my backbone on the carpet
of my bedroom
I reach out to the bars of my bed
grip them
curling my fingers about:
you shouldn't have to
write down your feelings
hunched over a notebook falling to pieces
on the late bus home
(so why does my heart feel like it's losing all its pages
like they're flying away down the street
and I can't get them back.)
what it's like
I thought the other day I'd call you.
and then of course I didn't,
I don't know why my subconscious mind
doesn't know what's good for me,
like hearing your voice on the other end
of the line, after months
and time away. Well I guess it's
not all wrong, I'm not sure
if I'd have anything to say; we might
stay on the line and listen to each other
breathe. I can't help thinking that
silence maybe just what I need,
strained through filaments like
I think we are sometimes, when
we sleep at the same time but never
realise it, except if I might see you in my dream--
I thought this morning that I'd call you tonight
hope you'll still be awake when the phone rings.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 01:53 pm (UTC)All my own completely subjective opinion, of course.
Date: 2006-07-03 11:08 pm (UTC)-
I like this, real concrete imagery and a twist to the end that speaks volumes. I thought 'like she owned the world' seemed a bit cliche or telling. Any other imagery that conveys that sense? The last few lines were a little too borken up for me and it felt like I was stumbling all of a sudden. It could reflect the 'you' no longer in control, but I thought a little less broken would help.
Call Me Alice
-
'it' in the fifth line seems a little ambiguous. I figure you mean her hair but it could apply to the scissors or the mirror or the bathroom or just about anything. 'Which she put on' feels superfluous. Couldn't you just say 'She put on ...'? Again, ambiguous as to what the shirt is made out of. her hair or the white cloth? Is it a cloth? To me, that says teatwoel or facecloth. Should it be a towel? The concept is great, could you add some tinge of the fact that she isn't waiting around for prince charming any more? I don't know how, but it would be nice IMO.
After Alzeihmer
-
There's something a little odd about this one. I'm getting a lot of telling about how this guy feels, could you show him being surprised instead? Set up moments where his actions show how he is being left behind? The final couplet appears to tell the reader what the poem is about, which seems to be unnecessary if the poem comes out right.
For Josephine
-
I've commented on this before haven't I? LEt's look at it in context anyway.
...
This one's perfect.
As a group they seem to talk about different types of love, or dealing with love, or loss of love. Except for Alzeimer's. There is, of course, a familial love thing there sort of, but it doesn't seem to be a part of the other three as strongly. Perhaps in reworking, dealing with love will be a bigger part, rather than the tragedy of age?
Mabel Forgets How To Sing
-
I think you could lose the first stanza. Strange but sweet image of words as fruit to be shared.
Ever, Never Forever
-
Bed cloaked the window sill?
Laughing on the Inside
-
Seems to be three things here. The rolling around, 'You shouldn't have to write' and 'why are my feelings flying away.' I'm not sure how they interrelate. I could see the second two forming a poem about wriitng in the heart and notebooks of emotion and losing the pages, but I can't make the leap to rolling around in a mixture of what appears to be grief and joy. Both seem like worthy topics though.
What It's Like
-
The last one works well. Could you devote more to the relationship through wires rather than I feel I thought? Or, again, show something that allows the reader to understand the speaker is thinking and feeling these things?
The second set seem to be about relationships and love as well. Is there any particular reason you split them up? The second ones almost seemed to be about communication whereas the first were glimpses of different ways of dealing with love.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 11:13 pm (UTC)Love the rest too. You just get better and better..
*need to start writing again* :(
no subject
Date: 2006-07-06 12:59 am (UTC)I love 'em.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 01:15 am (UTC)I like the rapunzel one - haven't seen it before. Tonks? :)
Incidentally, I can't make gmail work, so if you've been trying to communicate with me...
Are you round tonight? - I want to give you a call.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 05:51 am (UTC)