(no subject)
Aug. 15th, 2005 04:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labellementeuseOn speaking with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thinkaholic earlier, I was reminded I haven't updated my poetry on here for yonks... since I treat my LJ as something of a non-corporeal filing box, you therefore are the lucky recipients of a poetry dump. *eyeroll*
the words and letters triptych
(title seriously only a way of categorising three poems that sort of go together. I think. Maybe. Tell me if you think they don't fit well together?
untitled (suggestions gratefully received)
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 coversations,
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
About the rhythm of poetry
stuff it;
I can hear what I want to say
I don't need to count syllables
to feel my heart beat in it.
I have come to realise
words are useless,
they say nothing
about who we are
what I want
is to tell you this
and make you understand:
but words are ineffectual
and I have nothing else.
I'm empty
out of options and tired
of this, of you and me
not saying anything
with far too many words
and not enough silence
to listen in.
words, I waste my time
on the human condition
and translations of Balzac
for nothing, nothing, nothing
now I know
I knew before.
Hmm... I kind of want to chop off the last two stanzas? Except I really love the second-to-last stanza. I suppose it could start a new poem.
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
I'm... totally not sure what that is about. but I kind of like some of it. It's nearly in sonnet form- um, okay, maybe not, but it's nearly fourteen lines, which sort of makes me want to maybe elide "a dream/about cleaning" into one line. Hm. Yes/no? Could it be improved by "and saw your dust silvering"???
ode to a poetry book
dear old thing
cheap and worn
with the binding that comes apart at the edges;
dear old thing don't you know
you hold my heart in your pages?
fragile verse on ever page
delicate teenage ego and clumsy
rhymes, free verse poured out
willy-nilly.
dear old thing maybe I abuse you
maybe I should fill you instead with Shakespeare
and Tennyson
and Bornhaldt
and Glover
but you never complain though your
pages tear at the edges & your cover
is stripped away;
thank you
dear old thing.
Hey, tell me, is there a technical ode form? How does it work? Because I might rework this into it- I'm feeling masochistic and sick of lazy vers libre. Although some of you know what my poetry turns into when I try to make it structured, which is to say, gross(er than normal).
Um. And just to prove it, I found these two, which are shocking examples of what happens when I try to do anything with anything more than the very basic structure. Gods forbid that I should ever attempt a rhyme ever, ever again. Oh lord.
untitled (no suggestions needed, I'm going to take some delight in burning this. I just needed to have a record of it, like a dreadful reminder.)
dying flowers on the windowsill
still turn to face the sun;
why are they looking towards it
what have we done?
why, we've scattered petals down
to the ground where they grew
down to the earth they came from
the grass, the mud, the dew.
dew in springtime, dew in winter
in autumn, where leaves fall
to the ground like dying souls
but mostly dew in summer
in the soft mornings
where light spills gently over my sill
& I leave my room to walk barefoot
on the lawn.
Yeah, as you can see I didn't even manage to finish it. Yecch. Except for the last stanza which I kind of like.
And, haha, not content with my first attempt at crappy structure, I had to try AGAIN. why, subconscious, oh, why, why?
July song
July, it's all sky
that chases away from me
to all four corners
cutting cold, curling against my collar
around my neck with pale hands
July pours rain down on me
till I can barely breath,
chokes me with its wind, blinds me
I keep walking
turn my face to its chill kiss
I was born in July
cut kicking and screaming
from my mother's belly
yellow, bloody, barely breathing
I imagine the cold hit me then
the bitter middle of the year
woke me up, told me
yeah, this is it.
July rolls away from me
like a field, stretches before me
July, I'm alive.
Um. Yeah. *HEADDESK* feel free to come up with creative ways to abuse this. :P
untitled
NB: actually I think I titled this on the copy I sent to you,insane_ophelia? You might have a better version, in which case, um, email it to me? ;)
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.
she is untired; she opens the door
into the day.
Hrrm. I have an alternate version of this one that replaces the last four lines with
her feet are pale against the carpet, the book
is cupped in her hand. she is untired;
she opens the door into day.
I'm not sure which one I like best. I think the second one recalls the poetry book much better which is nice.. mm.
Anyway, that's all. But, you know the drill- I really really really worship and adore feedback, so if you're of that inclination, I'm not ashamed to beg. And by fb I do mean anything; if you hated everything here PLEASE, please tell me so, as creatively as you like. of course, it's even better if you tell me what you hated and why. Positive feedback is great (and if you like them, PLEASE tell me so, too. ;) ) but negative or concrit is probably more valuable to me in the long run- even if it's just "I think that word here is a bit clumsy." Anything.
Look at me begging. You know you want to!
thinkaholic earlier, I was reminded I haven't updated my poetry on here for yonks... since I treat my LJ as something of a non-corporeal filing box, you therefore are the lucky recipients of a poetry dump. *eyeroll*the words and letters triptych
(title seriously only a way of categorising three poems that sort of go together. I think. Maybe. Tell me if you think they don't fit well together?
untitled (suggestions gratefully received)
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 coversations,
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
About the rhythm of poetry
stuff it;
I can hear what I want to say
I don't need to count syllables
to feel my heart beat in it.
I have come to realise
words are useless,
they say nothing
about who we are
what I want
is to tell you this
and make you understand:
but words are ineffectual
and I have nothing else.
I'm empty
out of options and tired
of this, of you and me
not saying anything
with far too many words
and not enough silence
to listen in.
words, I waste my time
on the human condition
and translations of Balzac
for nothing, nothing, nothing
now I know
I knew before.
Hmm... I kind of want to chop off the last two stanzas? Except I really love the second-to-last stanza. I suppose it could start a new poem.
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
I'm... totally not sure what that is about. but I kind of like some of it. It's nearly in sonnet form- um, okay, maybe not, but it's nearly fourteen lines, which sort of makes me want to maybe elide "a dream/about cleaning" into one line. Hm. Yes/no? Could it be improved by "and saw your dust silvering"???
ode to a poetry book
dear old thing
cheap and worn
with the binding that comes apart at the edges;
dear old thing don't you know
you hold my heart in your pages?
fragile verse on ever page
delicate teenage ego and clumsy
rhymes, free verse poured out
willy-nilly.
dear old thing maybe I abuse you
maybe I should fill you instead with Shakespeare
and Tennyson
and Bornhaldt
and Glover
but you never complain though your
pages tear at the edges & your cover
is stripped away;
thank you
dear old thing.
Hey, tell me, is there a technical ode form? How does it work? Because I might rework this into it- I'm feeling masochistic and sick of lazy vers libre. Although some of you know what my poetry turns into when I try to make it structured, which is to say, gross(er than normal).
Um. And just to prove it, I found these two, which are shocking examples of what happens when I try to do anything with anything more than the very basic structure. Gods forbid that I should ever attempt a rhyme ever, ever again. Oh lord.
untitled (no suggestions needed, I'm going to take some delight in burning this. I just needed to have a record of it, like a dreadful reminder.)
dying flowers on the windowsill
still turn to face the sun;
why are they looking towards it
what have we done?
why, we've scattered petals down
to the ground where they grew
down to the earth they came from
the grass, the mud, the dew.
dew in springtime, dew in winter
in autumn, where leaves fall
to the ground like dying souls
but mostly dew in summer
in the soft mornings
where light spills gently over my sill
& I leave my room to walk barefoot
on the lawn.
Yeah, as you can see I didn't even manage to finish it. Yecch. Except for the last stanza which I kind of like.
And, haha, not content with my first attempt at crappy structure, I had to try AGAIN. why, subconscious, oh, why, why?
July song
July, it's all sky
that chases away from me
to all four corners
cutting cold, curling against my collar
around my neck with pale hands
July pours rain down on me
till I can barely breath,
chokes me with its wind, blinds me
I keep walking
turn my face to its chill kiss
I was born in July
cut kicking and screaming
from my mother's belly
yellow, bloody, barely breathing
I imagine the cold hit me then
the bitter middle of the year
woke me up, told me
yeah, this is it.
July rolls away from me
like a field, stretches before me
July, I'm alive.
Um. Yeah. *HEADDESK* feel free to come up with creative ways to abuse this. :P
untitled
NB: actually I think I titled this on the copy I sent to you,
insane_ophelia? You might have a better version, in which case, um, email it to me? ;)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.
she is untired; she opens the door
into the day.
Hrrm. I have an alternate version of this one that replaces the last four lines with
her feet are pale against the carpet, the book
is cupped in her hand. she is untired;
she opens the door into day.
I'm not sure which one I like best. I think the second one recalls the poetry book much better which is nice.. mm.
Anyway, that's all. But, you know the drill- I really really really worship and adore feedback, so if you're of that inclination, I'm not ashamed to beg. And by fb I do mean anything; if you hated everything here PLEASE, please tell me so, as creatively as you like. of course, it's even better if you tell me what you hated and why. Positive feedback is great (and if you like them, PLEASE tell me so, too. ;) ) but negative or concrit is probably more valuable to me in the long run- even if it's just "I think that word here is a bit clumsy." Anything.
Look at me begging. You know you want to!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 05:25 am (UTC)grr, you should fb me. I know it's not possible you havem't got anything to say and I'm not sensitive like Mike is. ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 06:23 am (UTC)Anyway, I like the first one and the third one, especially, and the way they play with each other - the descent from worshipping words to realising that they don't in fact say anything about anything and are pathetically inadequate as the best means of communication we have. The structure of the third one seems to go nicely with the content - short and choppy, enjambement, seems to fit somehow the frustration about inexpressiveness. Perhaps vaguely cliched as a theme? I don't know. Whenever I hear it described though I like the irony in using words to denigrate words, because that's the only way we can do it.
The fruit simile is interesting, a literal representation of 'creative juices.' I thought that was a nice way of putting it. I have a feeling it might be better as a metaphor? The 'like' seemed slightly jarring.
As for the dusty one, the repeated triple alliteration was quite euphonious to me, and I like the way present participles stick it together. I'm not sure if the last two lines really add anything, to me.
Ode on the poetry book vaguely reminded me of Catullus 1. Except he was mooning over his new book while you're thanking your old one. Hmm. That was distinctly unhelpful. I'm drawing a blank on the word 'orn', though. Are you neologising on me? (I love neologisms) The second stanza seemed perhaps a bit too prosy.
'blinding sun'? cliched, maybe. We hear about blinding sun all the time. I like the contrast with the chill, though.
Yeah. I'm probably hopelessly off the mark, but there you go.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:28 pm (UTC)WRT metaphor/simile- I think you're right. *mkaes a note* I didn't even think of "creative juices", actually... it's a metaphor I've used before, kinda.
I'm glad ever, never, forever was euphonious- what a compliment, by the way! :) Thank you! Because I did make an effort with the sound in that one, particularly trying to get a lot of sibilants in there. Hopefully it sort of succeeded...
Have you got a copy or link to a translation of the Catullus? (I only know o fons bandusiae...) I'd love to have a look at it and think about fixing mine up after it. Especially a poetic translation would be nice, like the ones you can get of Virgil. (I'd look myself, except I don't know the title so dunno how much help Google would be.)
orn- *headdesk* should have been worn. :P I like neologisms too but rarely use them because they can be so opaque. Ah, blinding sun- would "white light" be better?
Thank you SO much. You are a goddess among scholars.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 12:24 am (UTC)http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?doc=Perseus:text:1999.02.0003:poem=1
This is Perseus, the original text and two very florid translations. Not sure how good your Latin is, but Catullus isn't insanely hard.
http://www.adkline.freeuk.com/Catullus.htm#_Toc531846728
Here's a slightly better translation.
(And fons bandusiae is Horace, btw, but that's entirely excusable. ;))
White light, hmm, maybe. Still strikes me as a bit hackneyed. I guess there are only so many ways to describe the light, and hackneyed expressions aren't necessarily bad as long as the rest is up to scratch.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 05:39 am (UTC)Heh, thanks for the links. Maybe I will try to translate it- I did latin up to sixth- or maybe I will resort to translations in desperation. XD
Yeah, it is a bit hackneyed, but I'm struggling coming up with something. hrm, I'll think on it for a bit.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 08:59 am (UTC)Mum said that she really liked your essay :D
About a Midsummer Nights Dream, right?
mad props
Date: 2005-08-15 09:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:13 am (UTC)scheme goes
first line
second
third
forth
second
fifth
fourth
sixth
.... [skip about four stanzas]
eleventh
third
twelve-eth
first
I like doing it and getting to muddle or use homonyms is fun...
Anyway, I'll probably take a bit of a look later.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 11:07 pm (UTC)I’m Alone
This house is empty, still.
Warm red embers dying.
Outside raindrops whisper,
A Tui calls.
Warm red embers dying
As daylight slowly fades.
A Tui calls
Through icy evening air.
As daylight slowly fades
It gets harder for me to write
Through icy evening air
That insinuates inside.
It gets harder for me to write
By Luna’s waning glow
That insinuates inside.
Is there nothing else?
By Luna’s waning glow
I lie awake and wonder,
‘Is there nothing else,
Where have they gone?’
I lie awake and wonder.
Outside raindrops whisper,
‘Where have they gone?’
This house is empty, still.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 05:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 07:44 pm (UTC)That one is a tight reuse of each line, but you can clearly loosen it up by not quite using the exact same line. Doing that is what made my poem that may turn up in a scifi anthology so it works I promise!
Re: mad props
Date: 2005-08-15 09:27 am (UTC)Re: mad props = I like this thing
Date: 2005-08-15 10:03 am (UTC)Re: mad props = I like this thing
Date: 2005-08-15 10:08 am (UTC)www.livejournal.com/community/we_trust_snape
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 05:29 pm (UTC)Because, yanno, I do. Especially "About the rhythm of poetry": wow.
Hmm.
I really adore the triptych; actually, "untitled" works rather well as is. ;D It's hard to name something that's not mine, you know?
"instead of coversations" line -> "conversations"?
"I have come to realize" is lovely, and while I adore the last two stanzas, I agree that the words might be more effect without them; if you start a new one with the second-to-last, be sure to post it! Seriously, gorgeousness.
Leave "ever, never, forever" as is, totally. I love it.
In "ode to a poetry book", it might be more effective to have
dear old thing
thank you
just to follow the structure you've set up before, but I'm pretty inexperienced in matters of poetry, so it's entirely your call. ;D Just speaking aesthetically, not . . . poetically? I DUNNO.
Anyway, a lot of this comment is from an amateur point of view. ;D My poetry extends to pretty much
"OMG LOL IM A POET AND I DI'INT NOE IT."
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:34 pm (UTC)Thing is, "untitled" probably works quite well as a title for I have come to realise, but less so for the first one which... hm.. . I dunno. I can't think of a good title for it, but I also don't want to leave it as is because it needs something, I think. Hrrm. *beats head against it a few times*
conversation- yeah, thanks. *fixes* That's, like, five typos in there already. Dude.
Mm, I think you're right, the third to last stanza really has a feeling of ending about it. On the other hand, I'm not sure I like it as the ending I want, you know? I don't know if I like the kind of poem that makes it into. I may have to go and rejig that one a bit.
the poetry book thing- thanks. I hadn't thought about that. *considers* Would following or breaking the structure be more effective there.....
Dude, that's totally awesome poetry, yannow. ;) Hey, thank you SO much for your comments, they're incredibly helpful!
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 08:44 pm (UTC)Don't change a thing with 'about the rythm of poetry'
I also like 'i have come to realise' very much. Sometimes I hate words as much as I hate money.
Um, have you put 'dear old thing' in 'ode to a poetry book' enough. I think you should add it at the end of every line. Seriously. Other than that, it's great though.
The structured ones are amusing. You should sell them to a pop artist.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 09:35 pm (UTC)Okay! :D
LOL, ssh, you. I was trying to give it some kind of consistency. I know it gets repetitive.
*laughing* I could try... ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-08-15 11:22 pm (UTC)I have the original word document if anything isn't understandable.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-16 11:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-17 12:33 am (UTC)mai- like my.
enei- EH-neh-ee. Only really fast- Maori double-vowels, you pronounce each vowel separately, but really quickly.
pukapuka- pook- ah- pook-ah. Ah rhymes with "car" but again without the postvocalic "r"- I'm not sure where you're from in the States but most places they say carrr, whereas in NZ we just say "cah." So like that.
Um. Help???
no subject
Date: 2005-08-17 12:38 am (UTC)Except for enei.
*practices*