The Font and The Form as Part of A Poem's Content

[dyingflame]

I feel hesitant and exhilirated at the same time about this poem...I have really mixed feelings about it...I need your help to clarify them! Be sincere! Oh one pointer: "Hunter S.Thompson, Gonzo journalist." (this should help you understand better if you know about this man.) Another: typewriter.
and... also, I believe that the actual form of a poem is not seperate to its very being a poem if you get what I mean (example- the fact that a poem is a sonnet or is written in a certain way MEANS something related to the actual content, if not always, 99% of the time.)


"My fits of joy are soiled by relentless flashbacks
and ghosts too foul to name...
while old shadows shroud the show
and shower shame with sorrows..."

The Myth of the Exploding Whale

My father once lived in a world of staccato rattle-chords-
firing away wide-eyed rhythms with worded, groove-ended nails;
flowing forth the flailing births of reluctant fiction-fulcrums,
the spokes set forth a hint of smoke that chained the custard scales;
alternate skies, unfiltered grimes, of tobacco-stifled change.

My god, how that old machine spat out his venom with denial!
It made our dwelling tremble in its roots,
the furniture radiated, the floors cracked-
as fires spirited out, thrown, slammed onto
the ice-laden plains on conscious grounds,
until one whip of lead ended the gamble
and the line was left tone-hanging
in the upbeat search
for plastic dynamite.

For he had witnessed the intent portent:
The failings he had helped shadow-sketch-
and found the final burst of urban legends,
an explosion too stale to inhale.

The sudden cadence of a planned and sudden end,
and of many spiral ladders.
...The never-finished drowned in sand,
filled with wails and silent adders.

[dyingflame]

is it that bad?

[Pendragon]

I feel hesitant and exhilirated at the same time about this poem...I have really mixed feelings about it...I need your help to clarify them! Be sincere! Oh one pointer: "Hunter S.Thompson, Gonzo journalist." (this should help you understand better if you know about this man.) Another: typewriter.
and... also, I believe that the actual form of a poem is not seperate to its very being a poem if you get what I mean (example- the fact that a poem is a sonnet or is written in a certain way MEANS something related to the actual content, if not always, 99% of the time.)


"My fits of joy are soiled by relentless flashbacks
and ghosts too foul to name...
while old shadows shroud the show
and shower shame with sorrows..."

The Myth of the Exploding Whale

My father once lived in a world of staccato rattle-chords-
firing away wide-eyed rhythms with worded, groove-ended nails;
flowing forth the flailing births of reluctant fiction-fulcrums,
the spokes set forth a hint of smoke that chained the custard scales;
alternate skies, unfiltered grimes, of tobacco-stifled change.

My god, how that old machine spat out his venom with denial!
It made our dwelling tremble in its roots, the furniture radiated, the floors cracked-
as fires spirited out, thrown, slammed onto
the ice-laden plains on conscious grounds,
until one whip of lead ended the gamble
and the line was left tone-hanging
in the upbeat search
for plastic dynamite.

For he had witnessed the intent portent:
The failings he had helped shadow-sketch-
and found the final burst of urban legends,
an explosion too stale to inhale.

The sudden cadence of a planned and sudden end,
and of many spiral ladders.
...The never-finished drowned in sand,
filled with wails and silent adders.







No. It isn't bad. I would split the line I've highlighted after the word "roots", most of your lines are short, and this one unbalances the poem. A couple times you rhyme and then you don't for most of the poem. This is only a personal preference, so you may ignore it or ask others, I feel that you should either set a definite rhyme scheme or avoid rhyming at all if possible.

The poem is NOT a throwaway. It has real potential. Sounds good when read aloud, my personal "acid test" :) . Good luck! :thumbs_up

Pen

[dyingflame]

hey thanks dragon for your comment. i thought it was good because out of everything i wrote this one was what my crit teacher chose to do with a younger class and i got some feedback on it so i thought it was one of my best efforts shall we say
sorry for the long line, just an editing mistake.
heh you honed in one of my tendencies- i do it on purpose; i prefer to add rhyme or a specific metre/rhythm when i feel it is appropriate and when i feel it says something; i don't believe that a poem should be restricted to having or not having a rhyme scheme. i tend to alternate within a poem if i feel i should. sometimes i don't and follow rhythm only. It depends on what I feel communicates the meaning best. It all comes down to my belief, the title of this thread in fact

[Jean-Baptiste]

I really like the alliteration that you use here and there--especially in the second line. It makes my mouth move in different ways.

I do like this poem. And that last line is killer!

[dyingflame]

yeah- wails is supposed to make you remember of whales (the sound) :)
It's essentially an impression of a man I never met! not a life-history..not an ode..but i like it..
the persona is the daughter of the man btw, in mind. This man committed suicide and the diction sometimes hints to it. Plastic dynamite, whip of lead, the line was left tone hanging..etcalso, i wanted to convey the image of him typing and link it to music theory and harmony..there are certain words that are meant to portray the journalist as a musician.. did I manage that?
I thought people would question me on the title's relevance ..

[dyingflame]

anyway I have a new poem (in the making- or complete, im not sure) anyway it is fresh out of the oven:

My Open Hearse

I should lay down my life in
swooning fits of senseless joy-
Shouting down roads
In my new second hand car-
hands stretched out window-shield shards
To reach out and wipe away
the storm clouds of the day.

I should burn the papers in dust
Tear out drawers, crush plans
Resign, fly away on my future yacht,
Turn to face the sharp-edged wind
With a fiery smile, turning away
From the opal hearse, rushing
To be crushed beneath it soon.

I’d choose one day
of passionate extremes
for dreary years
and sweaty beds,
for aching backs
and arching ties
and parched lips-
I prefer wine to drool!

Never tell me again what the red light means,
Do I seem to you one of your complacent
Book hugging, ignorant lovers?

I don’t shoulder burdens
The size of Stone Age tablets.
Youth rushes in my nerves,
An injected drug to be outrun
To the finishing line of most:
A close-ended hole in earth
And some nice flowers as cover.

I should prefer to be burned
And called dead as the stones
Than to "pass away" peacefully
One normal heavy afternoon,
and be cause of stranger’s mourn

it's temporarily on my blog,(the signature is a link) so if anybody has time to spare, pass by! I'd like your opinions and value them :) thanks guys