here/there

[blp]

Wait, what was it we came in here for again?
Something you’d seen or something
you thought you'd seen anyway maybe even
were sure about, certain that
it existed and could be got anywhere,
but when you try to say what it was––
a kind of wall, a cushion a
certain sort face, an arrangement
in a room, a relationship, a curtain...
Oh, come on, what was it?

You know, maybe it was something you saw and
just can't see again because
you saw it with a child's eyes,
which are different like a child’s ears are and which you
have lost subsequent to losing sight
of the thing when you were taken away from it
by a parent in a hurry seeing
nothing much, or blur as objective, not having your eyes, but somewhere
bothered by the memory of what they saw
when they did (like you are now) maybe even hurrying
to find it, their vision obscured
by this (partial) memory.

Of course the truth is that you never have time
to see anything before it changes or
you do (and, worse, what you see
never becomes You.)
That's why people like photographs
––they hardly change––even if
in having the time to look at them they
think, if only I'd been her, him, there (there
in that fixity of meaning that comforting
stillness you can understand, you can
hold in your hand)

To experience this absurd situation clearly simply look at a photograph of a place in
the place where it was taken.

[SleepyWitch]

hey blp, I like these lines:


Something you’d seen or something
you thought you'd seen anyway maybe even
were sure about, certain that
it existed and could be got anywhere,
but when you try to say what it was––
a kind of wall, a cushion a
certain sort face, an arrangement
in a room, a relationship, a curtain...

but somehow I like your older poems better, even though they are a lot harder to understand, e.g. this (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=12951) and this
(http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=25012)

[blp]

I like those poems better too, Sleepywitch. A lot better. They both come out of intense experience and feeling. My life's been a bit too boring lately for me to come up with anything like that. Hey ho. Hopefully things'll pick up.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I love the headlong rush of this, the feeling of someone almost triipping over his thoughts, the feeling that you just barely managed to get it all (or not quite all) down before the thoughts ran away from you.

[blp]

I love the headlong rush of this, the feeling of someone almost triipping over his thoughts, the feeling that you just barely managed to get it all (or not quite all) down before the thoughts ran away from you.

Ha! Pretty accurate. I thought of it on my way to meet a friend in a pub. He was late and I just had time to scribble it down on my chequebook before he arrived. The pub had photo of its own interior next to where I was sitting, which gave me the end.

[littlewing53]

blp...like the style...just what prince sed, yeah..!!...lw

[blp]

Thanks LW.

[jon1jt]

Ha! Pretty accurate. I thought of it on my way to meet a friend in a pub. He was late and I just had time to scribble it down on my chequebook before he arrived. The pub had photo of its own interior next to where I was sitting, which gave me the end.


this one reads like a monologue, and is one of those rare instances that i hear but nonetheless feel. nice work, blp.

[blp]

Thanks jon – though I can't quite tell if you're commenting on the poem or comment of mine you quoted. :D

[jon1jt]

Thanks jon – though I can't quite tell if you're commenting on the poem or comment of mine you quoted. :D

yeah sorry about that. i had initially commented about your scribbling down the poem while waiting for your friend in terms of how it reminded me of a jar full of poems i've written in the same spirit. the thought became more about me and this thread is about your poem and so i deleted it, forgetting in the process to delete the quoted comment of yours with it. all my fault. :lol:

as far as scribbled poems, they tend to contain a fluidity or even playfulness to those that go thru a more considered process. your poem has both, which I like.

i do have one question for you about the word "they."

bothered by the memory of what they saw
when they did (like you are now) maybe even hurrying
to find it, their vision obscured

are you referring to subjects in a photo?

[blp]

Well the photos themselves hardly change, which creates the illusion somewhere of a more stable reality. It's about the possibility that the nostalgic appeal of photos is to do with that.

Lots to be said for scribbled down things, I think. Lots to be said for the illusion of having been scribbled down too. I've quoted it before, but it's always worth quoting again for anyone who hasn't seen it (from memory, so apologies if I get it a bit wrong):

...you said, a line make take us hours,
but if it does not seem a moment's thought
then all our stitching and unstitching has been for naught

- Yeats

And even this one isn't quite as I initially scribbled it down. Took out clichés. Made the language less formal, so it seemed more 'spontaneous'. ;)

[jon1jt]

And even this one isn't quite as I initially scribbled it down. Took out clichés. Made the language less formal, so it seemed more 'spontaneous'. ;)

i've done the same, many times. so poetry, in this sense, is nothing more than an art of deception against the reader and poet himself. what we write is not poetry then, but some idyllic version of one. that's sad, maybe pathetic even, when you think about it.

we're all snake oil peddlers! :p

[white camellia]

i've done the same, many times. so poetry, in this sense, is nothing more than an art of deception against the reader and poet himself. what we write is not poetry then, but some idyllic version of one. that's sad, maybe pathetic even, when you think about it.

we're all snake oil peddlers! :p
You mean art is deceptive?

[blp]

You mean art is deceptive?

A bit like photographs.

[white camellia]

Ahh, really.

[jon1jt]

You mean art is deceptive?

art allows us to portray an innocence that is in fact untrue. it's self-deceptive. it must be the case because the innocence allows the artist to take no responsibility for his actions since the work just so happened to be the product of a creative flourish, aka spontaneity. ssurrreeee. ;)

[ampoule]

I like this poem a lot blp. I understand scribbling. I have so many little beverage napkins lying around with unfinished poems. I try to carry a little notebook in my purse but for some reason it jumps out and hides.

What I see in your poem is someone, the person the writer is with, who flits about, who is oblivious to the love or friendship that is right there in front of them, the type of person who leads us on a wild goose chase of love. For me it held meaning about relationships more than a place. Isn't it all so interesting?

[blp]

Well, something similar was on my mind at the time, ampoule. Not quite what you say, but similar. Still, I'm surprised it came through in the poem. Yes, interesting.

[blazeofglory]

Wait, what was it we came in here for again?
Something you’d seen or something
you thought you'd seen anyway maybe even
were sure about, certain that
it existed and could be got anywhere,
but when you try to say what it was––
a kind of wall, a cushion a
certain sort face, an arrangement
in a room, a relationship, a curtain...
Oh, come on, what was it?

You know, maybe it was something you saw and
just can't see again because
you saw it with a child's eyes,
which are different like a child’s ears are and which you
have lost subsequent to losing sight
of the thing when you were taken away from it
by a parent in a hurry seeing
nothing much, or blur as objective, not having your eyes, but somewhere
bothered by the memory of what they saw
when they did (like you are now) maybe even hurrying
to find it, their vision obscured
by this (partial) memory.

Of course the truth is that you never have time
to see anything before it changes or
you do (and, worse, what you see
never becomes You.)
That's why people like photographs
––they hardly change––even if
in having the time to look at them they
think, if only I'd been her, him, there (there
in that fixity of meaning that comforting
stillness you can understand, you can
hold in your hand)

To experience this absurd situation clearly simply look at a photograph of a place in
the place where it was taken.

Indeed the poem is really very descriptive and how everyday reality is centering around life and how much we take them consciously and how much it goes unnoticeable.

Indeed a beautiful poem with a good craftsmanship.

[blp]

Thank you, blazeofglory.