there is a connection

[Silas Thorne]

Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet
there is a connection
there, by the base of your shadow
there where your foot sole's tied on tight,
creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright
there is a connection.

[Dark Muse]

This is beautiful, it may be my favorite thing of yours thus far, I thought it had such wonderful imagery

[Silas Thorne]

Thanks. :)

[Pendragon]

Wonderful wording

[Virgil]

I can't say I understand it, but who cares. This has a marvelous sound to it. That first "there is a connection" line just stirs my imagination. It seems to come out of no where and transform the poem. And that rhyme toward the last few lines, "tight/bright" pulls the sounds together. And for some reason I always love a poem that has cicadas in it. :D My only quibble, and its small, is the repetition of "space" in the first line; it's distracting. Perhaps I'm missing the significance but if there isn't a significance then it becomes a let down. Repetition in such a short poem implies importance and the reader would expect it. Great work though Silas. You ought to be proud of this one.

[firefangled]

Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet
there is a connection
there, by the base of your shadow
there where your foot sole's tied on tight,
creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright
there is a connection.

This made me think of Williams's Portrait of a Lady—"I said petals from an appletree!"

Well done!

[jon1jt]

Serene, still life. Almost. I like it, but I think you try too hard to convey the root message (i.e. poem title), which is like tying bricks to the bottom of your poem. Here's my suggestion:


Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet
there, by the base of your shadow
there where your foot sole's tied on tight,
creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright




Also, the mention of cicadas have made a sort of renaissance that is becoming a fast cliche in contemporary poetry. I wonder what the next insect will be. The termite? ;)

[Silas Thorne]

:)
Don't know why I missed your message up till now, jon.

I think I'll keep the lines the way they are, though. I think the refrain connects at the end.

As for the cicadas, I had no idea that they were common in contemporary poetry. They spoke to me when I was outside in the sun, so I put them in the poem.

[jon1jt]

:)
Don't know why I missed your message up till now, jon.

I think I'll keep the lines the way they are, though. I think the refrain connects at the end.

As for the cicadas, I had no idea that they were common in contemporary poetry. They spoke to me when I was outside in the sun, so I put them in the poem.


It's just preference. Keep it the way you feel best.

Hey I was at the bookstore yesterday and came across a poem written by Bukowski called "Cicada" and it made me think of what I said above. I didn't buy the book and unfortunately was unable to find the poem online, just an excerpt in a book review. See below.


Bukowski rebels against bullsh*t. Poetic pretensions seem to be his biggest beefs, which I can't imagine gained him many friends in the poetry world (though he more than made up for it with fans). A favourite of these is called "cicada" in which he criticizes writers who use the word "cicada" as some sort of poetic stock word that fools people into believing the art (I feel much the same way as "ethereal"). Incidentally, many of his poems have an ironic ending and this one is no exception:



and look at me:
here I'm using it:
"cicada."


well, that means that
this poem surely will get
published.

see?

it works.



http://bookmineset.blogspot.com/2007/07/readers-diary-263-charles-bukowski.html



And I also feel the same way about "starling."

Enjoy!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet
there is a connection
there, by the base of your shadow
there where your foot sole's tied on tight,
creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright
there is a connection.

I'm aware that my own poems at times seem to end abruptly (see: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=40950) which is maybe why I'm especially in love with this one where under the surface you might be saying Here's the poem. Anything more would be explanation or repetition... [Obscenity!] but this is good! And one can, I think, feel the next poem that's already bubbling in your blood. To quote the unmentionable: "Bring it on!"

[Silas Thorne]

An interesting poem, jon. I promise to not write any more poems with cicadas in them. (well, maybe except parodies) :)
In this case, I don't think the word came out of any poetic pretension on my part, and I don't think I've read any other poems about cicadas (so maybe I haven't read enough yet).The cicadas were just an obvious characteristic of the summer day when I was outside.

Bukowski seems to me to have been a city poet from the little I've read of his. Maybe he wrote more about the human world than the natural environment.

Oh, and jon, read my 'short Nature poem'. Tell me if you think that's pretentious. ;)

[Silas Thorne]

oh and cicada, cicada, cicada... :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

The cicada is better known
in Greece as the tzitzikas
and sometimes, erroneously,
as a locust. You can cicada
me any time you’re blue,
I’ll gladly tzitzikas you too.

[jon1jt]

An interesting poem, jon. I promise to not write any more poems with cicadas in them. (well, maybe except parodies) :)

:lol: Again, do what you think best.


The cicadas were just an obvious characteristic of the summer day when I was outside.

Yeah but so was the grass. ;)


Bukowski seems to me to have been a city poet from the little I've read of his. Maybe he wrote more about the human world than the natural environment.

There is no natural environment without a human world. ;) Just take stock of how Bukowski marries the two in his poem, bluebird. :D



there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?




Oh, and jon, read my 'short Nature poem'. Tell me if you think that's pretentious. ;)


:lol:

Not pretentious. Fashionable. ;)

[~Sophia~]

I've also been told cicada is over-used on another writing site but on the other had, perhaps using it just means the poet is confident and good enough to use it anyway.

I really like the language, the length, the connection and the whole enchilada!

[jon1jt]

I've also been told cicada is over-used on another writing site but on the other had, perhaps using it just means the poet is confident and good enough to use it anyway.

Yeah yeah that must be the reason. Now that you mention it, perhaps I've also been wrong about Louise Gluck and the rest of those nobs. :rolleyes:

Silas, cicada if you will. Hakuna Matata too.

[~Sophia~]

Terribly sorry jon1jt, I didn't mean to step over any bounds. Guess I just should have said that I personally don't mind the word cicada. It sounds more melodic than leafhopper or spittlebug. :(

[Silas Thorne]

sophia, stating your own opinion on the use of cicadas in poetry is hardly going to step over any bounds. ;) A large part of poetry is about pushing past them, as you know.

[Regina61285]

Spaced out by waiting in wide open spaces
I hear the cicadas, out by the trees.
Where the swallows skim lightly, close over land's carpet
there is a connection
there, by the base of your shadow
there where your foot sole's tied on tight,
creeping up your spine,
flashing in your grey eyes bright
there is a connection.

I'm not good at poetry but in logical essays or narratives with some personal opinions. But if my opinion, as any who just like to read but unable to write a poem, worth sth to you, I really like it and I don't understand all that issue of the cicadas but yes summer and cicadas are together. I grow up in a country and the cicadas made me remember all those beautiful years.

:D

[Delta40]

I think of cicada's clicking so loudly as to spark. the way you describe connection, you make it sound as if there is an energy of sorts between you and nature Silas and that your being is 'plugged' in to it all.

[jon1jt]

See that, everybody loves your use of cicadas, Silas. Oh my what was I thinking---cicadas clicking like electric sparks, and plugged into Being. So melodious. Yes of course. Narley. :rolleyes:

[Silas Thorne]

**** cicadas! They were just one word in the poem, no more significant than any other word. Let's talk about swallows, and how they flit near the ground. :)

[jon1jt]

I just ran a yahoo search for "Louise Gluck" and "cicadas" and it came back with this poem in THE NEW YORKER, published last year. :lol:




The light stays longer in the sky, but it’s a cold light,
March; Months; Season; Winter; Spring; Neighbors
The light stays longer in the sky, but it’s a cold light,

it brings no relief from winter.


My neighbor stares out the window,

talking to her dog. He’s sniffing the garden,

trying to reach a decision about the dead flowers.


It’s a little early for all this.

Everything’s still very bare—

nevertheless, something’s different today from yesterday.



We can see the mountain: the peak’s glittering where the ice catches the light.

But on the sides the snow’s melted, exposing bare rock.



My neighbor’s calling the dog, making her unconvincing doglike sounds.

The dog’s polite; he raises his head when she calls,

but he doesn’t move. So she goes on calling,

her failed bark slowly deteriorating into a human voice.



All her life she dreamed of living by the sea

but fate didn’t put her there.

It laughed at her dreams;

it locked her up in the hills, where no one escapes.



The sun beats down on the earth, the earth flourishes.

And every winter, it’s as though the rock underneath the earth rises

higher and higher and the earth becomes rock, cold and rejecting.



She says hope killed her parents, it killed her grandparents.

It rose up each spring with the wheat

and died between the heat of summer and the raw cold.

In the end, they told her to live near the sea,

as though that would make a difference.



By late spring she’ll be garrulous, but now she’s down to two words,

never and only, to express this sense that life’s cheated her.



Never the cries of the gulls, only, in summer, the crickets, CICADAS.

Only the smell of the field, when all she wanted

was the smell of the sea, of disappearance.



The sky above the fields has turned a sort of grayish pink

as the sun sinks. The clouds are silk yarn, magenta and crimson.



And everywhere the earth is rustling, not lying still.

And the dog senses this stirring; his ears twitch.



He walks back and forth, vaguely remembering

from other years this elation. The season of discoveries

is beginning. Always the same discoveries, but to the dog

intoxicating and new, not duplicitous.



I tell my neighbor we’ll be like this

when we lose our memories. I ask her if she’s ever seen the sea

and she says, once, in a movie.

It was a sad story, nothing worked out at all.



The lovers part. The sea hammers the shore, the mark each wave leaves

wiped out by the wave that follows.

Never accumulation, never one wave trying to build on another,

never the promise of shelter—



The sea doesn’t change as the earth changes;

it doesn’t lie.

You ask the sea, what can you promise me

and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.



Finally the dog goes in.

We watch the crescent moon,

very faint at first, then clearer and clearer

as the night grows dark.

Soon it will be the sky of early spring, stretching above the stubborn ferns and

violets.



Nothing can be forced to live.

The earth is like a drug now, like a voice from far away,

a lover or master. In the end, you do what the voice tells you.

It says forget, you forget.

It says begin again, you begin again.

[Delta40]

Lol cicadas ficadas lets call the whole thing off!

[blp]

And I also feel the same way about "starling."


I feel the same about 'mote' and 'plash'. There's plague of those. Maybe we should compile a list, like the movie lines list: words to never use in poems (unless you're brave).

[Silas Thorne]

you make it sound as if there is an energy of sorts between you and nature Silas and that your being is 'plugged' in to it all.
:)
Well, the poem was influenced by Zen Buddhism and the sketches of an Italian sculptor called Giacometti. In the sketches I saw of Giacometti , every object is connected to everything else.

[jon1jt]

I feel the same about 'mote' and 'plash'. There's plague of those. Maybe we should compile a list, like the movie lines list.

Yes yes exactly my point blp!!!!! Hey I love the idea, count me in! I have one that's biting my thumb lately and just starting to circulate. 'Gaggle.'

[blp]

'Gaggle'? I really can't think why anyone would ever use that in a poem.

OK, well, we probably ought to take this outside since we're totally off-topic. I'll start the thread. Be good if it could be a sticky.

[~Sophia~]

Lol cicadas ficadas lets call the whole thing off!
Yes, please! :redface: Uncle.

[Silas Thorne]

Moting in my plashdom
I see the cicadas,
their songs, gaggling out of trees,
love, death
and walnuts.

[jon1jt]

Great idea, blp. I'll try to find some poems that use gaggle. Short stories too, which makes more sense.

You've been a good sport, Silas. I'll say again I meant no disrespect toward you or your poem as I've already said that I like it all in all. And like I told you in a PM the other day, don't listen to a word I say, follow your own smell.

[Delta40]

'Gaggle'? I really can't think why anyone would ever use that in a poem.


Many of us - a collective even,
should remember
what is good for the goose
is good for the gander!

[blp]

Many of us - a collective even,
should remember
what is good for the goose
is good for the gander!

Yes, but perhaps that's as far as it should go - poetically. ;)

I've just checked and there's no collective noun for poets, but some wag's suggested 'an obscurity'. I'm unimpressed. How about 'cluster****'? A cluster**** of poets.

[Delta40]

A quill

[Silas Thorne]

a quiver, perhaps?

[Silas Thorne]

a murder of poets. we can go to the crows! :)

[Silas Thorne]

Let's make a thread from this. Anyone else that wants to make comments on the poem, feel free. I'll watch this space.

[Silas Thorne]

decided not to make a thread.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Yes, but perhaps that's as far as it should go - poetically. ;)

I've just checked and there's no collective noun for poets, but some wag's suggested 'an obscurity'. I'm unimpressed. How about 'cluster****'? A cluster**** of poets.

A squabble of poets?

[PrinceMyshkin]

One of the criteria for the genuineness, originality or depth of a poem is that when you come back to it again after a while, it catches you as much by surprise as when you first read it.

[firefangled]

One of the criteria for the genuineness, originality or depth of a poem is that when you come back to it again after a while, it catches you as much by surprise as when you first read it.

Is it because there is something about good poetry that remains visceral, no matter how knowledgeable we become or how much analysis is applied to it?

It is similar to the experience of living near mountains or oceans, no matter how many times you watch them, swim in them, climb them, write about them, experience and intellect cannot contain them. They abide as part of that which is always beyond reduction.