a miniature reel of film

[paperleaves]

363
in each stone, each pocket, and each change purse
each germ reverberates in ecstasy
a soul, a window, and a paper plane
all matched in the same karass
the coupon parade and ticker tape, masked beneath a wrench
bait and slumber are bribed in the musings
a warm spring museum, and newspaper clippings
pasted together with spit and blood
the fruits of our labor, monochromatic
tumbling with swirls of tangerine lipstick
canvas bandages and blanketed towers, the secrets are hidden in plain view
i can almost piece the reel together
his plane plummeting
screaming her name
"don't ever leave me, babe!"
her lips
caressing
his last letter home
with tired eyes, and sad songs in her heart


364
a gnat
perched on the waterbed, like an overgrown limb
he is so small, and life is so big
snuggled in my bed, fetal position
i dream of large windows, and eating cherries in bed
unstained, with dried paint on my hands
and brown little legs bleached with sand
sea breeze curls and red stained lips
blushing to the dance of dried chamomile
he came to bed every night with shards of glass in his teeth
too busy counting stars to speak with me
so i soaked in the sweat of the moon and prayed to the song of the stars
for as long as i can remember
until one day that Spring
a siren yelped
and i awoke to the sounds of him screaming

[JWHooper]

363
in each stone, each pocket, and each change purse
each germ reverberates in ecstasy
a soul, a window, and a paper plane
all matched in the same karass
the coupon parade and ticker tape, masked beneath a wrench
bait and slumber are bribed in the musings
a warm spring museum, and newspaper clippings
pasted together with spit and blood
the fruits of our labor, monochromatic
tumbling with swirls of tangerine lipstick
canvas bandages and blanketed towers, the secrets are hidden in plain view
i can almost piece the reel together
his plane plummeting
screaming her name
"don't ever leave me, babe!"
her lips
caressing
his last letter home
with tired eyes, and sad songs in her heart


364
a gnat
perched on the waterbed, like an overgrown limb
he is so small, and life is so big
snuggled in my bed, fetal position
i dream of large windows, and eating cherries in bed
unstained, with dried paint on my hands
and brown little legs bleached with sand
sea breeze curls and red stained lips
blushing to the dance of dried chamomile
he came to bed every night with shards of glass in his teeth
too busy counting stars to speak with me
so i soaked in the sweat of the moon and prayed to the song of the stars
for as long as i can remember
until one day that Spring
a siren yelped
and i awoke to the sounds of him screaming
From reading this, too much grammatical errors to be found. Also notice that stone CANNOT be fitted into pocket, unless if you prove it to be true. Please go read more poems of Poe's, or else please not continue your poem education at all. Please pay more attention what you're doing. We like emotional feelings of poems, but we do care about the biological dimensional laws behind the literature of philosophy of logical truth behind the meaning of literature.

[paperleaves]

"Too many grammatical errors to be found", perhaps? I'm sorry to come across as rude, because I do enjoy commentary on my poetry, even mild constructive criticism, but I am well-educated in the realm of Edgar Allen Poe and his works are not the foundation of all poetry by any means. "Poem education"? really?! This is a place to share, not to corrupt one's artistic confidence. Your pseudotechnical jargon is truly insulting to my intelligence.

[JWHooper]

"Too many grammatical errors to be found", perhaps? I'm sorry to come across as rude, because I do enjoy commentary on my poetry, even mild constructive criticism, but I am well-educated in the realm of Edgar Allen Poe and his works are not the foundation of all poetry by any means. "Poem education"? really?! This is a place to share, not to corrupt one's artistic confidence. Your pseudotechnical jargon is truly insulting to my intelligence.
It's not the insulting of intelligence - it's the truth behind the laws of nature behind the poems. If we learn more novels, then we read more stanzas, hence solved by using Shakespeare-Hawthorne method of process of elimination of lies behind the sonnets of beauty. You're poem was good, but please obey my rules.

[Maximilianus]

Please obey nothing, paperleaves.
Please follow no rule at all, paperleaves.
Please... by all means, keep writing. :thumbs_up

[vagantes]

I enjoyed it and thought it was a good exploration of the Gothic.

It always apears to me that when folk start shouting about shortcomings in others they merely demonstrate their mediocrity, not to mention bad manners. By the way, Hooper your sentence construction is deplorable.

[Maximilianus]

I enjoyed it and thought it was a good exploration of the Gothic.
True, very much enjoyable.

It always apears to me that when folk start shouting about shortcomings in others they merely demonstrate their mediocrity, not to mention bad manners. By the way, Hooper your sentence construction is deplorable.
I second this.

[firefangled]

From reading this, too much grammatical errors to be found.

You did not read Paperleaves carefully or you might have been less hasty in your criticism

This is a place where we all feel free to experiment. If one knows grammar well enough, one can recognize where it is purposefully broken, which many times poetry exercises its right to do so. It's not your mama's grammar anymore, if ya haven't noticed.


Also notice that stone CANNOT be fitted into pocket, unless if you prove it to be true.

I'm not reading this as if the stone is in a pocket. It reads "in each stone, each pocket." Nevertheless, going forward with your education, if a poet writes the stone is in a pocket; then you can be damn sure it fits, either loose or tight, but by god it's in there! :D Comparing the dimensions of the stone and pocket for the logical fit you could put on Nova and get away with it, but not in the poem.


We (This would be the first person we?) like emotional feelings of poems, but we do care about the biological dimensional laws behind the literature of philosophy of logical truth behind the meaning of literature.

I'm not sure what you mean here either. Which type of logic are you referring to? And shame on Kurt Vonnegut's editors for deceiving him about those biological dimensional laws. That's what probably killed him.

I would suggest Gravity's Rainbow, or say One Hundred Years of Solitude. Once you are finished, schedule a few years to read Finnegans Wake for a real treat in the truth behind the meaning of literature.

[firefangled]

These were my favorite lines. They are abstract and graphic at the same time. I also loved the way this began with a gnat.


he came to bed every night with shards of glass in his teeth
too busy counting stars to speak with me
so i soaked in the sweat of the moon and prayed to the song of the stars
for as long as i can remember
until one day that Spring
a siren yelped
and i awoke to the sounds of him screaming


You must love the two Davids - Lynch and Chronenburg. I just watched Mulholland Drive for the enth time.

[Maximilianus]

I wholeheartedly agree with firefangled. I would like to add that someone who criticizes someone else's grammar MUST HAVE a great grammatical ability, and this is clearly not the case. BTW, JWHooper, error is a countable noun, so its plural goes with many and not with much. Check your own grammar before you check others', please... will you?

[JWHooper]

I wholeheartedly agree with firefangled. I would like to add that someone who criticizes someone else's grammar MUST HAVE a great grammatical ability, and this is clearly not the case. BTW, JWHooper, error is a countable noun, so its plural goes with many and not with much. Check your own grammar before you check others', please... will you?
Grammar started with Greeks in the late 7th century. Unfortunately, some intelligent philosophical scholars (i.e. finest scholars) have argued that we MUST read more of sonnet number 13 from Shakespeare, which states

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

Now, the winter is the coldest season of all four seasons, but we can say that when we write novels during this season, we are thus complete, highest honor might uphold!

[Maximilianus]

Interesting point of view. I will read it again later... now it's late here and I feel sleepy... good night.

[vagantes]

Before we escalate into some ridiculous debate about what things mean may I restate my point that it is bad etiquette to attempt to denigrate someone's work because to behave in such a way indicates lack of respect for other people's efforts at expression.

Now if, Hooper, you wish to behave like some kind of literary delinquent then you must expect to people to respond in kind.

And please do not try to educate folk about who invented what. It simply demonstrates the emptiness of your intellect.

I go along with John Stuart Mill's definition of grammar that it is" the most elementary part of logic" - the structure of every sentence being a lesson in logic. This does not deny the right of change nor does it insist on arbitrary rules but merely says that when we write or speak our sentences should be formed empirically in such a way that our thoughts can be understood by those to whom they are directed.

Nor do I think very much of your close reading skills, either.

[JWHooper]

Before we escalate into some ridiculous debate about what things mean may I restate my point that it is bad etiquette to attempt to denigrate someone's work because to behave in such a way indicates lack of respect for other people's efforts at expression.

Now if, Hooper, you wish to behave like some kind of literary delinquent then you must expect to people to respond in kind.

And please do not try to educate folk about who invented what. It simply demonstrates the emptiness of yur intellect.

Nor do I think very much of your close reading skills, either.
Read The Gentle Boy by Hawthorne, which quotes:

On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to the neighboring country town in which he resided.

Autumn is another season where we can compare & contrast our opinions toward the emotions of literature. We cannot always argue about our grammatical analysis, but since we read Shakespeare everyday, we hence solve the problem by being a genius. The work of poems cannot always solve one's problems, but we can be sure that we can solve the problem analytically by reading more poems.

[vagantes]

You are a troll my friend.

[JWHooper]

I am not a troll.




Anyways, we human being are responsible for literature of poems, which is the representation of the speed of novels. Please go read some novels before you call me anything funny. Being funny is described by Shakespeare that we cannot laugh unless if we are sad, but lies and lies and lies... HAPPY!!!

[vagantes]

Now you are becoming incoherent. Iwould lay off the medication for a while - it's doing you no good at all.

[JWHooper]

Ok. Well your right in the sense that I am not really the selfish type and most of my inquiries are not really an inquiries. Yea I guess this is one way to discredit others and promote yourself and you're similar! We prove that dynamics of novels tells us that we need to shut up for a while, because biological analysis tells us that our eyes gets tired after a while we get done reading stuff.

[PrinceMyshkin]

363
in each stone, each pocket, and each change purse
each germ reverberates in ecstasy
a soul, a window, and a paper plane
all matched in the same karass

How wonderfully this begins, how irresistibly! In fact, to speak of the foregoing as a "beginning" feels like a misnomer since it is more like there has been a period of silent elation that preceded this and here it has finally broken out into exultant song!



the coupon parade and ticker tape, masked beneath a wrench
bait and slumber are bribed in the musings
a warm spring museum, and newspaper clippings
pasted together with spit and blood
the fruits of our labor, monochromatic
tumbling with swirls of tangerine lipstick
canvas bandages and blanketed towers, the secrets are hidden in plain view
i can almost piece the reel together
his plane plummeting
screaming her name
"don't ever leave me, babe!"
her lips
caressing
his last letter home
with tired eyes, and sad songs in her heart

and how it continues in this tumult of impassioned joining in with this imagined scene! Brava!





364
a gnat
perched on the waterbed, like an overgrown limb
he is so small, and life is so big
snuggled in my bed, fetal position
i dream of large windows, and eating cherries in bed
unstained, with dried paint on my hands
and brown little legs bleached with sand
sea breeze curls and red stained lips
blushing to the dance of dried chamomile
he came to bed every night with shards of glass in his teeth
too busy counting stars to speak with me
so i soaked in the sweat of the moon and prayed to the song of the stars
for as long as i can remember
until one day that Spring
a siren yelped
and i awoke to the sounds of him screaming

With I understood this better in prosaic terms but I can't deny the sweep and fervour of it. Brava, again!

[paperleaves]

I am glad you enjoyed it, my darling LitNetters :) Thank you to all who seriously read my poems for what they are and commented! I admire and appreciate you all.

[Maximilianus]

363
in each stone, each pocket, and each change purse
each germ reverberates in ecstasy
a soul, a window, and a paper plane
all matched in the same karass


one of my favorite outstanding depictions ever :thumbs_up
... and be welcome! :)