New Poems

[DieterM]

After the positive comments you've so kindly left beneath my Youth Poems, I have decided to write a wholly new series of poems, which I will post in this thread.

This is the first one.

Rest from wandering

We’re sitting peacefully, the bench is warm
and dry. Behind us whisper firs,
and pines and spruces murmur.
The tender wind a softly blown last kiss
from summer passed away. The sun sets with a sigh
on the hills’ shore. The evening breathes assent.

We’re gazing calmly through the orange air
and heeding the bees’ anthem in the grass.
A jay is drawing spirals endlessly,
unreadable and secret signs upon the blue
and darkening sky. Relief floods our limbs,
so heavy and exhausted from the climb.

The valley deep below lays out its folds,
the river a bright sparkling ribbon winding through
the shades and dark green patches of the fields.
How comfortably weightless time can feel
when contemplated from a weathered wooden bench
lost in this mountain forest of our hopes.

You squeeze my hand in yours and share a smile,
your velvet voice a new sound in the dusk
of lingering resin perfumes. ‘This is calm
at last,’ you say and content is the tone.
We’re thirsty from our life-long wanderings
And feasting on our honestly won rest.

[Hawkman]

hi DieterM

I really love this poem, it paints a vivid picture of a moment in rich detail.

I only have a minor quibble with this though,

"We’re sitting peacefully, the bench is warm
and dry. Behind us whisper firs,
and pines and spruces murmur."

It reads just a little awkwardly.

I would suggest:

We’re sitting peacefully,
the bench is warm and dry;
behind us firs whisper,
while pines and spruces murmur.

but it is just a suggestion. Best, H

[PrinceMyshkin]

There is a calmness throughout this and a sense of alert intelligence that conveys both the scene and the relationship. Lovely!

[DieterM]

Alpine symphony: up

The land lies still, the wall of rock stands
hard and seemingly deprived of depth
against the empty sky. The mountain range
is cloaked in silence as the blushing day
pours lazily a primal orange glow
upon the summits. By and by, though,
crests and overhanging bulges start to stick out
from the greying bulk. More light is spilling
brilliant tinkles like an orchestra of rays
over the forbidding heights’ awakening.

A yawn is stifled. Out of sleepy eyes,
we blink at the dawn’s magical renewal,
take in the birth of colours and dimensions
that flake off the false flatness of the night.
We stretch and burden our shoulders,
hailing the rising sun in a gay chorus
with the young birds, bees and plants.
We leave behind the shelter, walking
hesitatingly at first. Then, with our steps
grown confident, we stride out faster.

The first rise leads us through a
dew-soaked meadow where the drops
are sparkling in the rays of youth.
A song is on our lips, to celebrate the
brightly yellow buttercups, white daisies,
grass and fern that spread out
their green opulence around our climb.
We halt and, leaning on our sticks,
look back and down with admiration
on woods, rivers and valleys, small as toys.

A sweaty brow is wiped. The day is bright,
and with relief, we penetrate the shadow haven
of a solid forest. Pines and chestnut trees
have draped the path with leaves and needles,
cushioning our walk. The joyful gurgling
of a nearby brook is our soundtrack as we
put determined foot before determined foot.
The babble soon grows thunderous: a cascade
spills a tumbling, roaring, raging mass of water
over the glistening rocks down into a green pool.

Our faces are contorted, red and shiny
from exertion. Still, the rocky trail goes up,
the forest but a memory, the meadow far below.
Uncounted dangers lay ahead, we watch our steps.
A single gliding movement, and the fall into the ravine
would be deadly, broken bones and shattered limbs.
An eagle is our company, in circles spinning through
The cloudless sky. Sparse are the patches
Where dry moss and lichen grow amongst the stones.
Trembling legs and aching backs are our lot.

And hurray! At last, our goal is getting nearer,
there’s the summit’s cross we finally perceive,
one last effort and the peak is reached!
A sensation of achievement and of pride
tickles our spines as we sit down, exhausted,
yet elated, in the shadow of a boulder.
With the splendour of the landscape that unfolds
as if to quench our thirsty stare, and the scent
of alpine freshness in our nostrils, we feel
thankful and alive, oh so alive! This is a gift!

(To the sound of Richard Strauss, ‘Eine Alpensinfonie’)

[Hawkman]

This is pretty stunning DieterM,

such vivid description transports the reader as he accompanies you on your climb. You obviously take as much pleasure from the environment as I do. Thanks for sharing. H

[PrinceMyshkin]

I object to "the blushing day" as elsewhere you are careful not to attribute anthropomorphic qualities to the many, many things you observe so richly, and alas I'm not familiar with the particular Strauss you refer to though I am mad about his "Vier letszte lieder" and other of his works. This is a brilliantly radiant poem! Thank you.

[DieterM]

thank you all for your comments. Two things I want to say: first, my father having been a passionate hiker and having dragged my little family on oh so many Austrian mountain tops, yes, by the force of things, I am an immense admirer of nature. Secondly, if you love the 'Vier letzte Lieder', dear PrinceMyshkin (my alltime favourite is the superbe 'Im Abendrot' which gives me goosepumples each time I listen to it), try to find the 'Alpensinfonie' on Youtube or other. You will be as charmed, I think, as I was. Already the beginning, the stunning Rising of the Sun (much better, much more lively than that of 'Also sprach Zarathustra', in my eyes), will make you want to cry. And the centre of the piece, the arrival upon the summit: majestic!

[DieterM]

PS: I heard your objection and your argument. But I have to confess, antropomrophic or not, I rather do like my 'blushing day'. Of course, I'm open to any suggestions of replacement...

[DieterM]

Here's the second part:

Alpine symphony: down

Oh well deserved and peaceful rest, upon the top!
The boulder’s roughly sculptured surface in our backs,
the mountain wind refreshing and restoring us as much
as water, cheese and bread that we have brought.
The tangy fragrances of mountain pines and arnica
feed our breaths. The world lies at our feet, an ocean,
with waves of empty rock and stone and snow.
We bow our heads. Acceptance comes reluctantly:
the mountains’ sheer indifference where we’re concerned
is hard to bear. They do not mind us, feel us, care for us.

The lesson we are taught by their almighty majesty
is one of humbleness. Upon this thought,
we stiffly shake our limbs and get up to depart.
Through our repose, the sun’s course has progressed
across the firmament. There, too, a peak
has been attained, a climb achieved and a descent
begun. We tread the slope with prudent steps,
but hardily. The road is long and perilous. Our minds
are soon exclusively devoted to the harsh
and hostile path, our movements loitering and slow.

Without a notice, swelling clouds creep up on us,
obscure the sky, so spotless until then.
They crown the summits, waft around the mountainsides,
build steep and looming palaces around us.
The weather in these austere lands is fickle,
haphazard and unforeseeable. We only can
endure, be brave and double our vigilance.
A thick and nearly solid fog comes undulating soon
over the air. A moist and frosty pillow, the mist
has veiled our eyes and swallowed any trace.

Haste, haste! The danger is now palpable,
all sounds begone, except our breath and loose stones
rolling. A first, fat drop exploding on the ground
foretells the tragedy ahead. And rapidly,
a lightning’s fork cuts through the dusky day.
A thunder rumbles in the distance, then the drops
grow dense, the rain pours down on our flight,
another flash – haste, haste! – another booming drum-roll.
The site is rugged and slippery, we hurry
without discerning where we run. A flash! A boom!

Inferno! Raging elements assail us.
We race for our lives amidst this slaughter.
But chance is on our side; as soon as it has started,
the drama nature played for us subsides.
We reach the meadow, soaked but safe. The shelter,
we tell each other, smiling, can’t be far.
Indeed, after a final effort, the familiar shape,
the wooden walls, the smoking chimney
welcome us back. The day is old and tired.
And so are we. All we require is sleep.

At last, when our heads fall on the pillows,
our minds are still enchanted by our day,
the images of our adventure haunt us
like friendly ghosts and paint a smile
upon our dozing faces. In our dreams,
we certainly will live another voyage
to lavish meadows, snow-crowned summits,
forests deep and secret. Sleep embraces
our tired bodies, our exhausted spirits.
We’ve gained a basic thing, today. It’s peace.

[DieterM]

IPhone in the Métro

The painted tart
Hand on hip
Drumming with ruby claws
On beige fabric by Prada

A dead Gucci crocodile
Dangling from her elbow
Wonderbra’d bust bloated
Lips a screeching carmine

Her musk-scented attar
Decreasing breathable air
She throws back a raven-black streak
Spanking her neighbour in the process

Superbly oblivious
Blabbering asininities
At breathtaking speed
Into her High-Tech contraption

She’s so with it
She’s so bonny
She’s so showy with her IPhone
Worth a slap in her dial

[PrinceMyshkin]

Alas I didn't understand "a slap in her dial" of the last line, where I was hoping for something that would lift this above the easy target you had chosen. The woman, of course, is a walking parody of herself - but who is to say that there aren't hidden virtues behind her too chic, too expensive attire?

[DieterM]

OK I admit, the target was easy. Above all, easy to find. All you have to do is take the n°9 métro in Paris at 8:30 a.m., and there she is, my black-haired tart with her IPhone literally screwed against her ear. I always try to block out unwanted sounds by listening to music over my IPod. But you can hear her even over my Techno-music din (the only music louder than the métro itself), and you can easily acknowledge her 'inner beauty' when she goes on blabbering for half an hour about her manicure and how Jean-Baptiste beat her the other afternnon on the tennis-court. She's not talking, she's screaming because otherwise, the people around her wouldn't know that her bag is Gucci and her skirt Prada and her friends all live in the very posh 'n' very rich 16th arrondissement and that she'll dine someday soon with Thirrry Mugler. I'm not exaggerating, believe me! So, easy target or not, my black-haired tart is nothing but a casual morning observation. As for the slap in her dial, I used the slang word 'dial' (for face) on purpose.

[DieterM]

Friday in June

The office-windows are wide open
The light subdued behind the blinds
The air has halted with a crystal smell to it
A helicopter flap-flap-flaps across the sapphire vault
School-children are shrieking with glee
To the sound of the ‘Macarena’ wafting in
To the June-warmth rippling our vision
To the lawn-mower’s song in the distance
It’s Friday, it’s June, with a perfume of holidays

[PrinceMyshkin]

That final "perfume of holidays" lifts the poem even higher than the rich details you provide leading up to it. Surely one of your best so far.

[Hawkman]

Hi DieterM

I must say I have enjoyed these. Your very eloquent description of the shrieking harriden on her phone had me enthralled whilst your quiet observation of a Friday in June evoked the moment beautifully. With Regard to Alpine Symphony: Down I confess I thought this stanza a trifle overly dramatic:

"Haste, haste! The danger is now palpable,
all sounds begone, except our breath and loose stones
rolling. A first, fat drop exploding on the ground
foretells the tragedy ahead. And rapidly,
a lightning’s fork cuts through the dusky day.
A thunder rumbles in the distance, then the drops
grow dense, the rain pours down on our flight,
another flash – haste, haste! – another booming drum-roll.
The site is rugged and slippery, we hurry
without discerning where we run. A flash! A boom!"


You had me in expectation of at least one death here, with a hapless member of the party tumbling to their doom... Particulary as you specifically state,

"...foretells the tragedy ahead." When it didn't materialise I felt cheated! :D The briefness of the squall and the cosey cabin afterward are a little anti-climactic after that.

Still an enjoyable read.

Best, H

[DieterM]

@Prince: why, thank you, I realize that the poems I scribble down like an Impressionist painter seem to work best.

@Hawkman: thanks a lot, too, for your kind comments. As for the Alpine symphony, you wrote about one stanza:


You had me in expectation of at least one death here, with a hapless member of the party tumbling to their doom...

I'm quite aware that the outcoming might seem a bit anti-climactic. But the poem was basically inspired a) by personal experience: believe me, a tempest in the Alps always seems to be very threatening and with a tragedy looming above one's head. As well it might because it's a very dangerous moment where you feel that against nature, you're nothing; and b) by R. Strauss's 'Alpensinfonie' which gives the tempest a force and dramatical momentum, yet without any death at its end. And the symphony ends like my poem, i.e. in calm and peace. This is one of my favourite symphonies ever because it really describes with notes and harmonies what you can feel & sense when you go for a climb in the Alps. It's a declaration of Love for nature and hiking. I didn't want to alter its course, just tried to put the music into words. If only some of the stanzas succeeded in touching you, why, I think I have done a rather satisfying job.

[Hawkman]

I bow to your superior knowledge of the elemental forces of nature in the high Alps! Rest assured that my comments were more than a little tongue in cheek and that I thoroughly enjoyed the poem.

Best,
H

[DieterM]

And I, dear H, bow to your superior handling of the English language. Your short reply made me laugh out loud. So much for my superioir knowledge of the Austrian Alps...

Well, now for something completely different.

Another poem. What else?

Lazy ‘n’ Hot

Apathetic and transpiring, I’m slouching…
The slow, melting day flattened by the heat

My city strangely still, abandoned,
but for the chirping in the courtyard

My dull cigarettes, withered one after the other,
landing in the smelly, overflowing ashtray

Somewhere, dishes are washed by open windows,
somewhere, a child screams angrily, parents scold

Life feels so far away, glimpsed from under water,
my sizzling breath evaporates in circles

One of the cruel sunrays barbecuing the streets
seems to have lifted me outside reality

Meanwhile, a mosquito is stupidly dying
on the white ceiling

[blazeofglory]

After the positive comments you've so kindly left beneath my Youth Poems, I have decided to write a wholly new series of poems, which I will post in this thread.

This is the first one.

Rest from wandering

We’re sitting peacefully, the bench is warm
and dry. Behind us whisper firs,
and pines and spruces murmur.
The tender wind a softly blown last kiss
from summer passed away. The sun sets with a sigh
on the hills’ shore. The evening breathes assent.

We’re gazing calmly through the orange air
and heeding the bees’ anthem in the grass.
A jay is drawing spirals endlessly,
unreadable and secret signs upon the blue
and darkening sky. Relief floods our limbs,
so heavy and exhausted from the climb.

The valley deep below lays out its folds,
the river a bright sparkling ribbon winding through
the shades and dark green patches of the fields.
How comfortably weightless time can feel
when contemplated from a weathered wooden bench
lost in this mountain forest of our hopes.

You squeeze my hand in yours and share a smile,
your velvet voice a new sound in the dusk
of lingering resin perfumes. ‘This is calm
at last,’ you say and content is the tone.
We’re thirsty from our life-long wanderings
And feasting on our honestly won rest.


While I was totally weary of reading pessimistic poems and this pops up out of the blue a spark of majesty and excellence. Life is not always a spiky path, it is florid too, and let us revel in a reveries for a while and get lost there in the rapture of nature. We have forgotten to smile in this blood-spattered world and our science and the technological comforts given to us has taken away our joys of life. I always love such poems and thank the poet for sharing this now on the forum

[DieterM]

Death Litany for My Father

Grief, I veil myself
Drag this empty mind
Through my mourning delay
Shake off sounds like a dog
Sobs supplant my words
Those words I never find

I am a tree whose trunk
Has been chopped off and burned
In the icy whiteness with you
Branches and leaves rustling
In the breeze of loneliness
As if they were still alive

Left over, left behind, orphaned
I pull a mask of indifference
On my stone-face without eyes
Because eyes would cry where I can’t
I take off my clothes, lay down
At your side, under the tight snow blanket

And as your coffin departs
In the black limousine
And as your friends scream their sorrow
And as the church bells toll
And as the world stops spinning round
My lonesome heart falls on the harsh frost

[PrinceMyshkin]

The final line is beautifully expressive of the essence of this.

[DieterM]

Muses, amused

The amusing of the Muses, as such,
is rather an easy task when you are not
Esther Williams. All you have to do
is plunge in the Corinthian Gulf
smile towards the Mount Parnassus
talk with the dolphins underwater
and listen to nine silvery voices
laughing a tinkling laugh at you

[PrinceMyshkin]

Wonderfully vivid and succinct!

[DieterM]

This one's for my ex-lover. Or, rather, about my ex-lover. The first lines are borrowed from Placebo's 'Peeping Tom'.

Solitude & Renewal

I’m weightless…
I’m floating in a sky that opens wide, cold blues,
with a white-washed shade where it leans on the horizon;
a hue of light turquoise is followed by deeper azure.
Bulging clouds are grazing as if cotton-made cattle.
Emotionally silent, I feel burned out and scratched,
my inner self wrapped off me, layer by layer,
and thrown away cold-heartedly and with a shrug.

I’m bare…
protection shields as well as my defensive skin have vanished.
In the cold of loneliness, I’m shivering.
I need booze to unlock my inner doors,
need hashish-filled, fat cigarettes to bear
your sight, your crushing presence. See, your love
is too heavy a burden for my hunched, frail shoulders.
Undressed to the essence, I’m too weak to stay.

I’m faceless…
I stare into the mirror, and a bleeding scar stares back,
its mouth agape and screaming like that painting,
its hands raised to its ears to block your voice.
Its eyes are sightless, black and extinct coals.
I ask ‘How can you, could you…?’ How will I
survive without my body, eyes, ears, mouth, my face?
Without you it will be for with you is beyond me…

I’m scared…
I have to learn again the art of living.
Can someone, please, advise me how to do
such simple things like relishing a sunset,
like doing without gin and drugs and pills,
like walking on the shores of new tomorrows?
Renewal is a trial, so teach me to be a snake…
Just show me! Till a fresh skin starts to grow.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I'm moved by how the short first lines introduce us to the verse that follows. It can be a tricky technique if used too blatantly but it works very well here.

[DieterM]

When the first leaves are falling to the ground
in nature’s Technicolor shades…

when lush and untried green is growing old
and showing red and yellow patches, orange hues…

when the still summer-warm and sparkling air
develops the light smell of autumn cool,
the crispness of a changing season…

when a strange fragrance creeps into most flats
of newly purchased clothes, of unread books
with pages yet unbrowsed and stuck together
and new enlightenments concealed
under alluring covers, tempting spines…

The misty mornings will take over soon
from idle and sun-flooded dawns,
and countless feet will scurry on the pavements
that lead towards our havens of instruction…

Return to school is floating in the sky,
due in some days but not for me, alas!
And with nostalgia, I write these lines,
feeling some sadness: I am not a child anymore…

[DieterM]

Soliloquy in Greece (a declaration of love)

… in the heat the sizzling breeding heat
red-roofed houses cower on dry earth
rippling waves above the thirsty land
asphalt ribbon black and streaming in between the fields

fields like ancient parchments sway
an ocher-coloured ocean of dead grass
Aeolus sighs a simmering moan
cushioned by the song of three thousand and sixty nine cicadas

cicada anthem hollow timbal concert
melting under Helios’ intransigent stare
with the smells of bulging figs and limes
to a canticle of summer days and burning skin

skin refreshed in salty waters
on the shore a hedge of dancing reed
and an olive tree with millenary stoicism
suffers plagues and dryness while Gods change forever…

[Hawkman]

So! now we know what you do for a living... You are a Greek cicada counter!

I really enjoyed this latest poem of yours, reading it feels like hearing someone walking by, talking to themself. the elipsis that bracket the piece give one the impression that it is just a snippet of a much longer poem.

It is very evocative and reminds me of that summer furnace, when just walking outside feels like walking into an oven, with the parched earth and the constant rasping of the insects.

Thanks, H

[PrinceMyshkin]

the smells of bulging figs and limes
to a canticle of summer days and burning skin


stood out for me but there was so much close, intelligent attention throughout. Thank you.

[DieterM]

No, I thank the two of you for your kind comments. And a big LOL for the Greek cicada counter you want me to be, Hawk. I wish I were – sounds like a nice enough job, don't you think? ;)

[DieterM]

Balcony with a view

I stand on mother’s balcony and gaze,
cigarette smoke lingering before my face,
while raindrop curtains purify the air,
the land around me wrapped in wet.

The downpour ends, the curtains lift,
with gloom still hovering above my head,
enclosing distant mountain towers, high and cool.

The blues and greens and reds all mixed with black
and grey and shadows on my colour scale.

Remaining summer warmth breathes on my skin.

And where the hills and trees rejoin the sky –
the coated sky with twirling, shifting clouds –
faint steam and haze drift up like ghostly arms.

The only whitish hues, they look like thoughts.
Or dreams. Or hopes that longingly arise…

[Jerrybaldy]

Great Imagery DieterM
I particularly liked that after the rain
'Remaining summer warmth breathes on my skin.'

and the white hues imagined as hopes and dreams.
thanks
Jerry

[DieterM]

I almost smell your body,
cloves and apple and cinnamon

So Pleasurable It’s Addictive

The screen shows your smile,
your white-brushed teeth, your glistening lips

Just Do It / Welcome to More

You flash the impossible promise,
the future you skype: a vast dreamland

See the Light / Feel Free to Laugh

I go with the flow, pretend to believe,
type back false hopes, cam my torso

Challenge What’s Possible / Mark Your Spot

Your lines are like literary caresses,
something seems to build up

The Best or Nothing / Embrace Life

My sore eyes soon roam that body of yours,
my tongue flickers as if to lick you clean

Every Day a Great Idea

We play at sharing our bubbles,
we satisfy our needs with 'as if's

We’re Only Content With 100%

When I disconnect, I erase you,
I empty you away, I forget you

Let’s Go / Journey On

And you don’t remember me,
you never know who I am

Because You’re Worth It…

[DieterM]

Square next to
square next to
square when my
hopes go in
circles…

[Hawkman]

Hi Dieter,

Vis. Digital Love, I like what the poem has to say but I find I'm not crazy about the way you say it. It's something of a disjointed read, which the sparsity of punctuation exacerbates. I accept, however, that this may well have been your intent when writing it.

Under my feet made me smile. I'm sure we can all relate to that... Thanks for sharing these two distinctive poems :) H

[DieterM]

Hi Dieter,

Vis. Digital Love, I like what the poem has to say but I find I'm not crazy about the way you say it. It's something of a disjointed read, which the sparsity of punctuation exacerbates. I accept, however, that this may well have been your intent when writing it.

Under my feet made me smile. I'm sure we can all relate to that... Thanks for sharing these two distinctive poems :) H

Thanks for commenting, Hawk. I re-edited Digital Love® (note the '®', it somehow explains the lines of ad slogans in italic) because I felt that what you said was somehow true. Yes, I wanted the piece to be disjointed and with 'Ad Pop-Ups' (in italic) but as I read it again, 'with your eyes' so to say, I saw that it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. I'll be back to read it in three or four day, let's say, and I'll decide whether it's better or not. Thanks, too, for your smiling at my latest one. Best to you :=))

[Hawkman]

Yes, I see where you are going with this much more clearly now, and I particularly like the last line, which is a killer :D I will be interested to see any further revisions you make to it.

Best, H

[AuntShecky]

Well, I've just read these pieces posted so far, and would like to give an assessment, such as it is.

My overall impression is mostly positive. Generally speaking, you seem to have the idea of imagery down. You manage to paint vivid verbal pictures, the best of are concrete descriptions of items that can be seen, heard, tasted, touched (in a tactile way.)

By contrast, the lines that are least successful are those that are more abstract, that is "tell" rather than "show" of emotions or abstractions that can't be perceived by the senses. I am pleased, however, in the fact that (for the most part ) you're able to avoid such abstractions.

The most successful of these works are those in which you (or your speaker or narrator) isn't consciously trying to "create poetry." The most enjoyable pieces are only incidentally the shorter ones: "Lazy 'n' Hot," "IPhone in the Metro," and my personal favorite, "Muses, Amused," which is ironic without a trace of mean-spiritedness.

It is only when you (or your speaker or narrator) adopts a rather ponderous stance as if to say "Now I am composing a poem" that the result dangles precipitously toward a pitfall. For instance, "Soliloquy in Greece" doesn't strike me as a "soliloquy" -- at least according to the two dictionary definitions. It is more of a descriptive passage
than a heart-felt "act or instance of talking to oneself." Nor
does it seem like a "Hamlet-esque" -- is that a word?-- soliloquy, defined as "lines in a drama in which a character reveals his thoughts to the audience, but not to the other characers, by spealing as if to himself." By both definitions, the verse that follows "Soliloquy in Greece" --"Balcony with a View" is more of a true soliloquy than the preceding verse bearing that label.

My reaction (such as it is) to "Back to School" is mixed. The first half of the piece is riddled with images, words, and phrases, which, while not exactly clichés, are ones we've seen a thousand times before in autumn poems. The second half of this piece is much better (except for the
last line, which falls a little flat.) Yours fooly has been out of school for more decades than I wish to reveal, but I'd be
lying if I told you that I didn't get nostalgic for the classroom each September. So the overall of this piece resonates very strongly with this particular reader.

Now I'll conclude with a suggestion. The idea behind "Alpine Symphony: up" and its companion piece (which goes back down) is a fruitful one. Although I used to listen to classical music, including Richard Strauss, I'm not immediately familiar with the piece of music that inspired these two verses. Working with the words on the screen here, I seem to see something you might want to work on to improve your writing. As pointed out, your images (nouns and modifiers) are fine, but your verbs are
weak. Generally speaking, the lines depend too much on some form of the verb "to be." There are numerous instances in which the line reads: "The [blank] is [blank.]"
For instance: "A song is sung" "The day is bright," "The
site is rugged." When conveying the fact that low oxygen is a characteristic of mountain climbing, your speaker very cleverly and subtly uses the image of a yawn. But it's almost ruined with the phrase "A yawn is stifled." Why not drop the passive construction and say, "I stifle a yawn"?

(After writing this, I realize that "Lazy n Hot" uses a linking rather than an "action" verb, but in that particular piece the word "is" is understood rather than explicit. If every line began "It is. . ." or "I am. . ." that would detract from the immediacy and liveliness of that particular poem.
I hope that you also see the difference, and that you understand the point I'm trying to make here.)

One thing you could do in poems such as the two Alpine ones is use verbs that are just as vibrant and expressive as your nouns and their modifiers. Doing so will strengthen your poetic "voice" as well as making the poem itself become more immediate and alive.

Thank you for posting your works. I really enjoyed reading them all, and look forward to seeing this thread pop up again.

[DieterM]

Wow, now, this is what I'd call a lengthy and detailed discussion of my humble poems, Aunty! You've sure been reading them with much close attention, for which I'd like to thank you. Your suggestions are more than welcome as I'm posting the poems on this forum for exactly that reason: to get constructive feed-back in order to be able to improve my writing. Especially because I'm writing my poems 'on a whim', generally when I'm at work and not very eager to do what I'm paid for (a condition I'm sure I do share with many others lol). So it's sometimes in a haste that I compose my lines. Being a native German-speaker living in a country where French is spoken, I realize that the verb 'to be' has a privileged status in some lines, for which I apologize. I'm actually aware that for the sake of the meter, not only are there many 'is', 'am' and 'are's, but also 'so's and 'thus's which I use as fillers. I'll work on it, promised. Thanks for stopping by, anyway, and looking forward to seeing you around again and reading you again, too.

[DieterM]

You fell from heaven, soft, a sunray
Woke me with a kiss, a touch
Made me bloom under your warm stare
Strengthened me, your glow intense

My sap returned, my life shot up
My day increased, my night declined
Your love a greenhouse for my blossoms
Embraces watering my roots

I stood and flowered, petals strong
Hair golden, skin exhaling perfumes
Awaiting harvest, full and lush
I swayed and waved in tender breaths

But then, you turned into my winter
Your distant love frosting my veins
And tears changed into icicles
While withering I sank into

My lonesome hibernation…

[zoolane]

I very like last one 'Spring summer fall winter' not only remain flower or plant going sleep but soft gentle remind of couple in love.

[DieterM]

thank you zoolane, that was indeed my intention.

[DieterM]

‘There’s no such thing’,
I said,
‘as black or white’

‘Black and white’,
I said,
‘ain’t even colours’

‘There’s no such thing’,
I said,
‘as good or bad’

‘Stop being so binary’,
I said,
‘so dichotomist’

‘In-betweens, the grey,’
I said,
‘the tepid, the mixed-up’

You didn’t say much,
you just showed me
the true darkness of black.

[DieterM]

The grey-haired dried-up lady from
the extreme right-wing party
stood up in the regional assembly
brandishing a Dürer-drawing
the famous one with the rabbit
shouting with spittle flying: ‘Modern Art
is crap! This is how real art
looks like and should look like!’
Reacting to this and for the example,
thirty-three abstract deconstructionists
committed collective suicide.

[Delta40]

‘There’s no such thing’,
I said,
‘as black or white’

‘Black and white’,
I said,
‘ain’t even colours’

‘There’s no such thing’,
I said,
‘as good or bad’

‘Stop being so binary’,
I said,
‘so dichotomist’

‘In-betweens, the grey,’
I said,
‘the tepid, the mixed-up’

You didn’t say much,
you just showed me
the true darkness of black.

I really like this poem Dieter. It is like some resistance to living a colour filled life.

[DieterM]

Interesting, Delta, that you see in it something entirely different from what I intended to describe! I was living with someone who always saw things in black and white, whereas I tend to be someone who tries to discern the grey areas between the extremes. And he deceived me enormously, as if he wanted to teach me what black really means. But if you read something else in my lines, I'm really satisfied because I always thought poems belong to the reader and what he makes of them rather than to the author... Thank you.

[DieterM]

Antigone

Vultures slavering over the body
A brother rotting in the plane
Black grape of flies evaporates
I approach in the moist velvet night
My tiptoe feels guilty
A handful of sand on the body
My sacred forbidden ritual

I will pay for your cruel law
Humdrum happiness you offer
Be a good girl, you say
Take your cookie, baby
I don't want to be a dog
I want it all, I shall not lick
whatever hollow bone lies in my path

I don't accept your petty compromises
I throw my handful of sand
Onto your mediocrity, King of Puppets
Into your watery eyes, Creon
Into the oily machinery of your way of living
Bury me deep in a cave
My total desire will blaze us all away

[DieterM]

1
Bitter and sweet and sweet and bitter…
Like the salad I made yesterday,
shallots, tomatoes, cucumber, red pepper,
a sweet apple and two bitter chicories.
Olive oil, Italian balsamic vinegar.

2
Bitter-sweet, like those holidays.
Back to the mild isle of Djerba.
We rented a villa, away in a hamlet,
outside the village of Midoun.
For two long weeks, we called
a chalk-white bungalow our own.
It had a small, half-withered garden.
A little, shady backyard.
It took us half an hour, walking,
from the hamlet to the beach.
Roughly fifteen minutes
from the hamlet to the village centre.

Midoun, a village like a drawing
in a book for dreamers.
With low houses, white and blue.
Shady arcades, dusty pavements, idle living.
Old men wearing djellabahs the colour of sand
sitting idly on the terrace of a café,
gossiping and sipping coffee or mint tea or Boga.

The little busy market place.
We used to buy fresh fish for our barbecue.
Tomatoes, peppers, cucumber,
and onion, garlic, parsley:
chopped for Tunisian salad.
Thin warka pastry leaves to make a Brick à l'œuf,
triangular pockets, deep fried, with an egg
in it, and chopped onion, tuna, harissa and parsley.

3
My sister spent a week with us.
We'd walk together down the main road to the beach,
under the blazing sun and sky.
The dry, red plain on both sides stretching.
Little rose-bushes in pools of water.
Gleaming buildings near the road.
We'd swim together in the lukewarm sea,
we'd sit on sandy shores,
we'd stroll, short-sleeved and hot,
through sleepy streets and whistle.

We took a ship and visited
a narrow strip of sand that reached
out into the azure Mediterranean.
Flamingos watched us floating by.

4
We'd have candlelight dinners in the backyard.
We'd wash our clothes under the warm spurts of water
that spluttered from the garden hose.
We'd overhear our neighbours' conversations,
the thousand nothings that a middle-aged Austrian woman
and her twenty-something year old daughter
had to tell each other.
Perforce, we'd listen to the music
the daughter set blaring in the afternoons.
Mainly Dead can Dance performing 'Spiritchaser'.
After our shower, we'd sit stark naked on my sister's bed
and talk, and talk, and talk.
About life, and love, about hope and disillusion.

5
Bitter-sweet sister of mine.
She had lost weight,
eaten by unhappy, unfulfilled love.
Her lover back in Vienna was a married man.
Her mind told her to split up
while her heart asked her to wait and hope
and long for more, ever more.
Her head said it was useless.
Her feelings held her prisoner,
a blazing jail called yearning.

6
One day, a hot wind rose
and blew over the island.
The wind came rushing out
of the Sahara desert
and swept sand-clouds through the empty streets
and blew them through the houses
and made them whisper on the palm-trees' leaves.
We'd lie, half-dead and sweating, on our beds,
each in his puddle, motionless and
praying for the wind to stop.

7
Last evening. A woman came to paint
traditional wedding patterns on my sisters hands
with henna and a tiny brush.
When she left, my sister broke down,
weeping and scratching the skin of her hands
and whining that the patterns hurt,
they hurt so much, they itched, they bit.
I took her in my arms and shooed and shooed,
singing everything will be fine,
humming you don't need to worry…

Bitter-sweet me at the airport,
waving good-bye to the airplane
that rapidly vanished in the evening sky.
I stood there, sad and empty.
And always, always, the nagging feeling
that I had not listened enough,
that I had not given her enough of my space,
enough of my time, enough of my love.

I said once I don't regret anything.
It's but a preposterous stance.
I do regret, Jesus, I do.
I regret I couldn't prevent
my little big sister from being hurt.
From bleeding out of wounds to the heart.

[zoolane]

I like lots only because I have big sister. so can relate to few 2-3 poems about not be here and want protect her.

Their charm poems DietM

[DieterM]

Thanks zoo, your comment is very much appreciated. True, the relationship with an older sister can feel so strong yet so strange somehow, doesn't it? Moreover, my sis and I are only 1 year apart, so it's like having a twin sister, somehow. Even with the thousands of kilometres separating us...

[Hawkman]

Hi Deter,

Two very powerful pieces. Antigone had me rushing to refresh my memory of the Theban saga. A post-modern take on Sophoclese, which I found very effective.

Midoun Elegies (which stimulated a dislexic response, as I keep seeing it as, 'Midoun Recipies', probably because of the references to food :D ) I actually found to be a compelling read. The writing is storng, evocative of the place, the memories and the sense of regret. S5 stood out for me as particularly memorable and could almost stand as a poem in its own right.

Very good stuff, Dieter.

Best, h

[DieterM]

Thanks Hawk, at least one nice & positive thing – your comment. Sorry I didn't reply earlier, seems to be ages I haven't checked out the forum. Clients so silly I feel like strangling them all day long, a huge workload, and a seriously sick dog that makes me worry day and night. I hope you accept my sincere apologies...

[DieterM]

A blossom, raven-black,
spreads in my entrails,
tears cloud my bloody heart,
I can’t throw up,
shivers of cold run down my bony spine,
and yet, sweat stains bloom under my arms,
I feel manic,
hope merely a crap silhouette
drawn in white chalk
on that blood-spattered sidewalk people call life,
and I face my face in the mirror,
put my lips together,
whistle a f.u.c.k.i.n.g. slowmarch,
my mouth looking like a chicken’s a.s.s.,
the vet said,
‘Sir, your dog
might be dying…’

[Haunted]

Know that feeling! It's well paced all the way to the payoff line.
I would appreciate it even more if I knew what a chicken’s a.s.s. looks like....

[DieterM]

thanks haunted, and as for your lacking knowledge, here's a try :

\ | /
– O –
/ | \

hope you get the picture, ;-))

[hillwalker]

Fortunately I managed without the graphics. This is a very powerful poem, so perhaps the punch-line was a little different to what I had expected. Not that I don't sympathize with your feelings for your dog, but such a melodramatic build-up suggested much worse was in store.

There are a lot of interesting themes in this poem - some dark imagery yet conveyed with a certain ironic humour. My only minor suggestion would be to look again at some of the line breaks after reading this out loud to yourself.

Commiserations on the dog - congratulations on the poem.

H

[DieterM]

thanks hill, I appreciate your commiserations. My dog means a lot to me, you know, and to see her in such a bad shape and be able to help her, well, it f*** me up for a moment. As for the lines breaks, you're absolutely right, I'll see what I can do very quickly :-))

[DieterM]

Sunday, serene and sugary
Black coffee, steaming, at ten
Smooth hours feel like a Julie London tune
Windows blurred by rain cascades
The heating system crackles
The bedside table’s lamp smiles
A subdued light through the room
The dog chortles in its corner, dreaming
While the day stretches and yawns
Under the blankets, cosy and secure

[hillwalker]

I especially like the image of the day having a lie-in. I am able to sense the exact ambience of the time and setting from these few lines. I enjoyed reaing it in case you hadn't guessed.

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

I loved all the very specific, concrete details in this, and the relaxed tone.

[Haunted]

The picture you painted is so real, I can immerse myself completely in the room watching the rain outside and feeling all comfy inside. I especially like this:


Windows blurred by rain cascades
The heating system crackles
The Bedside table’s lamp smiles

When I get to this line, "While the day stretches and yawns", I feel like going back to bed. This is an exceptional poem.

[DieterM]

@hill, prince, haunted: thank you ever so much for your heart-warming comments! They'll make me keep it going for the whole week (as it's Monday now, and the cosy Sunday atmosphere but a poetic memory...)

[DieterM]

My head buried in the sand,
I cherished my ostrich delusion
of sharing something with you,
a meaning, a goal, a togetherness –
dreams hatched in viscose and cotton.

New love fuelled my reverie
of daisies, lilies, carnations.
My lips on your lips
tainted pink my perceptions,
meadows cushioned the concrete.

Your cancerous seduction
got me high and transfixed
but soon I needed stronger dope,
narcotic swaths to swirl through me,
the sleeper in a junkie squat.

The taste of juniper berries
benumbed my tongue,
anaesthetised my mind.
Under your spell, I fell
into a deep slumber.

You started to blacken my sky.
The doses grew stronger.
Ice in my eyes, I covered my face
to block out that animal cry
bubbling up my throat.

I brandished my false trust
like a flag in the window.
Voluntarily bewitched, I persuaded myself
this snake-pit was heaven,
this gangrene was sane.

Until you withdrew the syringe,
left me bloodless and panting
and craving for a new fix,
scratching the walls,
sleepy eyes slits without tears.

[DieterM]

One of these days,
I will stand in my own shimmer, my own halo,
at the bathroom window, I will smoke a cigarette,
the sun will have collapsed behind the church roof,
and I will drink the night up to the last droplet,
wolves will howl and make me tremble to become
one of these...

.........................days
will fade and streetlamps flicker,
an ocean of dark will press upon my shoulders,
the cars' unsteady flow will drone on
and my cigarette's clouds will swirl and linger
slowly, walls will stretch, reach out for stars, be
one of...

...............these days
will slap my face with the stale smell of anguish,
a black and holey pullover will float upon the paving
in the courtyard, and a tear will flow in the sky,
the mourning ravens' silence sitting on my window-sill,
a cigarette butt will lie on worn-out stones, only
one...

.........of these days
I will dream, nightmarish ghosts of my mind,
my fears will make me want to holler,
and finally, when time will flake and waft away,
all edges burned, all colours washed and white,
the only cigarette butt will testify before my bathroom window
that I was there

[hillwalker]

An interesting exercise in introspection - the style of repeating fragments of the title is original and works well here.

I'm not so sure about 'pert ravens' but it's an enjoyable read nonetheless

H

[DieterM]

thanks, hillwalker, glad that you enjoyed it. I wasn't so sure about the pert ravens, either, and have been thinking it over since yesterday. Now, it's corrected and flows better in my opinion. Best to you!

[DieterM]

Soaring through thin, toxic air,
the river a violet ribbon below,
crammed between ancient stone embankments,
waves splashing moss-covered bridges…

We used to swing to world-weary sax tunes and kiss
in their shadows smelling of stale piss and rotting algae
– did we? or are my memories deceiving me? –

Pavements cracked by roots. Man-made devices, ivy-crumbled.
Once, the city's grey contained the spectrum of our bliss.
Today, a foreign vegetation takes its toll,
and wondrous, lavish colours gleam and hiss like enemies.

The island cathedral still stretches two spindly spires
As if to spite the new times, like I do…
Its blackened remains remind me of the candles I never lit.

On the hill behind, a crater where the Panthéon rose.
Seeds and skulls and shrapnel shells mingle in the pit.
Directly below me, two former theatre buildings, proud expressions and hopes,
now overgrown with fern and leaves and creepers…

– Why me? Why do I live? What shall I do?
Can I afford to care?
I guess not, I just try to survive –

Under the strange-hued sky, the air feels unreal and new.
A whole era is over, the new one a probability,
dreamt by no one for I do not dream.
I’m alone, left over after the final sarcastic hiccup…

The greenery has regained its rights
I know I am lonely and forlorn like a goose-feather,
the last to remember the city’s former glory.

On the right river bank, in the new jungle
that grows upon the Louvre, I land
and fold my wings and pray
to all those Gods I have never believed in…

[hillwalker]

A really evocative piece - crammed with so much imagery.

Forgive me then for a couple of quibbles - 'violet' is used twice (for sky and river - was that intentional?).
And I think the feeling of soaring above the city could be extended to make the poem seem even more panoramic - in which case eliminate line 2 (which is rather weak) and replace 'before' with 'below'. just a thought....

H

[Jerrybaldy]

Hi Dieter M, haven't visited this thread in a while - I'm just a sucker for single postings :)
I wanted to comment on 'The Sleeping Junkie' . I thought it was really powerful with some wonderful turns of phrase


Voluntarily bewitched, I persuaded myself
this snake-pit was heaven,
this gangrene was sane

was one of many packed into your piece.
I can't help but feel this would have reached a wider audience and recieved a whole lot of commentary as a single posting. Sorry, its a bit of a hobby horse of mine.
Great poem.
cheers
JerryB

[Delta40]

My head buried in the sand,
I cherished my ostrich delusion
of sharing something with you,
a meaning, a goal, a togetherness –
dreams hatched in viscose and cotton.

New love fuelled my reverie
of daisies, lilies, carnations.
My lips on your lips
tainted pink my perceptions,
meadows cushioned the concrete.

Your cancerous seduction
got me high and transfixed
but soon I needed stronger dope,
narcotic swaths to swirl through me,
the sleeper in a junkie squat.

The taste of juniper berries
benumbed my tongue,
anaesthetised my mind.
Under your spell, I fell
into a deep slumber.

You started to blacken my sky.
The doses grew stronger.
Ice in my eyes, I covered my face
to block out that animal cry
bubbling up my throat.

I brandished my false trust
like a flag in the window.
Voluntarily bewitched, I persuaded myself
this snake-pit was heaven,
this gangrene was sane.

Until you withdrew the syringe,
left me bloodless and panting
and craving for a new fix,
scratching the walls,
sleepy eyes slits without tears.

I usually hate junkie poems or stories but this is pure love/hate relationship stuff and speaks so powerfully and more widely than the addiction itself. Best poem on this theme I have read yet.

[DieterM]

@hillwalker: wow, thanks for your thoughtful reading – should I say again? I should, and I do. Each time, you put your finger on a spot I'm not so sure about, and what's more and much more valuable: you try to hint out how the weak spot could be improved. I'll have to work again on my 'Paris, après' poem, then, because if I take out that weak spot or correct it the way you suggested, the folding of the wings at the end becomes somewhat impossible. As for the colour 'violet', well, uhm, I plead guilty; you were nice enough to only find two where there are three. So, true enough, some work'll have to be done about that. I'll re-edit the whole poem as soon as possible.
@Jerrybaldy: thanks for your comments, they went straight to my heart. You know, there are always some poems I write and quite like;others, though, are like written with a bleeding heart. This one was; it meant much to me as it explained retrospectively a whole 13-year relationship to me. As for the single postings, I did post some poems, a few weeks ago, in single threads, and it's true they triggered off a whole lot of comments. Then came Auntie's lengthy critique (you remember the discussion about mediocrity and so on, I reckon) and I felt she was right when she mildly suggested we should compile our poems in, how to say it? Author threads? I thought the idea was worth being tried out. Suggestion to those who run the site, now: it would be better, perhaps, to rearrange the threads with newest piece on top? Or maybe this is a stupid idea, I dunno... For the time being, I'm quite happy with this thread, so my apologies if I stick to my New Poems thread for a while...
@Delta40: thanks to you, too, for your kind words. I didn't mean this to be a Junkie poem (or only in the remotest of meanings) because I haven't been a Junkie myself and would perhaps be uneasy to try and describe the feelings one can have when being a Junkie. I have been a Love Junkie, though, for 13 years. That's what the poem is about, and that's what you've picked up anyway. I'm really so glad it spoke to you.
I have to say this is one hell of a Forum we've got on here; I really think it, and I do love to come here whenever I have the time!! Thanks to you all to make it happen!

[DieterM]

I look into the mirror
My destiny stares back at me, recites my daily mantra
'I am the sun and the moon and the morning star
I am the North and the South, the East and the West
I am the light and I am the dark
I am my MP and my president, my King and Queen and Royal Family
My word is the stone upon which I will build my castle
My mind the chisel and hammer
My sentence the tune, my paragraph the music sheet
My life the shepherd, my breath the path
My strength
My quill
My tale
My will
My fame and glory
because I am'

[zoolane]

I look into the mirror
My destiny stares back at me, recites my daily mantra
'I am the sun and the moon and the morning star
I am the North and the South, the East and the West
I am the light and I am the dark
I am my MP and my president, my King and Queen and Royal Family
My word is the stone upon which I will build my castle
My mind the chisel and hammer
My sentence the tune, my paragraph the music sheet
My life the shepherd, my breath the path
My strength
My quill
My tale
My will
My fame and glory
because I am'

Great poem and self belief to be able achieve anything and everything, x

[DieterM]

thanks zoo, glad you liked it! it's a prayer I try to say each morning to make sure my day will be a success (sometimes, it works, sometimes not, but hey, at least I tried!)

[DieterM]

Feeling broody, today,
sensing tree trunks, undressed,
on a bed of icedrops,
threatening pillars in dusky shadows,
misty swirls and stony silence.

Feeling broody and blue,
an out-of-the-world sensation,
a Miles-Davis Doo-Bop-sob
where dead leaves and nostalgia
spin in a vortex of regret.

Broody and blue and cowering,
I suck on memories
like a boy on his thumb.
Words, images, shades, smiles,
a childhood, a youth, a past.

Cowering towards their warmth
when they feel like home,
welcoming and steady.
But today, they nail me to the soaked soil,
too heavy to carry.

Weary with sorrow,
the sky above this forest chapel
will deliver me, perhaps,
and cover my brooding
in a coat of newness and virgin snow.

[hillwalker]

Looking out of my own window at the forest edge covered in fresh snow this couldn;t have come at a better time. The pictures you draw of 'misty swirls and stony silence' and sucking on memories 'like a boy on his thumb' are extremely vivid.

I'm not sure I would have chosen the term 'broody' since, as well as meaning 'introspective', its second interpretation implies the need to have children (the nesting instinct in hens for example).

But I liked the Miles Davis reference - another kind of blue indeed.

H

[DieterM]

@ hillwalker: thank you for reading my poems; each time, you do it with full attention and kindness and a critical eye. I just edited my 'Paris, après' poem after your useful suggestions. Thanks, too, for pointing out the different significations of 'broody'. I really hadn't thought about the second sense although I knew it. I'm not a native English-speaker, so very often, I choose a word because of its sound and what it makes me think of. I found 'pensive' too weak for the mood I was in; broody on the other hand had that sound of 'moody', 'bluesy'... Or was it the hidden hen in me that made me pick up that word lol?

[DieterM]

I'll have another try to sing about that favourite play of mine, Jean Anouilh's 'Antigone'.

Antigone II: Haemon

His fingertips danced on a body so frail
Bones of a sparrow with translucent skin
She moved like a tragic movie heroine
Ephemeral the way autumn leaves dye the air
Before they rot and disappear like silent papers
And in his nose the memory of her precious fragrance
That smell of skittish youth and smudged lipstick
And the perfume she had stolen from her sister…

Everything felt absolute and absolutely whole
No compromise but teenage-urgent claims
Fish without fish bones and wormless apples
One first kiss and she became his real wife
One sulky look and his universe dove and sank
He didn't notice her dirty broken nails
Didn't heed the deadly breath of her fate
Her body's warmth hiding her broken gaze…

He wailed when he discovered the world was nude
Snuck into the tomb as if it was her womb
The boulder they rolled before the entry
Stifled her last silent sobs, hid his empty stare
He chose to be the boy who refused to be a man.
A final necklace of threads nestled round her throat
Then he transfixed his stomach with his sword
And held her warm in a riverbed of flowing red roses…