IceM's Poetry Laboratory

[IceM]

I found it more convenient to post multiple poems in one thread than hunt down the threads under which I had already posted.

I'm breeding thoughts for which I hope my ability may someday perfect. If not, at least it affirms my eternal incompetence at the craft.

Cite the poem you're referring to if you choose to respond, please. Thank you!

Pens and Pencils

If but my blood could write, I'd slash my arm,
bleed through my pen and smear my heart on the page,
for that is when poetry is beautiful.

Instead, I'm given a pen and notebook
whose mere sight gives me spasms.
My first kiss relived.
Trembling fingers,
sweat threatening my grip--I hope she liked it--
and the pen, gently stroking herself against
the white body, pores whispering from
the shortening distance.

Paper beckons me forward to
join in. From that I learned,
I really suck at three-ways.

Bleeding forth from the pen,
I tell the world,
"Hear my voice! Live my dreams
and cherish my thought and remember me!"
Standing from every hillside and mountaintop,
I scream my beliefs!

I'm one of millions.

So then I speak them.

I'm one of millions.

So then I whisper them.

I'm one of millions.

But if my blood could write,
I'd bleed through the pen and smear my heart on the page,
hoping someday to make something beautiful.

[IceM]

Searching

Death comes to those who,
seeking some knowledge beyond
Man, find it elsewhere.

Ode to Survivalism

Conflagration and
strife have spread far, wars waged,
but Man will rise yet.

A Nihilistic Mindset

Birds with clipped wings
cry out, unheard by the world.
yet they will still sing.

[Delta40]

Firstly, I like the name of the thread. Secondly ' I'm breeding thoughts' is a great line for a poem!

Thirdly, the first poem has all the dramatis of the self threatening to be lost amongst the million of other voices. I like that you become them all. I think the poem needs a bit of reshaping.

Paper beckons me forward to
join in. From that I learned,
I really suck at three-ways.

Bleeding forth from the pen,


sounds a little bumpy to me and sucking at three ways seems totally incrongruous with the poem! However, your passion leaks through the ink and onto lit-net!

Finally, the short ones require at least one strong cup of coffee before I can sift through the appearance of some deep thinking and establish if it so (its early morning here!)

keep writing.

[qimissung]

IceM, I love the first poem. Pens and Pencils. It has heart, even if it isn't literally bleeding. I agree with Delta, though, that it needs a little tightening up. would you consider eliminating the "I'm one of millions" section?

Keep writing!

[MorpheusSandman]

I rather like the "one of millions" sections, it's actually the opening and closing that seem rather cliched. I might recommend starting from the point you're writing without setting it up. You can create drama through what you're encountering and then reveal that it's actually you writing, rather than actually in the moment yourself. I might even start with "my first kiss relived". There's a lot of creative things you can do to write about the drama of writing without revealing that you are writing; the perspective itself will recreate the feeling you're trying to express.

I like the shorter pieces as well; they're a bit like haikus, and all nicely aphoristic. "Man are but those birds" is probably too direct though. In such formats I prefer to let the images speak as symbols rather than spelling out the metaphor/simile. You open up more interpretive possibilities that way.

[IceM]

Firstly, I like the name of the thread. Secondly ' I'm breeding thoughts' is a great line for a poem!

Thirdly, the first poem has all the dramatis of the self threatening to be lost amongst the million of other voices. I like that you become them all. I think the poem needs a bit of reshaping.

Paper beckons me forward to
join in. From that I learned,
I really suck at three-ways.

Bleeding forth from the pen,


sounds a little bumpy to me and sucking at three ways seems totally incrongruous with the poem! However, your passion leaks through the ink and onto lit-net!

Finally, the short ones require at least one strong cup of coffee before I can sift through the appearance of some deep thinking and establish if it so (its early morning here!)

keep writing.

Thank you for reading Delta!

The three-way comment was meant to parody my self-created idea that I struggle to successfully portray my thoughts, from my blood to the pen to the paper. It was also meant to provide a slight aside of humor.

I normally wait anywhere from a week to a month to revise poems, only to give myself time to work on others and, when my gaps between readings are longer, I notice more of what can be improved. I'll make sure to take your recommendations into mind!


IceM, I love the first poem. Pens and Pencils. It has heart, even if it isn't literally bleeding. I agree with Delta, though, that it needs a little tightening up. would you consider eliminating the "I'm one of millions" section?

Keep writing!

Thank you for reading Qimi! I'll take your advice into consideration, and will later edit this poem. Thank you!


I rather like the "one of millions" sections, it's actually the opening and closing that seem rather cliched. I might recommend starting from the point you're writing without setting it up. You can create drama through what you're encountering and then reveal that it's actually you writing, rather than actually in the moment yourself. I might even start with "my first kiss relived". There's a lot of creative things you can do to write about the drama of writing without revealing that you are writing; the perspective itself will recreate the feeling you're trying to express.

I like the shorter pieces as well; they're a bit like haikus, and all nicely aphoristic. "Man are but those birds" is probably too direct though. In such formats I prefer to let the images speak as symbols rather than spelling out the metaphor/simile. You open up more interpretive possibilities that way.

Thank you for reading Morpheus! Your analysis of my first poem is interesting. I never considered starting from that line. Coming from a Slam background, I normally give a background to my poem, only to make the message clearer. As I begin to edit this poem, I'll tinker with both my beginning and other phrases to see if I can be more precise with my language.

I see the recommendation with the third haiku. I tried to imitate the Rumi "A white flower....let your tongue be that flower" directness, but I agree, I should open up the possibilities in that haiku.

Thank you all for reading! I'd posted some poems here before that, with revision, may be better. I appreciate your readings!

The Night is Beautiful
Inspired by Langston Hughes's My People

The night is beautiful.
So too are the stars,
each a dream,
and an inevitable supernova
destined to adorn the skies
with Hellish reds and Hughes's blues.

The night is beautiful.
So too are the stars,
yet so far away.
Move towards one star
and become farther,
farther,
farther away from all the others.
Indecision is a void,
decisiveness, an exile.
Which to choose? Which to choose?

The night is beautiful.
So too are the stars,
so far away as to be
trepassing on neighboring worlds,
so entrenched with finite dreams
as to be peddling them at local marts,
salesman saying:
Ten dollars for a dream,
twenty for the counterfeit satisfaction
that only counterfeits can provide.
No refunds.

The night is beautiful.

[Bar22do]

I think you're a gifted poet and writer, IceM, you take your craft seriously and have a great respect of the reader. Which is laudable! I enjoyed reading all your pieces here, even if, like others, I think some need tightening (you received good critique how to do it). You evidently try to be yourself while admiring your chosen poets and learning from them.
I loved your "Search" particularly, in which death becomes a new field of exploration. And, like you write in your Pens poem, ah, if our blood could just write for us... Your very last poem on dreams "caught" me especially when I read "indecision is a void/decisiveness - an exile, which to choose..", impossible though necessary choices - loss or change of identity.
Nice to meet you and read your thoughts. Bar

[AuntShecky]

I'm glad to see that you've decided to put all your work in one thread. That way you can chart your own progress. Additionally, as time goes by and you wish to look up one of your previous works, it's a lot easier to find it in a central location rather than scattered all across the Personal Poetry forum. (Don't worry about getting "hits" --every time you post something, even in an "pre-existing" thread, it automatically gets "bumped" to the top of the New Posts forum.)

The other good move you're making is reading as many modern and contemporary poems as you can. Langston Hughes is a good start; you can also learn much from Auden, Eliot, Frost, and Yeats. At this point you should spend more time reading rather than writing (at first.) The more you read, the more craft you'll begin to develop, almost by osmosis.

Even if you prefer writing free verse, it won't hurt and definitely would help to read copious amounts of metered verse. You could also try to write a few metered lines yourself. After a while, you'll get a sense of rhythm and also an awareness of what a "poetic line" is.

Now, about your offerings(so far.) I've read them and the main thing that jumped out at me is that your verses are heavy with abstractions and light on specific images. You'll also want to avoid, if you can, banalities and clichés.

It took me a long time, but just for you I managed to unearth this article by Walt McDonald:
http://wwwstage.valpo.edu/english/vpr/mcdonaldessay.html

Please read it, at least the first section which deals with
abstractions. The article mentions how Pound abhorred
abstractions; William Carlos Williams as well insisted that there are "no ideas except in things."


Good luck with your reading and writing.

[IceM]

I think you're a gifted poet and writer, IceM, you take your craft seriously and have a great respect of the reader. Which is laudable! I enjoyed reading all your pieces here, even if, like others, I think some need tightening (you received good critique how to do it). You evidently try to be yourself while admiring your chosen poets and learning from them.
I loved your "Search" particularly, in which death becomes a new field of exploration. And, like you write in your Pens poem, ah, if our blood could just write for us... Your very last poem on dreams "caught" me especially when I read "indecision is a void/decisiveness - an exile, which to choose..", impossible though necessary choices - loss or change of identity.
Nice to meet you and read your thoughts. Bar


Thank you Bar! I'm trying to find sources of poetry that, while containing a beautiful aesthetic, capture the messages I'm trying to send. Langston Hughes is supremely talented, and in that regard, a great source to learn from. I'm just looking for multiple poets that capture a message I'm aiming to capture, both skillfully and technically. Thank you for the read. I appreciate your comments.


I'm glad to see that you've decided to put all your work in one thread. That way you can chart your own progress. Additionally, as time goes by and you wish to look up one of your previous works, it's a lot easier to find it in a central location rather than scattered all across the Personal Poetry forum. (Don't worry about getting "hits" --every time you post something, even in an "pre-existing" thread, it automatically gets "bumped" to the top of the New Posts forum.)

The other good move you're making is reading as many modern and contemporary poems as you can. Langston Hughes is a good start; you can also learn much from Auden, Eliot, Frost, and Yeats. At this point you should spend more time reading rather than writing (at first.) The more you read, the more craft you'll begin to develop, almost by osmosis.

Even if you prefer writing free verse, it won't hurt and definitely would help to read copious amounts of metered verse. You could also try to write a few metered lines yourself. After a while, you'll get a sense of rhythm and also an awareness of what a "poetic line" is.

Now, about your offerings(so far.) I've read them and the main thing that jumped out at me is that your verses are heavy with abstractions and light on specific images. You'll also want to avoid, if you can, banalities and clichés.

It took me a long time, but just for you I managed to unearth this article by Walt McDonald:
http://wwwstage.valpo.edu/english/vpr/mcdonaldessay.html

Please read it, at least the first section which deals with
abstractions. The article mentions how Pound abhorred
abstractions; William Carlos Williams as well insisted that there are "no ideas except in things."


Good luck with your reading and writing.

Thank you for the critique and comments Shecky! I found the essay very helpful, and my English teacher, one who published locally, is serving as my mentor in hopes of becoming a more successful poet. The essay underlies the change my teacher was leading me towards, the essay much more clearly articulated.

I've been reading Frost, although Hughes more thoroughly. I attempted a few shots at meter, and found that iambs were obtrusive much more than I expected.

[IceM]

Two sonnets, both inspired by Jorge Luis Borges.

Siddhartha

An aged man sits beneath the shade tree, caught
in thought, brooding on what the river says.
He hears what perceptive men have dreamt of,
microscopic pebbles whispering truths
Brahmins dream of, timeless masturbations
fertilizing his mind, planting a seed
to germinate through time--named Samsara.

Only the wise understand the death of ego,
starving the senses, knowing all but Life.
He made money and children--Truth made him
trek long through woe and isolation and loss,
pain a constant, conflict a burden, all for
Truth, all to understand what Truth had known;
that there lies no path but one's own.


Art Kane Jazz Portrait, Harlem, 1958

Trombones, cornets and elegant women
dance with classy men, fumes of Cuban cigars
masking French perfume and sensuous love.
Therein, a truth. This world smells of money.

Down the corner, saxophones lament life,
racism bleeding into the reed, being lost
in timeless glissandos, medlies of the
maladies of life: rape and murder, theft
fraud: it all sounds beautiful. In Harlem,
malaise is magical. It is music.

Slavery somewhere beats her drum, lamenting
losing her childhood dreams. For her, we sing:
Cue the bones, cue the sax, cue Louie's fiery brass,
cue the ballroom, flee the pain and feel the jazz.

[Delta40]

I think swapping S1 with S2 in Siddhartha would be more effective. S2 has more of a moral or concluding feel to it. this man lives a rat race life and so ends up under a tree, reflecting.

the second has its own rhythm.

[Bar22do]

You try yourself at sonnet and at Borges at the same time! this is ambitious and praiseworthy, while I can't judge the actual sonnet's quality I can say I enjoyed Siddhartha especially. And I altogether think your attitude to poetry is touching as is your great sense of the last. Best from Bar

[IceM]

I think swapping S1 with S2 in Siddhartha would be more effective. S2 has more of a moral or concluding feel to it. this man lives a rat race life and so ends up under a tree, reflecting.

the second has its own rhythm.

Thank you Delta! I tried at a meter for Siddhartha, but as the stanzas continued, I abandoned it, only because I wanted to jot down the idea before it left me (something that happens often). I've also noticed how some people pronounce words is different from the actual pronunciations--I always tend to emphasize the re in any word with re in it.

Is it fair to say meter is subjective? At least amongst the common reader?

I'll consider your suggestion when the time comes to revise this poem. Thanks for the read!


You try yourself at sonnet and at Borges at the same time! this is ambitious and praiseworthy, while I can't judge the actual sonnet's quality I can say I enjoyed Siddhartha especially. And I altogether think your attitude to poetry is touching as is your great sense of the last. Best from Bar

Thank you for reading Bar! I've found the Borgesian sonnet (although it seems he never intended to create a Borgesian sonnet) is more difficult than anticipated. His prose-esque style combined with a minimali, concrete sense of imagery is actually difficult to do successfully, and, perhaps with the second moreso than the first sonnet, I succeeded, yet not to his degree. But, with more studies, maybe I can. Thank you for reading nonetheless.

Cyclical Sonnet

I met you on summer's hottest day
wearing none but lilac's fresh scent.
Few in words, little did we say,
all that we did, I must admit:

I adultured, her name, Autumn.
Her tender hues led me astray,
Summer, my love is not gone, yet
even nobel loves fall away.

Yet, her leaves do fuel my desire
for compassion to rise again--
And Miss Winter has sparked my fire,

Cyclical love starts again, for when
Summer falls from my love, I will sing,
into my bed, Winter shall spring.

[IceM]

.....

[IceM]

The clouds remain,
So too, the sun.
The skies, still gray,
My cheeks, still dun.

But time has pass’t,
So too, my eye
That could not see
the beauty there.

Monotony
was once her name.
Now all seems alive--
The bees buzzing
In honey hives,
A lazy cat
Snugly purring
With her lover,
Under a tree.

What did I do
To make my eyes
Appear renew’d?

Many just see
An overcast sky
And gray, drab hues
Abound outside.
Yet with keen eye,
One can discern
Just how alive
we truly are.

[tailor STATELY]

This poem touched me. Just a few suggestions below.


Awakening

The clouds remain,
So too, the sun.
The skies, still gray,
My cheeks, still dun.

But time has pass’t,
So too, my eye
That could not see
Beauty in her.

Monotony
was once her name.
Now all seems alive--
The bees buzzing
In honey hives,
A lazy cat
Snugly purring
With her lover,
Under a tree.

What did I do
To make my eyes
Appear renew’d?

Many just see
An overcast sky
And gray, drab hues
Abound outside.
Yet with keen eye,
One can discern
Just how alive
The nature is.

The line " Beauty in her." clunked for me for some reason - perhaps that was your intention.
Maybe: Her beauty faire (or something)

And I especially enjoyed
Many just see
An overcast sky
And gray, drab hues
Abound outside.
Yet with keen eye,
One can discern
Just how alive
The nature is. with the exception of the last line; perhaps: Nature's being (or something)

Thank you for sharing.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[Alexander III]

"A Nihilistic Mindset

Birds with clipped wings
cry out, unheard by the world.
yet they will still sing."


Wow I really like this one, it is my favorite of yours, for such a short pome it has such power, bravo!

[IceM]

This poem touched me. Just a few suggestions below.



The line " Beauty in her." clunked for me for some reason - perhaps that was your intention.
Maybe: Her beauty faire (or something)

And I especially enjoyed with the exception of the last line; perhaps: Nature's being (or something)

Thank you for sharing.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

Thank you for reading Tailor! I agree, "Beauty in her" seems clumpy. But I tried iambic bimeter, and, as for now, beauty fits. Maybe "Nature's Beauty" would work, and I certainly will try some of your recommendations. Aside from that, I feel confident with the finished product I posted. Thank you for reading!


"A Nihilistic Mindset

Birds with clipped wings
cry out, unheard by the world.
yet they will still sing."


Wow I really like this one, it is my favorite of yours, for such a short pome it has such power, bravo!

Thanks for reading Alexander! I tried the haiku, my only knowledge of it being the 5-7-5 syllabic form. Not sure if there are other criteria to satisfy that format.

I'm interested to see what you, as well as Tailor and the other readers, have thought of my other entries, as well as the following one, entitled, Starlit Nights.

Gravel rattles under the wheels,
midnight moon providing the light
that illuminates the dirt road
where Mary is released tonight.

See anywhere you care to stop?
We only get one chance at this.

Better judgment shed with clothing,
Windows sweating with Love's sweet skin,
Fixed in place to watch this moment,
Stars above turn crimson with sin.

Raucous rocking setting a pace,
Hooting owls enhance the mood,
Tender sighs and fragmented moans
jointly form our sweet etudes.

Time will someday mar your beauty,
Maybe too will our new love fade.
Yet, forever sealed above is
Passion's outbust in maroon shades.

Look above and into the sky,
With both keen eye and memory,
You will see our moment renew'd
And forever seal'd in posterity.

[Delta40]

I like the poetry IceM. Made me think of steamy sex on a train more than a starlit night but I mean that as a compliment.

the promise of tonight does not do the stanza justice, I think. It sounds unoriginal to me.

[IceM]

The Classroom

The drone of voices violate
our right to quiet, peaceful thought.
This class does not teach calculus

How could he wear that in public?

The conversation roars with foam,
as rabid dogs or raging Elymus
declaring himself God. With each
crescendo in volume

You have got to be a surgeon.

thought

I wouldn't mind trying that in college.

is blown

Are you getting an apartment?

out, out

They are so cute together!

until abilities to function

She has a C in this class?

are increasingly decreasing.

[Hawkman]

I have a little trouble getting a handle on this poem. The reference to calculus I interpret as an oblique indicator the the classroom, or at least this classroom, is not an environment conducive to learning. The two cohesive strophes separated by the seemingly random rhetorical question which forshadows the division, line by line, of the thrid strophe, is quite effective, but I wonder if dwindling concentration would not have been better illustrated by having a longer third stroph divided at increasing intervals to reflect the statement it makes.

The reference to Elymus is frankly baffling. "as rabid dogs or raging Elymus" is almost a nice pun on elymus caninus, a species of grass, but "Declaring himself God"? I'm afraid my classical education only admits to knowing that Elymus was a Trojan who was assisted by Aeneas to build a couple of settlements in Sicily. I can find no reference to delusions of divinity on his part.

I may be missing something, but I'm afraid this one doesn't quite work for me.

Live and be well - H

[hillwalker]

I get the message that the students in this class are more concerned with tittle-tattle than learning. But I have the same problem as Hawk :

This class does not teach calculus - why 'teach' rather than 'do' or 'promote' or 'encourage' ?

I assume 'voilate' should be 'violate'...

The reference to Elymus also leaves me as baffled as Hawk since I don't see how he (who?) fits into the metaphor of chaos overtaking the hallowed atmosphere of the study hall.

'abilities to function / are increasingly decreasing' was also rather a weak statement on which to end (although I'm tempted to applaud your use of the word 'function' with reference to 'calculus' if it was intentional).

I just felt the idea behind this - intertwining banal teen-chat with a vain yearning for more classic standards in education - was original but the execution fell short of expectation.

H

[IceM]

I have a little trouble getting a handle on this poem. The reference to calculus I interpret as an oblique indicator the the classroom, or at least this classroom, is not an environment conducive to learning. The two cohesive strophes separated by the seemingly random rhetorical question which forshadows the division, line by line, of the thrid strophe, is quite effective, but I wonder if dwindling concentration would not have been better illustrated by having a longer third stroph divided at increasing intervals to reflect the statement it makes.

The reference to Elymus is frankly baffling. "as rabid dogs or raging Elymus" is almost a nice pun on elymus caninus, a species of grass, but "Declaring himself God"? I'm afraid my classical education only admits to knowing that Elymus was a Trojan who was assisted by Aeneas to build a couple of settlements in Sicily. I can find no reference to delusions of divinity on his part.

I may be missing something, but I'm afraid this one doesn't quite work for me.

Live and be well - H

Thank you for reading Hawkman! The calculus mention was intended to be a mild satire of education--that in the most difficult, most exclusive math class offered in high school, it still cannot escape the banalities of high school conversation.

To clarify for both you and Hill, Elymus is a reference to Elymus Bar-Jesus, a false prophet who both declared himself son of God and acted in opposition to his Jewish faith. Although I didn't know elymus was a genus of grass, I did intend for it to be a Biblical allusion.

I tried to use the increasingly dwindling stanza size to parallel the difficulties in maintaining a coherent thought process amidst so much noise. Upon revising, I'll try your suggestion. Thank you for reading!


I get the message that the students in this class are more concerned with tittle-tattle than learning. But I have the same problem as Hawk :

This class does not teach calculus - why 'teach' rather than 'do' or 'promote' or 'encourage' ?

I assume 'voilate' should be 'violate'...

The reference to Elymus also leaves me as baffled as Hawk since I don't see how he (who?) fits into the metaphor of chaos overtaking the hallowed atmosphere of the study hall.

'abilities to function / are increasingly decreasing' was also rather a weak statement on which to end (although I'm tempted to applaud your use of the word 'function' with reference to 'calculus' if it was intentional).

I just felt the idea behind this - intertwining banal teen-chat with a vain yearning for more classic standards in education - was original but the execution fell short of expectation.

H

I tried to use the increasingly decreasing reference to refer to the nature of some second derivatives of functions, but because it had no context in the poem, I do agree that, in retrospect, I could have written a better ending.

Teach is meant to be a mild satire as well, as the class isn't "teaching" anything, regardless of the name of the course.

A more scathing attack on the students, which I'm suprised wasn't picked up on, was the "She has a C in this class?" remark, for as the class as failed to be instructional, how someone could get a C demonstrates a below-average education, on behalf of class and student. Thank you for reading Hill!

[Jerrybaldy]

I loved pens and pencils. I hate single threads. But I loved pens and pencils.

[IceM]

I loved pens and pencils. I hate single threads. But I loved pens and pencils.

Thank you for reading Jerry!

The following poem was inspired by my bus buddy.

Leaving Hart Park

She peered through the window with wonder;
the sunlight cast a speckled shade through the leaves,
reminiscient of Casy sitting beside the Tree.

Her soul has grown deep like the rivers,
experience gifting it many hues.

Her songs sing of cherubs, spanning everything
from Palestrina to Ellington. Her force--
part trumpet, part trombone,
part alto saxophone--
seizes me like a recessitator.

My memory, sculpted of marble with a faulty chisel--
eskewed lines, faulty designs--
for eons shall remember what I witnessed
when she peered through the window with wonder.

[hillwalker]

I love that term 'bus buddy' - it conjures up all sorts of images of innocent youth.

As for the poem - some of it did jar slightly, detracting from what is presumably intended as a tribute to a young girl you once admired:

Her force--
part trumpet, part trombone,
part alto saxophone--
seizes me like a recessitator[resuscitator?].

comparing a young girl's voice (?) to the sounds of a 'trumpet' was hardly flattering - and how can one be 'seized' by a resuscitator? ' revitalised' maybe.

Similarly I thought the ending fell rather flat

sculpted of marble with a faulty chisel--
eskewed [eschewed?] lines, faulty designs--
for eons shall remember what I witnessed

2 'faulty's in the space of 3 lines is careless - and although I understand what you were trying to convey I think it was done rather clumsily. If you are suggesting that your memory, distorted by the wear and tear of time's passage, will never fail to recall every detail of her expression I'm sure you can describe it much more elegantly.

H

[AuntShecky]

Subject matter, images, and allusions in the latest (# )
are promising.

I agree w. Hill's comment re your latest (# .) A suggestion to make the finished product seem so --not "prosaic" --but prose like. After writing a first draft, go back and strike out all the unnecessary verbiage. Condense and compress.

Even so, the subject matter, images, and allusions in the
are promising. (Anytime anybody mentions Ellington, I'm on board!)

[AuntShecky]

Subject matter, images, and allusions in the latest (# )
are promising.

I agree w. Hill's comment re your latest (# 25 .) A suggestion to make the finished product seem so --not "prosaic" --but prose like. After writing a first draft, go back and strike out all the unnecessary verbiage. Condense and compress.

Make sure your modifiers are close to the nouns they're supposed to describe. For instance, the position of the phrase "everything from Palestrina" (etc.) makes it seem
as if it's describing "cherubs" and not "songs."

Even so, the subject matter, images, and allusions in the
are promising. (Anytime anybody mentions Ellington, I'm on board!)

[deryk]

The Classroom

The drone of voices violate
our right to quiet, peaceful thought.
This class does not teach calculus

How could he wear that in public?

The conversation roars with foam,
as rabid dogs or raging Elymus
declaring himself God. With each
crescendo in volume

You have got to be a surgeon.

thought

I wouldn't mind trying that in college.

is blown

Are you getting an apartment?

out, out

They are so cute together!

until abilities to function

She has a C in this class?

are increasingly decreasing.

I once taught a Calculus class on a whim for a bit at the secondary level. I think you capture the frightening velocity at which problems in the class can accelerate.

[IceM]

I love that term 'bus buddy' - it conjures up all sorts of images of innocent youth.

As for the poem - some of it did jar slightly, detracting from what is presumably intended as a tribute to a young girl you once admired:

Her force--
part trumpet, part trombone,
part alto saxophone--
seizes me like a recessitator[resuscitator?].

comparing a young girl's voice (?) to the sounds of a 'trumpet' was hardly flattering - and how can one be 'seized' by a resuscitator? ' revitalised' maybe.

Similarly I thought the ending fell rather flat

sculpted of marble with a faulty chisel--
eskewed [eschewed?] lines, faulty designs--
for eons shall remember what I witnessed

2 'faulty's in the space of 3 lines is careless - and although I understand what you were trying to convey I think it was done rather clumsily. If you are suggesting that your memory, distorted by the wear and tear of time's passage, will never fail to recall every detail of her expression I'm sure you can describe it much more elegantly.

H

Thank you for reading Hillwalker! I agree, the ending needs retooling, I was in a rush to finish. In regards to likening her voice to a trumpet, my intention was to present her voice as a balanced whole--for if her voice were really a trombone, it'd be mightily deep. I tried to convey the "Ellington" sound as comparing her voice to a blend of instruments that has force, beauty and balance.

Our band leaves for Disneyland tonight. I'll have a revision, if you're interested, shown in the above post once I return.


Subject matter, images, and allusions in the latest (# )
are promising.

I agree w. Hill's comment re your latest (# 25 .) A suggestion to make the finished product seem so --not "prosaic" --but prose like. After writing a first draft, go back and strike out all the unnecessary verbiage. Condense and compress.

Make sure your modifiers are close to the nouns they're supposed to describe. For instance, the position of the phrase "everything from Palestrina" (etc.) makes it seem
as if it's describing "cherubs" and not "songs."

Even so, the subject matter, images, and allusions in the
are promising. (Anytime anybody mentions Ellington, I'm on board!)

Thank you for reading Shecky! I'll make sure to pay closer to attention to the connections between each word. This sonnet, inspired by the girl I sat next to (I wrote it the same day of the trip, which was, I can't remember, a week ago?) was inspired by Borges's style. I'll fix it up.


I once taught a Calculus class on a whim for a bit at the secondary level. I think you capture the frightening velocity at which problems in the class can accelerate.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate your input.

Graduation

The man of iron-plated heart
showed signes of rust, when,
as maroon caps and tassels were thrown above,
he shed a tear.

[Vignette]

IceM - It was a pleasure reading your poems in this thread. I was particularly fond of Pens and Pencils; A Nihilistic Mindset; and Cyclical Sonnet.

[IceM]

Boyhood

Now, I dwell on that little boy
who shoveled dirt and rocks
(Daddy I have to sneeze)
in the pasture on Saturdays--
who, within the mud-colored clouds
caused by his irregular hunching and heaving,
began to hope for gold.
Stopped only by his close-eyed spasms
(the dust is in my nose;
Just a few more minutes)
he dug and dug until his bucket was full.
Then leaving the field (find anything good? hope so!),
the boy’s palms would ache beneath a handle
too rough for his fingers.

That same mass of manzanita limbs
who sprawled across fresh linen
(Steven did you change your; I will, Mom),
who yearned to grow as tall as the trees
whose chips cracked in his campfire-song soul—
he who soon forsook his shovel
today now digs between two blue lines,
still hoping for gold.

[Jack of Hearts]

Well, look what the cat dragged in...




J

[IceM]

Well, look what the cat dragged in...




J

Three-and-a-half years never seemed so brief, right?

When I was re-reading my poems and other favorites from this forum almost a week ago, I was wondering to myself whether the same group of poets I posted with long ago (you, Jerry, AuntShecky, Hill, Bar, Delta and others) were still around. I'm happy to see you (and others) are still here.


Voices

It is out there somewhere.

Perhaps, beside the stream,
Far beyond the undergrowth and fallen redwood
That closed the trail to travelers
(the rangers never did remove that tree),
It awaits me –
The lone blackberry bush amidst the briers
Whose fruit will sustain me forever.

Perhaps instead it dwells among the stars.
Like a comet would my soul sprint –
A headlong rush for a flickering red or blue
To call my own.

Or perhaps, like kingdoms since past,
It is buried within the sands.

[IceM]

Out in the San Joaquin

From the hilltops, those swaths of yellow and green--
the fields of dry grass where the rabbits scurry,
the squares of vines and the pistachio groves where children
in the stillness of the night will steal the season’s first fruit--
stir in the wind, undulating to and fro in the midday sun.
There too rest the beds of those once-proud streams--
that network of veins winding across the brown chest of the earth--
that now are vestiges of ancient waters
whose currents have long been still.

Here, Thoreau would thrive.
On his morning afternoon late evening walks
among the vineyards the hills the barren plots of dust
where orange trees once stood
(they laid like the wreckage of ships found in shallow seas
when the farmers uprooted them),
he too would see hear feel Nature in its full splendor:
see the crawfish emerge from the reservoir
(a single ripple is left in its wake).
and sun itself on the banks;
see the hawk plunge between the vines
(something nervously scurries amid the weeds)
and emerge with nothing;
see in the farthest reaches of the hills
a wildflower blooming in the stillness.

[tailor STATELY]

Beautiful imagery. A California masterpiece of a poem waxing nostalgic.

Reminded me of my own childish pilfering of cherries, blackberries, and apples (Seattle); grapes (Lodi Lake); pistachios and almonds (Modesto) when visiting family as a young adult: furtively eating and not tempted to carrying away the treasures.

It's sad the ground water has become so depleted that the landscape has changed, literally lowering tens to eighty feet in areas if I recall in spots. Streams have become seasonal at best in many places. Crawdads and sticklebacks must be eking a sparse existence nowadays.

I never witnessed the orange groves being torn up, I'm blessed not to have done so; but I still hear the red-tailed hawk every day here in the California foothills of home, and the sight and sound of California quail makes my spirit soar.

So much beauty at home if one just becomes still and soaks it in.

Yes, the great poets would have flourished here, as you evidently have.

Thank you so very much for your poem.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[NikolaiI]

Out in the San Joaquin;
I commented where Tailor also shared it, only one word fits - heavenly.

Extraordinarily well done. :)

[IceM]

Beautiful imagery. A California masterpiece of a poem waxing nostalgic.

Reminded me of my own childish pilfering of cherries, blackberries, and apples (Seattle); grapes (Lodi Lake); pistachios and almonds (Modesto) when visiting family as a young adult: furtively eating and not tempted to carrying away the treasures.

It's sad the ground water has become so depleted that the landscape has changed, literally lowering tens to eighty feet in areas if I recall in spots. Streams have become seasonal at best in many places. Crawdads and sticklebacks must be eking a sparse existence nowadays.

I never witnessed the orange groves being torn up, I'm blessed not to have done so; but I still hear the red-tailed hawk every day here in the California foothills of home, and the sight and sound of California quail makes my spirit soar.

So much beauty at home if one just becomes still and soaks it in.

Yes, the great poets would have flourished here, as you evidently have.

Thank you so very much for your poem.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

Tailor, thank you so much for your kind words! I was especially happy that you had similar experiences in your hometown and areas you've grown up with which you could relate. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say there's nothing that can match the beauty of raw nature--of the tilled lands and the furrows and the trails of dust lost in the wind when the tractor meanders across the field, let alone the sensation of the almonds in full bloom and the silent whisper of the rivers...I could go on forever.

It's truly sad indeed that the groundwater is so rapidly being depleted. Within the last year, there have been multiple times that I've visited my parents after a light week at the university, only to see vast squares of land that in my childhood were populated with almonds and pistachios and oranges and grapevines now lie empty. Seeing the trees in bloom and bearing fruit on a near-daily basis (when the fruits and nuts were in season, of course) was such a significant piece of my youth, and to see the trees and vines gone is saddening. Almonds and vineyards have been hit the hardest in my area, but oranges are getting taken down too.

Thank you so much for your kind words. I'm so, so happy that you liked the poem, let alone put it in the Favorite Lit-Net poems thread! Every time I wrote a poem on this site, I hoped I would make it into that thread, and now I finally have. Thank you so much. :)


Out in the San Joaquin;
I commented where Tailor also shared it, only one word fits - heavenly.

Extraordinarily well done. :)

Thank you so much, NikolaiI. I'm so, so happy that you enjoyed my poem. :)

[IceM]

Richgrove (Home)

There, far east of the highway,
deep in the black blanket cast by the solemn hills
during sunrise, she rests--
she with the roads and walkways of dust
whose clay-colored haze trails the children on their march to school;
she, village of the orange groves, where
under the eager twinkling of the midnight sky,
rapid thrusts from within the shadow of the trees
give birth to wordless utterings.

Until then, they depart,
waves of brown bodies flowing into the vast earthen squares:
some to the berries, others to the vines,
others still to the almond groves whose fallen blossoms
are buried in the dust by the procession of soles.

* * *

Again, I walk the gravel road
amid the vineyards. In the twilight,
a mockingbird sings to her mate across the field
and the leaves of the vine bob and sway
in the midseason wind like a fisherman’s line
on the water, and I enter the reservoir
I often visited in my youth. Then,
our Labrador burst into the azure,
that double image of sun and sky and cotton-ball clouds
shattering into a thousand thousand ripples--
and into my lap he would leap,
almost knocking me over. Mom would shout
and Dad would laugh and Brother too.
But now the ripples have ceased,
and amid the furrows a mouse somewhere scuttles
and an owl perched atop the water tank gazes into the distance,
perhaps at the mouse,
perhaps at the blackness of space.

* * *

Out through the windowpane the children gaze,
sometimes at the sanguine sky that signals the return
of the gleaming bodies bronzed by the sun,
sometimes at the rolling hills--
those towering knuckles of earth on which
the lupine bloom after the rainstorms--
and sometimes at the red blue yellow green beacons
blinking in the black empyrean.
Later, despite the heavy bass that beckons the parents
to the building down the street,
the children will dream of cities
seen only on the screen;
of plazas and piers and downtown parties
in which the people, standing before the flickering neon signs,
are smiling.

[NikolaiI]

Thank you so much, NikolaiI. I'm so, so happy that you enjoyed my poem.


You are very, very welcome my friend! Poems about nature, glorifying the earth are the most beautiful to me, and bring the most joy... I have always followed intuitively Schopenhauer's wisdom "As soon as one writes for gain, one begins to write badly." And when I realized how interesting the times we live in are (with the environment), I realized that the primary good was to do good to mother earth, help protect all her species, balance, harmony and bio-diversity, as it is source of life.. and her resources - I suppose, I have actually held this belief since a little child; I've known if we only attain peace for good, and reduce humanely our population to a sustainable level - then we can live on this earth for many millennia, and explore all of the higher things in life.

Later on I understood what there actually is to explore, and my understanding of all this deepened, and I put it into practice, and it works. It's still such a small step though - but I feel, to spread the message, that to reduce one's consumption of life and resources by 95-99% is very achievable, very doable, and also very rewarding and fulfilling.. and so doing this first, I found the best thing I could possibly do is simply write poetry, about how beautiful life is, all species are, and how wonderful this world can be, if we only follow the wisdom that comes so naturally, when we pause to reflect.

There's an idea in Hinduism that is, basically, if you slip and fall - you still don't lose the progress you've made, and I've found it's a wonderful one. It helps a lot. Another thing I have always tried to share - along with the point of not writing for gain, or, the corollary - is to encourage people, to let them know, that their writing is a light to this universe, and these poems are doing great work, great good. You never know when it will inspire one, and then another, and another; and so on. As Goethe and many others have understood, our words and actions echo throughout eternity. . . So it especially came to mind when I understood the difference between sharing power, strength and hope, and the opposite - long have I understood that to tell people they are strong, that they matter, this is the greatest good we can do for someone.. Although, naturally - to live a life of this kind is the primary way, as we inspire by example; but also to write poetry in such a manner, as the world is made up of words.

As Goethe says, 'Correction does much, but encouragement does more.' So I've always sort of felt, but understood more and more as time went on.

As far as poetry is good - another thing I have come to understand, is that if I write poetry that is true, that's the best I can do, because truth is beautiful, and good. A true poem is a good and beautiful poem, in other words. As Schiller says, the purpose of all art is to create joy; or Whitman, "Do anything, but let it prodjuce joy."

So, thank you, so much. :) Keep writing and have faith, you are doing wonderful work. (Not that you didn't already know this. Beauty wouldn't shine through if it weren't already known). :-) Thank you again.

[tailor STATELY]

For IceM:

Happy Birthday! dear poet
I pray time has been kind

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor