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Thank you,Delta.
In addition to the "triplets" in #439^^^there are two more on the same topic. While the season is still fresh, here are the two parodies posted back in the 30/30 thread from this time last year in reply #58. (If you scroll up that April 2012 thread to the posting April 16, you'll also see the posting inspired by the sestina by Diane W. if you are interested):
http://www.online-literature.com/for...=1#post1134096
This revised version closes out the last of a group of three jazz-themed poems written in April 2008, but never before appearing on the LitNet, maybe fortunately so. (The other two are in separate threads.)
It takes a long time to revise a poem; one should probably wait for a period of time to elapse in order to see it with fresh eyes, even if it takes as long as half a decade.
The title comes from the opening line of the old, old song, "Let's Face The Music (And Dance), but other than that lifted lyric, that's it for references to Irving Berlin (at least in this particular thing.)
“There May Be Trouble Ahead”
“The saxophone of melody”
blows hot, blows cold,
as young hands deftly dribble keys.
The alto runs a scale, puts down
a triad or two, and segues
into “Caravan.”
What if Rashawn should one day
leave his instrument at home?
Would false assumptions,
with undertones untrue,
blow his innocence away?
Why should he tote around old bags?
All he wants to do is blow his horn.
In this reverberant land
some of us still bleat
overheated hymns from Hell
drowning out the soft desert’s cry
and strangling the blues.
Noise overfloods and undermines
the tunes, rejoicing, reflecting,
as heat might flash upon tin.
Heads filled with historic sand
keep feet moving, moving on
in caravans against discordant dust
kicked up by gritty winds.
Godspeed to nomads
who seek cooling springs
of sun-sparkled harmony.
Hello Auntie. I surprised myself while reading this, and the surprise came from my personal association with your word choices in the opening stanza. Whilst I understand perfectly what you were conveying in terms of the depiction of playing music, and although you are quite correct in your use of 'keys' when describing the things one fingers on a sax (or any blown instrument that has them) the image which springs to my mind is of piano keys, which caused some confusion to my internal image associated with your words. I can only assume that this was because the first instrument that I encountered was a piano, as early as the age of two. My mother always had a piano in the house, though when I was very young we had two. I don't think she played it in the last 20 years of her life, though. I remember after she died I lifted the lid to see if it was in tune and I depressed a key. It snapped off in a puff of microscopic dust; the instrument was absolutely riddled with woodworm. Your last verse reminded me. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I had a positively gothic upbringing. :D
The second minor issue is with your use of dribble. Apart from a rather unpleasant image of drooling, culturally, on this side of the pond, the word, when not associated with wetness, conjures up the picture of a soccer player dribbling a ball. I spose this isn't entirely inappropriate in context, except that if he uses his fingers then it's 'hand ball!' Lol.
On a technical note I do have a relevant issue with the conclusion of the final verse. Harmony is a very weak word with which to conclude the poem. The three syllables forming a dactyl allow the two weak stresses to diminish the impact. Whereas this might be perfectly acceptable in a piece of music it doesn't really work in the written word. A stronger beat is necessary to close the tale. You might try:
"who, in sparkled harmony
seek cooling springs."
But it's only a suggestion and I accept that my opinion is entirely subjective. I'd prefer sparkling, but it doesn't work with cooling.
Anyway, an enjoyable read.
Live and be well - H
"Dribble" is the word, associated w. basketball -- going up and down the keys like going up and down the court. "Harmony" has a double-meaning, both intended here to contradict "discordant." Again, I've said way too much.
Your comments are always appreciated, Hawkman.
This next number is fresh off the keyboard and offers in a "slanted" way a sop to those who loathe end rhyme. (There's an eye rhyme as well.)
The Window-Washer
To wipe square glass encased in steel
means dangling by a single belt
some fifty-seven stories steep.
The comic hard-hat’s tipped to bolt–
a useless tenant, like The Rich,
who hang where softer winds have blown,
a penthouse just beyond his reach:
a short way up, a long way down.
With a little modification in tense this would make a fine epitaph :D
Live and be well - H
Not meant to be, though. More like leaving the poor workin stiff "suspended."Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
Thanks for reading this. You're the only one who graces my work with replies and I appreciate it greatly.
Auntie
1.
Foggity, Hoggity,
Limbaugh, on radio,
Rush-es where patriots
oft fear to tread.
Liberals: tongues wagging
Ultraconservative
paranoid listeners:
rocks in their heads.
2.
Parsily, Farcily,
Simon and Garfunkel,
songwriting troubadours,
dabbling in rhyme.
Absent of irony,
sentimentality
wore out their wholesomeness,
stuck in their time.
3.
Hippity, Hypety,
Phineas T. Barnum
schlepping his circus to
parts near and far.
Faking zoology
incontrovertibly
showed to the world just what
monkeys we are.
4.
Hartily, tartily,
Sisters Kardashian,
plastered on tabloid sheets,
talent unknown.
Hawking “reality,”
pseudocelebrity
blasted its horn brashly:
Culture’s last groan.
Double Dactyl
I like the rhyme scheme for this one and the last line made me style. Well done.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I really like this one, but it's hard for me to pin point why. I suspect it's the second stanza. The first is kind of silly and had me smiling. For some reason, the second strikes me as more serious, and kind of sad. Time stops for no man, no matter how his hair looks.Quote:
2.
Parsily, Farcily,
Simon and Garfunkel,
songwriting troubadours,
dabbling in rhyme.
Absent of irony,
sentimentality
wore out their wholesomeness,
stuck in their time.
This is clever, and I'm seeing a pattern in these here with the first lines. Sounds like witch talk from Wiz of Oz.Quote:
3.
Hippity, Hypety,
Phineas T. Barnum
schlepping his circus to
parts near and far.
Faking zoology
incontrovertibly
showed to the world just what
monkeys we are.
I couldn't agree more. Why is it that today all you need to be famous is absolutely no shame? I think the brash horn line suits the hole culture quite well.Quote:
4.
Hartily, tartily,
Sisters Kardashian,
plastered on tabloid pages,
talent unknown.
Hawking “reality,”
pseudocelebrity
blasted its horn brashly:
Culture’s last groan.
This is awesome work. It really put me in mind of the poor bastard who has to get up on a scaffold and wash those massive windows. The last line has depth to it.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Thank you for reading these, Grit. The nonsense double dactyls introducing each verse are prescribed by the rules. (Click "Double dactyl" in brown-colored font in the original posting for an explanation of the form.)
I'm afraid I had to look this chap up on Google. He sounds like a bit of a twit, a bit like Jeremy Clarkson over here, but Clarkson doesn't subject us to his wilder opinions on a daily basis, and anyway, is obviously being ironically humorous. I don't get that impression about Limbaugh, from what I've read. Why have you split rushes with a hyphen? Not sure about 'oft' either as to my ear fear counts as bi syllabic. "Liberals: tongues wagging" doesn't fit the metre whereas, "liberals: wagging tongues," would.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Poor old Simon and Garfunkle! Is this the voice of a disillusioned ex-hippie? 'Tis a jaundiced view for sure :DQuote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Can't argue with that.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
again I have issues with the metre. The addition of the s on pages adds a syllable and upsets it. "blasted its horn brashly" doesn't work either. Try: "Horn blasting brashly, it's"Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Thanks for the entertainment.
Live and be well - H
Hyphenated "Rush-es" to underscore his first name. Makes me think of "rush to judgement."
Lines 4 and 8 in each double dactyl are supposed to rhyme. Also, the two stressed syllables are supposed to come in the form of dactyl-spondee.
To my (tin) ear "Liberals: tongue wagging" sounds more like a double dactyl (/xx /xx) than "WAGging TONGUES" (iamb + stressed syllable.)
Likewise, "Blasted its horn brashly": /xx /xx (double dactyl)
This morning on my handwritten draft I noticed the extra syllable in "pages." Will fix.
Thanks, Hawk.
Perhaps there is a definite reason for G.K. Chesterton's observation, cited earlier today in a LitNutter's thread:
http://www.online-literature.com/for...s-about-cheese.
The following is from 1998, during a phase when yours fooly was so infatuated by enjambment that all the punctuation fled in disgust.
Making A Toasted Cheese Sandwich
When you have nothing
the philosophers tell you
to be happy with
the little you have
take delight in the simple things
philosophers say
Well, I have a slice of cheese
and two slices of bread
what could be simpler
or cheaper
than that
I'd prefer wheat bread
healthy whole grain
with a hearty bite
and some Swiss
neutral like the country
and therefore harmless
though subtly nutty
and not as pully
as mozza-pizza
but snappy enough
to melt into what
product researchers call
"mouth-feel"
What I have
is a square
of store-brand synthetic
processed stuff
that's tasteless
and bland
and therefore one
hundred per cent
American
imposed between a pair
of machine-cut sponges
to pop into
the toaster-oven
That's right I'm making
this the old-fashioned way
not like the greasy-spoon staple
drowned in margarine
and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts
(while listed on the ripped plastic menu
as "grill" cheese)
Nor would I be crazy
enough to consider
the wacky Heloise-style
hint of wrapping it in foil
and cooking it at the same time
as doing the ironing
(nobody irons anymore)
and besides -- what about the crumbs
escaping from the Reynolds' Wrap armor
and mixing with the
inadvertently-washed Kleenex
in the pockets
of your pants
No, when it comes to
toasting cheese sandwiches
I'm a purist though not a true
vegan, having been known
to consume your occasional fish
the communal omelet
and of course
cheese
So I'm standing guard
in front of the countertop appliance
that's like an abandoned wife
whose husband left her for
a younger, flashier microwave
and I'm watching the coil
turn red
in embarrassment or anger
You'd think I were some snooty
chef from the Cordon Bleu
fussing over a feast
for some fastidious dignitary
the way this social-climbing sandwich
has commanded my attention
But you've got to watch
you've got to know
the precise moment
when to flip
or one side burns
and the other side stays pale
and the cheese, inside,
doesn't even warm up,
let alone melt
and you can bet
somebody will complain
about the crumbs
on the floor
you've got to watch
Though I'd much prefer
to look out the window
and see the sky stretch
and change into its evening wear
that isn't quite basic black
and definitely not blue
and into the brush to catch
a glimpse of furry beings
sniffing the twilight air
while hustling for a meal
they can afford
to be curious and brave
now that it's dusk
and the sportsmen have all
gone home or to a diner
for a quick beer
and a burned burger
there are no hunters left
except for Orion
amid the sharp and witty stars
and the Moon
rumored to be made of green cheese
playing Toastmaster to the night
and raising a shimmering glass
that spills a silver spotlight
over the dance floor of the field
which in the cold morning
will melt into bits
of glittering confetti
these frosty crumbs
of moonlight in the grass
with the Cosmos taking its
simple delight
in the things it has
both little and big
though when you're talking
about the Universe
and its timeless banquet
size doesn't matter
while I'm inside
in the kitchen
toasting cheese
lol
Noteworthy: [quote]"there are no hunters left
except for Orion"
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
[QUOTE=tailor STATELY;1223883]lol
Noteworthy:Yep. He's the Gaelic constellation. ("O'Ryan.")Quote:
"there are no hunters left
except for Orion"
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY
Well, Auntie: even warmed up and re-served it's a witty and amusing rant, but is it "poetry"? It's damned good Prose because its a witty and amusing rant, but does it actually qualify as prose poetry?
Not sure about this bit:
"and slapped on the same griddle
that burned burgers
through three shifts
and listed on the ripped plastic menu"
as it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger. Too many un-demarcated subordinate clauses perhaps... the insertion of an 'is' before listed would sort this, I think.
Overall, the piece comes over as a monologue infused with amusing digressions. I could imagine someone like Alan Bennett coming up with this as one of his "Talking Heads", although He was more quintessentially English in tone, and, rather than burgers, would probably have mentioned scones and jam.
here's a taste http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGCg3ARv14U
if you hit this page you should find other examples, though unfortunately not the one I was thinking of, but there are some shorts read by Bennett himself, which adds to the flavour.
Hope you enjoy them, and I did rather enjoy your offering btw, whether it's poetry or not! :D
Live and be well- H
No more or less than (m)any of the other pieces posted on the Personal Poetry forums, your fine verse excepted of course. On the one hand, I hear my fellow LitNutters bemoaning meter and rhyme, while others complain about free verse, which Frost famously likened to "playing tennis without a net." Guess yer ol' Auntie can please none of the people--none of the time!Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
Beats me. Aside from the "fish nor fowl" characterization, I'm not sure I know what it is.Quote:
does it actually qualify as prose poetry?
You got me on this one, from the gal who's always harping about "misplaced modifiers." The line, wallowing in its error for a decade and a half, has beenQuote:
as it reads as if the grill is listed on ripped plastic menu, rather than the burger.
edited.
Thanks for weighing in on this one, Hawk.
Your fellow LitNutter has spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing this thread, for reasons unknown (other than a particularly virulent masochistic streak.) The experience was one long exhausting cringe, my already-furrowed mug reddening at the sight of "every eggy-faced bętise" (#348, above.) On a much more "positive" note, yours fooly is --and will forever be--grateful for the many thoughtful and thoroughly helpful comments throughout this thread, which shall-- the poetry gods willing-- continue as long as the little verses strain to make their appearance and "Pong 2.1"-- the plucky little PC--holds on.
In the meantime, though, your indulgence is begged as this author attempts to revise and re-post earlier offerings from time to time, though from the looks of many of these would take another lifetime, years perhaps better spent in devotion to Finnegans Wake (as the author of that cryptic novel advised. )
Concerning revision, the conventional wisdom is to wait a certain length of time after the first version in order to approach the piece with "fresh" eyes.
Here, then, is a slightly revised version of #108, which originally appeared on 7/9/10:
“I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floor of silent seas.”
–T. S. Eliot
Hermit Crab
Two times dumb luck named her wrong.
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun.
Genus, species, identity--already cracked apart
before science deemed her class of crab not “true,”
(though crustaceous, to be sure.) Not doomed
like that fabled Dutchman, wandering the sea,
yet just as unmoored and marooned,
now scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.
To such a creature one could call me kin:
born by chance beneath the star-sketched sign
which shares its name with a deadly malady –-
that gritty pearl! –-but not the hardest wave
to ride. An absent birthright’s tougher still.
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I’ll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
the perils of poverty’s rough surf.
I tend to shun my fellow creatures’ company --
never at home in the tossing seas
of fleeting treasures, whistles, and brash tweets --
not fish nor fowl, not swimming, nor floating,
with trepidation treading modern times.
A voyage to a century twice past
might chart a map to show the way to thrive.
New England’s recluse, left alone to dry,
retiring to her room, was thought to clench
sweet solitude close to her quiet heart,
the plangent sea-song in her ear.
To the surface came scores of pithy poems,
unsigned, the dactyl of her name obscured,
the boast of frogs too public for her taste.
At times she’d greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future fruit – an empty shell.
I admire how you craft the parallel. The melancholia is not lost on me. These lines touched me particularly:
I washed ashore with nothing; just the same
I’ll leave. Oh, for a harbor, safe against
the perils of poverty’s rough surf.
It's really a great poem, Auntie.
Hi Auntie.
There’s a lot to like in this poem: the analogy of the hermit crab is a fun one and there is a kind of mournful, tongue-in-cheekiness to the poem which is amusing. But there are also things in here which don’t quite work, at least for me. I’m not keen on that opening line.
“Two times dumb luck named her wrong.”
For a start, “two times” sounds like a multiplication table. “Twice” would have been much better here, and “named her wrong” may be idiomatic, I suppose, but it isn’t elegant. Neither do I like the opening line terminating in a full stop. The opening statement, as it were, is too bold, too stark and stops the poem, so that the reader has to “start again at line two, which incidentally changes the subject from the misnaming of the beast to where it lives and goes on for three lines before returning to the theme of classification at line 5. More logically this should flow directly from line one. The aside, (though crustaceous to be sure) obviously included for humorous effect doesn’t actually touch my funny-bone, it just stalls the flow. It feels to me like unnecessary exposition.
The Flying Dutchman is a fun image, but unmoored and marooned doesn’t really work for me, although I do see what you were getting at, but it would work better if this flowed from the beach and rock pools bit:
Twice misnamed by luck and man, her genus,
class and species cracked apart, long before
science deemed her class of crab not “true.”
Not quite a solo fixture stuck in salty sand,
she could do better among large social groups
swirling in tide pools streaked with sun.
Not doomed like that fabled Dutchman,
wandering the sea, the hermit is marooned,
and scours round for a fitting carapace,
in which to squat: abandoned digs
vacated by whelks and periwinkles.
The second verse has better structure, although I’m not sure that:
“that gritty pearl! –-but not the hardest wave
to ride.”
Does that much for the flow. Presented as it is, “that gritty pearl” reads as another aside with the subsequent bit about the wave being another aside tacked on the end. Again, I do see what you’re getting at, but I’m not sure that it’s expressed very well: Cancer or homelessness? I know which I’d prefer! The only other problem in this verse is in the last line; not sure what whistles have to do with anything, so I’d be inclined to drop it.
The first line of S3 might be better by omitting one of the “ings” try:
“not fish nor fowl, neither swimming nor afloat,”
I’m not quite sure where “a voyage to a century twice past” takes us either. I guess what you are saying is that life was easier 200 years ago. I’m not sure I’d agree. Oh, and boasting Frogs, what have you got against the French? ;)
“At times she’d greet the children passing by
the weathered windowsill where she had set –
to cool for future gifts – an empty shell.”
This image is a little confusing and I can’t quite get the sense of it. I know to what it should refer but the “empty shell cooling on a windowsill” (for some reason) makes me think of apple pies, although as it’s empty I guess it’s just the pastry. But, “for future gifts” has me thinking of a classical cornucopia.
The trouble is, that having introduced the hermit crab seeking temporary digs, we are left wondering whether the empty shell is a previous abode, or, having brought them up, some kind of poem without meaning. I feel there needs to be a little more focus in the conclusion and a decision made about the nature of the metaphor. It almost feels the poem was rushed to a conclusion; “an empty shell” is certainly a good way to wind the poem up, but it just doesn’t sit quite well enough with what immediately precedes it.
Generally though, the poem has good rhythm and is sprinkled with fitting and inventive imagery and was a fun read.
Live and be well - H
Thank you, Haunted and Hawkman for reading the previous posting and offering such thoughtful responses. I truly appreciate them, and promise to give your suggestions serious consideration.
This next number is making its debut, after fermenting for three weeks or so:
Power Outage
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder.
Out of meadow-locked mansions
across the asphalt divide
the tee-shirted squires streamed,
their eyes blinking with wonder,
arms raised in inquiry,
if not surrender.
Couple of hours later
(by our still-counting clocks)
rumbling equipment charged ahead.
Inside a human crow’s-nest
cranked up by a metal crane,
glinting in the brass ball of the sun,
a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,
something split open, spilling
acrid, yellow powder
upon the road below.
Another blast! The foreman
signaled over to our window:
everyone’s okay.
Our second-hand microwave whistled;
the refrigerator continued to hum,
as the ball games segued
into Sixty Minutes, Sunday
prime time. Overhead
the ceiling light beamed
with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed.
The inconvenienced haves
waited in the day’s vestigial heat
and interior darkness,
while the work went on all night,
lit by the headlights of company trucks
beneath the flickering stars.
Hi Auntie. There are a couple of places in here where the syntax feels awkward, if not actually inverted. I daresay you could claim idiomatic usage, but it seems inconsistent.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth,
this unnatural thunder."
The use of that and this is jarring, and the punctuation feels wrong.
it could be written thusly:
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
That shock of sound,
too loud for a leftover
crack from the Fourth;
an unnatural thunder."
or perhaps
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
What the hell was that?
Some unnatural thunder,
a shock of sound;
too loud for a crack
left over from the Fourth."
Again, probably idiomatic, but jarring to my ear:
"Couple of hours later"
I keep looking for an indefinite article at the start of the line. I'd prefer; "Two hours later" here, and I'm not sure that the parentheses are strictly warranted in the next line either.
I'm sure this is intentional:
"a hard-hatted crewman stretched
and poked the problematic pole.
Exploding like a pod,"
but every time I read this (and I've read it several times) I skip the full stop after pole. Quite an amusing image that. :devil:
I have trouble with the sense of this verse:
"with no gloating in the glow
of the temporary switch
from disparity, transformed."
Are you commenting on the news programme (or more likely) saying that the voice of the poem, usually a 'have not' in the great divide, is now surprisingly a have, whereas the usual 'haves' have been deprived. This would make sense in context, since the explosion of the transformer doesn't seem to have affected the author's household, but the use of 'from' in the last line confuses this. If 'to' were used it would make sense. Thus, in the next line, "The inconvenienced haves" now temporarily deprived of power, wait in darkness.
Overall it reminds me of one of Edmund Crispin's tales (I think it's Glimpses of the Moon) set in some rural habitat, where the habitual fizzing of "The Pizzer," a pylon or power pole, means the locals live in perpetual expectation of its imminent detonation.
Anyway, it's an entertaining tale, Auntie.
Live and be well - H
I'll have to come back to 'Hermit Crab' later, as it's certainly an ambitious poem, but I find I'm in agreement with some of Hawk's concerns, as well as having a few of my own. I'll try and post a more detailed response soon.
As for 'Power Outage', it just reads like prose, or a monologue. It's a decent enough narrative, and I didn't have a problem with the idiomatic voice, but it just feels like a simple recounting of an event that happened, and is lacking in any poetic magic. It's not bad, but I don't feel I want to read it again, which isn't a good sign. Perhaps some of us have come to expect more?
The Puzzle and the Pity
We cannot see the ciphers, such a stretch
of forest, dense with senseless reason, and
no rhyme. A murky stream from a source unknown
churns deep beneath our unschooled reckoning.
*************************
I really liked the way you came charging out the gate on this one. The murkiness of origins has always weighed heavily upon my attempts to understand the "now" that I/all inhabit.
Good stuff!
*******************************************
O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
Robert Burns (old Gallic)
Thank you, Blank_Verse and Hawkman for offering comments on this latest number which I had labored over. The form of "Power Outage" was the result of a conscious attempt to mimic (or make a parody of) the kind of poems that used to be published in the Sunday paper. As selected by Ted Kooser, a former U.S. poet laureate, the majority of the reprints seemed to deal with slices of American life, especially (to my observation) middle-class, suburban life.
The poems were all short with short lines, sometimes resembling broken-up lines of prose (though yours fooly did try to inject somewhat less literal elements into this piece.) Although a great many of the Sunday poems were little gems, there was --again, to my way of thinking -- a certain similarity about them, giving the unsettling impression that they could have been composed by the same person.
Certainly there was never, ever anything the least bit offensive "edgy" about any of the them, let alone taking the risk of invoking a litany of the saints in the opening lines, not that the ejaculation here is all that irreverent, but an honest,instantaneous reaction. In line with such non-"family fare" is the "brass ball" metaphor, referring not only to the sun but to the worker who poked the pole. For intestinal fortitude,that guy ranks right up there with Joe Kittinger (Google him.) His nickname must be "B.B." if you catch my drift.
The metaphor introduced in the title was meant to suggest the kind of "power outage" that lasts a lifetime. The third stanza describes the houses ("homes") affected by the blackout-- if "middle-class," then the highest echelon thereof, with imposing football field size lawns fronting each ("meadow-locked.")
Mentioning of the television programs, the microwave, the ceiling light, etc. was a roundabout way (i.e. non-prosaic,non-linear way) of showing that the electricity in the speaker's household stayed on, while the much-better-off neighbors (the "haves") had lost theirs. Despite the temptation to do so, there was no "gloating," but the irony of having the tables turned (for once) was striking.
Now I'm starting to feel sorry for the folks. The incident which was the impetus of this piece occurred on the Sunday following the Fourth of July, a holiday marked by loud fireworks; it happened again last Friday evening, and once more at 4 am (EDT) today. As laypersons we assumed that the explosions and subsequent power outages were caused by a "blown transformer," but we have it on excellent authority (a retiree who did this line of work for several decades) that it wasn't the transformer (though I'm keeping "transform" in my poem.)
Not fifteen feet away from where I sit the power company is preparing to run underground wires as I type this. The vibrations from the excavator are making the screen on my monitor bow in at the middle. But that's not nearly as distressing as it must be for those who have a fancy freezer full of top-of-the-line groceries melting away (though some have back-up generators.)
Still another attempt at--I don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure it ain't that elusive "free verse"
Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda
If only that frothy nag had come in,
or that high fly ball had never been caught;
vindication from a last-chance foul shot,
or redemption from a penalty kick.
Now, say there’d been a better choice of road,
a fast track less bumpy, less litter-strewn–
what if I’d stood out, surpassing the pack,
consoled by its scraps and third-place tickets?
The folktale’s ending stands pat and pretty
were I to wind up coupled with a prince,
along with the sum that comes with his name.
The prime catch would willfully bet it all
on this sparse corpus suddenly made convex,
with newly lustrous hair and star-flecked eyes.
I guess it's formalized free verse! Irregular 10 syllable lines with the odd line of blank verse thrown in :D Makes it rather an uneven read though...
Live and be well - H
That's it! The poetry realm's first "hybrid"!Quote:
Originally Posted by Hawkman
Must do something about "lustrous" coming so soon after "lush," though. (OK-- it's fixed.)
Thanks for reading and commenting.
Power Outage — I like the casualness of it. Full of irony — "the tee-shirted squires", the powerful that becomes powerless in an instant, where the have-nots finding themselves having more than the haves. And how is anyone going to survive without a ballgame and Sixty Minutes on a Sunday? (For me it would be Person of Interest, I would go out of my mind.) And what drama:
Another blast! The foreman
signaled over to our window:
everyone’s okay.
Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda — a bit cryptic at times to my peabrain but the summer fun and fantasy is all intact.
All in all, two enjoyable treats!
Shoulda woulda coulda. I enjoyed. Took a couple of reads as it should. Then it felt like possible pasts and fleeting moments that could have changed everything and regret perhaps of not following a dream. You are convex in my mind auntie. X
Thank you, Haunted and JerryB--
You hit the nail on the head re: "Power Outage," Haunted, but the reaction it engendered goaded yours fooly into atarting that thread about free verse, a genre in which both you and JB are masters.
The "shoulda, woulda,coulda" was a result of trying to channel the world-view of Delmore Schwartz, especially his "True-Blue American."
The latest poem shares its title with a Beverley Knight song, so things are off to a shaky start! Ignoring that, the rest of the poem is intelligently written, with some nice wordplay and recurrent imagery, wringing some wry humour out of a well-worn theme.
However, the argument of the second stanza loses me somewhat. Someone who ‘stood out, surpassing the pack’ sounds like a winner (in contrast to the loser of the first stanza); I don’t see why they would be ‘consoled by its scraps and third-place tickets’, it seems contradictory. Or are you saying the ‘fast track’ would be to a different mind-set, where winning was less important? Either way, it seems unclear.
The ‘prime catch’ is a nice touch, picking up the ‘catch’ of the first stanza (perhaps it would be better if the first catch were dropped, to reflect the change of fortunes). Line 9 should read ‘would stand’ rather than ‘stands’; and the words ‘corpus’ and ‘convex’ read oddly in context, they don’t seem like they belong in this poem.
And, even given the comedic tone of the poem, I wonder if a male poet would get away with objectifying a woman, as the prince does here by ‘betting it all’ on making her look more attractive? (Although the prince is also objectified as a ‘prime catch’.) It strikes a misogynistic tone that makes for an uncomfortable ending.
As for the form, all the lines are iambic pentameter, either 10 or 11 syllables; it’s 14 lines, broken into an octave and sestet with a volta at line 9; so I’d say this is a blank verse sonnet.
Even if you were writing free verse lines that use iambic pentameter as a guide and have predominantly four- or five-stress lines (even with occasional shorter lines), this would mean you’re writing free blank verse, a variation of free verse associated firstly with T.S. Eliot, but which can also be identified in the poetry of Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Auden, and more recently I’d add Heaney, Andrew Motion and Don Paterson to that list, among many others, I’m sure.
Thank you very much, Blank_Verse, especially your final paragraph.
Beverley Knight is a new one on me. I will check her him? out on YouTube, or whatever site is free of charge.
L. * "consoled. . ." is an appositive, modifying "pack."
I'd say all of your criticisms are valid. As I said in another thread, yours fooly highly respects your opinion.
Aspirations
Outside the back window
the flash of a feathery thing
couldn’t be the bluebird of happiness --
probably some upstart jay
oblivious of the coming coldness, free
from worry over the real possibility
somebody will forget to fill the feeder.
Still, way down deep gnaws a whim
that at times I’d rather be like him.
You know, as long as I
am flying in the face of reality,
sanity, all those “-ties” that tie
us down, why can’t I swing
for those unattainable fences,
find the egg in a golden nest?
Take a deep breath.
For instance sniffing the whole
earth in a geranium, getting
all greenhouse-y like Roethke
or Heaney, putting
loamy, sod-y words
into other-worldly pots.
Inhale.
I really want to grab you
by the roots and shake
you up until you wilt
from laughter. You sit--
I’ll do stand-up,
like Hicks and Hedberg,
except they’re both dead.
Exhale.
Sadly, I have no knowledge of Hicks & Hedberg but I could always substitute them in my mind with Peter Cook and Dudley Moor - sic transit gloria mundi.
I really enjoyed this one Auntie. I still respire, aspire and I'm filled with ire at all the missed swings :D Oh, and when did blue get bifurcated, you know, happiness and sorrow both represented by the same colour:
Oh I woke up this morning
I was feelin' kind o' blue
Oh I woke up this morning
I knew my happiness was through
That blue-bird who's so happy -
he's gone - just upped and flew
Oh yeah....
Live and be well - H
I've just found these. So simple, so clever.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Nice.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Raucous Jays, keeping the feeder full especially during winter, trying to keep the Squirrels out of the feeder - a day in my life.
Clearly there is more to it than your opening lines, but they struck home for me.
September 15, 1963*
The shy quartet prepared to praise
the Source of life in a modest way.
Across a mouth a hand was raised
to stanch a laugh in Church, that day.
The mirror shone back youthful skin.
More hands flew up, clamped tight, remained
still. Above the shattered porcelain
and glass–- some colorless, some stained–-
in rubble hung the silenced bell,
like faith too patiently expressed
with justice absent in its knell:
the sense of utter senselessness.
If any hope from it derives,
old wounds cry out for true suture,
demanding from four stolen lives
deprived of futures: the future.
*
For the historical significance of the date click this link to a newspaper article.
A Millimeter to the Left
The old habit hates to budge
from its familiar, thus comfortable, perch
and seldom sees the point
of changing its baseline position.
The quo protects its status;
compensation stays unsought.
Stuck on melancholy,
the needle might shimmy
when blue clarity
overcomes an autumnal sky
or a sudden shimmer of moonlight
splashes the kitchen floor.
Well I've finally got around to giving these a serious look - sorry for the delay but I've had a rather busy week. The first of the two offerings did require me to follow the link for the exposition. About the only thing I remember about 1963 are the winter and Dallas, but the date was wrong for the latter.
The most powerful stanza is the second. I was particularly impressed with your use of enjambment here in the transition from L2 to L3. That single word, still, is very effective. The first three verses work very well - in fact I'm inclined to suggest that the poem should be confined to three. The comment on senselessness at the end of S3 is probably sufficient comment. The last stanza is over egging the pudding, I feel. Compared with the three which precede it, it's a bit clunky in execution. The suture, futures, future doesn't really work and the syntactical inversion - placing derives at the end of the first line - come across as a bit laboured.
The second poem I rather enjoyed, although one line does trouble me slightly. At the end of S1 you say, "compensation stays unsought." Given the preceding lines, which seem to dwell on the comfortable, the familiar as the norm, why would one require "compensation"? Diversion, perhaps, but I feel compensation isn't really the right word. Love the second stanza.
Enjoyed reading both.
Live and be well - H