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Written from a model. The source of the form for this one will be "revealed" later.
Heaven Scent
Brimstone and its indistinct twin
both reek up through their membrane’s narrow rift.
The finer world’s aroma’s thin.
A dream-catcher hung out to drift,
reversed for this rare wind’s descent,a secret cupped balloon that’s skyward sent
a censer's swaying lift:
to snare from mystery the faintest whiff
of unknown mist, now captured down to sniff.
It's hard for this reader to make sense out of most poetry. Regarding 'Heaven's Scent', it seems as though Hell is trying to sample the aroma of Heaven via balloon and cup. This might be an inane interpretation of a good poem. It's evident that, no matter what one makes of the content, the technique is solid and it's not often that it's done so well.
J
This poem is strikingly elliptical if not cryptic. I loved the negative image of the elemental opening. It immediately brings me to Milton's depictions of the varied gulfs and weird nebula that separate Heaven and Hell -as well as Earth.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I am confessedly completely lost when I arrive at "unknown". You've wrought a very alluring abstraction, but it simply implodes for me at that point. I travel from enticing Ark and incense imagery to tabula rasa in the final lines. This keyhole needs a source! I have searched!
I especially like the thought of you playing with fire on this piece! Very Faustian, AuntShecky!
O won't you share your secrets from those dark materials?
Thank you Jack and deryk for your "takes" on #302. I have to say that while nothing in the piece disputes your
interpretations, they were not intended. Your observations were part of the intention of an earlier piece, "Scratch,"
(#228.)
Did either of you recognize the form I used for "Heaven Scent"? I "borrowed" the meter and rhyme scheme from a 9-line stanza created way back when, specifically this one.
Here are 2 more ditties -- not necessarily "blasts"-- from the past:
Bum
Call this guy a man on the street in every sense.
He lists his address as the corner of Hudson and Broadway,
but mail sent there would reach him just by chance.
Empty soda bottles stashed in the cart with his goods
can earn deposits for his pockets along with the spare change
and random smokes he cadges from workers on their break.
He gets along. Every day he hustles without a break.
We could say he’s got a full-time job in a sense.
Why not hang across the street? Who couldn’t use a change
of scenery? Find another block, walk a different way,
maybe hitch-hike to the country – that would be good.
Sometimes a guy’s got to climb out, step up, take a chance.
Head-shakers, tongue-cluckers, here’s a treat, another chance
to judge! For social scientists, an in vitro specimen to break.
Ready? Go: he’s drunk, on drugs, or in some other way no good.
Perhaps his brain is damaged, schizoid, or just lacks sense.
Maybe he’s a vet who came home and lost his way.
Would-be reformers, here’s your cause for social change!
Still, he gets along. He’s alive, he’s fine, no need to change
his ways to soothe the status quo. No chance
of our joining him, huh? The strata stand, in a way,
parallel: a rung up, better; a rung down, worse. No break
in this ladder. It rarely falls. We’re all stuck with the sense
that we can’t move up, won’t move down, in line with all our goods.
The old line “There but for the grace of God” is no damned good.
for the limits of sympathy end at temporary change.
For all we know the guy’s a Ph.D., with more common sensthe crisis team says he needs classes, training’s his only chance.
Give him a shower, give him some soup, but don’t give him a break.
Get him a job (at minimum wage), get him out of the way.
Who gave the command that he has to live this way?
Who wrote rule to write off lives, in the guise of doing good?
Who answers this man who begs for just one lucky break?
Those romantic ideals of freedom should change.
This poor slob’s not free!Ask the man who’s rich by chance:
he gets along, he’s doing fine, as far as he can sense.
The ranks could break, or get stacked in a different way
so they make sense – wouldn’t that be good?
Instead the structure stands, and change comes by chance.
Ninja Gal
In this world made for us we’re made to work:
sowing and reaping, building and ripping up our world.
The economy is too refined in our crude and greedy time.
Minions in suits run things, ruin things. They move
invisible money around. Nothing useful, nothing done by hand,
they transfer funds, crunch spreadsheets, manage assets.
Me, I’m outside the margin: “No income, no job, no assets.”
What doesn’t bring home bucks and bacon isn’t work.
On paper, little value accrues by my own hand.
Sewing and cleaning, cooking and washing make up the world
from which I crave escape, but too confined to move.
It could be a virtual prison, as if I’m doing time.
Reality seeks respite in dreams, as one time
I imagined I made a film: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Assets.
Of course, I was an “auteur.” I shouted “Action!” to move
the crew to block and grip, light and shoot my life’s work.
Naturally I was the star, the greatest in the world.
In every scene I directed myself and gave myself a hand.
I played a ninja, packing lethal power in my hand
while gracefully leaping into the air, in so-mo or frozen time.
“Impossible” you say, “in a gravity-strung world.”
Well, you can’t blame a gal for capitalizing on her assets,
no matter how many critics say they don’t work
or how my earth-bound feet and fate refuse to move.
Clad in black jammies, cat-like I could move,
with a scarf round my forehead, my serious hand
pointed perpendicular to the sky. Would that work?
Not every movie made is worth the effort and time;
some slice profits open, gutting assets.
The bottom line’s the top star in the world.
I’m just not cut out for show biz, or maybe any world.
Like going straight to video, I just can’t move
up. I’m a “ninja”– no income, no job, no assets.
Now, don’t go around thinking I exist hand-
to-mouth. I’ll remember to check in from time
to time and write if I find work.
Among the assets hidden in the world,
rewards for work might someday move
into my empty hand. When’s Show Time?
Two sestinas - not a very tractable form to work in, ostensibly. I knew #302 was derivative
of Donne, from the very first flash of the structure, I thought "Donne." Very well. I like your palate.
I am making this addition to my post, now, to thank for renewing my faith in poetry as an art
that is not entirely lost on those who publish their work on the internet - or, if not lost, in some
form affronted, maimed, or otherwise (if such were possible) corrupted. I'd commend in chief
your poem 'selfish stream' (I haven't the time to read them all) for its metrical achievement
in part, but for its altogether good writing. I must say I'm fairly disapproving of your free
verse ventures, or those I've read, and feel you fare much better in structured verse.
O.M.
Indeed, a very tricky form, and a lengthy one. You cheated a bit with "Broadway" though :D I must give one of these a go and see how I get on... I really enjoyed these offerings which have strong rhythm to drive them forward.
Live long and prosper - H
I'm not as well-educated in forms as our other posters, but I will say I enjoyed Ninja Gal especially. The overwhelming sense of futility was apparent, but not too self-pitying to be a turn-off.
What kind of meter did you use, if you don't mind me asking?
Well, I tried to overlook my natural aversion to sestinas, Aunty, but to little avail.
They're both very accomplished pieces, the first in particular is recognisably your voice and anecdotal narrative style, but - like with all sestinas I read to be fair - I soon get distracted by the end words and feel the poem is going on too long just to satisfy the requirements of the form.
And now you're encouraging Hawk as well! Maybe at least he'll invent a 'hawkestina' or something...
Thanks, LitNutters, for your responses re: #306.
Advice that has come up more than once is that I should stick to metric forms rather than the netless game of free verse. That strikes me funny, because just a few years ago the strict moderator of another poetry-writing site kept telling me that I didn't know squat about metric verse. Since the LitNet seems to be telling me the opposite, maybe I'm in the wrong game. Know anybody who needs a humor writer?
To the current postings:
"Bum" (not necessarily a self-portrait) comes from Ought Eight, and is my first attempt at writing a sestina. The second one, "Ninja Gal" ( a "non-winning" entry in Pendragon's "Form Poetry Contest" here on the LitNet) is from the autumn the same year, during the time of the big financial burn-out, at least part of which some pundits blamed on the mortgage scandal.
Personally, I don't much care for the first one. It's way, way too earnest for its own good as well as polemical. The second one seems a bit more whimsical and doesn't take itself too seriously, a practice that is deadly for a poet.
The form is a complex one, no argument there. Many contemporary poets try their hand at the form, sometimes masterfully, such as "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop. I believe the trick to the sestina is choosing six end words that can have multiple meanings. That way the lines won't be as repetitious and provide more leeway with the subject matter.
To anyone who'd like to pursue metric verse, a handbook which I highly recommend is a slim volume, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, by Chris Baldick, published in 1990. Here's what that book says about the mighty sestina:
"The form was introduced into English by Sir Philip Sidney in his Arcadia (1590.) A modern example is W.H. Auden's 'Paysage Moralisé' (1933.) Even more remarkable as a technical feat is A.C. Swinburne's 'The Complaint of Lisa' (1878), a rhyming double sestina with twelve 12-line stanzas and a 6-line envoi."
A double sestina! That sounds daunting. I don't mean
writing it, I mean reading it!
I like Ninja Gal. It's rather political in a satirical way.
I'm proverbially late to read poetry here, but found and read your latest two. I'm always scared by poems' length (language problems!) but applied myself to Ninja and found it light and enjoyable. I'm a total ignorant of form and therefore won't critique or praise yours.
But, back from my journey, I shake tiredness with your fine offerings or, rather, take refuge in them not to face the packed up schedule...
Be well, Dear Auntie, thank you,
Bar
Thank you all for your kind responses re: #306. Here's #314:
Eight Days of Rain
Radio wags have started counting down:
only thirty-two more till the next deluge.
Dryness seems mere memory (like wit.)
Our unsoothed nerves slip when wet
percussion pings this building’s plastic pelt;
sewers drown in sour songs from tinny pipes.
Mornings that once milled dew escape the mower,
catch the mold. What bent the honeysuckle’s blades
once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.
Condensate descends and splashes all lives,
but some float through with a now-and-then spritz,
while torrents pound the heads of others ceaselessly.
Awash in gray above, sinking into muck beneath our shoes,
we wring our hands and souls like sodden towels.
If our home star should suddenly deign
to show itself, wonder would strike
us with that alien yellow light.
O great Whoever, Herdsman
of gentle flocks grazing the blue;
Lord of the mayflies, midges, stones;
Dominus of clay and loam, fickle winds
and fearless weeds; and --yes, the Source,
swollen with color-free life-milk to nurse the earth:
wean us for a while, rest.
Then send as many sundrops as you will
to succor goldfinch infants in their nests
and warm the puckered skin of tiny frogs.
Sprinkle sun, dear Father, everywhere
from the faux-rainbow scum-shine on the streets
to the clean leaves of hidden violets in the woods.
What bent the honeysuckle’s blades
once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.
This is excellent Aunty!