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I caught sight of a young man’s face
at The Mission, yesterday,
blind with self-pity
and rage.
An alcoholic since many years back
who kept trying
to try to try to quit:
booze, or life.
Volunteers swarmed around,
eager to talk him out of it,
as if they, or he,
knew what it was.
A little girl,
hardly bigger than
a half-spent minute,
bursts suddenly into tears.
Her father, a lanky Khassid,
bends down
and wraps his arms
practically three times around her.
It’s funny
how you can be out walking
on Waverley on a bright, sunny day
and you say “Bonjour”
to a perfect stranger
and when he responds “Bonjour”
that second syllable sounds like
What’s the point? What,
in God’s name,
was ever the point?
I shall affirm
the light, the day, this pebble
that lodged itself in my sandal
and obliged me to stop
here
at this particular station
of my cross
to notice this particular
mild-faced child
who rests his eyes a moment
on my face, then carries on,
having blessed me.
Wow you made this poem about such a simple, but beautiful, every day occurrence that most people would not even think twice about. Well written
Thanks very much. It's my ideal in writing these to stay away from anything overtly Poetic, but to record what strikes me as interesting in as straightforward a manner as possible.Quote:
Originally Posted by breathtest
A cyclist comes tearing up the street
at a furious pace,
treats the asphalt as if it were
continuous with the sidewalk
and goes racing off
into unclaimed space.
At the café this morning
I had a more than usually serious conversation
with young J-F
who confided in me
that his deepest wish
was to live long enough
to witness the final end
of all humanity.
It took all my tact
to keep from telling him
what deep sadness
I thought he had revealed
about himself
Oh my goodness...Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Thank you - both for what I interpret as your appreciation, and for bringing this back to my attention. It was a pleasure both to experience what I wrote, and to write about it...Quote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
While you're certainly no idiot, Myshkin (how's the epilepsy?) and have got a good feel for the poetic, I just think some of your free verse writing is too free, in that it reads more like prose than poetry.
I know there are no 'rules' as such (and you said yourself you wanted to avoid the 'overtly Poetic') but I think that leaves you in danger of not writing poetry at all, just nice prose. You can introduce elements of poetry like rhythm, rhyme and metre without hitting people over the head with them; by being 'subtly poetic' if you like. I think that would improve your writing.
I like all of these, but this is my favorite. I love your living in the present moment, and the moment as a present, and the idea that it is a station of the cross...life does feel that way...and the little child, and his blessing. Keep writning, keep noticing. You have an eagle eye.Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
Interesting response, Mr Vrz, and I’m happy to encounter a fellow Dostoievskiite, apropos which it might interest you to know that on another site I frequent my nom de plume is “Alyosha” and that in my own novel entitled A Russian Novel I created a character, Ratin, who was unabashedly based on those other two “Holy Idiots.”Quote:
Originally Posted by blnk_vrz
As for your aesthetics, I respect them, but between what you advocate and the more prosy casual, I’ll continue to aim for the latter. The thread is called “Snapshots” and as any amateur photographer knows, the object of a snapshot is to capture a moment, even if the composition isn’t exquisite, the focal plane should be other than what it is, &c., &c.
A young woman
with some sort of facial
birth defect
paused before crossing
in front of my car.
Noticing me
notice her, she returned my glance
with an “How dare you look at me!”
(This poem was stolen from Online-Literature.com)
Some mornings are made for loving.
Into the café steps Lise,
the short-order cook,
her ear-length hair
unaccustomedly carefee
along her youthful face.
“You look like a girl!”
I exclaim, and she feigns chagrin.
“I don’t want to be a girl,”
she says. “I’m a woman!”
Later, at a filling station
I infer that the attendant is probably an Arab
or an Irani.
Keefsaha? I say to him
And after he has finished: Shukran
and get a broad, warm smile in return.