Hard to single out a few favourite lines from this. but these:
Originally Posted by ampoule
are certainly among them and the whole of it has the feeling of Thornton Wilder's Our Town.A cashier rings up a tank of gas while the little church ladies open their resale shoppe for the afternoon.
But the only thing I know is rain is forecast and I can spend some time reading the writings of talented friends,
And thinking, thinking, thinking.
This is wonderful in its repetition. It reminds me of the practice of Matins and Vespers, but with a mid day prayer as well. It is very much a litany of beautiful, idyllic town. I love the movement from physical, to the mental, and finally the contemplative.
Beautiful!
Loved the Snodgrass poem!
My hero for rhyme has always been Anne Sexton. To me she was a master at it. Some of her sonnets are so amazing in her ability to hide the rhyme you know is there.
I have a lot to learn about rhyme, but I don't always think it should be hidden, but it should never seem self indulgent or rhyme for the sake of rhyme, in which case a poem becomes more of a mnemonic device and does lose its intentions. I am fonder of internal rhyme than end rhyme.
My issues with writing this was with what I left out. I intended it to be small and sonorous to match what was happening in the last two lines in sound and touch as the sound of the squirrel overcame the sound of my breathing moving from inside to out to receive touch, if only from dead leaves. It isn't a happy poem, but it was meant to convey a certain, desperate tranquility.
Either Robert Frost or T.S. Eliot once said that one needed to work hard to write a poem in English without some rhyme because it is so inherent in our language.
For now there is only the loft,
spruce ribs from plates to ridge,
design of five centuries, first pine.
For this the moon, like a nail,
was bent off the eastern sill,
the copper sun, hammered
well, in sky cut for the mow door.
Some works will have the hands they choose,
bring the living and the dead
to fit crowns to the earth’s round.
Here is an unlikely place
for redemption. The road so named,
sliced at both ends by highway,
no longer reaches Fayetteville.
Across from pastures, in Country Acres,
none see constellations off a Dutch slope,
nor hear the mortise creak as the night drifts.
They want more for less, new milk
in barn-gallons for a king’s gallon price.
What else can I do – I thank them
for their compliments and say,
it’s just a barn – an ark, yes,
I have looked at it that way.
Here there are thousands
who cannot tell their left hand
from their right. Yet we are alike –
with dogs and children,
and somewhere we are late arriving.
I close my eyes and still see
the clouds move like a wake,
scattering fishes on a black sea –
the loft floats in a slow sway –
the ribs flesh and a heart beats
in my ears.
With muted wail a nail twists –
the flesh turns and sounds,
in the dream of a far shore.
Internal tranquility
Bestowed upon me
By your tender lips
And your feathery kiss
With a single touch
My hate and anger flees
I try to resist and hang on
But my strength is gone
Im falling onto clouds
Running my hands along angels wings
The stars are shining just for us
And baby cant you see
Everyone else has failed
But you suceed
You take my breath away
At the way you say my name
I try to stay mad
But like a river it flows away
I try to scold you
But the words never escape my lips
I say i want you to leace
Only because i want you to stay
I say i hate you
Becasue i love you
Youve shown me the stars
Taught me to dance in the rain
Melted my defences away
And replaced my hate with tranquility
my thoughts on it, it seems to be verry diffrent from the directoins that you are going at it from...o well. tis my best
"Be careful of quotes you find on the internet, they may not always be true" -Abraham Lincon-
I have often wondered about the ones left in the boat after Jonah was thrown to the great fish. Could this be it, the lovely tranquil feeling of a slow sway after a storm? Hmmm...as well as the calm before the storm.
wonderful
I'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
Perhaps not as different as you think.
You are like an alligator..."hate and anger, trying to resist, everyone else has failed"...and HE is the one who has flopped you over on your back and is rubbing your belly, calming you..."I TRY to stay mad, I SAY I want you to leave"...you are still wild inside but giving in to his touch.
I'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
Debra Su-ue
Where ARE you?
Would you like to choose the next word?
I'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
"PASSION!"
Passion.....
Live It...
Love It...
Breathe It...
Become It...
Be...It....
Passionate
Last edited by Debrasue; 07-17-2007 at 10:37 PM. Reason: spelling...
the hot flame of love
licks at my steaming skin
as you seductively whisper
the things in my ear
that every girl wants to hear
in this game of passion,
there is no way to win
its a lose, lose situation
a fight until the end
struggling to tame
that engulfing hunger
trying to extinguish the flame
but your kiss just seems to linger
leaving prints upon my parted lips
hungering for your touch
calling for your caress
longing for your lips
knowing I'm losing control
passion such a deadly game
"Be careful of quotes you find on the internet, they may not always be true" -Abraham Lincon-
I like the rhythm of this. It rises and falls in just the right places and picks up its intensity beginning with hungering for your touch, it then slows down in the last two lines as if resolved to the loss of control. The last line almost like a desperate sigh. I like it a lot.
In the mornings as sleep leaves us slowly,
we are one body, like the waters of the oceans.
Your fragrance enters me the way light weaves
itself into the fabric of night and, while we slept,
found its way through louvers and lies unseen
in the folds of yesterday’s tossed clothes.
Even before my eyes open to the room
as we had left it, I am listening to the first birds,
like sailors, long at sea, listen for the gulls.
I do not look into the old world of the room,
I wait for the first whisper of your voice,
like morning waves breaking softly on a new shore.
It's a toss-up for me between the precious love in this and the seeming inevitablity of the words, as if not one line was contrived or premeditated but came as freely as breath.
snakes,
your maps -
motels -
blue veins of fragrances,
near the drains,
you read books,
hear voices - circling -
paths paced in dreams,
deep greens,
screams
in gray halls,
you stop at dotted lines,
request photos,
wear earphones
the jungle dies it seems,
sudden silence,
a pause,
and your diversion,
harmless love
you surmise -
breath hissing
into sultry air,
arms coiling
around you.
silence
a word or two
dropped into it
like a tincture
that changes
the entire nature
of the composition
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote