I made a ghost of you
from the doll of cerberus
left on my bed, the socks
you’ve given me, unwashed
sheets, and pillows
with locks of your hair
still remaining. At night,
I feel you breathe
through the heaving
of my lungs; I hear
the steps of your pace
through measures of mine
as I chase shadows
on the track, alone.
Among the quiet darkness
there is a void, growing
within the visible body, and I
try to feed it with essences
of you. Each day
though, I wake up
earlier than before, laughing
at times in your place, speaking
on your behalf, your praises
and blames. Soon,
the silence will learn your voice,
and I'll have to forego this ritual
before I forget my name,
and not know you
anymore.
So some of you may have caught on to this, but I frequent this sub-forum only on a seasonal basis. That season is, once again, now coming to an end. I'll be able to vote for whatever needs to be voted for in this week's PRC. But if there is no voting involved, I will rescind my submission of "Instruction" and move on with my life. I'll probably be back by the next year or winter. Whatever works for me.
As for what I'm doing, I figure I tell you all and let you all know that I'll be traveling across the country. I do this on occasion and it's part of the reason why I take absence from this forum. I assumed it is best to let you all know rather than just pull a disappearing act now and then.
Little girl, young dancer, can you teach me
how to waltz, or walk
with only the strength of my toes? Forgive me
if my feet are clumsy. They knock themselves
in every direction, and I’ve had trouble
putting one foot forward. Please,
guide me on a dance
where I would not step on myself.
I want to know your ways
on traveling the earth
like a bird through the night. Show me a song
that spins in a circle; instruct me
on the methods of crawling
using only your arms
so that one day, I may do the same,
when I can’t use these legs anymore.
This is nice and all, but I didn't actually vote. I'm sorry--I forgot. If I were to vote, I would've voted for Sweet Sounds by Ophidian Eye, honestly. As per the rules however, I should be DQ'd so LuckNorris is the real winner here. He's the poet the thread deserves, and I'm the one it doesn't need right now.
On the way to the temple, we talked about war.
We split our points like the road divided,
but the gravel path we used to take was no more.
Workers had came and where we walked
was asphalt, a pavement, freshly burnt into place.
We talked about history, discussing the names
of operations like Surgeon, Deliverance,
or Salaam; and we played with the limbs
of branches as swords. But when we crossed
the street, we held hands, noted the dead
dog by the side. It was unusual, but, like all things,
we rationalized the death as an accident,
maybe an inevitable casualty of the storm
yesterday, when rain pelted the earth,
and lightning bombarded the trees near the city
we lived. Yes, we believed the cause was nature.
At the end of the afternoon, we stopped at a hill
and rolled our bodies down, screaming
and laughing for our amusement.
The crossing of the sun, which I had seen
longer than you, painted the world over red.
The shadow of leaves upon the children
made them appear as if they were on fire, and I
now carried you, tired and limp, to the gates
of the temple. As we entered, you declared, “War
is a funny game—we barter blood
for bullion, wager our names for God,
glory, and government. It is never
between good, and the rest of us, and we
sell our lives short for silly things like love,
law, and plots of land. Always, we die
for the wrong reasons.” You fell
asleep as we prayed, and I said nothing.
These feet speak a language
only the ground understands.
They have guided me
to the ends of countries,
and have seen the abandoned homes,
strangers, monuments, and road-
kill in the intersections
of paths. They have suffered
from the earth, negotiating
the terrain. With them,
I have passed flowers
and crosses along highways,
wondering, if I stopped,
would I pray? If I work these feet,
they will make me crawl, turning
bone into dirt. But if I work them,
I can push Earth, change night
into day. I can make
the silent heart sing.
Well I'm not sure if using the names of gods would help either. If you were trying to be literal, then I think your poem falters in the sense of its own vernacular. One of the challenges of poetry as well as one of the goals of writing contemporary poetry is "to say what you mean without saying it, but at the same time, saying it as if it was just said plainly." It is a mastery of not just words, but syntax. For example, in your poem, line 2:
"the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom"
You are personifying "wind" here, but a question that comes to the reader is "why is the wind personified?" or "why, or how, is the wind bored?" As a writer, you want to get away using a line such as, "the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom" without the reader asking such questions. It's what people in workshop call, "getting away with a line (or cliche)" and it's usually deserved by the structure and lyrical setup of the poem it's in.
Another question to note for the writer is "would I have said that?" Renowned writer (and nutcase) Ezra Pound once said, "the natural object is always the adequate symbol" and we understand "natural" to not be the non-sci-fi or the non-fantasy-based, but rather the natural language of human speech. This has us return once again to the challenge of "saying what you mean without saying it, but at the same time, saying it as if it was just said plainly." In writing poetry, we all want to write memorable, strong, lines. But if we try to force ourselves into it, we write, instead, contrived sayings with superfluous dialect and gaudy diction. In many cases, a strong poem is made not by the word choice, but by the line breaks and structure of the poem. Take for example these two sentences:
"I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet, and so cold."
And then the poem:
This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
(If you want to know, this was never particularly written as a poem intentionally, and that William Carlos Williams wrote this as a note on the refrigerator to inform his wife how much he despised her.)
There are several poems that in ancient China and famous Japanese haikus that follow this idea of constructing poems from everyday speech. Conversely, Shakespeare constructed the everyday speech of his plays out of poems.
Now this is all within consideration on the fact you're writing to someone else. If you're fine writing as you are to yourself, you can write however you like. And personally, all of these are my own personal beliefs and thought about how to write poetry. I write several poems to myself as a preference of this manner.
I rather enjoyed all of the poems this round. I felt that, for the most part, the sounds on all of them resonated well.
I liked how the double spacing in Zelderex's poem made the reading of his poem more pronounced, emphasizing the lines and enhancing the syllabic stress of the last words of each line. The creative use of this structure not only allows Zelderex to get away with certain rhymes (covered and surrender) but also the reptition of end words ("such" and "such").
Echoe, I enjoyed your Haiku overall and further enjoyed the fact that your Haiku was untitled (traditional Haikus are untitled as they're only a part of a larger poem, actually). You did excellent work with the enjambments in such a restricted form, while still being able to convey the message of the poem in a humorous way.
Talore, I enjoyed your sonnet overall. Your usage of syntax makes the flow of the poem fantastic, but your images felt too predictable and cliched. What I mean is that your images are rather very stock--we all know a poem that mentions the sun and the moon, clouds and the greenery. It isn't the fact that you're using these images that weakens the poem, it's more of the fact that these images are simply just being used. In other words, I, as the reader, am not particularly enlightened or able to understand anymore when you mention "I ask the sun to lend me her strength," than if you had said "I needed to go outside". The message of your poem isn't particularly clear. From the language, it seems like a love poem. The sentence structure and choice of words also convey a higher register than normal, and it gives off this sense of a gaudy tone. In this sense, therein belies the contradiction of your work: it seems as if your poem longs for the reader to empathize or understand the author, but the higher register and the over abundance of stock images, which seemed negligently tossed around all over the poem, detracts any emotional bridge from the reader as you are too far above for the reader to relate.
A note that not many people might make about poems (and this isn't specifically you, Talore) is something I like to call "the constellation of images." Here's a question: why is Betelgeuse a member of the constellation Orion? Just like in a poem, images are powerful because they take the abstract and ground it into something physical--tangible for the reader to grasp and understand and, more importantly, feel both sensually and in a platonic manner. That said, we must be careful in using them. The teleology of images in poetry is to get the idea of the poem across to the reader. Using images for the sake of images does nothing for the writer or reader, and we must ask ourselves, "does this image fit with the theme of the poem?" If I wrote a poem about washing dishes, but use images such as a car, a bed, a cell phone, and a wallet in my poem, my poem will begin to fall apart as the theme of "washing dishes" is not clearly established because of the collection of images stated. More abstract themes like "making it big some day" and such also have their own restrictions for images--instead of getting the problem where the reader asks "why is image X in here?" we have the reader asking "why isn't image X in here" which is caused by the fact that the theme is too abstract. So there's that with images.
I would vote for all three poems, but seeing as I can only choose two, I choose echoe and Zelderex.
There are 365 days in a year.
The earth spins on an elliptical orbit.
It spins on an imperfect axis, tilted,
readjusting itself, wobbling on
an invisible beam. It is a wonder
the longest day is almost
the same every year.
When the solstice begins,
it never misses the time.
But the hours we count
on the clock, the extra day
we compensate every four years,
numbers and axioms,
are artificial. I thought of this
when I remembered her. She said
we would meet again
and reminded me the perfection
of patterns: the anniversary
of my birth, my grandfather’s
death, and everything.
If there is a science for this,
do not enlighten me. Lord,
blow the moon over, let me
indulge on this idea that cycles
are fabrications—that she was right
when she meant, “I’ll see you
whenever,” and the universe
will revolve on no law
other than a moment constructed,
or a promise.
I made a ghost of you
from the doll of cerberus
left on my bed, the socks
you’ve given me, unwashed
sheets, and pillows
with locks of your hair
still remaining. At night,
I feel you breathe
through the heaving
of my lungs; I hear
the steps of your pace
through measures of mine
as I chase shadows
on the track, alone.
Among the quiet darkness
there is a void, growing
within the visible body, and I
try to feed it with essences
of you. Each day
though, I wake up
earlier than before, laughing
at times in your place, speaking
on your behalf, your praises
and blames. Soon,
the silence will learn your voice,
and I'll have to forego this ritual
before I forget my name,
and not know you
anymore.
As for what I'm doing, I figure I tell you all and let you all know that I'll be traveling across the country. I do this on occasion and it's part of the reason why I take absence from this forum. I assumed it is best to let you all know rather than just pull a disappearing act now and then.
...And also to tie the polls.
I vote for Echoe.
Why dost thou speaketh me so?
Little girl, young dancer, can you teach me
how to waltz, or walk
with only the strength of my toes? Forgive me
if my feet are clumsy. They knock themselves
in every direction, and I’ve had trouble
putting one foot forward. Please,
guide me on a dance
where I would not step on myself.
I want to know your ways
on traveling the earth
like a bird through the night. Show me a song
that spins in a circle; instruct me
on the methods of crawling
using only your arms
so that one day, I may do the same,
when I can’t use these legs anymore.
On the way to the temple, we talked about war.
We split our points like the road divided,
but the gravel path we used to take was no more.
Workers had came and where we walked
was asphalt, a pavement, freshly burnt into place.
We talked about history, discussing the names
of operations like Surgeon, Deliverance,
or Salaam; and we played with the limbs
of branches as swords. But when we crossed
the street, we held hands, noted the dead
dog by the side. It was unusual, but, like all things,
we rationalized the death as an accident,
maybe an inevitable casualty of the storm
yesterday, when rain pelted the earth,
and lightning bombarded the trees near the city
we lived. Yes, we believed the cause was nature.
At the end of the afternoon, we stopped at a hill
and rolled our bodies down, screaming
and laughing for our amusement.
The crossing of the sun, which I had seen
longer than you, painted the world over red.
The shadow of leaves upon the children
made them appear as if they were on fire, and I
now carried you, tired and limp, to the gates
of the temple. As we entered, you declared, “War
is a funny game—we barter blood
for bullion, wager our names for God,
glory, and government. It is never
between good, and the rest of us, and we
sell our lives short for silly things like love,
law, and plots of land. Always, we die
for the wrong reasons.” You fell
asleep as we prayed, and I said nothing.
______For my legs.
These feet speak a language
only the ground understands.
They have guided me
to the ends of countries,
and have seen the abandoned homes,
strangers, monuments, and road-
kill in the intersections
of paths. They have suffered
from the earth, negotiating
the terrain. With them,
I have passed flowers
and crosses along highways,
wondering, if I stopped,
would I pray? If I work these feet,
they will make me crawl, turning
bone into dirt. But if I work them,
I can push Earth, change night
into day. I can make
the silent heart sing.
"the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom"
You are personifying "wind" here, but a question that comes to the reader is "why is the wind personified?" or "why, or how, is the wind bored?" As a writer, you want to get away using a line such as, "the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom" without the reader asking such questions. It's what people in workshop call, "getting away with a line (or cliche)" and it's usually deserved by the structure and lyrical setup of the poem it's in.
Another question to note for the writer is "would I have said that?" Renowned writer (and nutcase) Ezra Pound once said, "the natural object is always the adequate symbol" and we understand "natural" to not be the non-sci-fi or the non-fantasy-based, but rather the natural language of human speech. This has us return once again to the challenge of "saying what you mean without saying it, but at the same time, saying it as if it was just said plainly." In writing poetry, we all want to write memorable, strong, lines. But if we try to force ourselves into it, we write, instead, contrived sayings with superfluous dialect and gaudy diction. In many cases, a strong poem is made not by the word choice, but by the line breaks and structure of the poem. Take for example these two sentences:
"I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet, and so cold."
And then the poem:
This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
(If you want to know, this was never particularly written as a poem intentionally, and that William Carlos Williams wrote this as a note on the refrigerator to inform his wife how much he despised her.)
There are several poems that in ancient China and famous Japanese haikus that follow this idea of constructing poems from everyday speech. Conversely, Shakespeare constructed the everyday speech of his plays out of poems.
Now this is all within consideration on the fact you're writing to someone else. If you're fine writing as you are to yourself, you can write however you like. And personally, all of these are my own personal beliefs and thought about how to write poetry. I write several poems to myself as a preference of this manner.
I liked how the double spacing in Zelderex's poem made the reading of his poem more pronounced, emphasizing the lines and enhancing the syllabic stress of the last words of each line. The creative use of this structure not only allows Zelderex to get away with certain rhymes (covered and surrender) but also the reptition of end words ("such" and "such").
Echoe, I enjoyed your Haiku overall and further enjoyed the fact that your Haiku was untitled (traditional Haikus are untitled as they're only a part of a larger poem, actually). You did excellent work with the enjambments in such a restricted form, while still being able to convey the message of the poem in a humorous way.
Talore, I enjoyed your sonnet overall. Your usage of syntax makes the flow of the poem fantastic, but your images felt too predictable and cliched. What I mean is that your images are rather very stock--we all know a poem that mentions the sun and the moon, clouds and the greenery. It isn't the fact that you're using these images that weakens the poem, it's more of the fact that these images are simply just being used. In other words, I, as the reader, am not particularly enlightened or able to understand anymore when you mention "I ask the sun to lend me her strength," than if you had said "I needed to go outside". The message of your poem isn't particularly clear. From the language, it seems like a love poem. The sentence structure and choice of words also convey a higher register than normal, and it gives off this sense of a gaudy tone. In this sense, therein belies the contradiction of your work: it seems as if your poem longs for the reader to empathize or understand the author, but the higher register and the over abundance of stock images, which seemed negligently tossed around all over the poem, detracts any emotional bridge from the reader as you are too far above for the reader to relate.
A note that not many people might make about poems (and this isn't specifically you, Talore) is something I like to call "the constellation of images." Here's a question: why is Betelgeuse a member of the constellation Orion? Just like in a poem, images are powerful because they take the abstract and ground it into something physical--tangible for the reader to grasp and understand and, more importantly, feel both sensually and in a platonic manner. That said, we must be careful in using them. The teleology of images in poetry is to get the idea of the poem across to the reader. Using images for the sake of images does nothing for the writer or reader, and we must ask ourselves, "does this image fit with the theme of the poem?" If I wrote a poem about washing dishes, but use images such as a car, a bed, a cell phone, and a wallet in my poem, my poem will begin to fall apart as the theme of "washing dishes" is not clearly established because of the collection of images stated. More abstract themes like "making it big some day" and such also have their own restrictions for images--instead of getting the problem where the reader asks "why is image X in here?" we have the reader asking "why isn't image X in here" which is caused by the fact that the theme is too abstract. So there's that with images.
I would vote for all three poems, but seeing as I can only choose two, I choose echoe and Zelderex.
_______For Elda
There are 365 days in a year.
The earth spins on an elliptical orbit.
It spins on an imperfect axis, tilted,
readjusting itself, wobbling on
an invisible beam. It is a wonder
the longest day is almost
the same every year.
When the solstice begins,
it never misses the time.
But the hours we count
on the clock, the extra day
we compensate every four years,
numbers and axioms,
are artificial. I thought of this
when I remembered her. She said
we would meet again
and reminded me the perfection
of patterns: the anniversary
of my birth, my grandfather’s
death, and everything.
If there is a science for this,
do not enlighten me. Lord,
blow the moon over, let me
indulge on this idea that cycles
are fabrications—that she was right
when she meant, “I’ll see you
whenever,” and the universe
will revolve on no law
other than a moment constructed,
or a promise.