Some poetry

I write fiction only nowadays, but I used to write poetry in high school and college. Most of it is not fit for human consumption, but there are some pieces I still like. I'd love to hear what people who don't know me think about them, since the crits I got back when I wrote them were mostly "I don't understand these!" I don't think they're that opaque but I'd love to hear others' opinions. They all were written in 2001 or so.

A Ghost
You always look surprised when we collide
head-on, our gazes locking for that shattered instant
before my eyes -- mere flesh -- must look away,
smouldering from your divinity.

When we are paralell, it is my turn
to look surprised. You touch me
on the shoulder:
pale flesh stiffens over bones
as hot as coals.
I tear the stream of music from my ears
listening to you, each word a love
letter that will never see
the hands of its intended.

You praise my art; I blush and flatter yours.
We talk about the weather, your flat tire,
the ups and downs of quitting cigarettes.
You track my downcast eyes and say goodbye.
We walk back to our dorm rooms by ourselves:
my feet borne up by tides of quarter notes,
your ashen overcoat stirred by the wind.

Burning Paper
A card arrives in creamy envelope;
a date and time monstrosity, the code
of simple cursive, black against the pale,
informing me that if I have grown sick
of being happy or of having peace,
your mom and dad would like to see me present
at this, the joining of pure gold to chrome.

This paper screams at you, recalling this:
that you have sent this card perhaps to hundreds
the clean black print adorning just the front
and inside, yards of cotton rag stand empty
begging sketches, cursing at their fate
thinking longingly of lining trash cans
wanting no part in your sorry farce.

In lieu of flowers, I will send you this:
some meager words to clothe a fallen beauty
her sun hair, cherry lips, her shining smile
This girl I wrapped in cerements and mourned
and even if you think she's still alive
to walk a prisoner's aisle on winter Sunday
I assure you that your choice has killed her.

Beloved -- For M
you are damp plastic mist, tingling
my fingers like mouthwash,
salting secret places
with ice,
speaking words of love
spread thick with the yellow of age.

Like light through beveled
glass, you flicker
in eye-corners--
no time to blink.
an instant loses you
to those not me--
beloved forever,
silver handprint pasted
to my soul.

let’s lie here, love
and laugh at ones who’d say
you’re false.
we know the truth --
invisible and silent...

Burning Paper is the one I like the most.

Did she invite you to her wedding? Shit.

Quote:

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Originally posted by CrashMyBicycle

let’s lie here, love
and laugh at ones who’d say
you’re false.
we know the truth --
invisible and silent...

---

Not opaque to anyone who's read cummings :)

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Quote:

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Originally posted by jali

Burning Paper is the one I like the most.

Did she invite you to her wedding? Shit.

---

She, being my ex-best friend, did indeed. I'm glad you liked it...at the time I wrote it in 2001, no one in the poetry workshop I was taking understood it, which was weird to me. I thought it was clear enough...

I liked the last one, CBM. I think it's the ambiguity of it that appeals.

Does this work at all? I've called it "Streetlife".

Raised voices ring strident in the distance.
Cutting through the silence of the evening
like a rusty scalpel's dubiously-honed blade.
A dog howls its distaste at the moon, while
a cat's screech accompanies a woman's curses.
Houselights switch off and curtains twitch.
The boom-box bass of a boy racer goes by;
a cacophony of jeers with a techno backbeat,
leaving behind nothing but burning rubber.
The sudden quiet is pierced by a scream.
A litany of hatred from a gruff male voice.
The dull thuds and squeals, punctuation
for a life lived in denial and frustration.
A siren's wail nears and departs, teasingly.

Was it that bad?

Hey, Ivan.

It's not ghastly by any stretch, but it's not really vivid yet, either. You've got a number of places where the word choices feel arbitrary or overly modified. "A rusty scalpel's dubiously-honed blade" for example feels flabby. A rusty scalpel isn't a well-kept scalpel, so is dubiously-honed necessary? Is it something that really puts a picture in your mind? If you cut through silence like a rusty scalpel, what does that invoke? I think of a rusty scalpel tearing as much as cutting, but what does that mean when it's silence that's being cut? How would cutting through silence with a sharp blade be different than with a rusty blade?

I'm focusing on that one simile because I think it's pretty illustrative of the poem as a whole. I'm definitely not trying to get you to stop writing, as I think you have potential.

I hope this is what you were looking for. You can tell me if it's not.

It's exactly what I was looking for.

Say I used "like a switchblade through a piece of silk"?

Quote:

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Originally posted by ivan astikov

It's exactly what I was looking for.

Say I used "like a switchblade through a piece of silk"?

---

Well, what does it mean? What does cutting through silence "like a switchblade through a piece of silk" mean? What picture are you trying to put in my head?

Similes work best when your reader says, "Oh, yeah, I can see thing X being like thing Y in that way." I don't get that sort of meaning from your similes, yet.

Imagine you're a cop and you're taking a statement from a witness about an event. Imagine the witness says, "And then the silence was cut, like a switchblade through a piece of silk."

You're a cop, remember. What information did that witness just give you?

Now imagine you're a cop and you're taking a statement form a witness about an event. Imagine the witness says, "There was a noise. It sounded weird, like a squealing pig on a trampoline."

The first simile feels very vague and formless. The second is weird, but very specific. You can imagine the sound rising and falling, or the squealing mixed with the springs of the trampoline, or the sound being jolted at regular intervals. You can ask more specific questions to hone in on the precise meaning.

Most of the time, poetry benefits from being specific rather than general, concrete rather than abstract, and conveying information rather than vague ideas. Most of the time. There are exceptions aplenty.

Here's an idea, which you can use if you like: As an exercise, you can try writing your poem from the point of view of a witness giving a statement. Think of very specific, very concrete ways you can set the scene, giving information and mood to the cop. Include what seems relevant to the statement. It's a regular person talking, so you don't need any legalese. You can even mix in questions from the cop if you like.


Edited to add: I've done a LOT of poetry tutoring, but it's been a while, and most of my "students" were from poetry-specific sites who kinda knew what they were getting into. So, I guess I'm saying that I could be rougher on you than I intend and you need to squawk if I am.

Quote:

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Originally posted by Julie

Quote:

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Originally posted by ivan astikov

It's exactly what I was looking for.

Say I used "like a switchblade through a piece of silk"?

---

Well, what does it mean? What does cutting through silence "like a switchblade through a piece of silk" mean? What picture are you trying to put in my head?

Similes work best when your reader says, "Oh, yeah, I can see thing X being like thing Y in that way." I don't get that sort of meaning from your similes, yet.

---

It was meant to convey the marring or disruption of a previously unspoiled calm, although not very well, it seems! :)

Quote:

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Originally posted by Julie

Imagine you're a cop and you're taking a statement from a witness about an event. Imagine the witness says, "And then the silence was cut, like a switchblade through a piece of silk."

You're a cop, remember. What information did that witness just give you?

Now imagine you're a cop and you're taking a statement form a witness about an event. Imagine the witness says, "There was a noise. It sounded weird, like a squealing pig on a trampoline."

The first simile feels very vague and formless. The second is weird, but very specific. You can imagine the sound rising and falling, or the squealing mixed with the springs of the trampoline, or the sound being jolted at regular intervals. You can ask more specific questions to hone in on the precise meaning.

Most of the time, poetry benefits from being specific rather than general, concrete rather than abstract, and conveying information rather than vague ideas. Most of the time. There are exceptions aplenty.

Here's an idea, which you can use if you like: As an exercise, you can try writing your poem from the point of view of a witness giving a statement. Think of very specific, very concrete ways you can set the scene, giving information and mood to the cop. Include what seems relevant to the statement. It's a regular person talking, so you don't need any legalese. You can even mix in questions from the cop if you like.

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I need to keep this more in mind then, I take it?

Quote:

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Originally posted by Julie

Edited to add: I've done a LOT of poetry tutoring, but it's been a while, and most of my "students" were from poetry-specific sites who kinda knew what they were getting into. So, I guess I'm saying that I could be rougher on you than I intend and you need to squawk if I am.

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I'm a big boy now... be brutal! ;)

Nothing's Wrong.

Thoom.

I heard impact in the distance
No, it's quiet, what's wrong with me?

Thoom.

Up until that sound, I was home
No, I am home, what's wrong with me?

Thoom.

There's screaming, panicked cries.
No, only memories, what's wrong with me?

Thoom.

Oh, god, don't die, Maria, no. NO.
She's already dead, what's wrong with me?

THOOM.

It's okay, I'm ready now.
Oh God, I am, what's wrong with me?

THOOM.

I hear the bombs now as they drop.
I pretend I don't, what's wrong with me?

THOOM.

I think I died in that explosion.
What if that's what's wrong with me?

THOOM.

What if I never really came home alive.
Does that mean there's nothing wrong with me?

Thoom.