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This one too.

Thoughts on a break

There is just one thing I wish to pursue:
but you said that I’ve got to go.
I can’t just forget about you

when I was so sure that I knew
how much I wanted to be your beau:
There is just one thing I wish to pursue.

We have so many things to do!
I’ve made too many plans, so
I can’t just forget about you.

I can’t see it from your point of view
but I’ll try to honor your request, though
there is just one thing I wish to pursue.

Unmindful acts that I wish I could undo,
but I think we can work it out, so no
I can’t just forget about you.

Just know that my heart has always been true
and I will do all that I can to show
there is just one thing I wish to pursue,
I can’t just forget about you.

Original post by Klyphe H.

Fibonacci: forms in nature. forms in poetry?

http://le-tokyo.greatestjournal.com   http://www.shutterandpupil.com/189.htmlIn my “free time,” I do stuff like listen to podcasts from BBC radio (England changes you)…and I came across this bit on The Fibonacci Sequence, on the programme “In Our Time.”  What is interesting to me about this chat, specifically, is that it began to intersect some of my ideas about creating an “invented form” for Seminar: Poetics by Praxis, and my thoughts about form, more generally, and naturally embedded roots for poetic form, specifically.  Winter trees, in particular, make me think of strict forms existing in nature, which may be borrowed from, or mused upon for creating formal poetry…Levertov has this to say in her essay, “Some Notes on Organic Form:

For me, back of the idea of organic form is the concept that is a form in all things (and in our experience) which the poet discover and reveal. There are no doubt temperamental differences between poets who use prescribed forms and those who look for new ones—people who need a tight schedule to get anything done, and people who have to have a free hand—but the difference in their conception of “content” or “reality” is functionally more important. On the one hand is the idea that content, reality, experience, is essentially fluid and must be given form; on the other, this sense of seeking out inherent, though not immediately apparent, form. Gerard Manley Hopkins invented the word inscape to denote intrinsic form, the pattern of essential characteristics both in single objects and (what is more interesting) in objects in a state of relation to each other; and the word instress to denote the experiencing of the perception of inscape, the apperception of inscape. In thinking of the process of poetry as I know it, I extend the use of these words, which he seems to have used mainly in reference to sensory phenomena, to include intellectual and emotional experience as well; I would speak of the inscape of an experience (which might be composed of any and all of these elements, including the sensory) or of the inscape of a sequence or constellation of experiences.       (more…)

Original post by Whitney

revised sonnet

Miss Coca-Cola 1943

For my grandmother, Isabel Blackwell Roberts (b.1925-1977)

“Passion moves inward, striking and blighting the deepest cellular recesses.”
	- Susan Sontag, Disease and It’s Metaphors

Your young figure cinched in by a woolknit,
striped bathing-suit, your fingers enclose
the waist of a coke bottle, dark and fit
as a tiny dressmakers’ dummy, poised
for another colored fabric pin. I hold
you now, in frame: wet-bark dark curls, long-legged,
painted lips, sun-sketched collar bones: the mold
that cast my father: born squalling, your third.

I wonder if you blamed “the dishwater”
when he noticed your papery skin, hands
painted in bruises.  Later, the matter
of collecting black curls from the wash-stand:
dyed flax-threads, shredding, five years of keeping
poison a secret: the cancer’s unfolding.

Original post by Whitney

Heroic Couplet revision

Naucrate at the Death-scene of Icarus

 ”In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.” (Matthew 2:18)

Hand spun, now crumpled, wings hang like gentle
sails, harnessed with leather to his genteel

back. Hair, deep as night, lies in folds, laced through
with weeds, on the sky-runner’s quiet brow.

Red shadows, like winter trees, stretch across
in congealing, rusted rivers. Limbs, traced

in blood, pooling red seas that gather
beside him. I inherit Gaea’s¹ wrath

as mother to him, still and quieted.
Time pardons none, not even the dead,

a berry stain of bruise spreading, smearing
youth’s pinked, glowing cheek. None desiring

him now. None knowing the strength of his arms
to serve his own sublime, fool-hearty aims.

The women don’t come wreaths, rose-wound.
Erota², playing her zither, cannot be found.

Where are the sandy-footed Mourners with
sable hair? Beauties promised by such strength?

Not here. Not here to comb his soft flesh for feathers,
nor to wipe salt dust from his skin. Not here.

I alone, his chattel mother, beside
his cobbled bed, kneeling, tears mixed in blood.

For cover, I raise his mound of lichened rocks,
but cannot move him. The boy’s body speaks

in arched and lengthened lines toward the sky.
Closed eyes, slackened fingers seeking beauty

even in death.  He reaches for the sun,

the rapture of Muse-beauty killed my son.

¹ in Greek religion and mythology, the earth, daughter of Chaos, both mother and wife of Uranus (the sky) and Pontus (the sea).  She helped bring about Uranus' overthrow by the Titans, because he had imprisoned her sons.
² Muse of lyric poetry.

Original post by Whitney

Revised Free Verse Poem: “Chimney Swifts”

Chimney Swifts

It was this same time: an early winter.
Columns of black birds undulated
across the paling sky at evening,
soundless. I’m grown. Where I live now, the cold
will bring snow. But there, then, it meant only
less light, moderate cold, damp sadness, robbed
of lucidity, framed in magnolia,
yella pine, and papery blades of grass.

I know now that you had spent that whole day
packing, pacing, retreating upstairs to
your round brass ashtray: like a whispering
bowl, a quarry of crumbling granite, and
filters turned the color of weak sun-tea.

I can see the jet-black, perennial
birds, not perched like others, but clinging on
tightly to red brick, any horizontal
surface, like a magic trick, or a child
in a new place, pleading to be picked up.
(more…)

Original post by Whitney

Chosen Poem IV (finally posted)

A portion of the long poem, The Throne of Labdacus.
by Gjertrud SchnackenbergWhat is: a leaking through of events
From beyond the bourn of right and wrong;

What is: a sequence of accidents
Without a cause,

Or from which the cause
Is long-lost, like a ruthless jewel

Missing from an archaic setting’s
Empty, bent, but still aggressive prongs.

Topics for Discussion:
– meta-formal qualities: “a ruthless jewel”(li.6) is the title of Section Eight of this long poem
– couplets, unrhymed, roughly iambic with heavy substitution: the first and last couplet have 9 syllables (one short of pentameter), all of the rest of the lines fall even shorter than this (down to dimeter, line 4) the poem is questioning “what is” incompleteness? Hence, the couplets themselves are incomplete
– This poem is also in dialogue with the last poem: the couplets prior to this section have exact masculine rhymes and convey how the story of Oedipus was circulated through Thebes “in a whispering poetry” (p.6,li.27), ending with the un-rhymed pair, “simply a making known-/ Making known what is.” (p.7,li.41-42).
– Therefore, Schnackenberg sets up this short “lyric” within the long poem, as a questioning and probing of exactly that which poetry is NOT: “a sequence of accidents/ Without a cause”
– The poem leaves the reader with an incredibly strong image of form itself, however, and Schnackenberg is consistent with providing these images throughout her work: the setting of the ring, devoid of a jewel, implies a frame narrative without the intention, the completion, the beauty that would make it a poem

Original post by Whitney

quatrain revised #2

Storm

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
wooden pane and try to relax.
Times of happiness and love
seem never to unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.

As a child, I am so young
my parents’ fury and dismay
hits my soul constantly sung
as the leaves outside decay.

Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.
Thundering yells shake my small mass
my mind stripped of innocence.
Outside the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.

Original post by sfinn2id

Photograph Sonnet

Miss Coca-Cola 1943

For my grandmother, Isabel Blackwell Roberts,
1925-1977

“Passion moves inward,
striking and blighting the deepest cellular recesses.”
– Susan Sontag, Disease and It’s Metaphors

Her own figure stitched in by a woolknit,
striped bathing-suit, her fingers enclose
the waist of a coke bottle, dark and fit
as a tiny dressmakers’ dummy, poised
for another stretch of fabric. I hold
you now, framed: shorn dark curls, long legs, parted,
painted lips, sunlit collar bones: the mold
that cast my father, then separated.
I wonder if you blamed “the dishwater”
when he noticed your papery skin, hands
painted with bruises, and the matter
of collecting black curls from the wash-stand:
like thin threads, shredding, five years of holding
the poison’s name, the cancer unfolding.

Original post by Whitney

Quatrain- revised

Storm-revised 

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
all the pane and try to regress.
Times of happiness and love
seem to never unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.
As a child, I am so young,
my parents’ fury and dismay
hits my soul constantly sung
as the leaves outside decay.
Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.
The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands, eyes try to grasp kindness
outside; the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.

Original post by sfinn2id

2nd chosen poem- Frost

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION:          4 stanzas with 5 lines          All lines are capitalized, no variation in length or indention          ABAAB          Iambic, 4 meters, some anapests

          Strict form, narrative or lyrical poem- able to relate to the reader, reader becomes the narrator

          Use of imagery and description to place the reader          Rhyme scheme plays with idea of straight roads/paths          Poem is about choice of paths in life and decisions

          Use of capitalization in the first word

          Very steady sound and use of words

          Lot of punctuation at the end of lines very little enjambment

Original post by sfinn2id

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