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Helpful McHelpfulpants
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Points 2608
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Fri Oct 02, 2009 12:58 am
Helpful McHelpfulpants says... · Fri Oct 02, 2009 12:58 am
slippery roots, wood spongy and pelted with moss, teaparty


I misread pelted the first time as the verb rather than the adjective, which led, let me tell you, to quite an odd mental picture. Maybe 'furred', the less unusual choice? Or 'with its pelt of moss'? I dunno.

of wildflowers on the ridge, wrinkled like noses and the little
choir of mistdroplets.


This, I love.

waterfall draped down, like hair tucked behind an ear,
and the forest deepens.

I want just a little more information -- 'and behind it the forest deepens', or some other more explicit connection.

you walk the backs of the logs, arms spread, teetering,
hands ruddering.


Again: <3

behind the waterfall, the world is a blue cowl, dark bell of spray


Never seen a blue waterfall. White, yes. Red, on one memorable occasion. The light refracted through it is blue, often. But the fall itself?

and we can read the names of past lovers, initials etched into the sandstone
the crude, empty hearts, fashioned like unearthed artifacts
from primitive times. your hair plastered to your forehead
and your earlobes honored with the tiniest globes of water –
this place smells of damp words, which cling to the walls
like nurslings.


:thud: <-- my awe.

'the tiniest globes' seems a little unfinished, somehow. 'Tiniest possible'?

lampshade, we are kept, we are promised
indelible and blue, we hold hands in this blue, pentacled womb,
our clothes sticking to our skin like postage stamps, your fingers
long and creeping, like wasps stricken with cold. the sound
is defeaning, yet beneath it all, I can hear
you breathe.


Again: :thud: You want 'deafening', though, not 'defeaning'.

and night falls – it always falls, the cooling sun dislodged, like a pulled tooth,
and the branch-tips lose their filaments. we emerge from behind
the waterfall and stalk along the ridge, where the flower are puckered
like sour mouths. gossip and smalltalk in the trees and the downy owls,
cast their eyes about, unknowing, yellow

systole of the night, filling up
blue chords, you wink in and out –
an indecisive, perishing
flame.


Yeah, I ran out of advice to give a while ago.

You are as amazing as ever, and more.
Nunc lac est bibendum.
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Galerius
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Points 33318
Reviews 382
Fri Oct 02, 2009 3:44 am
Galerius says... · Fri Oct 02, 2009 3:44 am
Hi Kylan,

Kylan wrote:yellow djinnis of smog rising from the spot, isolating the sun
like a variable


This is a mathematics reference? Isolating variables to solve a problem?

Why?

– red, lensed light, we squint our eyes and watch
the hills burn, sails of smoke pushed by southwesterlies,


Here, you are fleeing, for some reason, from a very potent possible analogy. The sails and the southwesterlies go well together, but you just throw it in there without any prior introduction to the nautical references. Every extended metaphor has to have an opening and tapering closing if it's to be effective at all; yours just appears and disappears like a light beings switched on and off. It's disconcerting and one of the main problems throughout this poem that needs to be fixed before anything else.

mothervein of fire sketching the troughs and laps of land
and the banshee trees
crowned like heirs apparent.


Last line is not needed and actually sounds amateurish because of the bare simile without anything to back it up. It would make more sense if you introduced the regal nature of the fire - and thus it's successor, the burnt trees - earlier on and then climaxed with this image. Here, it just punches the reader in the face and then retreats. It's a sensation, to be sure, but not a good one.

we sit in the car, all three of us, for the afternoon watching the fire


Is this number really needed? Don't attach concretism to a poem driven by symbolism and the abstract. (Yes, I understand that this is about a real event - the fire near where you live? - but I am talking about the visceral feel of the piece.)

and the dry, whittling stalks of tallgrass bow like debtors,
their heavy, dreary heads, holding onto the the indian summer, shuffling.
we speculate that it might
have been arson.


Like debtors? Your similes suffer and bring down the entire poem with them. You could replace "debtors" with any other description of a cowed man and it would mean the same thing. Don't cheapen your poetic devices.

the dogeared summer wilts like a dying hand and little
twisters appear, the first leaves of autumn stirred and the crickets
sawing their odes, their grassborn verses. the fire moves, up and over,
bellied like a serpent, belching, and the ash starts falling, early snow
in our eyelashes, in dad's hair,
nestled, whispery
like secret kisses.


You have three similes in one stanza, and none of them connected to each other. I know that I already mentioned this systemic issue - not only in this poem but in others I've read from you - but this stanza really exemplifies what can happen when a poet tries to stuff devices into a section. It ends up bulging, bloated. "Wilts like a dying hand"? This is a pseudo-image; we're supposed to conjure a description of a decaying limb, but you never actually describe to us what a decaying limb is supposed to feel like. Smell, touch, taste. Use them.

Same goes for the rest of the half-baked similes I see strewn throughout.

the firebombers drop their red guts over the houses and the fire, like
wounded birds, mulling over the hills. the helicopters and airplanes, carrion
over a dying landscape, the gray back, exposed and prickled with trees
bent as old nails, rough stubble. the red, tormented glow from within
the stomach of the smoke, kicking, pulsing, unborn and dad whistles
low


This part is good, save for the useless "description" words that are meant simply to provide an image and fail to do so. An example would be "tormented". Take it out. The last part of this stanza especially was good because it brought the reader back to reality.

The "like wounded birds" needs to be edited or removed, for reasons mentioned above.

and lights a cigarette, blue lip of flame, twirling curls of smoke.

my nostrils burn.


Good ending. The touch at the end, the personal anguish displayed in the physical reek of the smell of burning, is profound.

I liked this poem only for the last fourth of it; if that had not been there, there would have been no redemption for the piece. Work on the opening and middle and try to weed out the poetic devices that you know aren't helping at all - similes are the main culprit here.

Hope that helped,
Galerius
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lizzytink
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Points 2065
Reviews 10
Sat Oct 03, 2009 3:43 pm
lizzytink says... · Sat Oct 03, 2009 3:43 pm
um its too long i think, it could've ended at, (please input text here) how does this work?
what the heck?
well any way i think the poem was pretty good.

well coming from me that means a lot.

you need to make some more work, cause that is good writing...poetry.
sorry I'm not good at all this stuff.
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lizzytink
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Sat Oct 03, 2009 3:44 pm
lizzytink says... · Sat Oct 03, 2009 3:44 pm
Helpful McHelpfulpants wrote:
slippery roots, wood spongy and pelted with moss, teaparty


I misread pelted the first time as the verb rather than the adjective, which led, let me tell you, to quite an odd mental picture. Maybe 'furred', the less unusual choice? Or 'with its pelt of moss'? I dunno.

of wildflowers on the ridge, wrinkled like noses and the little
choir of mistdroplets.


This, I love.

waterfall draped down, like hair tucked behind an ear,
and the forest deepens.

I want just a little more information -- 'and behind it the forest deepens', or some other more explicit connection.

you walk the backs of the logs, arms spread, teetering,
hands ruddering.


Again: <3

behind the waterfall, the world is a blue cowl, dark bell of spray


Never seen a blue waterfall. White, yes. Red, on one memorable occasion. The light refracted through it is blue, often. But the fall itself?

and we can read the names of past lovers, initials etched into the sandstone
the crude, empty hearts, fashioned like unearthed artifacts
from primitive times. your hair plastered to your forehead
and your earlobes honored with the tiniest globes of water –
this place smells of damp words, which cling to the walls
like nurslings.


:thud: <-- my awe.

'the tiniest globes' seems a little unfinished, somehow. 'Tiniest possible'?

lampshade, we are kept, we are promised
indelible and blue, we hold hands in this blue, pentacled womb,
our clothes sticking to our skin like postage stamps, your fingers
long and creeping, like wasps stricken with cold. the sound
is defeaning, yet beneath it all, I can hear
you breathe.


Again: :thud: You want 'deafening', though, not 'defeaning'.

and night falls – it always falls, the cooling sun dislodged, like a pulled tooth,
and the branch-tips lose their filaments. we emerge from behind
the waterfall and stalk along the ridge, where the flower are puckered
like sour mouths. gossip and smalltalk in the trees and the downy owls,
cast their eyes about, unknowing, yellow

systole of the night, filling up
blue chords, you wink in and out –
an indecisive, perishing
flame.


Yeah, I ran out of advice to give a while ago.

You are as amazing as ever, and more.
:-)
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Kylan
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Points 27175
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Mon Oct 12, 2009 12:44 am
Kylan says... · Mon Oct 12, 2009 12:44 am
a/n: somewhat unfinished

dickon

1. foxglove

and from the cottage i can see the manor lights, yellow and lidded
like cat's eyes, and the great lips of ivy climbing the walls, rising like
falsetto voices. the wind scrapes the moorlands and the statues in the courtyard
stand tearless, their handcarved wings sloping, heavy in flight, their eyes
searching, searching.

white horse on the tableland, unsaddled, black muzzle, snuffling lips,
we ride home together, and i can feel every strand of muscle and bone
working under her skin, like fingerpicked strings, strum, chords. she smells of woodchips
and leftover dew. we ride through the last, diminished flowers of spring,
selfish in their drawn up petals, shying away like turncoats
the blackberry vines atrophy, the dark berries peering
under the leaves like undercover
agents.

2. the aunt's key

and in the garden, where the hunchbacked boy slumps, wooden feet, stringless
puppet, we work among the blossoms, and the hairy-toed bulbs, the bees
perusing the petals like pages. we look at each other, she and I, as the flowers
split open like atoms. the robins among us, plucking the wormfolk
and the rosebuds are just beginning to show, pink as noses
snuffling from a cold.

our hands in the dirt – the cool black dirt, overturned. in the wheelchair, his head
is a blonde lantern and he holds the seeds in his hand – tokens of creation.
the seedlings grovel, and we see an archipelago of blue sky in the bodiless
nautilus of clouds.

she holds my hand. the animals
are silent.

his legs twitch and he
plants a seed.
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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Kylan
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Mon Oct 12, 2009 12:47 am
Kylan says... · Mon Oct 12, 2009 12:47 am
skinny wolf

the sky withers
in the early morning, halfmoon gourded in the sky,
dipping forward like a priest in prayer. the stars
shiver in their sockets and brackets – they are fading fast,
as the morning light brews behind the cauldron of the horizon,
wasting away and fading, they are little pining lovers, but immovable
in the winter sky, cast in their diorama of spin and curtsey,
milling constellations.

and we walk through the snow, though it is still dark, our breath
smithed by the moon, rising like stringless kites. we track the wolves
and the deer, their prints fresh and cupping shadows. they are close.
so close, we can smell the hot fearful blood of the deer, and see
the thin-ribbed shapes of the wolves between the trees. we
hold our breath.

dunce caps of snow, white and coned, fallen from the tired, wavering
bows of the pinetrees, trees that rise, stoic and resigned, bearing
their white, trundling burdens like wet nurses cradling
someone else's baby. the snow drops in nearly silent thumps,
followed by thin showers of crystal. the icicles drip,
like runny noses.

and we see them in the clearing, the wolves harrying the deer,
gray, imminent shapes – they have always been coming.
and the deer pacing, cornered, wheeling, eyes rolling back,
until the white shoals of their terror,
gleam dead in the moonlight.

your nose is red and your hands are retracted into your sleeves,
the leafless trees twine their hands skyward above us
and the moon is a robbed cradle. the deer escape, scattering
through the trees, nudging the trunks and the blank, white
humps come coughing down.

the wolves are skinny this winter,
regarding us
in the snow.
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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Juniper
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Mon Oct 12, 2009 4:52 pm
Juniper says... · Mon Oct 12, 2009 4:52 pm
Hey Kylan!

Behind the waterfall,

I'm not exactly sure where to start on this one. I like it for the imagery you're using, but I kind of think that you're a little blase with it here. The first stanza's okay, but in the second stanza:

behind the waterfall, the world is a blue cowl, dark bell of spray
and we can read the names of past lovers, initials etched into the sandstone


I find it kind of boring; you mention waterfall in the first stanza and that repetition is a little more obvious than it could be. It's to narrative, in a sense, because at most other parts you're letting the setting tell the story, whereas here, you're telling it.


indelible and blue, we hold hands in this blue, pentacled womb,


Don't mean to sound like a repetition nazi, but that blue repetition isn't really working. ;)

we emerge from behind
the waterfall and stalk along the ridge,


It's kind of... hmm, what's the word? A bit uninteresting to have the exact title of this used in this poem, let alone twice.

where the flower are puckered
like sour mouths.


Little nitpick! Flower's missing an S!


I do really like your closing of this, Ky. It closes this well without the whole obvious narration, and I kind of think that the rest of the poem should have the subtle storytelling to it, because it's a little... hmm, difficult? not difficult, but, it takes an effort to find interest in the setting without an extravagant event taking place; I think if your narration was less obvious, it'd do wonders for the beginning of this poem. :)


*


Dickon is kind of hard to critique. I really think you should finish it, and sort of pull the ideas you've established together. Right now, it kind of seems like you're setting the description and I think you should kind of 'pull' your ideas together in the final stanza and kind of make all of this description of setting worth it, if you know what I mean? ( :P That kind of sounds really confusing, no?)

Also, I love the way you narrate in this. It's so much more fluid than Behind the Waterfall. :)


*

Skinny Wolf

Kylan, I really, really, really love this poem. I do think that the ending is aa little weak for this poem, as it kind of drops off. In a way, it seems like it'd be better if you ended this without the ending stanza. The way you have it seems like it needs something more, a more effective closing that does more justice to this poem.

I'm not too sure if I like the whole telling us that the wolves are skinny, because the title's essentially a part of your poem, and pretty much gives us the image of starving wolves in the winter. But closing your poem like this is kind of not-so-awesome because it left me wondering what happens after, and that's not exactly a good thing.

Other than that, I can say that this is of your better poems, Kylan. I really love the imagery, the similes worked excellently, and you did a good job holding your audience's interest with this as the poem went on. If I could gold star this, I certainly would.

Great job. :) I absolutely loved it.

June
"I'd steal somebody's purse if I could google it and then download it." -- Firestarter
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Kylan
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Sun Jan 24, 2010 11:28 pm
Kylan says... · Sun Jan 24, 2010 11:28 pm
on visiting mrs. perrine at the three fountains assisted living community

it is not the smell of unwashed bodies and urine in these halls – it is the smell
of death. it it the smell that glistens on the late roses at our kitchen table,
the smell that old men and old women wear on the undersides of
their pale wrists, the smell of a beach on a morning when the fog
undresses the driftwood and the rotting kelp sprawls in dreadlocks and cozies.
they stare at us from inside their rooms, wearing knit caps, socks, their
gowns folded like classroom notes and barely covering their bodies,
with their dairies of wrinkles and callouses and bolts of skin
hanging from dusty prairie bones.

we come to visit you, even though you aren't related to us, because mother
feels sorry for elderly people without family. you read old, largeprint westerns
and the tv is always on, tuned to baseball, and there is a bracket of daisies
left over from weeks ago on your bedside table, loosing their petals
like memories, yellowing and snoozing, like old men in the sun.
you tell us that you have always loved baseball and that your father would
listen to the world series on a transistor radio in the barn with you
and work on his hobby cars, in the hay.

you mumble under your breath for the most part, and you avoid eye contact.
you are confused as I am about us being here. flat face, feet swollen, madame
elephante in a wheelchair. we replace your flowers once a week, every monday,
the daisies moving in a slow softshoe. sometimes, you are tired and you
ask that we don't come to see you the next week. sometimes, you ask for mother
to read to you from some of your westerns, and you fall asleep.

on our last day together, mother
wheels you out into the courtyard where it is spring
and the clouds move by daintily, like sidesaddle riders. we
don't talk much, except that you tell us that your son is
coming from back east to make preparations for a funeral
because you reckon it's about time.

the birds in the skinny trees shuffle blackly, and you cough
unconvincingly.
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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Kylan
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Thu Jan 28, 2010 3:00 am
Kylan says... · Thu Jan 28, 2010 3:00 am
galatea

your lips have become rough from brushing the moonspilt ivory
of her skin, of her cold and queenly skin, her golem shiver, her
hands raised at the wrists slightly and cupped, as if they held
the birdlings of your soul. you keep her in the garden, in the courtyard
under the promenade, and at night the shelled stars cling to
the shudder and the breezeless folds of her summer gown,
like the tears of newborns. the piglet hyacinths
squeal in their clutches at her feet and the red, damask blossoms
are her indian braves, streaked with warpaint
and pollen.

and in the coldest of december midnights, you coax and prod and
thaw her skin with your hands and pray and sleep at her feet, but she
remains a creation of man, soulless collaboration of chisel and hammer
and sanded bellies of rock. she rises white and luminous in your
dreams, sick fever, pale ministress at your bedside, nurse with a cold hand,
finding the couplet your pulse, the red petal of your pulse –
the ivy greens and rots like gangrene and the nightingales on the treelimbs
pass a single match of song between them.

venus, venus
jealous venus with your glotted love potions and
your finger held up to your lips, your untried, un-
touched lips. i don't think i can stand this much
longer, i don't think i can rot
much further.

you go to bed, to your real bed. the blossoms at her feet raise their
sunless heads, quiet and nun-souled. you touch your lips, and she shivers,
shivers in the milklight.
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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Kylan
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Sat Feb 06, 2010 4:29 pm
Kylan says... · Sat Feb 06, 2010 4:29 pm
cadaver

we cut him open, slowly, and knowing what's inside,
like an electric bill. the squelched, strange fruit of the body,
cables and nodes, the heart sweating and shying away, like
a deveiled bride, petals of flesh, great rinds of tissue and little
pecks of blood, dimpling the basin beneath the dissecting table –
a distilling love potion.

cutting out his vital organs one by one, we hold them up to the lamp,
each warmed by a petticoat of congealed fat, yellow, greasy, the cast-off
honey of the body. bagpipe lungs, split, wheezing, containing the man's
final words as he died in a prison cell at an easel where he was painting
a picture of his first wife in a sailboat – O Mathilde! body-bagged,
he pupates here, emerging, his fingernails still laced with
orange and blue oil paints.

lamped eyes, palest skin, we place the studied organs on a tray, squirming
and uncovered, like children abandoned on a porchstep orphanage. his tongue
sits heavy in his mouth, fat informant, and as we press on his lungs, his heart,
he discusses the meaning of life to us, under his bloodlit breath, about life and
painting pictures of people on the seashore. the light from the window
comes in very delicately, fluting, like fetal gills and I reference
the medical diagrams on the wall of people in tetnus positions, skin shed,
the clippings and wiring of their veins, the drought of bones
in their habitual, tell-tale positions.

the man's name is on a tag attached to his big toe – we dissect him
to become more familiar with the human body, like adolescent lovers,
feeling, closing our eyes, breathing the smell and very clumsy. the
hole in his chest is disturbed, clotted, the eye of jupiter's storm
and we place his heart, kidneys, brain in neat, labeled formaldehyde jars,
where they float and keel, like thoughts kept to
oneself.

--

cidering

and when she would return many years later, she would first note
the apple tree in the front yard, bearing its little, yellow offerings,
with as many wormholes as a universe. on summer afternoons, when
the cherry blossoms shuddered and menstruated onto the dirt road
with its carriage wheel ruts, the air would smell like cider, made
from apples picked from the backyard in large, hooped picking baskets.
picked on ladders, ones with loose screws and bolts and soft,
spongy wood that we feared might collapse under us at anytime,
because they had been around since grandpa picked apples as a child
here.

and in the kitchen, we would scalp the apples like indian braves
and boil them and squeeze them and within fifteen minutes the room
was filled with applesteam, plundered cores, grandma's loose hair
sticking to her forehead, and the skins lying in yellow slugtrails along
the counter. she and her brother would sneak the apples from the table
and eat until they had the runs, and their bellies bloated. the skinned apples
on the table awaited their fate in the pot of boiling water, pale
and feigning sickness, like hypochondriacs.

and at dusk, when the sun melts against the horizon like a pressed seal,
we take cups of warm applejuice and dishes of applesauce and eat on the porch,
our skins and hair and clothes smelling like apples. the unopened poppies
along the house swaying and full, like unburped babies and the little
purple snapdragons in the lawn acting out a flourishing, tragic
play within a play.

the cider sits in her belly, even now, as she looks at the house in disrepair,
the cats curling in and out of the open doorways and the finches perched
on the windowless windowsills, tiny and retreating, like snail eyes.

--

to the flowerbeds

the black men sit in wickerchairs outside the mercantile with their hands
folded over their latesummer stomachs, watching the day-moths
come out into the open, startled, like confessions to a priest, and
greasebellied automobiles with scolding radiators gloating by. they
sit until it grows dark and coons of shadows come slinking from under
the houses and behind the rainbarrels, small at first, but growing larger,
like russian nesting dolls. he would sit among them,
the fireflies hotwiring the night, the padlocks of summer blossoms
in their keeps and catches, letting out their swathes of pollen, yellow
and dazed as peace-smoke from an indian pipe.

he had the most wonderful well-bottom voice. a voice that you could
drop a stone down wait for minutes until the rock made contact with
his heart, his tubed, bull-heart. he smelled of turned earth and he called
me child and sang me songs only when it was just the two of us because
his songs were very reverent and very sacred and not to be shared with just anyone,
slow gospel songs
about the land of canaan and coming home.

and in the night, we would sometimes sit out on the porch, because
the humidity would make sleep impossible, and the toadstools came up silently
and hollowly, like bones mending, and the gutterball moon stared
down, nitpicked by her stars, childless, and viewing all the children
enviously. Job, the bluetick hound, would pant and sprawl out beside us and
mamma's white carnations turned toward us, seeming to repeat our words
in the waxy dark
like lipreaders.

he would smile at me, his eyelids pulling apart like
cottonboles, crinkling, revealing their whites and as our shirts stuck
to our collarbones, and our voices quiet and very soft, like
peach-plush, he would sing me a song. and for a moment I would be
walking between trees, barefoot in the dead night, holding everything
I owned on my head, watching as the universe laid out a map for us
to follow, to follow to the land of canaan,

like bees dancing the route to the flowerbeds.
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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MegaLizardLord
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Tue Feb 09, 2010 6:09 pm
MegaLizardLord says... · Tue Feb 09, 2010 6:09 pm
Very interesting... I liked it a lot! I don't have much to say... but I do hope you write a lot. :)
What the heck does WTH mean?!
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Elinor
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Tue Feb 09, 2010 8:36 pm
Elinor says... · Tue Feb 09, 2010 8:36 pm
MegaLizardLord wrote:Very interesting... I liked it a lot! I don't have much to say... but I do hope you write a lot. :)


Just so you know, this poem is about 4 months old...should probably check the dates before you post.

Shall a mod lock this?

All our dreams can come true — if we have the courage to pursue them.
-- Walt Disney
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Kamas
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Tue Feb 09, 2010 9:43 pm
Kamas says... · Tue Feb 09, 2010 9:43 pm
Elinor Brynn wrote:
MegaLizardLord wrote:Very interesting... I liked it a lot! I don't have much to say... but I do hope you write a lot. :)


Just so you know, this poem is about 4 months old...should probably check the dates before you post.

Shall a mod lock this?



This is a good poetry thread, I discourage this.
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles." ~ Charles Chaplin

#tnt
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Kylan
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Tue Feb 09, 2010 11:16 pm
Kylan says... · Tue Feb 09, 2010 11:16 pm
Elinor, this is a continuous poetry thread. No lock.

-Kylan
"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado
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Elinor
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Tue Feb 09, 2010 11:51 pm
Elinor says... · Tue Feb 09, 2010 11:51 pm
Ah, okay. Sorry for the confusion. Seems as if I should be the one paying more attention. xD

All our dreams can come true — if we have the courage to pursue them.
-- Walt Disney
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61 posts1, 2, 3, 4, 5


I think that was when I began to realize that reputation isn't everything. I should focus less about how others perceive me and more about what makes me happy. Because, in the end, I have to live with myself.
— Seraphina