Young Writers Society

Oh man! I wrote this at work -- it needs a lot of work. But I was trying to style it after the poem "Marriage" by Gregory Corso: http://www.litkicks.com/Texts/Marriage.html Corso's is one of my favorite poems, and I often ask a similar question, but with a slightly different topic.

4.9. The Question of Carriage

Should I, listen - should I have a baby - some day?
This is the question, and everyone expects a decent answer -
of course, they're expecting, and they never believe what I say
as if my human mind stands no chance against its insides,
well - this may be true.

There's no problem with conception, and in broadscape
this seems the best part. Reclining or on top,
that desk seems cleared, the wall, garage;
does the intent effect the mood? If I imagine them
flapping like salmon - if I laugh, will my baby be
conceived too humorously? Will it know I giggled at
the harbinger of its DNA? Call me out on this someday?
"Mom, you laughed; and stop calling me it".
Baby, I wish we were all it, but this is not the time
for a pronoun debate. And if this happens accidentally -
when I'm not ready - God!
I've never heard a more controversial eraser!
No, let's stick to the pencil, and pronoun ambiguity.

Could I handle the expansion? My hips just might crack open -
I've seen the bellies rumbling, rolling with a person; if it
weren't contained I imagine it would climb up and box the lungs,
pull on my tongue. Maybe I don't have enough skin to stretch out,
contain him - is this a good excuse? It's not?
And when people speak to my stomach - what to think about that!
I could talk about it with him later: "Baby, you couldn't see her,
but she was FAT, wasn't even talking to the right part -
you weren't at my belly button, but hanging at the bladder,
that's your hotspot."

It won't stay in there forever, to great fortune or misfortune -
it's going to come out full of slush and snot;
Can I carry around enough Kleenex? Or will my collection of purses
be stuffed with too many blankets and pacis - to the brim -
I'll drop my purse in the aisle, it'll be just like high school,
except instead of papers, I'll be shoveling up diapers.
Everyone will watch and ask the question, "Where's the father?
Is he at work or in a police blotter? Poor woman! Poor woman!"
My friends can help me look after it, toddlers are entertaining
enough - this will help acclimate him to Bizarre Types,
this will make him tough and he'll have a collection of come-backs
startling for a four-year-old; his father will be proud.

When she's five, we will talk about all the problems with Western Civ,
she won't be listening well, but children are sponges, correct?
Can I give her five names? One for each weekday,
potluck on the weekends, I am a fan of variety -
will teachers grow upset with me?
"It's Suzie today, sorry, Wednesday is Jenny."

I could be its best friend, since my friends never spoiled me,
in fact they called out my mistakes and gave me apt advice -
But WAIT, that doesn't sound right, I think I need
to be the Hand of Authority, the Now-Listen-Here, bend down
for a spanking! Spit out your gum! Because I said so!
Because I said so - that just means, "God, I'm fatigued!"
Twenty years of tiredness and split-ends, dirty coffee mugs,
mom sweaters - is this me? Is this what I mean?
Grandma, pinching his cheeks, while I ask her to be less typical,
and that's not normal, me giving him lizards for pets
because dogs -- too easy! Want responsibility?
A bearded dragon, that's where it's at.
If it's a picky eater, frowning at the roast beef,
how can I make it eat? So many children's books,
one must reveal the secret of tricking a person
to eat the sorry food that I make anxiously -
will I even make meat? The ethics of child-rearing!
How do I answer its onslaught of questions, that rain down
like unrelenting accusations on my parenting skills!
Keep mum about faith, maybe, but its awaiting response,
and its thrilling to think I can let it grow up to be
anything, but my every move is an influence,
and the world - they'll all judge me.

With all that time and money sucked away, he'll still hate me!
Or at least grow into that, it won't be my fault, but biologically!
And then at that point I'm waiting for aging to hit,
and know she sure will cry when I die - what a reward!
I'm being too harsh now, of course. Still, can I say - no?
Do the ingredients of a family must contain a spawn?
I can replace it with new flavors:
three cats, a man, a lady, a hobby, Italy?
Or a motley crew of street rats, as long as they
don't come out of my maze of insides -
I might be okay. And I'm okay to change my mind -
or not to change it;
if family doesn't come naturally,
I'll be sure to take photos of the synthesis
of whatever brothers and sisters
I'm willing to put into this thing.


---

Again with the ending. =/

4.10. Bad Radio

Send a signal
into the world --
and receive
nothing back,

it breaks your heart.
Realizing one's been
cut off,
it's enough
to make you shut up,

quiet is an eerie
response to quiet.

To be here, when --

Is anyone there?

Regarding the question of carriage...a long poem, indeed, and if I'm not careful, this reveiew could be even longer. But I'll try to be succint

First impression? It reads intellectually like something out of a Shakespearean play; the rhythm, meter, and even quiet hints of rhyme occasionally are such that they give it a kind of cool, collected feel. Again, stanza by stanza:

Stanza One: the title so well sums up the poem, that this stanza is unnecessary. I skip it when I read - I want to get to the points you will make.

Stanza Two: focussing on issues around conception - do your actions there make a difference to it? It's somewhat drawn out. The pronoun debate is interesting - but maybe keep this for a separate poem; it's kind of not essential to the meaning behind your poem.

Stanza Three : the pregnancy itself - you definitely ask a valid question here, again, but I think you clutter that one, single, glaring Q that everyone thinks by everything else. The poem needs some contraction (pardon the pun)and this is one way to get rid of things not central to it - have that question more subtly phrased, and a nice image to go along with it (not too direct) - think about merging Stanza 2 and 3. The comment about the fat lady talking to the wrong place somehow is not as engaging as the other lines.

Stanza Four: I was not a big fan of this stanza. The cascading diapers, the people he'll be brought up by...I don't know. They are a bit of a detour. Your title - the question of carriage doesn't really prepare us for the 'post-carriage' events - and even if it does, then what you're saying here contributes less to the question than in other stanzas.

Stanza Five: Here's what I think: I think you have a LOT of humorous, entertaining, but blackly serious questions about having children, but when they're all crammed together like that, they have less impact, especially since the bigger, more pressing, real problems overshadow the smaller off-the-wall, cuter comments. Actually, think about writing several different poems about this, each focussing on one idea in one stanza. Being confronted with this many problems is daunting, all in one go.

Stanza six: leading on from above, actually, I've revised my opinion somewhat. Being confronted with this many questions is terrifying for people who don't have children, but for those who do...they can see the incessant worries about EVERYTHING and can smile, knowing they've been through it all. So: who is your audience going to be? Note that even if it was written in sections / dif poems, it would still appeal to the parent-audience.

Stanza seven: that question: 'will my child like me?' needs to be phrased FAR more subtly. Such a valid question to ask, such a clear, clean, painful question - you need to make it less painful. And why do you go on to talk about the 'three cats, lady, hobby, Italy?' I think, from the tone of the poem, you're hell-bent on having a child, but also super-scared of everything as a result. This is a possibility unmentioned in the rest of the poem, and it doesn't slot in as well with the other ideas - sort of a cluttery afterthought. The ending was too...direct for my liking.

I actually like this strange Shakespearean 'dodging around the question with formal language while still addressing it in the most direct way,' style of poetry. But I'm hesitant that many others will share my passion for Shakespeare. Furthermore, it evokes little emotion; kind of good, because we can quite easily become overwhelmed with emotion; but not so good if we're overwhelmed with intellect. Put some heart into it.

I also like the way you approach matters of concern - you are quite the debator, forming overarching views and backing them up, point by point. But poetry only ever focusses on one aspect of an issue, in one way - or two, or three - so overloading that fragile, cute little poem is...oh my God, it's actually like 'stretching the skin' of the poem. Yikes. I believe I just said that poem was pregnant...with about six different ideas.


Think about that.

The Question of Carriage --

First off, love the title. I've always liked the word carriage, especially in the way you're using it here. The poem itself was interesting...I like the honesty of it, and the idea is a good one as well. The delivery is a little rough -- I feel like there needs to be a little more subtlety, and maybe a little less exposition. My favorite stanzas are three and six -- three because of the images, and you know I'm a sucker for images, and six because it's true and funny and very human. Stanza 2 is funny, but a little off topic. I love the opening line. Of course.

In the end, though, this piece seems a little too prosaic, I guess. It doesn't read as much as a poem to me as some of your others. You went about it in an interesting fashion, and maybe with some nips and tucks it could read a little better...I don't think I could recommend condensing it, just because the size itself speaks about the poem itself -- the many internal conflicts of a parent, the constant worries, the debates, the responsibility. But, at the same time, Navita has a point. It's a tad overwhelming. I feel like this should be more specific.

But. It's napo. A season for experimentation.

bad radio --

Not really my type of poem. Too blunt for my taste. I like how the last two lines play off each other. Also, the whole poem comes off to me as a little tongue-in-cheek. Was that your intention? Anyway, a little doodad for the collection, but it didn't really grab me.

Thanks for the reads,

-Kylan

I appreciate the comments, and find them helpful! The poem does need trimming, and should be less blunt about some things. However, it should be kept in mind that I was trying to style it after Gregory Corso's "Marriage", which is a very hefty and rambling poem -- so I was trying FOR that. In fact, I feel like the poem should be edited but made longer to achieve the same effect as that poem which I so love and is linked to at the beginning.

Not like I want to defend my poem beyond that. I love seeing it torn apart -- I just want to shed some light on the Gregory Corso consideration, because I think he rocks and can only reference him enough.

Clo, all I can say is that poem was not finished, and I agree that you need to keep going. Especially after reading Corso's "Marriage", I felt that your poem was enjoyable and fast-paced and there were so many parts where I said "Oh, that's exactly what I'm worried about", or "How right, I never thought of that!" I love the way it moves from one worry to another and how it explores different aspects of the process. I'd love to see you dwell a little more on some of them. I loved, especially, the portion about conception, because that was surprising to see in a poem about the baby. Perhaps a little more there, and a little more on a personality of the child, instead of what they'll do? We know the terrible twos' -- are you afraid they're permanent and not just a phase? And what about whether you should raise the child like you or different from you, because they all seem to go the other way? I appreciate that you keep the man out of it, for now, but it could be interesting to write a few stanzas about that as well, the trouble of having two contributors to one product, and if they don't work, keep them out. I really like that style. I'll have to have a go at it myself, but even if I fail, you've succeeded in planting the seed of it.

Thanks for the great read on that one, Clo-love. I love you.

-Hannah-

Everyone here rocks hardcore. And I'm feeling guilty for bad poetry, but I love the critiques to salvage them! You're all heroes.

---

April, 11th (This is all one poem)

i. (a world in which good things happen to me)

The elevator doors serenely swing into an open position,
You walk in, purse swinging like a golden sun pendulum,
That curl of hair is catching on your extended eyelashes,
Head angled to the side until your widened eyes catch
The sight of my lean angle in the corner leaning back,
The corners of my mouth twitch until a smile graces them,
And like a never-ending sky with a snap moment of fireworks,
Two minutes of bliss before the stars are once again absent,
You smile back and lean to ask, “It’s funny - isn’t it?
The way we see each other every day and just now when
I’ve decided to be brave, we make eye contact?
Now I finally have a reason to lean in and-”

ii. (a world in which moderate things happen to me)

The elevator doors glide until the dim hallway is seen,
Your form enters then and your hips sway to the beat
Of the eerie sounds from bust speakers on the ceiling.
Head angled to the side as earphones fill you with meaning,
Lyrics taking you to places far away from Apartment C,
If I observe the space of curves that is your occupancy -
Your eyes catch the dotted line of mine and the scene
Becomes a shared one in which we cascade carefully
In a mutual bemusement of the yellow wallpaper, it has been
Scratched into with the initials of a hundred nobodies;
The edge of your mouth flickers, far too suggestively
And mine replies in eagerness but my lips are sealing.

iii. (reality)

The elevator doors jerk noisily until anyone can step in,
You sidle through, take one step to stand with cellphone
Clicking at the front while I suck in, squished against
The yellow back of the rising box, my eyes ascending then
To catch the sight of your hand pushing back a loose strand
behind your exposed ear; your ringed finger lingers there.
The view I have of it is chopped and served through workers
Waiting like inmates for the nearing of the nine to five and
Fourth Floor: enough leave to allow me to witness the bend
Of your shoulders, the rise and fall of your breaths, I implore
You to notice the smile being prepared for the exchange,
But the doors open -- you sigh heavy and clip-clop away.

Well. Well. Now that I see where you're getting inspiration from, I feel a bit better about reviews, which I WILL keep short and sweet, I WILL, I WILL.

Right: first off, I loved the cheeky idea behind this - and the titles of the separate parts were brilliant. I'm really curious, just from reading the titles, and I knew from them that you would be describing the same thing in three different ways...so, I guess there's no element of surprise there; only the 'waiting to see what actually happens.'

I enjoyed the poem as a whole. However, the first stanza - you've just got to reread it a few more times, and really scrutinise it for anything that could sound cliche, and therefore dampen the effect you're going for - unless that WAS the effect (which I would not recommend since it might put us off the rest of the poem). Remember that your readers will most likely have seen romance in a thousand different forms and places, in books and films and music, so you've got to give them something FRESH to hold on to.

Second stanza: just the 'hips sway to the beat / of eerie sounds' bit irked me. I don't know if that was because it seemed a bit cliche, or just because of the weird image it evokes. The rest of the images are reasonably interesting to keep us hooked, but in this romance...a bit more excitement would be much appreciated Also, here might be a good time to point out the strange rhyme that kind of detracted me from imagining the scene - was this intended? It rhymes inconsistently, unless I've read it totally wrong, but yes, I think it does, in places. Have another play.

Third stanza. Favourite line: 'Clicking at the front while I suck in, squished against / The yellow back of the rising box, my eyes ascending then.' The image of the 'loose strand' of hair being tucked is a bit bland. More could be done with 'inmates for the nearing of the nine to five' - this is DEFINITELY a fresher way to look at it. 'Clip-clop' in the last line seemed...terribly inappropriate - but the thing is, if this was the bizarre, awkward effect you were going for, then you've achieved it for sure.

I would, at a later time, love to see another poem written like this, Clo. This is the whole 'dreams vs reality' thing all over again - but this time, I want a little more of your voice in those lovely - and at times, scathing - lines. I want to know what the man in the poem is actually feeling - I mean, we can all see what he is seeing...just a bit more internal exposition, maybe?

Also, this 'block text' has become a bit of a habit over the last few days. Be aware that for a 'light bit of fun imagining different scenarios,' it's important to make the poem look light as well. Less...domineering in all it's glorious rectangular-ness. Experiment with making it look narrower, and somewhat shorter - just to see what it looks like, and whether it gets the same effect you wanted. I think we expect the 'effect' from the outset, so it's just the delivery of it that really matters.

***Argh, got carried away again. Must try harder (or rather, less hard) next time.

Notice: I recognize that a trend of longer reviews have been going on. I've been giving indepth reviews because I've been MIA, and I missed doing that -- however, don't feel obligated. In fact, if you leave me a comment that says, "This is the shiznat, sister" or "This really ain't good", I would still be appreciative because I have a gargantuan understanding that this is NAPO and NAPO is HARD. I don't want anyone to feel pressured into indepth reviewing.

Leave me long reviews, short reviews, PM me a million times a day -- I'm really indifferent, it's amazing. I like long and short looks at my crap-aroni NaPo poems. A look is fantastic. But I love looking at everyone's poems, and I think everyone is doing very well. Because we're Yewisers. THAT'S WHY WE'RE DOING WELL. =D

Now, onto my crappy poem. By the way, I hate television.

4.12 Carpet-burned brain sucked out of real life

The static song is reaching into the optic nerve,
swaying all the sense until they're deadened,
the nerves swinging down the limbs,
tangling vines that serve as paltry decoration under the skin.
Stand and scream at the door to get attention,
but no one remembers how to listen.

Andrew absorbs himself in fake dimensions,
viewing contrived strings passed off as genuine,
and then viewing the shows for commentation,
flip through them in rapid fascination, lightspeed propulsion
sending the mind to places high and composed of shapes and sound
but tasteless.

Susan combs caramal hair until the ends collect
and static makes them stand on end.
A game show is how the days begin,
and sitcoms lull her toward dreamland
where characters swim through a monolithic garbage bin,
it tumbles, their traits a chromosomal soup of typical and obvious,
leaking into Susan's thoughts until she affects her voice's cadence
and flicks her wrist to achieve a goal overtly physical;
this is not a heartstopping result, when the lobes
are numbed and packed in ice for days on end,
prodded out by educators
agonizing cells that haven't seen daylight since
gym class, and never in the summer.

Tim works nine hour days, it's a strain on vertebrae,
his checklist is brief but checked vigorously
until satisfaction takes his hand and leads
him to the couch at eight. The screen
opens and the needle extends via particles in visions,
sinking straight through his eyes and he says he deserves it
- at long last! - *
and it's strange to me that he deserves
lobotomy - but it's his brain and he dice it as he pleases.
Can they imagine that - wait, they can't...
Static is playing the switch and it slides into OFF position,
creating a world lived through a box, people climb in and out,
betwixt dreams and aspirations, always coming back to sit
and watch, until time is solid -- in half hour slots.

*would not format right

haha, a bit of a rant, maybe?

I'm finding myself smiling and laughing more and more when I read your poetry, Clo. I like it -- it's a departure from what I usually read!

Keep up the shiznat, sister!

-Kylan

4.12
Heck yeah!
So many stupendous lines and images. Nerves being paltry decoration. Cells not seeing daylight since gym class. Can they imagine that--wait they can't.

lobotomy - but it's his brain and he dice it as he pleases.

Is that "dice" supposed to be in a different tense?

Andrew seems disproportionately weaker in effect than Susan and Tim. We learned how Susan is pitifully under-exercised, hasn't seen the sun, and her manner of speech is changing. And we learned how Tim works, he sits a lot, is thorough, and rewards himself with lobotomy. But Andrew is comparatively shallow.

Loved this shiznat, though!

As a non-fan of television, I was curious to see what you'd come up with. At the end of the day, I found the poem about TV bland and kind of a useless commentary on a habit of daily life - but I reckon that WAS your intended effect; you went OUT to show us this dull side of television. So...I don't know what to say. I can't very well ask you to make the poem more exciting, or else that would ruin the whole point you're trying to make. Were you to keep it dull, it's...well...dull, isn't it?

You described many things scientifically, and this was interesting (but not exciting) for me - static song, optic nerve - somehow it was expected as well.

I didn't like the characters. Of course I didn't - they watch TV, which drives me a little insane. But I can imagine how other readers, who DO like television, might respond. The characters you've created aren't wholly unlikeable - they have a lot of qualities that the average person might identify with. With the exception of Andrew - as sargsauce pointed out - he's a little one-dimensional; you've only given TV as his obsession - he has no other activities in the poem like the others do.

But I still smiled as I read it - trust you to put a spin, a negative spin, on such a topic! I must say, I am seeing a different style from your earlier poems from this month, which were comparatively shorter and sweeter - this is a more debator-style, hammer-the-point-home-style, perhaps-ramble-on-so-the-audience-just-want-to-clap-their-hands-over-their-ears-and-say-YES-I-WILL-AGREE-WITH-WHATEVER-YOU-ARE-SAYING-PLEASE-JUST-STOP-NOW-THIS-IS-BEAUTIFUL-AND-I-UNDERSTAND-SO...ahem, go a bit carried away there. Just saying they're a 'bit' longer, that's all. Less cuddly. More...serious But it's NaPo, the time for experimentation. So, good to see you're having fun

Keep it up, Clo!

Your poetry is terribly cute Clo. I enjoyed reading through this thread.

I think your biggest problem is outweighing your main/core focus with heavy words and images. Lighten up your words and make your imagery more closely tied to the main center of your poem.

Either way, a delightful read. ^^

I'm 3 days behind. I'm so busy I want to cry.

Bad poems. T_T

I'm now 2 behind. T_T

4.13. Out with the old and in with the

Do we need
to change the drapes?

Can we just step back --
appreciate
the loose threads
the cat made –
he is now dead

and maybe he hated
the tacky lavender
as much as you
but put aside taste;

sometimes
I think of throwing
out the tiring things
-- occasionally,
like our relationship --
but the memories
and the loose threads
look so fine
at different angles
and I just
can't let it go.
Leave up the drapes.