Young Writers Society

Er, hopefully I'll be able to keep up with this. Poems are much shorter, of course, so I think I can take a little time to write one each day. I think we can all agree that none of these are polished.

April 1

It was three weeks ago
that I recall seeing
those three men reading
those three books on
those three park benches.
And if I recall correctly,
there were no divine trinities,
no tres reyes magos,
no gold, frankincense, or myrrh;
no, nothing at all mystical
about them, the real miracle being
that three men could
read three books on
three park benches,
and all of us thinking,
How unextraordinary.

those three men reading
those three books on
those three park benches.

Surprisingly, I like the repetition here. I also like the semi-repetition near the end because it picks up a nice rhythm through the end of the poem. I also thought the incorporation of the Spanish was done trés skillfully

I disagree, I think the repetition gets uncomfortable toward the end. I'd take out the last series of 'three'. I really like the inclusion of gold, frankincense, and myrrh...it seems like a much more subtle way to incorporate the idea of threes without yelling it.

April 2

Bacchanalia

Whisk out your whiskey,
let’s hop to your scotch.
Don’t whine about wine:
no time for such crime.

There’s no shame in Chablis
and no grapple with grappa.
Bring on that bourbon.
And again with the gin!

That’s my brand of brandy.
And ooh, such good ouzo.
Now we’ll head for the door!
…but instead hit the floor.

On April 2,

The poem is awesome, I love it. It reminds me of a poem by Baudelaire called Be Drunk.

I found April 1 a little repetitive to be honest but April 2 is fantastic! I'm not sure about the last line of the first stanza, it feels a little out of place but it's generally really good.

Ha, ha! Still got it in a half hour before midnight. Tis still April 3.


April 3

The old man sits at the end of the dock: an ancient thing,
full of splinters, made of grayed oak and sweat.
His toes touch the water; ripples cross the small pond.
He comes here every morning to watch the loons swim,
and has shivers when he hears their call, a song
that holds sorrow, echoing across the water.
The loons sit idly atop the pond, waiting for their
food, then disappear deep below the surface.
The old man waits patiently for them to bob back up,
pondering at their brief resurrection.

This was excellent. I liked every line, except for a specific one (or two, rather):

"The old man waits patiently for them to bob back up,
taking joy in their brief resurrection."

It was awkward and very dry. I know you wanted to show us some comical and interesting last vision, but this didn't really work out for me.

The only fault I can find is that I was momentarily confused as to whether the old man or the the dock was full of splinters. Then I wondered if you meant it to be ambiguously both. Actually, I find it more interesting if you're referring to the dock rather than to the old man.

Then I wondered if you meant it to be ambiguously both.

You're more in the right direction with this thought.

for the last poem, it had nice imagery. The ending was a bit dry though, seemed unfinished. Other than that, I liked your poem (not to mention the other two)

April 4

Driving on a lonely stretch,
I watched the blackbirds scavenge
on the last few scraps of a carcass.
I couldn’t tell what
they had been feeding from,
but the bones gave me
the impression that it had died
alone and frightened.

Better it had died by my car
or suddenly from buckshot.
Better it had never lived at all,
and saved itself the agony
of such a secluded death.

I'm very confused by the last stanza. At first I thought it was along the lines of 'better to have lived a little than not at all' but then it contradicts itself? And if it was hit by a car, didn't it die secluded anyway?

April 4 - It gives me chills. It's so simple, but it has a strength to it that I can't explain. The last stanza is what gives it the power--rather it never live at all than die as it did. It gives me chills because you know it died. Whatever it is. That's the other chilling thing. Neither animal nor human, the dead thing is simply "it".

If you would like me to read the older poems, just say so! I will try and keep on top of what you post from here on out, though. You're a great writer, Calvin.

A day late, so it was rushed, and quite terrible.

April 5

I remember eating peppermints,
on those winter days when I came over.
Sometimes we’d stick them in our hot
chocolate, or crush them into
a peppermint powder. If I ever
left a wrapper on the table,
you’d collect it in a your purse.
Then when you came to visit,
you’d pull it out to place on my table.