Young Writers Society

So.

I haven't written poetry in four years--don't eat me? XD But this sounded like a lot of fun, so I thought, 'What the heck'. After all, thirty days + thirty poems = maybe not sucking anymore?

Basic Goals:

- Develop style that mirrors the way I talk in fiction, but isn't fiction.
- Use conventions of poetry that one can't use in fiction (effectively).
- In short: write poetry, not fiction thinly disguised.
- Make a point. Or at least, start out with one.

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APRIL 01

Painting In a Cave

Blind brushes and filthy hands follow pits in the rock,
searching for something beautiful—
flashes between stalactites and poetry in taxicabs bound for nowhere.
In the dark where eyes are black disks,
truths whispered between mangled brick walls sound like the echoes
of what was mentioned in caverns beneath the world.

There is no red wine, no spotlight, no critic
in the gallery where the paintings hang themselves.

The last stanza is brilliant. I wanna frame it. I wanna steal it.

Anyway, this is great. Lots of extremely powerful imagery. The only problem I have with it is that the meaning is a little obscure. I'm all for hidden meanings, but you mentioned you wanted to make a point, and at the moment I'm not seeing one.

Perhaps make a clearer title?

Perhaps explain a tad more?

Regardless, this is really fun to read. It's like a slap in the face with a lot of pretty words.

-Kylan

Basic Goals:

- Develop style that mirrors the way I talk in fiction, but isn't fiction.
- Use conventions of poetry that one can't use in fiction (effectively).
- In short: write poetry, not fiction thinly disguised.
- Make a point. Or at least, start out with one.

Mad cool, yo

I like these lines especially:

"flashes between stalactites and poetry in taxicabs bound for nowhere. "
"in the gallery where the paintings hang themselves." <-- that one double especially.

I see meaning in the world of the poem up until the pictures hang themselves. But after said pictures are hung/hanged, I have no idea (given the rest of the poem) what will become of them.

Kylan wrote:The last stanza is brilliant. I wanna frame it. I wanna steal it.

haha, is it silly that I found this statement especially ironic, given the poem?

You guys are awesome sauce. ^_^

...I think I may have made a point today? We shall see.

___

April 02

NOWHERE KNOW-HOW.


We walked in sneakers between the ties and spat our gum between the rails,
unaware that the iron horse slows for no one,
least of all the cast-offs of children. As vagabonds,
we learned to patch the rubber in our shoes where it wore away.
We left behind teardrops of blisterblood in the alleys and cornrows where we walked
with our flashlights draining dim and lanterns
casting weak haloes of light on what lay before us.
Where the path grew thin our bodies grew thinner,
starved on fast food wrappers and the remnants of tablescraps
from lives no longer lived. I held your skeleton hand beneath canvas skies
and you told me from between dust-chapped lips
that even the gentlest of rogues do not love—
nowhere, no-how.

Sam, I adore your diction. It beats my diction's but. Which is weird, because we almost have the same poetic [SEE: musical] influences. I must learn.

So, I do love it, but it's scrambly. My brain cramps, and it runs on, and I have to go back and read things. It took me moment to understand what you meant by "ties" in the first line, till I read in full, a few times, and realized ties and rails--not just ties. Your lines kind of drag on in places, and I want to cut them off, but I have a thing for not ultra long lines, so? Just keep in mind that line breaks bring in a breath, a pause, a sort of feeling, so where you break the line is important, it isn't just a place to make the line stop.

What really made it hard was you have so much in one place.

Example:

Sam The Fab wrote:As vagabonds, we learned to patch the rubber in our shoes where it wore away, leaving teardrops of blisterblood in alleys and cornrows where we walked with our flashlights draining dim and lanterns casting weak haloes of light on what lay before us.

Look at it now, without the line breaks. You wouldn't write that long of a line--so crazy and drawn on--in fiction, would you? Than why do it in poetry? Maintain flow, whether through making your sentences shorter, or using more punctuation, or how you say things, but make them more more sense, and more importantly, make them flow.

But of course, your diction makes me drool.

from lives no longer lived

the definition of beautiful.

I really love the idea behind this, and I would love even more to see you edit it. You have beautiful imagery, but images only--I loved the iron horse by the way, you and all those trains. What does the iron horse sound like? And do the blisterblood tear drops smell? How does the air taste? Imagery is amazing.

This is already beautiful--you wrote it--and with editing it could be even more so. Congrats. So far, you're already better at me this month. ^_~

On April 2,

I love, love, love, love, love, love this poem. I love the atmosphere and the feeling I get from reading it, awesome-sauce, basically. What I think can use some work is some of the line breaks, the first line, especially I think should be broken off before that. And, also I agree with Suze some of the lines are extraordinarily long.

Favorite line:

Sam wrote:I held your skeleton hand beneath canvas skies
and you told me from between dust-chapped lips
that even the gentlest of rogues do not love—
nowhere, no-how.

Ta,
Cal.

^_^ Thanks again, guys.

This feels a bit like continuation of yesterday's, but. I figure when stuck in a creative rut, it is best to get it out of your system.
___

April 03

Tsuru to hikō no.*

Though our wings might flap like torn paper cranes,
when the wind comes we will bring our creased edges to the sky
and fly south as we ought. We will take shelter in trees barren and curled--
black like eyelashes against the earth--and forget
all we have known but the curve of the river.

Though the water will dissolve us and the dirt will stain our wings,
flaws in design will only be apparent once we have missed the exodus.




*Of Cranes and Flight.

Oooh I adore the last line but I'm not sure why.

Again! I want to throw fits over the lengths of your lines. All personal preference though--it flows nicely tonight. And, come on. Cranes! How can one be stained with dirt if you have already been dissolved? not that I don't like it, but my logic doesn't follow it. Sort of! it's still pretty.

It's all pretty. I think I'd love if you had more, but it's good short as well...I like the sort of dark, autumn-feel it has. It's pretty! I really can't think to say anything else. Sorry for my utter uselessness.

wow...that really blew me away. Marvelous...I am so stunned. I loved the length of your lines, and the rhythm, and the imagery...amazing. astounding. wow, wow, wow.

April 2

I liked the originality of the topic. I thought it was sort of prosy, but that's perfectly fine. My poems are sort of similar. The term "fast food wrappers" was sort of out of place to me.

April 3

Very pretty. Your style matched your topic and the poem floated like a crane in my eyes. I didn't see any reason to split the last two lines from the rest of the poem, unless you're following some form?

"black like eyelashes against the earth"

April 3 is genius, Sam. I could immediately picture wounded paper cranes roosting in the naked branches of trees.

I wish I had thought of it first.

Keep up the good work.

-Kylan

Huzzah! Comments = awesome sauce.

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April 04

Smogdust


I found a bead from your bracelet in between car tires and asphalt,
and when I bent to pick it up exhaust choked my lungs and
metal frames ran like steamrollers past my fingers.
I stood between painted yellow lines and held it to the light,
and though it was pitted and broken by the careless
I knew it was worth what it once was.

I traveled across state lines and the boundaries of good sense to bring it to your door.

You lived in a story-town shanty
with the ashes of flags on the front lawn.
The rope round your wrist fell slack,
and with our dirty fingernails we pulled what was left
past the frayed end to where it belonged.
As we stood beneath buzzing fluorescent bulbs,
we realized that only the broken can be patched.

I asked the time, but all you had was a rainbow of scarred plastic.

these past four years have been four wasted, my dear.

Lovely stuff. You've a knack for being blunt in a beautiful way. Like taking the contrasts of Remarque and squishing them together in one effective package. Er, yeah. That was a compliment :p.

I'm not going to say anything specific right now, but I'll definitely be watching this thread

Ed, you are quite fabulous. XD

If you're intrigued.

Additionally, the Pawnee is taken from a textbook from God knows where, so please excuse my very likely butchering.

___

April 05

Ghost Dance (Herikareri)

Tawerexwákia hè tarespa-kasta.
When they say this, you must say this—
Eriwetuksáwatsta-kará.
no matter where the sun is standing.
Tirawahat rure-rarihat siretsíriru.
Heaven is the only thing we are afraid of.

I brought my hands to the sky in honor of what could never be.
As the wind streamed between my fingers, my feet made craters in dust and
smoke rose like serpents above the grass. When the rains came,
water filled the chasms and I caught my reflection—
where the skin stretched taut against bone, it was blackened and torn.

Kukare-rikúwiu.
I haven’t fallen down.
Kukakíkutasetιt
Nothing has happened to me.
Kuwekarètawarιks.
I am not bruised at all.

We danced in circles to pass the time, waiting for things
we knew were inevitable. When the world finally crumbled about our ankles,
the gravity was immense and pulled us back to the earth where we belonged.
Birds cried above our heads and words spoken over and over lost their meaning,
reduced to the hollowed shells of syllables once held dear.

Wesíreskutatsukaká tsiru
You have pitied me,
raríhukau’.
yet gave nothing.

Herikareri.
This is what musn’t be.

eee! More yummy things.


Sadly--not as yummy as usual. But still! It's good. This was more story telling than fun with diction and so forth. It's beautiful, but of course, I have a thing for your diction, so when you're using less beautiful phrases and things, and just telling the story, I kind of whine. But it's still good. Of course, you know that everyone skips over the sexy Pawnee, but I still think it has a nice affect.

What I liked most about it is that it had, in the tempo or what ever, the feel of a Native American tribal dance. Which is awesome sauce.

So in general, this isn't like all the other poems you've written so far. But! I do love the Pawnee. I think it would be great if we could get some translations. But if not, it's still graceful and wonderful.