Young Writers Society

So, this here is my poetry thread for National Poetry Writing Month. I welcome any comments et al. This thread is rated PG-13 because some of the art I may post contains nudity, and even though it doesn't bother me at all, it might bother somebody else. So there.

My only goal, really, and I use the term goal in its loosest sense, is to write something intelligible each day that on later reflection might be useful. And, also to keep my poetry knife sharped since I don't churn out teh poetryness like I used to.

I guess that's two goals. I lied. Oh, well.

*shock*

What I've decided to do is draw inspiration from paintings, I will post the piece of art after the poetry. Now, to onto the mess.

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APRIL 01

#1. Darling Reinette (Madame de Pompadour)

nowhere is there a straight line, this woman is all curves.
sinuous lines creating timbre and light. a rounding of flesh,
especially around the mouth—circulus half-moons binding
together.

she cries: “après moi, le déluge”—after me, the flood, indeed,
blood and entrails and gore—no more gold, no more lace.

no more cake.

they used to lick white icing from her crimson-painted lips,
but now on the inside of an artefact, she is only curved to the
artist’s eye.


#2. The Girl in the Fireplace (Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson)

a simple fish girl, waiting to look out of the right side of a fireplace—you
engraved your name so well.

-----on little things, like clavichord strings and yew-tree hedges. *

at Versailles: Diana on the hunt, you were, and regal in draping dress, so much so
you claimed interest like small forest prey, and no man turned a dark eye
in your presence.

and when they tossed at you fish stew, you dressed in orchid and wine,
and ignored the pun.

just a simple fish girl, waiting to look out of the right side of a fireplace
---—what is it to burn? *


* on these lines the formating is different, I wrote so they are indented, and don't have that many dashes.


Venus Consoling Love, 1751 by Francois Boucher

APRIL 02

I don't like some of the stuff in this poem. Oh, well. Again, disregard the dashes, they are there to show you how I want it to look like.

#3. Upside-Down World

little round turret house: the color of spanish moss and english ivy,
awash in a curl of blue. a tower of climbing ropes and weeds, tangled
and twisted, and so in tune with the rock, they seem just stone extensions
of it’s face.

a little man sits and waits near the window for his Rappunzel to let up her
hair, and dreams of little figurines with dresses and wings, that have the ability

to
---hang
---------right
--------------side
-------------------up.

he wants to fall through earth to the sky, so bad, and hook his legs around pieces
of cloud, that he often does little man handstands on the balcony to see
what it’s like drop back into the world, again.

What I've decided to do is draw inspiration from paintings, I will post the piece of art after the poetry. Now, to onto the mess.

ooh, cool!

I like the line "no more cake" in the first poem ^_^ And the lines below are awesome:

just a simple fish girl, waiting to look out of the right side of a fireplace
---—what is it to burn? *

For April 2, the art you chose is really cool! And the way you began the third poem is just the perfect embodiment of it ^_^

April 1: The wording is quite beautiful and I love the inclusion of the French. It's not particularly thought provoking but it's interesting and I like it. I do think you need some capital letters though.

April 2: This one is quite strange. I'm not sure what I really think of it. It starts off very strongly and the description and imagery are very pretty. I'm not sure that I follow where your thoughts lead though.

April 3:

what it’s like to drop back into the world, again.

I love the inspiration for this one, it's absolutely gorgeous and your poem fits very well. I think the middle stanza could be stronger but the others are great.

Good work and good luck on the others!

Thank you guys oh-so-much.

kitty15 wrote:April 3:

what it’s like to drop back into the world, again.

I love the inspiration for this one, it's absolutely gorgeous and your poem fits very well. I think the middle stanza could be stronger but the others are great.

Good work and good luck on the others!

At first I was all, I haven't posted my April 3rd poetry yet, and then I realized the fact that it was #3 was confusing.



Silly me.

Kitty,

I agree with you on the third poem, I'm still not sure how much I like it.

Ta,
Cal.

APRIL 03

#6. Roosters and Crows

I am no woman weathervane
here to direct and predict a
change in the weather.

I have yet to prove my limbs
point east or west, or whether
to point my nose north,
even south—is it even
more than a personal
distinction?

I have yet to be spun by
such a whorl-wind that
made my feet loose contact
with mother earth, and my
heart flutter like a caged
canary.

I have never been a slice
of steel, vacillating between
every point from here to
eternity mapped between
degrees and compass
points.

I am no woman weathervane
put here to stand on a conical roof-top.

But, I’ve heard the view from there
is something to see.

__


Pictures for this prompt courtesy of Getty Images.





The reason this poem is #6, is it is the 6th poem I have worked on; I haven't finished the no. 4 or no. 5.

This has such a nice, clear tone to it. I like it a lot ^_^ especially the ending.

The flow is the best part!


Haha, never expect me to say something worth while on your poetry. ^_~ all complimentary.

April 3

"I am no woman weathervane"

Cal, omg, that is superb! I thought this was so original.

"to point my nose north"

Haha, great line. Love the double meaning behind it.

"I have never been a slice
of steel, vacillating between"

I think the only thing I would change about this poem is the word "vacillating". It just seems too over the top and stuffy for what you have written.

Nice one!

Another double poem day.



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APRIL 04

#7. A Point of Contrition; Foxhead

this sable brown slight of wood that
mars the expanse of asphalts looks
like the face of a fox, and the more
you squint the more the animal it
becomes.

every so often the shadow
under the cheekbones will
move and shake, but they
never shatter. the face warps
and leaves split lines, but
the remained—sun glossed
and hoarse—is frozen;
a tree torso of petrified rime.

even after the sun has
turned its face, and all is
dark, the shadow is still
there, even deeper than
a dream.


#8. Hand-holding

this expanse of gnarled wood is such a
fixation—knotted, fighting branches,
stretching, reaching, carousing. some
broken arms are wrought and reeled
in intricate designs and dances—
like the twist and turns of softshoe
céilí*.

feet slip and hands gouge when
climbing such a work of art,
but in the end, after each muscle
strain and pout, worth is understood.


* céilí are/is a form of Irish Step-dancing. Céilí, also called set dances, are for groups of dancers, whether it be just two (couple) or formations of couples, or threes, or more. Also, a term for a social gathering or party

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Hmm. I like number 7 more than I like 8, I think. I love the way it begins, with the wood that looks like a fox...I think you could bring that out more. Come back to it, you know? You start out so well, get off on a tangent, and never really come back. I'm not even sure the last stanza is necessary.

Another double poem day. There is no photo/painting for the second poem posted today.



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APRIL 05


#4. Thank you, William.

I once saw these wild swans who had built a nest the size of a planet
in the long, tall grasses of the green and grubby river bank.

And, the long, ivory feathers were white whet with longing
of simple flight, and their bittersweet apricot lip-bills
popped and pinched in a sort of comforting
clack of creature conversation.

It made me think of Yeats and Wild Swans,
and Coole, and all those images of wonder and
fancy made by the artist’s touch and how art can be
such a puzzled thing against the formation of gathering
hands.






#9. Birthing Pains

they say blood is thicker than
water—to be a woman is to
be a mother, but these days
I am not so sure about that.

but what of all those tears
that sprouted from me? like holes
poked in a compressioned hose.
are not they the same worth
as all the genetic markers
in the world?

Oh, Yeats. ^_^

I definitely adore the second poem--things with questions in them usually bother me somewhat, but the language was very pretty and it fit.

Poem nine:

This is really great. Only suggestion is that I'd change "teh same worth" to "worth the same", or "of the same worth."

Jas

I adore these, Cal, especially the second as it's an importantly fresh take on an age-old adage.