Young Writers Society

Er, I've not much. Mostly 'tis scraps everyday and musings, and the things that come out are image as much as meaning, or meaning without the dome of any sort of illustrative imagery. And nothing will be finished, here, I suppose--merely tossed off, and sometimes impish.

First day though...something, da? Oy...


1 April 2008 a fragment.


Cartilage connections--
directionless, disconnect--
and having discarded bones
[structure so old-fashioned]
we sit within our own
motion stopped; commotions dropped--
robbed of volition
and rot.

Oh, it is so beautiful, dahling. I love the way it sounds when I say it in my head.

Indeed, the rhythm and rhyme and all things nice sound good. Nevertheless a little fragmented, but I suppose that is inherent and expected as it is a ... fragment. ^^

Cartilage connections--
directionless, disconnect-- [I love the rhythm this develops later and I'm tempted to suggest changing this line to 'disconnect, directions' but I think it changes the meaning too much and fractures the poem even more. Still, I'd love it if you could develop a stronger flow through the beginning and I'm thinking directionless should be direction-less?]
and having discarded bones
[structure so old-fashioned] [I'm not sure that old-fashioned is the best choice of word. Maybe bygone or archaic?]
we sit within our own
motion stopped; commotions dropped-- [My favourite line.]
robbed of volition
and rot.

In general, I liked this. It was very fragmented and I think it could be extended but it's good.

9 April 2008 (#1) My apologies for this one... it's an attempt, sans impish flippancy, to play with the terribly unstructured.


double-shot name [thimble-full]


She can't find her name any longer--
slid back on her seat, broken-shouldered
Remember? She nearly drowned;
she woke to coffee, grit-grounds
against her eyes, cheeks
asleep
They tell her
asleep
but she breathed drink, and
spit up pleasures like tears;
stumbled out rusty with
ferrous fingertips--
something
trickling down her throat.
And she can't recall her name,
spit up with promises--she says,
they looked like shells--empty,
pearled and grey:
they had no sound.
She traces words
in coffee ground sand, mounded,
letters like eyes gazing
consonant and coarse over tides.
A thimble-full, letter-signs,
designed to say a world
but it's a small world
after all

my fingers--she holds them out
you see, rust and sink-grit grout
and she jerks up, says
the rusts got in my gut

9 April 2008 (#1) My apologies for this one... it's an attempt, sans impish flippancy, to play with the terribly unstructured.


double-shot name [thimble-full]


She can't find her name any longer--
slid back on her seat, broken-shouldered
Remember? She nearly drowned;
she woke to coffee, grit-grounds
against her eyes, cheeks
asleep
They tell her
asleep
but she breathed drink, and
spit up pleasures like tears;
stumbled out rusty with
ferrous fingertips--
something
trickling down her throat.
And she can't recall her name,
spit up with promises--she says,
they looked like shells--empty,
pearled and grey:
they had no sound.
She traces words
in coffee ground sand, mounded,
letters like eyes gazing
consonant and coarse over tides.
A thimble-full, letter-signs,
designed to say a world
but it's a small world
after all

my fingers--she holds them out
you see, rust and sink-grit grout
and she jerks up, says
the rusts got in my gut

From "And she can't recall her name..." to the end of S1 is largely repetitive, unnecessary detail. I think you could cut it and have a fine poem, though I don't know I'd say completely sans impishness...

Thanks, Brad--earnestly. If the poem has impishness, the thanks at least, are entirely straightforward. ^_^


(And thank you, Jack, CL and kitty. ^_^)









IMP

This one has a lovely flow and though it was a touch drawn out, I think the tone is lovely and certainly not completely without impishness. There's such a lovely, natural poetic feeling to your words and it runs so smoothly. I like it.

Back to the fragmentary, I'm afraid--or possibly. (And some not posted for their wont of poetic precision.)

16 April 2008 fragmentary...!_! I'm not terribly fond of it; at all.

Rag and Bone Shoppe (or, Indefinite In)

and the rag woman* wonders
and the rag womans swears
she's caught up in daylights
too wonted for wear

[and the days draw through her
splinttered eyes
and her ways are rot, caught up
by sighs
and she never knew
the falling from up;
she never grew
from passions, abrupt]

and the rag woman wonders
and the rag woman swears,
in moment's wan ferment
sun's sickle-like leer

and she sits in her moment
glass-eyed and bare
ragged in day-light
bone-frittered sans care


*from Kipling--'twas musing on his Vampire

17 April 2008

Chestertonian Reflection

the white flag risen is
no sign of
surrenders given; nor of
fallow hands and minds.
its purity is donned,
designed
to band and bind

no man ever conquered
the white flag

Hm. I always begin with 'hm'. It convinces people I've really thought about their story when I've done nothing of the sort. Or else they might interpret it that way when the truth is that there is really nothing I don't think about and if I spent time to read their story I could not help thinking about it. Damn. That doesn't get stupid or anything.

I can tell Dickens pushed his way into the first one. But not in a rude way, he merely interjected a thought that was implemented and turned inside out on its head. Although not in a violent way at all. I find the word 'ferment' quite intriguing at the moment. I suppose I have been practicing fermenting in more then one way and so when someone else uses it I can only assume they are also having fermentation problems. Aside from my silliness...

I very much like the way she is described in the second stanza. I can practically see her standing, with her hand on her hip, her eyes blank and her sleeves rolled up, staring into something she dearly wishes she could not see.

The Chestertonian Reflection is angrily brilliant. I tend to be annoyed at people who think of things before I can. Although I don't think I fully understand it, I like how there are things that cannot be conquered simply because they are in a state of opposition to conquerability. I flower can't be taught to run. It simply can't. Its comforting when things will never be; its secure.

I don't care for poems written to people--not in the specific sense. Ideas, I suppose, seem more apt to, er, my pen. And I don't much like this.

I haven't yet written one today. !_!'


19 April 2008

To J.R.D [ or, the wan side of hilarity ]


Wake to dreams (so always new);
the smallest things, you'd loved, grew
--in sleep, to precarious heights--
and you woke with Pan's pipes
still rung, pure and hectic, tight--
(grey seas and gulls in dawn light)
with the tautness caught in your lungs

so fall away, the unending stays.
you wished you'd slept--
but night must turn to day.