Young Writers Society

Ok so my aim at the moment is to have three sections, ten poems in each, twenty-one lines in each poem. Let's see how that goes! Also I'm experimenting with extended sonnets so my first fourteen lines are conventional Shakespearean stuff, and I'm adding an extra seven lines to it to reflect my age.

Section One: Beginnings

Poem I- As I Emerge

Everything is clearer above water.
I can hear so much better on the land-
I am no longer the ocean's daughter,
the skin between my toes is raw from sand.
My eyelashes are silver with sea salt.
It stings. I cry, can't leave water behind.
I press my heels hard on each pebble's fault,
and now the raw skin peels. I begin to wind
my wet hair round my hand and wring it dry,
and fill my lungs with this new oxygen.
My bare shoulders turn crimson as they fry.
I'm more than terrified of my new skin.
Save for the seagulls' shrieks I am alone,
the newest debris which the wind has blown

into life without a consultation.
I move towards the dunes, the marram grass
scratches my ankles- a dry sensation
until the blood runs down, and then I pass
through it, to the peak, imagination,
safe haven, and I smile 'til the wind flies
and pushes me to even ground ('s guise).

Poem II Homesick

*submitting*

Hi Jas!

In the first stanza of the first poem, the description was very pretty. It felt going on and on, though, and I was waiting for something happen throughout the stanza. The last lines, "Save for the seagulls' shrieks I am alone,
the newest debris which the wind has blown" I liked a lot.

I liked how the second poem seemed to be like a sequel to the first one. I especially liked the last half of the first stanza. Overall, I prefer the second poem to the first one.

Can't wait to read the rest!


Demeter
x

Thanks so much Demeter!

Poem III Attempts To Adjust

I constantly tilt my head to one side
hoping the water will drip out my ear,
but I am to be constantly denied-
it seems my hearing will never be clear.
My brand new words are all wrapped in a muff
when they return to me, and they sound scratched
from swallowed salt water, such heinous stuff.
What hideous plan has my own tide hatched?
When I lie down, I am still, and that's that,
no friendly current rocking me to sleep,
and I'll admit the sensation is flat
when there's no seabed for the tears I weep.
This is life now, I know I must adjust,
but land is far too still for me to trust.

Each morning, new shells fall out of my hair
as I wash it (no waves, pitiful rain).
I line them on my new dresser with care-
still the edges cut me, such classless pain.
I go to the window to see the shore
and my green sea home, which wants me no more.

I like the thematic links too, but I think the rhyming scheme is letting you down a bit - why force yourself into that pattern? It's restrictive and isn't helping the poems, though 2 and 3 were better at flowing. Nice stuff

Thanks Jiggity. I'll look at changing it for my next two-didn't write one yesterday so it's two for today!

Poem IV Venturing Outside

I dislike wearing shoes. My
toes spread too much, they
do not like being

pressed together and
would rather kick and flick
than trudge trudge trudge.

The sun used to be
a golden film,
bending and bowing when

I dared to touch it,
making the surfaces
of my world dance

with ten-thousand shards
of life, of hope
and now it makes my flesh blush

with its caresses
over and over,
invading my eyes

'til I must look to the ground.
At least there is nothing here
to press me down.

Poem V First Encounter

"What do you want, girl? Your
eyes keep darting, your
steps are uncertain

I can see rivulets of sweat
glistening on your skin and
your palms are so wrinkled

I'd swear you weren't young if
it weren't for your
new born-baby expression."

I
do not know what to do here now
and my voice barely works, I

take a deep breath and it
sends my poor throat
to fight thugs with daggers.

"Lost," I croak out,
tug my hair,
rain down sand.

"Take a shower," he says,
"and get out quicker this time."
I try, I try, I try.

*submitting*

Am browsing around quickly, so only had a look at the latest one - I like the way it begins, all in action, with good flow - but try not to end two sentences in a row with the word 'and' (line 2 and 3) - looks a bit strange. Interesting way of looking at it:

a father's blend of patience and fear
applied as carefully as Mother's make-up
downwards from their fork-crossed brows

I like the idea behind this stanza, but perhaps not so much the execution - I think you could be more subtle here, for a greater effect. For example: 'From their fork-crossed brows (this is the most interesting line) / father's fear and patience sweeping / down like careful mother's make-up...' - sort of flows a lot better, and makes that original simile of yours less awkward.

goldfish in a dentist's room

I didn't think this simile came off 'cleanly.' It seems muddled, odd. When you say the word 'extraction' in the line before, for me it immediately conjures up an image of dentists - the goldfish and explicit mention of dentists is not needed; leave behind an element of mystery for us because it makes us feel better about ourselves when we get the subtle references.

I smiled when the wind shrieked
and slapped one man down so

the net lagged a bit.

This is great - sort of makes us lean in with wild fascination at what is going to be dished up, and puts an element of madness and danger into the drama of fishing (personally, I hate fishing, but this glorifying of fishing is making me rethink that...)

The last part is fabulous. It flows (like a fish, like water, which is what you want in a poem about them) and it wraps it up nicely. 'Silver swimmers' may be slightly over-the-top in terms of trying to avoid saying the word too many times, but it does conjure up some good imagery...so, just have another think about it.

Carry on, and good luck for the rest of the month!

Poem VI speaks to me.
It reminds me of summer days spent with my daddy on his best friend's boat, watching the blood trickle down when they pulled the fish up. Even after so many years, it still breaks my heart.
There's nothing I can say to critique it. Wonderful job.

Thanks Navita!

VII Communication

"Sorry, I'm lost, can you help me please?"
The words sound ok when I try them out.
The land, it seems, is quieter than the seas.

Shaken off by every elbow I seize,
I persist, too far gone to see the beach.
"Sorry, I'm lost, can you help me please?"

They hustle and bustle, they cough and they wheeze
but my answer's denied me repeatedly.
The land, it seems, is quieter than the seas.

"No I was not trying to steal your keys!"
He picks them off the ground, glares at me and is gone.
"Sorry, I'm lost, can you help me please?"

This must be an echo, in softer degrees,
the only voice I'm hearing is my own.
The land, it seems, is quieter than the seas.

My legs flake my eyes ache to just see the quays.
Land bound and leaden, one more, then retreat;
"Sorry, I'm lost, can you help me please?"
The land, it seems, is quieter than the seas.

Tá an chorp lán le huisce, cinnte,
ach níl é sin chomh deas an smaointe.*

*The body is full of water, of course,
but that's not so nice a thought.
(Note, my Irish is a little rusty so if any Irish speakers spot any spelling/grammatical errors, do tell me!)


VIII Uaigneach

Tá uaigneas orm duit anocht
don chead uair. Tusa,
le do lamhaí fluich,
le do theanga fluich,
le do hintín fliuch,
agus mise faoin grian
ag fanacht, ag fanacht, do...
cad?

Anois, níl an farraige ag bogadh.
Táim cinnte go bhfuil tú i do chodladh
i shliogán eigin le
bean amháin no bean eile agus,
m'anam, ni bheidh mé ag filleadh
go deo, go deo.
Measaim.
Béidir.

Táim ag caoineadh agus,
ar an talamh
tá tú in ann é sin a fheicáil
chomh furasta ná
nuair a bhí mé faoin uisce.

*translation*

VIII Loneliness

I am lonely for you tonight
for the first time. You,
with your wet hands,
with your wet language,
with your wet mind,
and me under the sun,
waiting, waiting, for...
what?

Now, the sea is not moving.
I'm sure you're sleeping
in some shell with
one woman or other and,
my soul, I'm not coming back,
forever, forever.
I think.
Maybe.

I'm crying now and,
on the land
you are able to see that
more easily than
when I was underwater.


IX Almost

I sleep, finally, without being rocked
in foamy white arms
far under the stars.

I drown in black unconsciousness
and resurface to draw breath
and I eat eggs for breakfast. The

last of the sand unlodged itself
from under my armpit and
sailed down the drain and I'm

beginning to like how land always refuses
to buckle or shift beneath
steadying feet.

But still I press seashells
to my ears and wait
for some soft news from home,

one coral whisper, a
ripple of foam, but
I am suspicious that

I just hear blood,
perhaps in my ears, echo, echo,
just me, not home.

Thanks Pen. Wow, it makes me so happy to hear you say that! I've never actually seen people fishing, so I'm glad I could describe it in such a way as to remind you of your experiences.

Eeek, two poems behind, need to get writing!

X Finding a Way to Adjust

I filled the bath this morning
and sat on the edge
with my hand over the side,
and I swished the water.
It gurgled. It
was speaking to me again
softer than home,
clearer, more sheltered,
but it made my hand clean
and did not burn my skin,
and maybe it's alright.

A whole bottle of that
bubble stuff which was
left at the edge of the
ceramic white
walls of non-home
and I was in snow,
with the shower raining down,
uncold,
clean,
alright.

Section 2: The Middle

XI The Marketplace

*submitting*

Jas, I love Uaigneach. It makes me happy that you decided to write in Irish, I think it's such a beautiful language. I wish I knew how to speak it. I also liked Fishing.

I liked that you used rhyming in Communication, but it didn't always come off as well as I would have wanted it to.

Marketplace was quite nice! I didn't care for the rest of the last stanza that much, though. I think it would be stronger if you ended it at "they use these at funerals."

Good luck!


Demeter
x