I felt like writing a poem. It did not turn out the way I wanted, but when do they? I feel like showing the progression, so here's how it developed.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
rooms silent in the calm of a new day.
I tiptoe across the wooden floors
and imagine the person who lives here.
Tracing my fingertips along empty shelves
I wish I knew what books belonged.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
I trace my fingers along empty shelves
and try to imagine the person
who lives here, the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
***
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
There is no clue to this stranger's mind,
no hint to their heart,
and I wonder if I'll know her when we meet.
Will she know me?
***
Stranger
There is a little house waiting for me,
blank walls and silent rooms.
Sometimes I push open the door
and walk across the wooden floors.
Tracing fingertips on empty shelves
I try to imagine the person
who lives here —
the books that belong
and the songs that are sung.
But the titled spines do not appear
and the winding words do not come.
***
It is about the future, and how your future self can feel like a stranger. I think. Too much like prose-with-line-breaks, probably, but practice nonetheless~
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Five Words Poetry
Thought I'd try my hand at another chain poem. In case you don't know, here's the explanation I gave for my previous chain poem blog post:
"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"
***
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.
In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.
She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.
Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.
Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand
And she said it did not matter.
"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.
***
Hm. Interesting.
I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:
***
and think about fate.
I don't believe in it.
No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.
I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”
The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.
Yeah, fuck that shit.
"There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat!"
***
ginThe gallant knight strides into the glade
glade
gorgeous
gallant
slide
and a snake slides through the green grass
to escape his heavy boots.
In his hand he holds a bottle of something strange,
gin given to him by a gorgeous stranger
who emerged from the light of heaven.
She was clothed in livery not fit for a lady,
but in her beauty he could not mistake her
for a man, and when she spoke he listened.
Odd words, for an odd woman—
time unravelling like a spool of thread
and war in a distant world.
Her smile was weary, her laugh sad,
and she took a swig for her "Dutch courage."
He said he did not understand
And she said it did not matter.
"Come to the glade tomorrow,
come help me win my war."
And so he came.
***
Hm. Interesting.
I hosted a contest on Locution with the same idea a while back, too. My entry:
***
kismetI bob in a kayak
fuck
chary
gimcrack
ululate
and think about fate.
I don't believe in it.
No karma, no kismet.
No destiny defined by some deity.
We are gimcracks of the universe,
tucked away on a shelf labeled Gaia.
If I were to turn up my head,
ululate at smears of white on blue,
no one would hear
but an alligator at the bank.
I slide by, chary,
the waves from my vessel
lapping at his feet.
Stretched out on a fallen trunk,
he flicks his tail
as if to say,
“Fuck that shit.”
The trill of a woodpecker
echoes over the lake
and a dragonfly lands on my paddle.
Yeah, fuck that shit.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Ekphrasis (continued)
Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg
Figured I might as well see where this was going, if anywhere~
***
Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.
Can you hear the crackling of the leaves
as they slink through the brush?
Knife eyes piercing the dim
to find you where you catch your breath—
but now it belongs to the night, doesn't it?—
and vines twine around your arms and legs
Pinned.
Like a butterfly in a case
(but not yet dead and faded)
wings flutter at the glass
as the eyes watch her final spasms.
She cries out into the dark,
but the trees pretend they cannot hear.
***
I think it's hard to continue a poem when you don't know where it was going; the mind leaps in unexpected places. As a result, I don't think this is quite ekphrasis anymore. The print is very peaceful, but this... poem, or whatever it is, isn't.
Figured I might as well see where this was going, if anywhere~
***
Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.
Can you hear the crackling of the leaves
as they slink through the brush?
Knife eyes piercing the dim
to find you where you catch your breath—
but now it belongs to the night, doesn't it?—
and vines twine around your arms and legs
Pinned.
Like a butterfly in a case
(but not yet dead and faded)
wings flutter at the glass
as the eyes watch her final spasms.
She cries out into the dark,
but the trees pretend they cannot hear.
***
I think it's hard to continue a poem when you don't know where it was going; the mind leaps in unexpected places. As a result, I don't think this is quite ekphrasis anymore. The print is very peaceful, but this... poem, or whatever it is, isn't.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Ekphrasis
Night Descends on the Mountain with Cyanotype by Hannah Skoonberg
***
Clara slumped against the trunk of a tree and looked up into the darkening sky. The bare branches were black against deep blue, reaching for the first few stars with gnarled and clawed hands
***
Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.
***
I didn't mean to turn that into half a poem, but the alliteration sorta made me do it. It's late, so maybe I'll see where it is going tomorrow.
***
Clara slumped against the trunk of a tree and looked up into the darkening sky. The bare branches were black against deep blue, reaching for the first few stars with gnarled and clawed hands
***
Bare branches, black against a deep blue sky,
claw at the first few stars.
She slumps against a tree trunk and gazes upward,
hands clenched in pockets.
Cold smoke curls in the air,
stolen from her lungs by the night.
***
I didn't mean to turn that into half a poem, but the alliteration sorta made me do it. It's late, so maybe I'll see where it is going tomorrow.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Gosh, I have a blog!
I really should come by here more often. ;)
Life's going well--my summer classes will be coming to an end soonish, and I have a job prospect, provided things work out. Exciting stuff!
I've been really enjoying my literature class. The book we're using is very interesting, and I keep dipping into it and reading little sections. (It's easier than starting and finishing a book, unfortunately.) My favorite thing lately was a comparison of two versions of the same story. It was fascinating to see what the author changed, and I had fun trying to figure figure out why he edited the things he did.
Interactive Fiction has also been taking up a lot of my time lately. I'm slowly working my way through the manual for Inform 7, which is a language for writing IF. At some point I'd like to start writing my own stories; I have an idea for one, but I'll probably try some simpler things first. There are so many things to consider, it honestly seems more complicated than writing a novel!
I haven't been writing much, but in the past few days I've written some very rough poems on the Locution forums. There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat! Anyway, here are my contributions so far~
***
between the closet and our bed.
Somewhere underneath the floor
words collected, letters pushing
serifs tangling corners grinding
until the pressure was too much.
Lexical shrapnel.
When the steam dissipates
there are no words left.
(You have left as well.)
I pick at the carpet around the crater,
pull up strips and dig into our lives.
Follow the filament of thought
inward and down,
past the strata studded with artifacts.
Chopsticks from dinner last Wednesday,
six of hearts from poker two weeks ago,
the napkin you scrawled 836 3098.
I scrape the dirt, dust off the fragments,
peer at oblique angles,
but cannot see when the schist fractured,
when two planes separated and fell apart
***
behind its glass doors, chilling
and you ask what I'd like for dinner
I tell you I wish I was an origami crane
fold me a thousand times
and I would soar
escape the bondage of gravity
the weight of these limbs
the fog in my mind
You smooth my creases
sharp as they are
and blow breath into me
Nevertheless, you say
we need to eat tonight
I grab a squat jar of cinnamon
a bag of rice, a box of raisins
we will have something
that tastes of farawayland
and later dream of flying
Life's going well--my summer classes will be coming to an end soonish, and I have a job prospect, provided things work out. Exciting stuff!
I've been really enjoying my literature class. The book we're using is very interesting, and I keep dipping into it and reading little sections. (It's easier than starting and finishing a book, unfortunately.) My favorite thing lately was a comparison of two versions of the same story. It was fascinating to see what the author changed, and I had fun trying to figure figure out why he edited the things he did.
Interactive Fiction has also been taking up a lot of my time lately. I'm slowly working my way through the manual for Inform 7, which is a language for writing IF. At some point I'd like to start writing my own stories; I have an idea for one, but I'll probably try some simpler things first. There are so many things to consider, it honestly seems more complicated than writing a novel!
I haven't been writing much, but in the past few days I've written some very rough poems on the Locution forums. There's a thread in the Insight subforum called Chaining Poems, and the concept is simple. It starts with five words. A person writes a poem using them, and then posts five more words for another person to write a poem. Repeat! Anyway, here are my contributions so far~
***
geyserThe geyser erupts
filament
schist
strata
oblique
between the closet and our bed.
Somewhere underneath the floor
words collected, letters pushing
serifs tangling corners grinding
until the pressure was too much.
Lexical shrapnel.
When the steam dissipates
there are no words left.
(You have left as well.)
I pick at the carpet around the crater,
pull up strips and dig into our lives.
Follow the filament of thought
inward and down,
past the strata studded with artifacts.
Chopsticks from dinner last Wednesday,
six of hearts from poker two weeks ago,
the napkin you scrawled 836 3098.
I scrape the dirt, dust off the fragments,
peer at oblique angles,
but cannot see when the schist fractured,
when two planes separated and fell apart
***
beerWe linger by the beer
origami
nevertheless
bondage
cinnamon
behind its glass doors, chilling
and you ask what I'd like for dinner
I tell you I wish I was an origami crane
fold me a thousand times
and I would soar
escape the bondage of gravity
the weight of these limbs
the fog in my mind
You smooth my creases
sharp as they are
and blow breath into me
Nevertheless, you say
we need to eat tonight
I grab a squat jar of cinnamon
a bag of rice, a box of raisins
we will have something
that tastes of farawayland
and later dream of flying
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Still alive~
The 750 words experiment was interesting while it lasted. Which wasn't very long, but who cares~
I found it actually wasn't very good for creative writing. For some reason I got stuck writing journal entries. That was different, since I've never been one to write in journals, but it got boring fairly quickly.
While I may have been neglecting this blog, I have been writing some posts for Locution's Blog. We've got a pretty snazzy schedule going, where people post every two weeks. I'm enjoying rambling about things, although I need to stop being so silly and perfectionist~ (What's new, eh?)
Otherwise I haven't been writing much, although I'm currently trying to edit some poems I've got knocking around. It's fun and frustrating at the same time, if that makes sense. ^_^
I wrote this quick thing last Friday night at one in the morning. It was partly prompted by the Locution blog post I wrote that day.
***
I carve the sand with cupped fingers and wait for balls of tar to fill the moat. Not too far away a pelican cannot fly, its feathers heavy while I build the tower higher. I squeeze a wet clump into a spire, a beak pointing at the sky. It crumples under the weight.
Damn sand.
***
I'm not sure what it is. A prose poem, a piece of micro fiction? It's certainly odd, but I kinda like it.
I found it actually wasn't very good for creative writing. For some reason I got stuck writing journal entries. That was different, since I've never been one to write in journals, but it got boring fairly quickly.
While I may have been neglecting this blog, I have been writing some posts for Locution's Blog. We've got a pretty snazzy schedule going, where people post every two weeks. I'm enjoying rambling about things, although I need to stop being so silly and perfectionist~ (What's new, eh?)
Otherwise I haven't been writing much, although I'm currently trying to edit some poems I've got knocking around. It's fun and frustrating at the same time, if that makes sense. ^_^
I wrote this quick thing last Friday night at one in the morning. It was partly prompted by the Locution blog post I wrote that day.
***
I carve the sand with cupped fingers and wait for balls of tar to fill the moat. Not too far away a pelican cannot fly, its feathers heavy while I build the tower higher. I squeeze a wet clump into a spire, a beak pointing at the sky. It crumples under the weight.
Damn sand.
***
I'm not sure what it is. A prose poem, a piece of micro fiction? It's certainly odd, but I kinda like it.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Taking a Stab at Poetry
First up is the prose-with-line-breaks-masquerading-as-poetry I wrote for a contest on Locution to do with clichés.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
***
Love is Blind
Cupid needs glasses.
He must, for he always
passes over me.
His aim is /not/ true--
it's a wonder his arrows
flew straight before now.
I don't really mind,
but if he can't seem to
find me sitting here,
how is he to hit
his real targets? It's a
bit suspect, I think.
I should say something.
Oi, mister Roman god!
Ring up an optician!
No? It's not so bad.
I survived the visit I
had sometime last year.
Oh well, it's your loss.
No running to me when
cross lovers complain.
It's not like I mind,
but love is so very blind.
***
I started something else before writing "Love is Blind." It felt a bit more like poetry, but the imagery/direction seemed muddled. Here goes trying to make something of it:
***
Climbing up the Walls
You've got me climbing up the walls,
still remembering yesterday's fall when
you failed to take up the slack--
I might as well be bouldering.
I feel like I'm at the end
of my rope (even though I'm not),
and all I can see is red
tape marking the route's holds.
***
I can't get any further with it. Somehow I'm unable to crystallize the premise--comparing a fight with rock climbing. It was supposed to tie in the idea of a person climbing in anger, to let off steam, but it just doesn't gel properly. I like individual lines, but not the poem itself, unfinished though it may be.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Poetry Snippets
This Thanksgiving weekend is a writing weekend. I have thus far written a critique, posted a story for critique, started editing said story, and begun trying to make an incomprehensible poem into something comprehensible. (I am thinking the last is a lost cause, but I'm gonna keep trying. ^_^)
The story and poem are the ones I wrote for my creative writing class. I won't bother posting them here yet, but I feel like putting up some of the exercises I've done (one of which I wrote about in my previous post). They're not good, but they were fun to write~
***
Write an unrhymed poem that incorporates the following six words (among others): ROAD, DEAR, SICKLY, GLASS, DISPERSES, BLOSSOMS
Dear Friend,
You took the left turn and I the right
and I wished it had been a knife in the road instead
because then my feet would not have wanted to be right.
The sickly scent of your new perfume
dispersed with the distance and I hated it--
its presence, its disappearance.
Red blossoms on the hedgerows were your cheeks
and bees buzzed around blushing petals.
My dull face did not attract such suitors
and I swatted down your butterfly.
Guilty feet shuffled and scuffed
the dirt, the pebbles, the dust
and later they found their way back to town.
You stood behind the glass of a shop window
and my feet tripped one over the other--
but I saw that you had two left feet
equal to my two right feet.
I waved, and you smiled.
***
Write a poem in which one color (ex: red) is frequently repeated. Consider the symbolic associations of your chosen color (ex: anger, passion, death). Make color your unifying motif. Pay close attention to where, when, and why you're breaking the language where you are.
Viola Brown
The brown sound seeps deep into my bones
and I am the one who owns these strings.
Brown wood sings in mellow melody,
rich rhapsody thrilling down my arms,
and it warms like coffee on an autumn day.
I am a chestnut rooted in brown earth,
my leaves unfurling in rebirth to the sound
resonating all around. My heart begins to heal
as my flying fingers feel and my ears hear
the color of brown.
***
The second is very shallow, but I had so much fun messing around with sounds I really can't bring myself to care. ^_^
The story and poem are the ones I wrote for my creative writing class. I won't bother posting them here yet, but I feel like putting up some of the exercises I've done (one of which I wrote about in my previous post). They're not good, but they were fun to write~
***
Write an unrhymed poem that incorporates the following six words (among others): ROAD, DEAR, SICKLY, GLASS, DISPERSES, BLOSSOMS
Dear Friend,
You took the left turn and I the right
and I wished it had been a knife in the road instead
because then my feet would not have wanted to be right.
The sickly scent of your new perfume
dispersed with the distance and I hated it--
its presence, its disappearance.
Red blossoms on the hedgerows were your cheeks
and bees buzzed around blushing petals.
My dull face did not attract such suitors
and I swatted down your butterfly.
Guilty feet shuffled and scuffed
the dirt, the pebbles, the dust
and later they found their way back to town.
You stood behind the glass of a shop window
and my feet tripped one over the other--
but I saw that you had two left feet
equal to my two right feet.
I waved, and you smiled.
***
Write a poem in which one color (ex: red) is frequently repeated. Consider the symbolic associations of your chosen color (ex: anger, passion, death). Make color your unifying motif. Pay close attention to where, when, and why you're breaking the language where you are.
Viola Brown
The brown sound seeps deep into my bones
and I am the one who owns these strings.
Brown wood sings in mellow melody,
rich rhapsody thrilling down my arms,
and it warms like coffee on an autumn day.
I am a chestnut rooted in brown earth,
my leaves unfurling in rebirth to the sound
resonating all around. My heart begins to heal
as my flying fingers feel and my ears hear
the color of brown.
***
The second is very shallow, but I had so much fun messing around with sounds I really can't bring myself to care. ^_^
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Speaking
A poem; they don't happen very often... I expect that's why they aren't very good when they do. Lack of practice. ^_^
Anyway, just a rough draft, as usual.
***
The words mount their offensive,
setting off from base camp somewhere inside my skull;
a perfect formation of sentence regiments and paragraph brigades.
They rappel into my mouth and set up trenches behind my teeth,
and a preposition, in position, asks,
"Will I see fighting today?"
"You may, Private, you may."
I breathe in deeply--
This is it, soldiers!
May God have mercy on our souls!
--and breathe out again.
Not today, lads. Not today.
Anyway, just a rough draft, as usual.
***
The words mount their offensive,
setting off from base camp somewhere inside my skull;
a perfect formation of sentence regiments and paragraph brigades.
They rappel into my mouth and set up trenches behind my teeth,
and a preposition, in position, asks,
"Will I see fighting today?"
"You may, Private, you may."
I breathe in deeply--
This is it, soldiers!
May God have mercy on our souls!
--and breathe out again.
Not today, lads. Not today.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Day 27
I thought I'd try some poetry for a change; it's not something I do very often, since there are so many others out there much better than I (Meri and Missedtarget, for example), but then I suppose that's the case with fiction and nonfiction, too. ^_^
***
We trudge through sodden fields, and climb the stiles
on old stone walls to startle skittish sheep
who graze upon the other side. The miles
of rolling moors and fissured limestone sleep
beneath the damp and murky mist. It floats
like swirling spindrift, droplets sliding down
our necks, and rocky outcrops loom like boats
emerging from the gloom. Below the town
sits nestled in the valley,
.
.
.
.
.
***
Eh, gotta go sleep, even if that means stopping mid-sentence. The poem's not entirely new, since I started it years ago, but there are a few new lines in there somewhere. The plan was a sonnet, but I haven't exactly managed enough lines yet. I'm finding rhymes are really quite limiting (I mean, "boats?" *shudder*), as is my general lack of skill. Ah well. ;}
***
We trudge through sodden fields, and climb the stiles
on old stone walls to startle skittish sheep
who graze upon the other side. The miles
of rolling moors and fissured limestone sleep
beneath the damp and murky mist. It floats
like swirling spindrift, droplets sliding down
our necks, and rocky outcrops loom like boats
emerging from the gloom. Below the town
sits nestled in the valley,
.
.
.
.
.
***
Eh, gotta go sleep, even if that means stopping mid-sentence. The poem's not entirely new, since I started it years ago, but there are a few new lines in there somewhere. The plan was a sonnet, but I haven't exactly managed enough lines yet. I'm finding rhymes are really quite limiting (I mean, "boats?" *shudder*), as is my general lack of skill. Ah well. ;}
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
