Trice's comments
(member since Jul 05, 2008)
Trice's comments from the ¡ POETRY ! group.
(showing 1-18 of 18)
thank u all for your input and ideas. sorry its taken me so long to respond!
Hi Cat,
i think this poem creates great mental imagery. i feel like i'm there! it works better for me as a story right now. the content is there, it just is too wordy, which weighs the flow of the imagery down. just chisel it out! i love the last stanza and last line...but why couldn't you find a good breath of air?
keep at this one!
-trice
*the first poem is the original poem...the second is the revision (obviously!)* thank you all
scuba-dying
ugly plastic
shapes fishy memories.
small and limey
like granny smiths’ sour apples
without a core
green
not the hue that
leads to jealousy,
but ambiguity?
compartments
included to house necessities:
lures
weights
bobbers
line
and hooks…
we never caught a fish.
the caution-orange rope
anchored in the shore remained
clean,
blood of the trout still in their veins,
us waiting in the sun with nothing
to say,
unable to lure each other
on this father-daughter day,
unable to pierce hardened hearts
by yesterday
with those cheap hooks
purchased today
clear and thin,
the line has broken,
sinking to lake arthur’s floor,
weights clamped too tightly,
i see the fish swim past me
nightly
a rare fish
the tackle box,
ugly and plastic
regurgitates memories
of a love unkempt.
it was green
not the hue
synonymous to envy,
but ambiguity?
compartments
included to house necessities:
lures
weights
bobbers
line
and hooks…
we never caught a fish.
the caution-orange rope
anchored in the shore remained
clean,
blood of the trout still in their veins,
us waiting in the sun with nothing
to say,
unable to lure each other
on this father-daughter day,
unable to pierce hearts hardened
by yesterday
with the cheap hooks
purchased on that day
clear and thin,
the line has broken,
too many weights of our past clamped too tightly,
i ended up on lake arthur’s floor,
dad still sat upon the shore
he never caught a fish.
THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND SUPPORT!!!
Julia,
thank you for your time and advice. I'll continue to play around with this one.
the beginning refers to the tackle box which invokes the memories of the disconnect between my father and I.
and thank you for the suggestion (hearts hardened) it creates a better flow...now it seems so obvious!
scuba-dying
ugly plastic
shapes fishy memories.
small and limey
like granny smiths’ sour apples
without a core
green
not the hue that
leads to jealousy,
but ambiguity?
compartments
included to house necessities:
lures
weights
bobbers
line
and hooks…
we never caught a fish.
the caution-orange rope
anchored in the shore remained
clean,
blood of the trout still in their veins,
us waiting in the sun with nothing
to say,
unable to lure each other
on this father-daughter day,
unable to pierce hardened hearts
by yesterday
with those cheap hooks
purchased today
clear and thin,
the line has broken,
sinking to lake arthur’s floor,
weights clamped too tightly,
i see the fish swim past me
nightly
thank you cat. i really appreciate that you have been taking the time to give me feedback, and to even read it in the first place. you've given me a lot of encouragement.
call a plumber
you
have no need to
worry…
i’ll tweak this thing,
don’t be
alarmed
by my absent mind…
my heart’s in
overdrive,
my tool belt
on snuggly against my waist,
i’ll make the repairs
in this place…
you
think at a pricey handling fee,
that it’s not worth my
time of day,
that
my heart
will fail
my soul,
that the valves are under great
pressure…
pressure,
pressure
…pressure over me
A flood will result in
the overage of blood,
my carefully constructed
levees
may
crumble
leaving me in a humble state of
lonesome adversity…
but i’m telling you
i own this
though
i have no insurance,
i can assure you my
sanity’s in jeopardy
should i not attempt
the unfixable,
the cyclical,
the irreversible
triangle of me
just three minute maneuvers
with the twist of this wrench,
and i’ll be able to
breath again…
stepping up
crystalline stairways in which layers are seen,
underneath colors, textures, and trickling streams,
lie the concept numbly mistaken for dreams…
a railing of support bluffs the minds
of the few
who dare
set toe,
then arch,
next heel
upon,
a brittle pocket of air preceding that step,
which heightens the senses to what’s unfelt.
allowing waves of sounds into the lungs,
seeing what was said,
hearing visualizations,
digesting the smell,
hound likely sniffing the flavors.
people will speak,
but you won’t comprehend,
for you’re off in a space so neglected by them.
the costume in style by all who dress for the grave,
feels loose on the nerves that were smothered and chafed,
you leap to the next step with weightless freedom,
floating about the airs of a true existence,
a mirror like substance replacing your eyes…
you’re one with totality…
you need no disguise
receipt
today
i came across a receipt you told me to keep.
not for groceries,
clothing,
precious jewels,
or electronics,
no.
a receipt for the murder of your child.
what am i keeping it for?
can i “take back” what you’ve done?
can i exchange it for something other than guilt and disgust?
can i get the money back!
i wonder
if you wonder
if i kept that receipt?
the receipt that lay quietly in my drawer, waiting to do the only thing it can…
remind me of your numbness.
thank you cat,
i think i agree with your descripton of the weight...but i'm unsure of how to "fix" it? i'll give it a minute to air out, and return to it. thanks for the confirmation!
julia,
i'm no expert, but these poems are wonderful! you've managed to tell full stories yet retain the format and feel of a poem. i also love how time and age are pretty much characters in your poems. i look forward to reading more!
where i go
the bathroom contains so many things which are dear to me…
the pink tub stands firm upon its claws,
and the ring of dead skin remains unscrubbed.
evidence of love,
grief,
and womanhood
lie latently beneath boxes and tissue,
alongside other meaningless trash
story time
the pain is telling
of my stance
with you,
the aching pulls of yesterday’s
strains
on my mind today.
juicy hip joints
yearning to
pop,
wanting to share
the dulcet story
that is
us
scar tissue
love affairs thrive in places love was declared
placidly…
lazily,
selfishly,
lovelessly.
it was this to him,
and that to me…
things were broken,
and repairs sacrificed too late to
heal the tissues beneath the scabs…
scars appear where the scab has fallen.
a kinship
a path,
just one
but forked down the road
her path,
(yet mine)
endorsed by tree groves,
leaves from one tree
scattered upon
her gravel,
laid upon my dirt,
wind of our earth
blown beneath our skirts
Feet tread harshly,
further compacting
the fiber of us,
however,
their knees feel no impact…
cat,
i really like the progression of severity conveyed in this poem. with each stance, i feel like i relate on different levels; its interesting, the relationship that develops and makes you think about your own thoughts.
thank you for your encouragement!
thank you. i actually visited chicago for a few days, and saw an icecream cone on the sidewalk, and felt bad for the child without it!
i love the jagged format of your poem;
it truly conveys the dilemma at hand.
i have so much to do, but too lazy to do it!
gardener
a prince of my soul,
and i know not where he left me…
leaves and grass and fruits of his royalty
swarming me with their loyalty
often i awake to scratchy twigs at my sides,
etching the skin’s surface,
but never the inside
i seek him out
in aspects parallel to his-jewel less crown,
but his vessel that gently frays me
i can’t find
leaving the divine flesh of his
refuge beneath my feet,
and fruits of his pantry in my mouth…
what i devour now
seems so sour
with the thought of his sugary breath
upon my mouth
awaiting the next lifetime
when he’ll be my king wholly,
i engulf my body of now
with gifts of each season’s
colors,
climates,
sentiments,
fragments…
whole heartedly wishing to make sense of the reason
my nightdress of white clinging to my thighs…
adhered lightly by morning dew,
locks of luster ensnarled with
leaves of grass and pebbled earth,
fingernails packed tight with worm churned soil
…i abandon my resting organs habitually
only to toil his gardens.
one for chicago’s streets
you leave a saddened heart
along with a stain
that’s sticky
and sweet
A tactile corpse
against hot concrete,
trampled heavily by their feet
and again
we won’t meet.
My mother deemed you
dirty
sordid
so filthy
but it was i
alas,
who couldn’t keep you.
from my hand you dropped
like a fawn from the womb,
and here you lie
…such an unfit tomb,
its my lips
that your dulcetness won’t reach,
and i leave you to the
ants,
my ice-cream coned treat
jerry,
this poem takes me to a quiet and intimate place.
i think of what a relatonships mean, and all that humanity feels in the moments we easily call "love".
thank you!
-trice
