Group Discussion
Topic: GOODREADS NEWSLETTER CONTEST > PLEASE VOTE FOR JULY'S GOODREADS' POEM FINALISTS!
Comments (showing 1-50 of 51) (51 new)
VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST! SELBSTMORD
Sylvia Plath
1932-1963
Something occurs with every act,
like a phantom that lingers
over our decisions
made like bolted horses.
There was more to this than this.
More than vulgar act,
the abandoned children,
more than the flat
without light or heat, the pipes
broken in one of London’s
coldest winters, more
than the hawkman walking toward Judea,
more than your fear made flesh,
or the casting away
of a life to punctuate a moment’s art,
more than biographers say,
more than psychiatry’s thinking,
or the stimulation of serotonin,
more than torment of mind,
or the runaway horses running still.
There is more to act than attribution.
There was the knowledge of slipping
into this world among so many
others that could have been,
that are now as we speak, but this one,
this one so rich with invitations—rustling
like spring trees—the anticipation
of the Great Work, the promise
of reunification, the wonderment of affection,
this one requiring obedience to the death notice
posted on the door through which all must enter:
von Anfang an und die Quelle.
It was spirit defiant, spirit resentful
of the necessity of humiliation & remorse.
It was your spirit angered
from the contract that reclaims everything,
yours from the insulted cosmos in you
from another world saying nicht mehr,
saying dies nicht, dies nicht, dies nicht.
--Michael Gessner
~~~
The World Inside
after Denise Levertov
The kitchen window darkens to reflect
waning light:
sudden shadowing
of tenants, the hard slouch
written on them, on rutted cushions.
And faint on the microwave glass
a shimmer
of luminous mist:
smudge of TV
summoning castles, atolls, Elsewhere.
--David Eadington
~~~
This Poem Is Just Like All of Us
If this poem starts to talk, it will say things it shouldn’t;
reveal secrets
it was asked to keep. It will speak as though it knows
more than it does;
as though it has inside information, and is privy to more
than the pen.
If this poem fools you once, shame on it.
If this poem
fools you twice, shame on you. If this poem starts to talk,
it will speak
in riddles; wax allegorical, anecdotal and paradoxical;
spit-polish itself silly.
And, if you just came down with the rain, this poem will
sell you a dry pair of shoes.
If you come back tomorrow, it’ll buy you lunch; maybe
a car, or, a new house.
If this poem starts to talk, it will talk about itself and try to
convince you
that it’s talking about you-know-who. It will speak with
coyness and cleverness,
and for that, it won’t mind being called cheap.
Psychologically,
it likes the double-reverse; irony; self-deprecation; passive
aggression.
And watch out for the lies: blatant, two-ton lies. (If this
poem
is a break-away snitch, who just knifed the guard, and
approaches you --
still dressed in its black-and-white issues -- what makes you
think it won’t lie to you?)
Don’t argue with this poem. It’ll slap you in the face,
challenge you
to a duel, and, then, turn around at seven paces and shoot
you in the back.
This poem is -- all at once -- manic and depressed, and,
often, delusional;
it’s confused, and full of fear and doubt. This poem may be
dangerous:
at least to itself, if not to others. The thing is: this poem
is in pain.
This poem is lonely: down-in-the-dirt, dying-in-a-ditch,
flat-out lonely.
And, like all the lonely people, it dwells too much on itself,
and, therefore,
makes itself more lonely. But it knows it’s not the only page
in the book
on loneliness. It’s not too proud to admit how it aches, or so
naive
that it doesn’t know that everybody is lonely; that everybody
hurts; that everybody,
at one time or other, has kissed their own hand in the
darkness
until an imagined lover comes to life and kisses back; until
the fingers
rake softly through their hair and touch their eyes with the
cure of sleep.
But most of all: this poem worries about the future; about
death and dying;
about wasting away and turning to dust. Its worst fear: that
it might see light
a few brief times before the book closes on its life forever;
that it will forever sleep
in the perfect darkness of flat closure; that it will read, and
recite, itself to itself
in its thin coffin; that it will be just like all of us: afraid
of dying alone,
in nobody’s lap, in nobody’s arms.
--John Sokol
~~~
Recipe for the Broken
Curl them out of their skins, lop
potatoes and parsnips into smoking
broth, they rise and plunge
the turgid surface bursting gas.
Crone broth, swamp broth, whatever
doesn’t kill you—make them well,
in drawing breath within the steam
give tribute to apocryphal mercies—
Cordelia changing Lear’s bandages,
centurions changing their minds,
and the obscurity of Irish mothers
swirling through vapors in silence.
Drink of this transfused kindness,
and eat of this brine called hope.
--Robert Peake
~~~
SHOPPING WITH NORA
The morning is spent
at Town Tires and Burger King
pick up Nora starved
from riding horses
cleaning stables dust-coated
so she eats salad
then we hit Marshall’s
and fondle blouses, dresses
and try on flip-flops
She chooses yellow
on this solstice day in June
and Cinderella
rides home to clean house
before her mother comes home
after her hard day
--Nadine Gallo
~~~
Ghost Shell
I dream of this, the weight,
a tortoise shell on my back, a heavy hull.
Did I choose its protection? I was asleep.
No one ever said, “You can drop it now” or
“It’s safe to drop that, you’ll be ok.”
Maybe the shell did protect me at one time
when I needed armor.
Maybe it isolated me for reasons
I do not know or understand.
It was heavy and hard to balance.
When I woke up, I could feel its weight.
I can still feel it, like a ghost,
like an arm or leg amputated.
Somehow it still signals my brain,
“Protect yourself.”
Maybe my mother put this shell on me before she left me.
Maybe I inherited it, like a talisman.
Maybe the shell was what women in my family wore to survive.
All I know is I was born with it.
--Trace A. DeMeyer
~~~
HONORABLE MENTIONS
--Carroll Street Aspiration by Daniel Tam-Claiborne
--POMEGRANATE by Kathryn Hinds
--you said by Ray Craig
--Note to Self (and Response) on Valentine's Day by Frank Mundo
--Racist by Dvorah Simon
--Forage by Diana S. Adams
A very difficult choice. They are all excellent in their own ways. Still, since I have to choose, I think I vote for 'Ghost Shell' because it so aptly and beautifully describes something most of us have felt at one time or other.
I like the Gessner poem best, its complexity and confidence. Rare to find something "intellectual" so affecting.
In the "small world" department: David Eadington and I were both in a masterclass with Suzanne Lummis through the UCLA Extension in 2002. We workshopped many poems together, and read poems at Beyond Baroque in Venice as a culmination/debut:http://www.robertpeake.com/archives/162-...
In her review for LitRave, Frankie Drayus concluded, "Be on the lookout for these poets. I expect you'll be hearing more from them soon."
And so you have. :) Nice to see you, David. Great lineup altogether.
This Poem Is Just Like All of Us. Wonderful. Wonderful. But also the other poems are beautiful. This time all of them make my day. Good choice.
BeBe
I cannot possibly choose. They are each absolutely stunning poems--and very inspiring. Thank you all.
Amy wrote: "VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!
SELBSTMORD
Sylvia Plath
1932-1963
Something occurs with every act,
..."
Amy wrote: "VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!
SELBSTMORD
Sylvia Plath
1932-1963
Something occurs with every act,
..."
John Sokol's poem, This Poem Is Just Like All of Us
is my pick. It combines many elements that move me, delight me and make me think. It is inventive and more than description.
I agree it was a hard choice among these fine poems.
Congrats to all; Kudos and a vote to Michael Gessner's "SELBSTMORD." 'Gutsy to write about Plath, and difficult; he does it well here with some striking imagery, attentive use of line, and the choice of the German ("requiring obedience to the death notice/posted on the door through which all must enter:/
von Anfang an und die Quelle" is haunting). And I love this declarative gem: "There was more to this than this."
'Well done.
Jefferson:Despite the fact that I think Plath one of the most over-rated writers of all time, I am with you regarding Gessner's poem. Even the German commentary (for those of you who do not know German, the first reference means "from the beginning and the origin/source" and the rest translates as "no more" and "not this") adds to the concept of suicide. There is a good edge to this poem.
I love Plath unlike apparently; many people here. However, I have read (and imho written) far better "elegy poems" to other poets (in general). This is far from being the best poem when there is a contendor as strong as This Poem is Like All of us...
Aeonic:Interesting how your comment here is so different from the one you posted on the voting site (and I quote you at this point):
"This Poem is Just Like All of Us should win... sadly so far it appears it won't. Go figure peeps."
To which I responded:
Aeonic:
"What an absurd comment---just because you say something "should win" (the language of a moral imperative) doesn't mean anything. And since you offer no intelligent commentary about "WHY" it should win, you are just running your mouth. Actually, that poem "shouldn't win" and do not insult the writers here by saying things like "go figure peeps" which is demeaning in the extreme. We are not your "peeps" by any stretch of the imagination."
In neither of your comments did you bother to explain why your choice is "strong" or why it "should win." You keep dodging the issue. Could it be that, in your humble opinion, you have no sound critical judgment nor any real ability to write a better elegy/homage to another poet? Why not post you work here so we can see if you truly have any talents worth appreciating? Failure to do so, and your continued failure to offer any substantive commentary on either of the poems in the contest, simply reveals how empty and bankrupt your comments are.
Michael wrote: "Aeonic:Interesting how your comment here is so different from the one you posted on the voting site (and I quote you at this point):
"This Poem is Just Like All of Us should win... sadly so far ..."
I do not like to take the length of time to justify my "critical responses" and trust me, my use of the "vernacular" is because I take this site LEISURELY. Apparently you are some type of "close reading/New critic/Modernist" (or that would be my best guess).
As to having written an elegy I feel was well done I can mention that it won a John McKay Shaw Academy of American Poets 3rd place Undergraduate Division honorable mention. It was written in homage to Virginia Woolf particularly. I was hardly "bluffing"which you appear to accuse me of; as, I think the fact that Gerald Stern made this award available to me (he did not need to add a third place category AT ALL) shows I have been considered somewhat talented and to have had true past experiences with the poetic metier from a fairly young age (early twenties).
However like many when it comes to Poetry in particular; in some cases, such as the poem I LIKED (which did not employ slant rhyme, interesting stanza breaks, nor much metaphor, simile, etc. yet STILL managed to accomplish MUCH imo) one just knows IT WORKS WELL! I liked what and how the poet said potent, intimate things which made me feel and think.
I wrote "imo" as it is my opinion after all; and whatever elucidation you bring to a piece and however many parts and pieces you ultimately reduce a poem to in these post-modern days your opinion is just that; regardless of how many theorums you may introduce us to. Apparently post-modernism and "contextualism" hasn't taught you much Sir Michael. To my mind; you wind up sounding like a paternalistic dinosaur.
I have edited undergraduate literary magazines; aided and abetted quite talented writer's in Master's writer's workshops and been applauded by many for my unflagging instinct. I am currently editing a "mainstream novel" which however, is extremely fresh in vision and whose author I admire very much. Her implicit trust is, for me, a measure of my true worth not to be gotten by appealing to your acceptance of me. This doesn't stop me from commenting, at all. I merely am stating I am not "analytical" in approaching poetry; a form which transcends all attempts at elucidation.
Your naysaying and side-swiping for no known reason as I am quite NEW to this site truly blindsided me and also put me in an unaccustomed defensive posture.
On Poetry: I am better at KNOWING IT and WRITING IT than doing the more analytical work of overly reducing it as much overwrought criticism does (and I suspect you do).
I am sorry if by calling people "peeps" I have offended others...it is obviously just a colloquialism and I doubt many people feel "condescended to." Perhaps windbags like you do!
As to my poem "To the Faithless Orlando-- Ode to Vita Sackville-West" (the actual title)...I would NOT post it here as I plan on pubbing it and the notion appears mutually exclusive since that poem was a part of my Master's Thesis and finished long ago. I wish to publish it in the right way and do not need to do so here at Goodreads. I have other poems I may one day "elect" to add to Goodreads; I may not. There are many other "forums" for poetry; mainly Web Del Sol, which, for those who do not already know; they publish chapbooks for writers as diverse as Rikki Ducornet and Madison Smart Bell and have a major selection of varied online e-zines for perusal as well as simultaneous submission.
Oh, and I really consider Michael's post to be muckraking and mudslinging. It was an extremely offensive post to have made. Other people merely type their opinions and are not drawn-and-quartered for it. Why me? I do not like being a lightning rod for the negativity of such a loathing individual as this mythical Michael and I do not excuse him for his guerilla tactics.
Aeonic:I would have not bothered to comment at all on your post had you just listed the poem you voted for. It was the rest of what you said that I found offensive and uncalled for.
Of course what you say is your opinion, unless you are stealing ideas from other thinkers and writers. So to keep writing "imo" is not just redundant but also unnecessary. And to write "imho"---well, no one who posts what you do is humble by any stretch of the imagination.
You can be as offended as you like---it does not diminish the truth of my commentary. If you are going to use moral imperatives like "should" and refer to the posters here, many of whom have creds that far exceed yours, as "peeps," then you definitely need to explain yourself.
But I am not going to argue the point with you. You are, in a word, wrong. And that's all there is to that.
" I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination. --John KeatsYou must really really hate this guy, Michael... else why do you work so hard to subvert everything he lived for?
Aeonic wrote: "Oh, and I really consider Michael's post to be muckraking and mudslinging. It was an extremely offensive post to have made. Other people merely type their opinions and are not drawn-and-quartered ..."Ignore him. Michael hates poetry. He's a know-nothing of the first order.
Jacob:If you knew anything about Keats or about the work I have done on Keats or anything about my teaching career or anything about anything, you would shut the fuck up and take your miserable Philly attitude to Gino's for a cheesesteak sandwich. Fly away, you jerk!
Aeonic I support you on this 'fight' with Michael, a person who for no reason offends others by trying to show off, or maybe I'll be the next one who has offended him as he considered you did with the word 'peeps'. So actually there is a good side about all of his 'blubber', you,Aeonic, showed what you truly are, though I don't know you, I consider you to be a good poet and a true human. Think about it!
well for a 27-year-old woman as myself true human is a real compliment. I still have dreams and I am little bit naive at times, which helps me a lot to get through the hard moments and raise my daughter.
School yard, indeed. Yikes. Please, let's try to at least be civil, even if we fail to appreciate each other's work or input.
oh, gosh michale! wendys right. but if it makes you feel any better i support you too. maybe you aeonic can point out POLIETLY but no need for that kind of talk.
We humans make 'theme' parks, the purpose of which is to make us forget that everything we call "civilization" is a fucking 'theme park.' We are sick out-of-control monkeys and most of what we do has that same purpose--to make us think this is all 'normal.' So we don't see how fucking weird and out-of-control, out of nature we have become.Keats grasped this. Michael doesn't. He betrays his idol by making him a slave to his own repressed desires, his desire to bludgeon others to conformity with his own sickness.
It's not enough to say silly things about me--he has to slander the whole city of Philadelphia.. that should be clue enough to where he's coming from.
Geno's is a tourist trap for the clueless... sorry you took the bait.
I like to vote for Ghost Shell.All of us watch the tortoise with a shell on it.But nobody thought like this.I appreciate the author for his imagination.Good work.Keep it up.
I appreciate those kind folks who can appreciate what it is like to be "flamed" for merely expressing an opinion--in one of my first ever posts! Thanks for your kind words :) I will try to refrain from being so "defensive" in the future. But it will help if Michael isn't so abrasive... I still vote for "This Poem is Just Like All of Us" though...I do not find the Plath poem "bad" AT ALL. I merely stated that I prefer the other. This place is for voting after all. Isn't it?
Well, I'm pretty sure voting is over, and the August contest has begun. Let's see if this time we can have threads that serve some purpose other than bickering. I realize poets tend to have outsized egos, but controlling that is a worthwhile spiritual practice. Let's see if we can do better.
Voting is over. You can see the results by clicking the link to vote. The July Newsletter, with the winning poem, has already gone out.
Wendy wrote: "Well, I'm pretty sure voting is over, and the August contest has begun. Let's see if this time we can have threads that serve some purpose other than bickering. I realize poets tend to have outsize..."Right on!!
Can u note in the deadlines when you post time for entry, deadline for that, time for voting and that deadline, and then voting for finalists with a deadline, and finally Note the winners. And start over with new months' deadlines. It's hard to figure out when deadlines are over and such. Now there's an April listed?? That should be long over, why is it listed?
Well, it's pretty simple, though the dates might vary by a day or two.Amy sends a note to all members when the contest opens at the beginning of the month, for the contest for the following months' newsletter. Everyone posts their poems; near the end of the month, the judges submit their picks to Amy, she creates the voting thread, it's voted on for a several days, then the winner is announced. Soon after, it starts again. Perhaps Amy can post a message at the beginning of the contest thread to let people know when the judge's deadline is (which is when people should stop posting poems), and then post an announcement at the beginning of the voting thread about when voting is over.
The past months' threads stay up because there are sometimes useful conversations going on in them. Sometimes not so useful, but the utility of these conversations is actually determined by each individual's input. As I said before, I think and hope we can do better...
within life's grand riverbedsby catherine grace baker
it is just what natural needed
to have him touch her skin
pressing his fingers deep into her earth
outstretching his salted tendrils
desiring wetness
seeking deep wells of unknown reserves
to quench their tongues of desert parchment
and the cacti loneliness in their prickly isolation
she offers up her scent unmistakable
musky sagebrush and manzanita
sweet herbaceous breath
wafting soon after the monsoon
rips through rising electrostatic charges
at first tingling, then pulsing...
throbbings
mounting pressure into chaotic quakes
releasing...
tidal waves of wildhoney floods
flowing into sedimentary streamings
of momentary bliss
as this natural desire carves yet another stratum
within life's grand riverbeds of wanting
