Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Weekly Poetry Stuffage
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Week 188 (November 6th-13th). Poems. Topic: An Old Bridge
I like the images in it, and it rhymes! (I’m one of the few persons left on earth who prefer rhyming verse.)
had to delete. will be sending somewhere.
Jim, glad you're back! I love the poem written in Filipino :)
Yes, we're bracing ourselves for what's going to hit us any time soon. Funny or disturbing though, it's not even raining.
Yes, we're bracing ourselves for what's going to hit us any time soon. Funny or disturbing though, it's not even raining.
I'd say it fits the topic Jim! I kinda wish I could legitimately read the original, for there is certainly always something lost when translated... But I'm already working on learning German right now, so Filipino will have to wait!
haha, well, I have a more immediate need for German right now...
then how will you be able to read one of my new books? :P har har... i wish i could learn German. so i can read Brecht and Kafka in the original.
*sigh* Perhaps some day! I am sure your books are wonderful though :) I'm just hoping to be able to speak German well enough to converse with my boyfriend's family in their native tongue...
M wrote: "I like the images in it, and it rhymes! (I’m one of the few persons left on earth who prefer rhyming verse.)"You're not alone, M. The first poems I got hooked on were hip-hop lyrics from Immortal Technique. Those rappers LOVE their rhymes. :)
Kristen wrote: “I’m just hoping to be able to speak German well enough to converse with my boyfriend's family in their native tongue . . .”I tried dating foreign women, but after that I decided I’d better stick with Texans.
Haha, well I never would have guessed that I'd ever date a South African who has been studying in Germany the last few years...
interesting. so you might end up in Cape Town one day? :P
maybe :) He's from closer to Durban though...
aaah... never been to Durban. great place, i hear... great beaches for surfing (not that I can surf!).
An Old BridgeThe skies these evenings wear are dull.
Hers were the blue on old postcards.
November’s subtle watercolors
capture streets of leaf-strewn yards,
whose mornings flecked the entry halls,
an odalisque in varnished cedar.
High-heeled echoes, her footfalls
dreamed only what one man would deed her.
Plate glass mirrors staghorn ferns.
An old, espaliered vine malingers.
Umbers, where the swamp road turns,
beckon with ungloved, lovely fingers.
I follow, a changeling’s child.
Gaunt, rust-pocked girders span dark water.
Autumn puts her hair up, styled
in such hues as have not forgot her.
I've been looking forward to your poem for this week, M. I knew you wouldn't disappoint with this topic. 'The skies these evenings wear are dull', 'a changeling's child' and 'November's subtle watercolors' are such beautiful lines. The rise and fall as I read flows like a soothing piece of classical music.
Jim! What a pleasure to read. I particularly like your lines, 'and it was crossed/because the silence of the river called for it' and 'We cross knowing/what has stopped/and what rushes on'.
Ryan, thank you for the commentary! The poem has just the effect I hoped it would.Jim, thank you.
I've been absent for awhile, and I'm happy that one of my first comments back is to tell you how beautiful that poem is, M.
Daniel, thank you! I worked on that one quite a bit.
Coolibah CreekThe first, hard puffs of Marlboro smoke
in lengthening summer shadows,
were drawn beneath the arches, old,
down where the river narrows.
Her name he carved beside his own
and with a lover's heart, enclosed,
remembering promises, broken,
while river dreck decomposed.
She wandered down as summer waned,
Forget-Me-Nots in dark-hair braided.
Secluded by shadows, he breathed her name
as into night, day bled and faded.
Beneath the old bridge, hidden from light,
he stole something she never surrendered.
On filthy, cold banks, in mud and in terror
a young tale, in the squalid dark, ended.
~ R ~
any critique welcome
Ryan, what the hell man? That's fantastic. I'm just going to observe this week. Too much great writing to submit anything. You guys are great.
Daniel! Welcome back, mate. Please submit something-your writing has been missed.
“Coolibah Creek” is graphic and chilling! Ryan, you handle the rhyme well, and it intesifies the effect. I can see the old bridge in the shadows of evening, the perpetrator taking drags on a cigarette before the assault, the girl wandering down to the creek . . .
Good evening, M (still morning here). Thanks for your comments, I really appreciate it. I'm only just starting to play around with rhyme, mostly due to the effect that your poems have on me.
Thank you, Jeff! (I feel like an echo.)
TraditionsHe plies the shingles first—
looking down into the water.
He loses one—
the gray rectangle falls, splashes.
A Camaro approaches, stops—
makes a U-turn and drives away.
He doesn’t know the exact year—
but can guess, ’11 or ’12.
He goes back to his hammer—
continuing to work until nightfall.
The skeleton emerges against the dusk—
as memories linger and take hold.
That first, rickety trip across comes to mind—
into darkness, then light.
An excitement that overwhelms.
It consumes, he smiles, he laughs.
The light came almost too soon—
as he looks into his father’s eyes.
“What did you think, son?” Father asks.
“Let’s do it again!” Son replies.
His father signals, stops, and turns that ’82 around—
remembering a promise.
The leaves are falling, just ahead of snow—
as the family approaches the graying wooden beams.
Their ’51 sputters closer to the entrance of a new world.
“Dad, what is this?” Sons asks.
“Wait and see!” Father answers.
A bat flies close to his window—
and he jumps and giggles.
“Someday, I’ll bring my son here!” Son gleams—
and beams with pride.
Mr. Sandman comes on the radio—
as he falls asleep, dreaming of the future.
That plump old mayor, pulls the handles—
of those giant scissors together.
He loses control of the ribbon and it splashes below.
The brown wood shows bright in the sunlight—
as they stand by their 1912 model T.
“You helped build this, grandpa?”
“I did!”
He pushes the slightly gray hair from his forehead—
and helps the child inside.
“Let’s go across!” Grandpa shouted—
and they did.
“This old bridge will outlive us all, you know—
Your son, and his, and his will drive across it.”
Greg! What a fantastic poem! I love the idea and the clever way you've linked the different generations with cars. The language, the imagery, the story - it all just works so well together. Love it!
Great approach to the topic, Greg. I really enjoyed it :)
RemorseThere is an old bridge he dare not cross
though temptation may loom large
to feel again the scars of old
would commit him to the chasm
Yet the treasure...
Memories of endless joy, no mention of the struggle
fragile, like planks of cork, and as with age they crumble
or the other side tis sweeter, save the way across
shed your ancient anchor melancholia
while time sits, or waste away
a living apparition of ardour
This one started out as a sweet love story, and somewhere went wrong. But since I didn't take either poem seriously, I thought I might at lest put up the humores one.Lovers Cross
A bold boy stood still,
Holding hands with a horror.
For his love had grown fangs,
And as she gently kissed him,
He grew devoid of color.
He gasped in surprise.
Never knowing till now.
His lover was dead,
But sadly not in the ground.
The river rushed below them.
He heard it's playful chatter.
The sunken old bridge groaned,
As though it knew of the matter.
Many souls had stood there,
Outlined in soft moonlight,
And had their lives snuffed.
When they snuck out at night.
Any critiquing or advice is welcome.
This one started badly, and just got worse. Sorry. I have no idea where it came from, but since I actually wrote something this week I posted it.A Death Bed
I am alive in my death bed.
An odd place to be, I confess to having thought.
I sip fluids, not just water,
through a straw stuck in a spill-proof cup,
that is held by hands that are not my own,
that never seem to touch me, even accidentally,
masked as they are beneath medicine's need for rubberized sterility.
I move my eyes to see the source of kindness,
even if paid for and indifferent,
but I am unable to see who has come,
who quietly helps keep me alive.
Death watches me.
Sexless and hard, death stands weightless at my feet,
without expression or expectation. **
I didn't think Death would be this,
a visceral two-footed ghost
standing between the me I am
and the me
I am afraid
I will no longer
be.
I don't know why, but I thought Death would be a woman.
Another odd thought.
And odd that Death would be more and less than her touch,
not la petite mort as I might have imagined in my bad poetry days.
My salad daze.
But then women were never what I thought they would be.
My sexual haze.
Ignorance. Billy boy claimed that vanity is all.
I thought I used to agree with him, but he was wrong!
So wrong. I know now that
ignorance trumps that wanton's mirror,
and vanity is merely its plaything.
I sip my fluids.
I am alive in my death bed.
Rubber hands handle me
and all the while Death stands without waiting,
the bridge between a diminishing old age
and a nothingness laying in weightless potential.
** Fushigi alert: As I was writing this stanza, in a random play on my iTunes, the Mumford and Sons song Timshel came into my ears. The lyrics caught my ear:
…
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance
…
Jeff, 'Remorse' is a really interesting poem. It got deeper for me after a few reads. I like the use of a metaphorical bridge and your clever choice of words - chasm, planks, crumble,other side - to link it all together so well. I enjoyed the first read but it got so much better for me the more I went through it. I particularly enjoyed your three final lines.
Christa, what a great job you've done with 'Lovers Cross'. I had to laugh at your introduction-my writing always seems to take on a life of its own and end up somewhere totally different from what I planned, too. I like the mix of humour and more serious writing in this one. I absolutely love the line, 'for his love had grown fangs'. In the last line of the first stanza, I think you meant 'devoid' rather than 'void'. Also, the first line of the second stanza needs a small edit. Perhaps - He gaspED IN surprise? This is a really fun poem to read, well done!
Thank you Ryan for catching those grammatical errors. After a while all I can see is what I want to say and not what I have actually written, does that happen to you?I am glad you liked the poem :D
Guy! I'm glad you found time for a poem, I know you've been flat out. 'A Death Bed' is such a contemplative poem with touches of brilliant humour. It felt to me as though the author is quite accepting of death, more surprised than anything else. You could easily have steered it towards a feeling of terror or fear but I found it quite calming, in an odd sort of way. I particularly liked, 'My salad daze/But then women were never what I thought they would be/My sexual haze'. Your last two lines are really strong, also.
Ellis, great images and flow! Your writing is really tight and you cover a lot of ground with very few words. Your use of 'motley' works really nicely and the last two lines are just perfect.
Thank you Ryan! I am surprised. I thought it was just weird. I am glad you enjoyed it, and that you found it peaceful. It felt, oddly, enough, peaceful to write. [And my wife has asked me to extend her thanks you you for your kind reaction.]
Well, Pirates, Week 188 has drawn to a close and what a fantastic week of entries it has been. The good ship is close to bursting at the seams.Please head to the polls and support those who posted a poem.
Poetry Poll
Thank you for setting up the polls, Ryan.
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don't use a story previously used in this group.
Please keep your poem to LESS THAN 3,500 words long.
The topic this week is: An Old Bridge
Thank you to M for the topic suggestion.
The rules are pretty loose. You could write a poem about anything that has to do with the subject. I do not care, but it must relate to the topic somehow.
Have fun!