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Sunday, May 19, 2019
Order from Chaos
This week's prompt is from Paul Fowler:
Making order from Chaos, Apparently, his life is like that and right now more than ever. (Must be those cats.) Though he does seem to thrives on chaos. Let's see what everyone comes up with.
I think this fits, although it may be making chaos from order:
EVOLUTION
Music came first, an unbroken pure tone passing over the smooth surface of clay, how long no way to count, until ripples ridged the clay, and the music found them and began to rise and fall, billions and billions of times (call them years), until buds extended, became digits, pushing up from the clay, wriggling, swaying side to side, all moving together, a metronome, marking the rising and falling tones, billions upon billions, highs growing infinitesimally further from lows. Then four fingers, as they had become, held back behind the tone, waved response to another four, neither a hand yet.
The waving fingers began to break ranks, waggle to each other. New patterns made for shifting air currents; the tones changed, more rapidly now, a million years, now half a million, more, less, with rapid irregularity, and the second group of fingers began to tap the clay they had sprung from. The tones absorbed the taps for a while, then moved with them, propelled by them, pushed this way and that, and rhythms came into the void, four fingers tapping, four dancing, contrapuntal, infinite harmony which needs nothing more than itself, and could have gone on forever, but that the fingers pushed further out of the clay, a new nub appeared, became a thumb, and pushed against the fingers sounding a snap in air: a beat.
The dancing fingers loved the beat; they moved with it, around it, against it. Mostly, it propelled them, they stretched upward, pushing through clay, they became hands, then wrists, then arms that jointed, and would have jointed again, but that shoulders grew out and stopped them. But the beat went on, and the hands were drawn back to the clay, the music pulsed around them, the notes were blue, the rhythms syncopated, and this was happening all over now, shoulders, arms, hands from the clay, back to it, and the clay growing soft and malleable where the hands and the music touched it. The hands began modeling, some pulling it up, and up, some making finger-width grooves, fingers probing inside the grooves, until the music and the hands and the new shapes made the clay moist and fecund, and algae grew, and sporangia.
I too like the way the verses proceed. I have noticed that about your life, and wondered how it is tat chaos reasserts itself so regularly one things are calm. Glad you have the library to enjoy!
chaos follows me like crows tash. eeerrr i'll introduce you to natalia one day. the living embodiment of chaos. sometimes like waking up with no idea what is gonna happen that day - love paul.
yep. that harry lime. my favourite film. the way joseph cotton stumbles through that film with little idea what is going on reminds me of me. love my library - love paul.
i can't hop much with this hip tad ha ha. my day has been mostly crazy kittens, pizza and crazy suicidal women today. no change there then. thanks tad - paul.
excellent poem. it does seem even though the kittens have brought chaos to your life they have also brought order. you seem much calmer in your spirit.
the kittens give me reason to love bonita. helpless crazy creatures are attracted to me like a magnet. downloaded the kitty pic of you and vic. i am calmer, but then i couldn't really have been more stressed before kitten world, or i would have blown up - love paul.
This gets better as it goes along. I especially like the kitten and the library verses. I like the first two verses too -- they have a hip-hop flavor to them, and I found myself wishing they were a little more hip-hoppy, with a looser flow and more forced rhymes.
How clever his is, and how well done. You are such a fine poet! Just one thought: Could you subssitute another metaphor for Nothing else in my life progresses neatly, it stands out as telling rather than showing...it's fine yet somehow, not quite as good as it might be.
I'm glad you like it and thanks for the critique. I agree they show don't tell, and I will try to change them before I take the poem to my writer's group.
I really like this -- the way the world spins into chaos, then comes back into your control with the sweater. OK, I'm bothered by the grammar in the last stanza. Could you put a period after "row"? -- Love, the Grammar Nazi.
There's a lot more punctuation problems than that. First stanza in particular. I don't know why it takes me several edits before I get punctuation correct.
as we age sense makes less sense talk about everything in the past tense but still wondering what is just over the fence
the chaos of knowing how the world really works stopped from growing where the darkness lurks
i'll keep drinking till life makes sense if my brain doesn't get too dense one day i might be penniless pauper or king if our so called leaders don't lead us to slaughter.
sortta dreamed this poem asleep in the library. well pussy cat owners sleep anywhere. any table, any chair.
I like this poem a lot, though the last line rather trails off, and is kind of off topic in a sense, It's adequate, yet could be improved, in my humble...
too many crazy world leaders and too many nuclear red buttons in the world vic. it's sad, but sortta inevitable. are poets and pussy cats immune to radiation? - love paul.
When I was small I lived with parents' piles, newspapers unread, books the same, and other things I now can't name. I was always told to be neat, and tried, and sighed, when never what I thought good was good enough. And so I vowed that in my home when grown, there would be no piles allowed. And my first husband turned out to be a neatnik, all too neat, a feat I could not emulate, especially as our young children played. And then they grew, and piled themselves away, to stay. My second scarcely knew the word, he hadn't heard his mother when she would berate, and even take his stuff away even when tidily piled. And then one blissful day we set up home together. And my vow continues to annoy me because how am I to cope when piles belong to someone else, fiercely defended as his stuff, not mine. Enough! His chaos is of his own choosing. This is a battle I am losing, therefore order must be mine alone, and I Will let piles be, if they do not belong to me.
i'm a massive fan of piles of stuff tash. vast teetering heaps of books. c.d's i should have put in order 4 years ago and such. putting things away neatly means you can never find it again - love paul.
I love this. Especially the rhythm and the internal and slant rhyme. It's like your channeling your inner Paul Fowler (the best part of his poetry that is. LOL) And no, you can't be responsible for someone else's chaos.
I think this fits, although it may be making chaos from order:
ReplyDeleteEVOLUTION
Music came first, an unbroken pure tone
passing over the smooth surface of clay, how long
no way to count, until ripples
ridged the clay, and the music found them
and began to rise and fall, billions and billions
of times (call them years), until buds
extended, became digits, pushing
up from the clay, wriggling,
swaying side to side, all moving together,
a metronome, marking the rising
and falling tones, billions upon billions,
highs growing infinitesimally
further from lows. Then four
fingers, as they had become, held back
behind the tone, waved response
to another four, neither a hand yet.
The waving fingers began to break
ranks, waggle to each other. New patterns
made for shifting air currents; the tones changed,
more rapidly now, a million years, now half
a million, more, less, with rapid
irregularity, and the second group
of fingers began to tap the clay
they had sprung from. The tones absorbed the taps
for a while, then moved with them,
propelled by them, pushed this way and that,
and rhythms came into the void,
four fingers tapping, four dancing,
contrapuntal, infinite harmony
which needs nothing more than itself, and could have
gone on forever, but that the fingers
pushed further out of the clay, a new nub appeared,
became a thumb, and pushed against the fingers
sounding a snap in air: a beat.
The dancing fingers loved
the beat; they moved with it,
around it, against it. Mostly,
it propelled them, they stretched upward,
pushing through clay, they became hands,
then wrists, then arms that jointed, and would have
jointed again, but that shoulders
grew out and stopped them. But the beat
went on, and the hands were drawn
back to the clay, the music pulsed
around them, the notes were blue,
the rhythms syncopated, and this
was happening all over now, shoulders,
arms, hands from the clay,
back to it, and the clay growing soft
and malleable where the hands
and the music touched it. The hands
began modeling, some pulling it up,
and up, some making finger-width grooves, fingers
probing inside the grooves, until the music
and the hands and the new shapes
made the clay moist and fecund, and
algae grew, and sporangia.
What can I say but WOW! Did this win a prize? Do you do it spoken word? Must be magnificent if so.
DeleteNo prize, but it was published in a recent anthology, "In Like Company" (Mad Hat Press).
Delete" let there be rock " - ac/dc. we all have to push our way through the clay - paul.
DeleteWow. This is awesome. And I think it's more order from chaos. Lovely poem. And I agree with Tasha, it deserves a prize.
Deletesorry for being so late. I have to agree this is totally awesome!
DeleteWOOD
ReplyDeletesometimes chaos can be good
makes you think
while burning norwegian wood
can take your mind to the brink
chaotically searching for my missing link
then it's quiet
and ordered for a time
but like harry lime
as soon as i buy it
it'll blow up in my face
and we start again at a slower pace
kittens are wonderfully chaotic
turn my back and they eat my shoe and sock
the library, my sanctuary
an oasis of order
in a city of chaos for me
just don't cross the border.
I too like the way the verses proceed. I have noticed that about your life, and wondered how it is tat chaos reasserts itself so regularly one things are calm. Glad you have the library to enjoy!
DeleteI think that's why I loved the library so much as a kid. It was order versus the chaos at home. Harry Lime? From The Third Man?
Deletechaos follows me like crows tash. eeerrr i'll introduce you to natalia one day. the living embodiment of chaos. sometimes like waking up with no idea what is gonna happen that day - love paul.
Deleteyep. that harry lime. my favourite film. the way joseph cotton stumbles through that film with little idea what is going on reminds me of me. love my library - love paul.
Deletei can't hop much with this hip tad ha ha. my day has been mostly crazy kittens, pizza and crazy suicidal women today. no change there then. thanks tad - paul.
Deleteexcellent poem. it does seem even though the kittens have brought chaos to your life they have also brought order. you seem much calmer in your spirit.
Deletethe kittens give me reason to love bonita. helpless crazy creatures are attracted to me like a magnet. downloaded the kitty pic of you and vic. i am calmer, but then i couldn't really have been more stressed before kitten world, or i would have blown up - love paul.
DeleteThis gets better as it goes along. I especially like the kitten and the library verses. I like the first two verses too -- they have a hip-hop flavor to them, and I found myself wishing they were a little more hip-hoppy, with a looser flow and more forced rhymes.
ReplyDeleteKnit two, purl one
ReplyDeleteEach row shows
progress, grows the sweater
ball of yarn unwinds
creates garments
for winter.
Nothing else in my life
progresses neatly.
Events swirl, whorl,
no control.
I get old, parents die
friends fade from my life
children grow up
have babies,
siblings too far away.
The world gone awry,
President lies
about war,
Russian interference,
coming climate change.
Still the sweater
grows longer,
each stitch neat, exactly
the same, row by row,
I sit and knit.
keep knitting vic. very little else in the world makes sense i've found - love paul.
DeleteHow clever his is, and how well done. You are such a fine poet! Just one thought: Could you subssitute another metaphor for Nothing else in my life progresses neatly, it stands out as telling rather than showing...it's fine yet somehow, not quite as good as it might be.
DeleteI'm glad you like it and thanks for the critique. I agree they show don't tell, and I will try to change them before I take the poem to my writer's group.
Deleteknitting is not only a relaxing activity in the end you have something that was once a ball of yarn and now a useful item.
DeleteI really like this -- the way the world spins into chaos, then comes back into your control with the sweater. OK, I'm bothered by the grammar in the last stanza. Could you put a period after "row"? -- Love, the Grammar Nazi.
ReplyDeleteThere's a lot more punctuation problems than that. First stanza in particular. I don't know why it takes me several edits before I get punctuation correct.
DeleteDO COLOURS FADE?
ReplyDeleteas we age sense makes less sense
talk about everything in the past tense
but still wondering what is just over the fence
the chaos of knowing
how the world really works
stopped from growing
where the darkness lurks
i'll keep drinking
till life makes sense
if my brain doesn't get too dense
one day i might be penniless pauper
or king
if our so called leaders don't lead us to slaughter.
sortta dreamed this poem asleep in the library. well pussy cat owners sleep anywhere. any table, any chair.
I like this poem a lot, though the last line rather trails off, and is kind of off topic in a sense, It's adequate, yet could be improved, in my humble...
Deletehad to write it quickly tash. i'm not happy with the third verse and it could do with a short fourth verse - love paul.
DeleteI like this, and rather like the way it ends, as if the slaughter happened right then.
Deleteyes I too like this one a lot.
Deletetoo many crazy world leaders and too many nuclear red buttons in the world vic. it's sad, but sortta inevitable. are poets and pussy cats immune to radiation? - love paul.
Deletethanks bonita. i'll try not to get killed in the city today. if i did, who would buy kitten food? - love paul.
Deleter.i.p bonita. wish i could join you - love paul.
DeleteOrder, Chaos, and Piles
ReplyDeleteWhen I was small I lived with parents' piles,
newspapers unread, books the same,
and other things I now can't name.
I was always told to be neat, and tried,
and sighed, when never what I thought good
was good enough. And so I vowed
that in my home when grown, there would be
no piles allowed. And my first husband
turned out to be a neatnik, all too neat,
a feat I could not emulate, especially as
our young children played. And then they grew,
and piled themselves away, to stay.
My second scarcely knew the word, he hadn't
heard his mother when she would berate,
and even take his stuff away even when
tidily piled. And then one blissful day
we set up home together. And my vow
continues to annoy me because how
am I to cope when piles belong to someone else,
fiercely defended as his stuff, not mine.
Enough! His chaos is of his own choosing.
This is a battle I am losing, therefore
order must be mine alone, and I
Will let piles be, if they do not belong to me.
i'm a massive fan of piles of stuff tash. vast teetering heaps of books. c.d's i should have put in order 4 years ago and such. putting things away neatly means you can never find it again - love paul.
DeleteThanks for your comment, and best to you!
DeleteI love this. Especially the rhythm and the internal and slant rhyme. It's like your channeling your inner Paul Fowler (the best part of his poetry that is. LOL) And no, you can't be responsible for someone else's chaos.
DeleteThanks for the nice comment.It's a fun way to write though I could never stick to any one form...the form has to fit the subject, for me.
DeleteI agree with the rhythm and rhyme being very well done. I can totally empathize with the poem!
DeleteSo good to see your comments and to know you are home.Keeping you in my prayers, hugs, Tasha
DeleteYhis poem has what I call chaotic rhyme, a hither and yon sort of fun whirly gig arrangement.
ReplyDelete