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Sunday, May 21, 2017
Enter the Scene
From Linda:
Imagine a small town or village by the water, (lake, ocean, river). Go into the town or village and find a person or family and write a poem about what goes on in their life today.
Only kinda cheating on this one. It IS a new poem and I can pretend the town has a karate school. LOL
Herding Dragons
They won’t stand in line for long, wander away, unconcerned, unless they are breathing fire. Take a deep breath through your nose, breathe dragon breath out your mouth.
They all run at different speeds, never stay together. I’m not a Little Dragon, Vera says. I am a big Dragon. I have little wings.
They do not understand things I take for granted all do. If a big block is on top of another big block, is that a high block? asks Jayon.
One stands still, another moves. One kicks, the rest poke and talk. We do blocks to Star Wars theme. Ryan says, This is so great. I say that every time.
Aiden is ready for big kid classes, but doesn’t want to leave dragon contentment, free to wander to the landscape as dragons rule the dojang.
awesome! I had to read it twice to get that it was about a martial arts class. didn't understand it at first but second reading it all fell into place. love it!
Tad, I did mean "contentment" as in the kid is content with little dragons and doesn't want to move on to a class that is more difficult and has higher expectations. If it doesn't work, I had actually toyed with "confinement" but didn't think that worked.
Bonnie, Good. That was the intent. The first 2 stanzas give no indication it is about anything but "dragons", the 3rd gives hints, the last two are supposed to make it clear.
Somehow I caught on right away that it was about martial arts. Especially toward the end of the poem. I loved it. Very well written and a joy to read. I will read it aloud later to Paul.
What would you suggest. He's happy where he is and doesn't want to move. Describe that in 3 syllables or less. But we talk about babies as content at times.
Victoria, I really enjoyed your poem. I enjoy the martial arts poems a lot. I think the contentment of the child is a unique sort of contentment that only a child can feel.
OK, one draft, written quickly. Dickie was real, he took care of my grandparents' property, but I know nothing about him. Everything else is made up, and the story went where it would. I had no plot in mind when I started it.
MARSHFIELD HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS
The ocean is only five miles away, but it's more than twenty years since Dickie has seen it.
His high school graduation, when he and Margie Wiggin left their class picnic at Humarock Beach, walked
and ran up the coast, stripped naked behind rocks, and ran into the surf. Afterwards made out, but Sallie wouldn't
go all the way. Not until they were engaged, which they never were. She went to college in Framingham
for a year, married a guy from Duxbury, started a family. He went to work for his father, taking care
of rich folks' summer houses, boarding them up for the winter. draining pipes, checking for pests, getting them ready
for summer. Now he does it on his own. He never married, eats a lot of Swanson TV dinners, or keilbasa and sauerkraut at Ryan's,
with a boilermaker or two, enough that he never dreams. But last night, he did. Margie, shedding her bra and girdle, running
into the surf in panties, daring him to follow. She was laughing in the dream, laughing as she dared him onward, laughing
as she kissed him in the surf, laughing as she ran back to the sand, as he tackled her, as they melted together, as she said yes,
yes, and he still heard the laughing in his ears when he woke up, unconsummated. He had an erection, the first one in years, and he took
his hand to it, but left off unfinished, pulled on pants, drove to the beach. It was 2 a.m., but there were gaggles of teens,
some around driftwood fires, no one else who looked like him. He walked up the coast, hearing laughter growing fainter behind him,
work boots heavy in the sand, his breathing labored, wishing he'd brought a beer. Finding the rocks, or some rocks. Taking
off his jacket, the night wind chilly, waves and gulls calling him. He lay down, made a pillow of his jacket, looked at the stars
Like I said, it was one fast draft. The one change I made was the name of the girl, and I missed one, wish I could go back and edit at least that much.
very intense. I loved the story that came out of nothing. It is a marvelous story that sounds so true that it could come to life at any moment. I also am in awe of your poetry.
Nice poem, I wondered why he didn't have more of a life-- seems like something is missing...I liked the ending. I guess I'd like another verse about why.
The house felt small now she stood in the living room remembered how huge it had felt when her family lived here when she was a child.
She went upstairs to THE room the inner sanctum they called it the room she shared with her three sisters and yet they didn’t feel crowded.
She saw some old cassette tapes lying in a corner and picked them up tears welled up in her eyes as she noticed one was A Monkees tape - I wanna be free.
She cried not because of the song but for the memories it stirred of a nineteen year old girl as she plugged in her first electric guitar and sang that familiar song.
Time had moved too swiftly now she was old and yet the memories were so new and vivid. Yes, she would buy the house now invite her family to fill the rooms.
And maybe, just maybe she would buy another electric guitar and amp and with gnarled fingers stand in the middle of the bedroom as she did at nineteen and play I wanna be free.
I love the story in the poem. It set loose a lot of feelings for me. Very well written. I enjoyed it so much!!! I will read it to Paul later when he gets home as I will all of the poems.
I think I'd tighten it a bit. Always try to leave out anything that the reader would get anyway, even if it wasn't there. Sometimes that just means a word. She walks into the room and sees tapes. Then if you just say "Monkees" the reader knows it's a Monkees tape. I love where it goes. The last two verses are wonderful. But again...once you have her imagining herself standing in the middle of the floor with an electric guitar, you've nailed that. The reader knows it's like when she was nineteen. Maybe add something new, that will capture her nineteen-ness. Wearing a red bandana. Or smoking a Tareyton. Or braless under a granny dress. You want to say more. Or less. It not the same thing.
Bonnie, I like the new line "a barefoot girl in patched jeans". It will really add some reality and mood to the poem which by the way is very good and a joy to read. Actually a joy to listen to as Linda read me the poems. LOL
Looking for a little tighter here too. It becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that he's alone, so maybe you don't have to say it. Just have him and the waves. I like the way you describe the motion of the waves. Maybe you don't need to state that he couldn't take the pain. Sometimes it's enough to,describe where he is and what he does, and let the reader realize inside him/herself that he can't take the pain.
OK, I know I shouldn't do this, but it's what Ezra Pound did for T. S. Eliot in "The Waste Land," so at least there's a precedent. I just took a few words,out, didn't change anything else. And feel free to ignore it. That's one of the good things about revising a poem - you can always go back to the original.
Antonio watched the waves ripple toward him meander slowly back
the sea breeze smelled pleasantly of fish sprayed on his journal gently causing the words to become slightly damp
blurred like his life like the tears he didn't care this would be his last entry
Angelina was gone everyone in the village had gone to her funeral
someone passing through had raped her strangled her with her own pantyhose
Antonio had walked down the lane where it had happened a million times
Honey, This is a very sad story. I enjoyed listening to it even though the poor man commits suicide. I do agree with Tad and like his version. But, your version was good also.
Impressive responses to the prompts. I look forward to telling my story, I can feel it teasing me from behind he curtain, just a little. It will emerge, I know it will and I will comment individually when my mind is fresher and it's not time for me to go to bed.
The horse and wagon clippity clopped. A glimpse of the river came and went as the smooth road rolled beneath its wheels and the wagon traveled its curves.
My dearest love sat holding the reins with me beside him on the seat. Together we clippity clopped along on this sunny summer day.
The breezes ruffled my hair and his, beneath our hats of woven straw. I sighed contented to be with him as we made our way along.
In the distance I saw a little town. Its houses gleamed beneath the sun. There were trees along its narrow streets and shops and gardens too.
And then I thought how very strange, I don't remember how it is I come to be on this wagon seat beside my husband dear.
I'd been preparing to go to bed, and then I'd said my evening prayers. I'd snuggled between the sheets and quilt and drifted off to sleep
I was unsure just where I was or if this were some kind of dream, yet the landscape had a familiar look That I thought I recognized.
Then I remembered that over our bed there was a painting of just this view. My husband had done it long ago And here it was for real.
The wagon drew closer to the little town, and I saw a sign that made me smile: Welcome to everlasting, it read and I knew that we'd come home.
Only kinda cheating on this one. It IS a new poem and I can pretend the town has a karate school. LOL
ReplyDeleteHerding Dragons
They won’t stand in line for long,
wander away, unconcerned,
unless they are breathing fire.
Take a deep breath through your nose,
breathe dragon breath out your mouth.
They all run at different
speeds, never stay together.
I’m not a Little Dragon,
Vera says. I am a big
Dragon. I have little wings.
They do not understand things
I take for granted all do.
If a big block is on top
of another big block, is
that a high block? asks Jayon.
One stands still, another moves.
One kicks, the rest poke and talk.
We do blocks to Star Wars theme.
Ryan says, This is so great.
I say that every time.
Aiden is ready for big
kid classes, but doesn’t want
to leave dragon contentment,
free to wander to the landscape
as dragons rule the dojang.
This is lovely.
DeleteIs "contentment" really what you mean?
awesome! I had to read it twice to get that it was about a martial arts class. didn't understand it at first but second reading it all fell into place. love it!
DeleteTad, I did mean "contentment" as in the kid is content with little dragons and doesn't want to move on to a class that is more difficult and has higher expectations. If it doesn't work, I had actually toyed with "confinement" but didn't think that worked.
DeleteBonnie, Good. That was the intent. The first 2 stanzas give no indication it is about anything but "dragons", the 3rd gives hints, the last two are supposed to make it clear.
DeleteSomehow I caught on right away that it was about martial arts. Especially toward the end of the poem. I loved it. Very well written and a joy to read. I will read it aloud later to Paul.
DeleteContentment works much better than confinement.
DeleteBut it still bothers me. I don't see contentment as a state that little kids inhabit. Maybe it's just me.
DeleteWhat would you suggest. He's happy where he is and doesn't want to move. Describe that in 3 syllables or less. But we talk about babies as content at times.
DeleteHow about something like - wants to stay a contented dragon.
DeleteHow about something like - wants to stay a contented dragon.
DeleteMaybe. I don't have an answer. Just an itch.
DeleteNice poem, I like the sense of the kid and his feelings as portrayed.
DeleteVictoria, I really enjoyed your poem. I enjoy the martial arts poems a lot. I think the contentment of the child is a unique sort of contentment that only a child can feel.
DeleteOK, one draft, written quickly. Dickie was real, he took care of my grandparents' property, but I know nothing about him. Everything else is made up, and the story went where it would. I had no plot in mind when I started it.
ReplyDeleteMARSHFIELD HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS
The ocean is only
five miles away, but it's
more than twenty years since
Dickie has seen it.
His high school graduation, when
he and Margie Wiggin left
their class picnic at
Humarock Beach, walked
and ran up the coast,
stripped naked behind rocks, and
ran into the surf. Afterwards
made out, but Sallie wouldn't
go all the way.
Not until they were engaged,
which they never were. She
went to college in Framingham
for a year, married
a guy from Duxbury, started
a family. He went to work
for his father, taking care
of rich folks' summer houses,
boarding them up for the winter.
draining pipes, checking for
pests, getting them ready
for summer. Now he does it
on his own. He never married, eats
a lot of Swanson TV dinners,
or keilbasa and sauerkraut at Ryan's,
with a boilermaker
or two, enough that he never dreams.
But last night, he did. Margie,
shedding her bra and girdle, running
into the surf in panties, daring
him to follow. She was laughing
in the dream, laughing
as she dared him onward, laughing
as she kissed him in the surf,
laughing as she ran back to the sand,
as he tackled her, as they melted
together, as she said yes,
yes, and he still heard the laughing
in his ears when he woke up,
unconsummated. He had an erection,
the first one in years, and he took
his hand to it, but left off
unfinished, pulled on pants,
drove to the beach. It was 2 a.m.,
but there were gaggles of teens,
some around driftwood fires, no one
else who looked like him.
He walked up the coast, hearing laughter
growing fainter behind him,
work boots heavy in the sand,
his breathing labored, wishing
he'd brought a beer. Finding
the rocks, or some rocks. Taking
off his jacket, the night wind chilly,
waves and gulls calling him. He lay down,
made a pillow of his jacket,
looked at the stars
for as long as he could see them.
Like I said, it was one fast draft. The one change I made was the name of the girl, and I missed one, wish I could go back and edit at least that much.
Deletewonderful! i was pulled into the scene as the story moved forward. if this is a rough draft for you I am in awe!
DeleteAwesome scene settings. If this is where you mind goes when you're not trying, like Bonnie, I am in awe. But then I always have been with your poetry.
Deletevery intense. I loved the story that came out of nothing. It is a marvelous story that sounds so true that it could come to life at any moment. I also am in awe of your poetry.
DeleteNice poem, I wondered why he didn't have more of a life-- seems like something is missing...I liked the ending. I guess I'd like another verse about why.
DeleteTad, This poem is very sensitive and I was drawn into the story right away. It held my attention to the ending. I enjoyed it very much.
DeleteThe Old House
ReplyDeleteThe house felt small now
she stood in the living room
remembered how huge it had felt
when her family lived here
when she was a child.
She went upstairs to THE room
the inner sanctum they called it
the room she shared with
her three sisters and yet
they didn’t feel crowded.
She saw some old cassette tapes
lying in a corner and picked them up
tears welled up in her eyes
as she noticed one was
A Monkees tape - I wanna be free.
She cried not because of the song
but for the memories it stirred
of a nineteen year old girl as she
plugged in her first electric guitar
and sang that familiar song.
Time had moved too swiftly
now she was old and yet the memories
were so new and vivid.
Yes, she would buy the house now
invite her family to fill the rooms.
And maybe, just maybe she would
buy another electric guitar and amp
and with gnarled fingers stand in
the middle of the bedroom as she did at nineteen
and play I wanna be free.
Love it and yes I both found the house much smaller than I remembered and wished I could buy it, factory in the backyard and all.
DeleteI love the story in the poem. It set loose a lot of feelings for me. Very well written. I enjoyed it so much!!! I will read it to Paul later when he gets home as I will all of the poems.
DeleteI think I'd tighten it a bit. Always try to leave out anything that the reader would get anyway, even if it wasn't there. Sometimes that just means a word. She walks into the room and sees tapes. Then if you just say "Monkees" the reader knows it's a Monkees tape.
DeleteI love where it goes. The last two verses are wonderful. But again...once you have her imagining herself standing in the middle of the floor with an electric guitar, you've nailed that. The reader knows it's like when she was nineteen. Maybe add something new, that will capture her nineteen-ness. Wearing a red bandana. Or smoking a Tareyton. Or braless under a granny dress. You want to say more. Or less. It not the same thing.
i like your thoughts on this... will be working on it and post it with changes :-).
Deleteinstead of saying nineteen I think I will change that line to...
a barefoot girl in patched jeans
A touching poem, Bonnie, very evocative. I expect there is some truth to it? A fine image presented in a sweet way.
Deleteyes everything except me buying the house is true. that part is a dream :-)
DeleteBonnie, I like the new line "a barefoot girl in patched jeans". It will really add some reality and mood to the poem which by the way is very good and a joy to read. Actually a joy to listen to as Linda read me the poems. LOL
DeleteAntonio sat alone
ReplyDeletewatching the waves
ripple toward him
meander slowly back
the sea breeze smelled
pleasantly of fish
it sprayed
on his journal
gently
causing the words
he wrote
to become slightly damp
blurred like his life
through the tears
that slid down his cheeks
he didn't care
this would be his last entry
his sweet Angelina was gone
everyone in the village
had gone to her funeral
it was someone passing through
he'd raped her
and strangled her
with her own pantyhose
Antonio couldn't take the pain
he'd walked down the lane
where it had happened
a million times
today he would be with her...again
what a said scenario. i could see the scene as I read. you painted a very vivid picture with your words.
DeleteLooking for a little tighter here too. It becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that he's alone, so maybe you don't have to say it. Just have him and the waves. I like the way you describe the motion of the waves.
DeleteMaybe you don't need to state that he couldn't take the pain. Sometimes it's enough to,describe where he is and what he does, and let the reader realize inside him/herself that he can't take the pain.
Very sad story. Reread in my head with the changes Tad suggested and it does work better.
DeleteOK, I know I shouldn't do this, but it's what Ezra Pound did for T. S. Eliot in "The Waste Land," so at least there's a precedent. I just took a few words,out, didn't change anything else. And feel free to ignore it. That's one of the good things about revising a poem - you can always go back to the original.
DeleteAntonio watched the waves
ripple toward him
meander slowly back
the sea breeze smelled
pleasantly of fish
sprayed
on his journal
gently
causing the words
to become slightly damp
blurred like his life
like the tears
he didn't care
this would be his last entry
Angelina was gone
everyone in the village
had gone to her funeral
someone passing through
had raped her
strangled her
with her own pantyhose
Antonio
had walked down the lane
where it had happened
a million times
today he would be with her...again
I see what you mean. The whole story is still there but with less words and the detail is in the mind instead of on paper. Thank you Tad.
DeleteSad tale, nicely done.
DeleteHoney, This is a very sad story. I enjoyed listening to it even though the poor man commits suicide. I do agree with Tad and like his version. But, your version was good also.
DeleteImpressive responses to the prompts. I look forward to telling my story, I can feel it teasing me from behind he curtain, just a little. It will emerge, I know it will and I will comment individually when my mind is fresher and it's not time for me to go to bed.
ReplyDeleteThe Village I Call Home
ReplyDeleteThe horse and wagon clippity clopped.
A glimpse of the river came and went
as the smooth road rolled beneath its wheels
and the wagon traveled its curves.
My dearest love sat holding the reins
with me beside him on the seat.
Together we clippity clopped along
on this sunny summer day.
The breezes ruffled my hair and his,
beneath our hats of woven straw.
I sighed contented to be with him
as we made our way along.
In the distance I saw a little town.
Its houses gleamed beneath the sun.
There were trees along its narrow streets
and shops and gardens too.
And then I thought how very strange,
I don't remember how it is
I come to be on this wagon seat
beside my husband dear.
I'd been preparing to go to bed,
and then I'd said my evening prayers.
I'd snuggled between the sheets and quilt
and drifted off to sleep
I was unsure just where I was
or if this were some kind of dream,
yet the landscape had a familiar look
That I thought I recognized.
Then I remembered that over our bed
there was a painting of just this view.
My husband had done it long ago
And here it was for real.
The wagon drew closer to the little town,
and I saw a sign that made me smile:
Welcome to everlasting, it read
and I knew that we'd come home.
i love this... it leaves the reader between dream and reality. well played!
DeleteI got a chill while reading this poem. It was almost like watching a Twilight Zone movie. Great poem!!!
DeleteTasha, I really enjoyed hearing your poem. It had a mystical quality about it that made me think of heaven.
DeleteI love the idea of entering a painting by your husband, and a beautiful scene. I'd love to enter it also.
DeleteYes, it is, and thank you Paul and Victoria, I will post a picture of it one day so you can see what a fine collage artist my beloved is.
DeleteHope this fulfills the parameters of your suggestion, Linda. It is a story that I hope will one day come true.
ReplyDeleteThe Seaside
ReplyDeleteIn a little village
as the sun comes up
we don our daily fishing gear
and once more fill our cup
the waters have been plentiful
giving up its great rewards
we anticipate our daily catch
as we tread our old dock boards
we think of our loved ones
as we prepare to cast off and away
we ask a heartfelt blessing
for a safe and successful day
the water is our friend
and it also is our foe
which one will it be today
none of us can ever know
the sea can be mean and fickle
or can be so vastly great
we yearn to catch that big one
the prize for which we wait
we bait our lines and cast them shallow
then we change and cast them deep
we hope to find the magic level
of great reward to rea;
the angry waves
thunderous churnings
invigorates our minds
with hysterical yearnings
Shall we be the heroes through
the challenges of our day
Will the sea give up its gifts
or send us back our forlorn way
The sea is our mystery,
the sea is our life
it's our lover or cruel foe
our husband or dear wife
please grant us the patience
to accept what may come
and appreciate all
of it's wondrous sum
we do what we have to
we do what we must
as we pass through our lives
to finally end up as dust
enjoy the experience
and live all you can
for nothing ever really goes
the way that we would plan
i could feel the waves and smell the sea air! what a great ending that ties the poem into all aspects of life.
DeleteFine poem, very philosophical and nicely drawn images.
Deletenice rhyme and rhythm as well as great imagery. I really enjoyed this poem. You put it together very nicely.
DeleteNice job, and so true. Things don't usually go as planned.
Delete