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Saturday, June 6, 2020
About a Place
From Tad:
Write a poem about a place that is meaningful to you. Choose a place you haven’t written about before. Make the poem be about the place, not why it’s meaningful to you.
They called it “the camp,” because it wasn’t winterized, but it had three bedrooms, a fireplace, a wraparound porch that was open in the front with two rocking chairs, and screened in around the side, with a long counter and stools for breakfast, Kellogg’s eight pack— you chose your own, cut the front of the box off, added milk and sugar, and ate it just like that. The corn flakes always got chosen last. At five and six blueberries in the woods, all around the house, and a drive to Peggoty Beach with Grandma, where the grandmothers all wore bathing dresses with skirts, and the gentle waves lapped like the tongues of kittens, or Humarock with Uncle Karl, who sang a song about a man named Michael Finnegan, and there were real waves, and older kids.
Then we were those older kids ourselves at 12 and 13, bacon and eggs for breakfast on the porch, and bicycles down the woodland path to the road, and from there to Humarock, ice cream cones for a nickel at the beach front store, baseball on the beach, just the two of us, with a bat and a spaldeen, pitcher and batter, and after you hit one the argument over whether an imaginary fielder would have had it.
Then I was a dad, and Woody and I took Caitlin, who was 16, for a summer, and we had clams and beer and cokes at the beachfront spot run by body builders, muscle guys and muscle girls, and the clams were sandy and delicious, and when I went back alone the next year, it was a place with white tablecloths and waiters in ties.
Then Aunt Miriam got dementia, and her lawyers sold the camp to a developer, and I drove past it once. The woods had been razed, and you could see the house from the road, suddenly small and frail, the bulldozers pressing it like the tide.
Revised - and this breaks one of my basic rules for revision, which is that you probably said everything you needed to say the first time around, and you probably said too much or said it too long-windedly, so all revision should be cutting. Of course, this really isn't a rule, just something to think about. I did some cutting here, and I suspect still not enough, but I also added another scene from Marshfield that I left out the first time, and instantly regretted it.
MARSHFIELD HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS
They called it "the camp," because it wasn't winterized, but it had three bedrooms, a fireplace, a wraparound porch open in the front with two rocking chairs, screened in around the side, a long counter and stools for breakfast, Kellogg's eight pack— you chose your own, cut the front of the box off, added milk and sugar, and ate it just like that. The corn flakes always got chosen last. At five and six we picked blueberries in the woods, all around the house, and a drive to Peggoty Beach with Grandma, where the grandmothers all wore bathing dresses with skirts, and the gentle waves lapped like the tongues of kittens, or Humarock with Uncle Karl, who sang a song about a man named Michael Finnegan, and there were real waves, and older kids.
Then we were those older kids at 12 and 13, bacon and eggs for breakfast on the porch, and bicycles down the woodland path to the road, and from there to Humarock, ice cream cones for a nickel at the beach front store, baseball on the beach, just the two of us, with a bat and a spaldeen, pitcher and batter, and after you hit one the argument over whether the imaginary fielder would have had it.
Then I was a dad, and Woody and I took Caitlin, who was 16, for a summer, and we had clams and beer and cokes at the beachfront spot run by body builders, muscle guys and muscle girls, and the clams were sandy and delicious.
When I went back alone the next year, it was a place with white tablecloths and waiters in bow ties, but the beach on Fourth of July was still dreamlike chaos, sleeves of firecrackers tossed on bonfires, random bottle rockets over the waves, walking through without fear.
Then Aunt Miriam got dementia, and her lawyers sold the camp to a developer, and I drove past it once. The woods had been razed, and you could see the house from the road, suddenly small and frail, the bulldozers pressing it like the tide.
I took my herb into the woods and found a comfey tree I sat down upon a root my head against the trunk
in my mind I hear some weeping for this tree was once a man in his life he’d traveled and explored the 7 seas he left his women all hangin’ and burdened with a child his karma was this permanence all rooted to the ground I told him then if he desired i’d slay him when next I came so then he wouldn’t have to weep and he’d be free of earth and dirt
i went back another day on my shoulder was my ax I leaned against the sad old tee and when i listened carefully i heard a joyous sound laughter and and a chuckle... my tree had learned to live...
Yes Tad. I agree. I did struggle with that but I used the same 14 words. Getting them ti fit the 12477 pattern and the same words was the challenge I set myself up in.
There’s a verse form called the paradelle that uses an absolutely strict word count. It was described by Billy Collins in a book of his — "The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words." Collins included a paradelle in his book, which was terrible. It turned out that (a) his poem was deliberately terrible, and (b) there was no such ancient French verse form. It was a hoax by Collins to make fun of poets (like me) who write in older forms like pantoums and villanelles. But since then other poets (like me) have tossed the hoax back at Collins by actually writing paradelles.
the place i go is in my mind I find the fallow fields of earth direly disappointing I hide on people who put me last and don’t let them in not at all I don’t fall for false flattery or whiny woman wiles no, in the place i go there’s fields of flowers and soft warm snow flakes animals to cuddle me candid conversations with the clouds ...and me...
I wrote a poem like that myself once.Here it is: It became a song, also, and is quite pretty sung.
My Haven
When I was small I made a world where I could go and hide. no one could ever bother me while I was safe inside. There was no sadness there, no hurt no one who was unkind, and the sun was always shining in the world that I designed.
I left that wold for good one day, that world so bright and still, sometimes I think I might return and yet I never will, for though I did find happiness and freedom from despair I also can remember I was very lonely there.
How can I find some place to put away On shelves and tables what's in disarray? My husband the collector needs more space, Each lovely treasure must have its own place.
I clean our little home the best I can, So as to keep it nice for my dear man,
He cherishes his items large and small, Each one here gladly gathered, wall to wall. Regardless if it's small it's warm with cheer, Even neat or messy, home is here.
DVDs,antiques, small things that take his fancy--these could be from anywhere in the world. This is the second acrostic I've ever written!Did anyone notice?
On top of and unnamed mountain, nestled deep in the forest, is a place called Solitude.
Of course that's not its real name, but the name that I've given it.
And on top of this mountain is a tower, abandoned and forgotten years ago.
On top of the tower there is a platform with a view open to the world around.
Standing upon that platform I look out to see a limitless expense of the green foliage for miles every direction.
Standing upon the top of Solitude, I am alone but not lonely. I am kept company by the soft buzz of insects in the occasional call of a bird in flight.
During the day I can see for miles every direction as if staring off distant lands waiting to be explored.
At night solitary lights shine upon the green carpet below, each a testament to the soles that gather around it like a beacon in the dark.
Above me the stars shine bright and plentiful as if in response to the lights below, a recognition of their existence.
I go to Solitude when I need to feel the wind carry my burdens away and dispel them from my mind.
Below me, within the tower walls, our messages and the names of pilgrims who traveled here before me. Will I leave my message and my name as well?
Victoria chose my favorite passage to edit for you. I loved the imagery and the sounds of the insects and birds that this poem provoked!! I loved it. Victoria is right. The way she edited for you is exactly what I would have done! Great poem, Will!!!
I like this a lot, and I'm fine with the formatting. Russell Edson does this kind of line, and Marvin Bell. The first six lines are linked by words - at least one word from the preceding line in the succeeding line. And I missed that when it stopped happening.
Thank you everyone. I will work on my formatting. I'm glad to finally be here writing and reading the works of some of my favorite influences in writing.
I wrote a second one for this and then lost all track of time. I want to post it anyway. Tad helped me tweak it. Thanks Tad.
The River Place
There is a river of water I watch that hosts the passing of barges and such that sail or tug or paddle or float. Like kayaks and jet packs and jet skis and boats.
The water that flows is dark as a well what’s underneath is hard to tell. I wait for a glimpse of the fisherman’s prize. The ones that escaped were double the size.
The eastern light along the flanks helps me see whats across the banks a glimpse of something silver and long carrying passengers for work or fun.
Over my shoulder, far to the right is the well traveled bridge of suicidal height Despite the sign saying Life’s Worth Living, enough poor souls found life unforgiving.
In the pavilion under the sun are tables and grills with burgers and buns ready to feed the families and friends getting together before summers end.
A needed escape to relax and wonder. til off in the distance I began to hear thunder. “SH” to my dog who just jumped and growled “Stop it! I said. There’s no dogs allowed”
And I have one, written tonight.
ReplyDeleteMARSHFIELD HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS
They called it “the camp,” because it
wasn’t winterized, but it had three
bedrooms, a fireplace, a wraparound
porch that was open in the front
with two rocking chairs, and screened
in around the side, with a long counter
and stools for breakfast, Kellogg’s eight pack—
you chose your own, cut
the front of the box off, added
milk and sugar, and ate it just like that.
The corn flakes always
got chosen last. At five and six
blueberries in the woods, all
around the house, and a drive
to Peggoty Beach with Grandma, where
the grandmothers all wore bathing dresses
with skirts, and the gentle waves
lapped like the tongues of kittens,
or Humarock with Uncle Karl, who sang
a song about a man named Michael Finnegan,
and there were real waves, and older kids.
Then we were those older kids ourselves
at 12 and 13, bacon and eggs
for breakfast on the porch, and bicycles
down the woodland path to the road,
and from there to Humarock, ice cream cones
for a nickel at the beach front store, baseball on
the beach, just the two of us, with a bat and a
spaldeen, pitcher and batter, and after you hit one
the argument over whether an imaginary
fielder would have had it.
Then I was a dad, and Woody and I took
Caitlin, who was 16, for a summer, and we had
clams and beer and cokes at the beachfront spot
run by body builders, muscle guys
and muscle girls, and the clams were sandy and
delicious, and when I went back
alone the next year, it was a place with white
tablecloths and waiters in ties.
Then Aunt Miriam
got dementia, and her lawyers sold the camp
to a developer, and I drove past it once. The
woods had been razed, and you could see the
house from the road, suddenly small and frail,
the bulldozers pressing it like the tide.
What a wonderful memory of a place! "the camp" sounds like generations of fun!! Great write!
DeleteWhat a wonderful place! It meaning to you is clear from all the dear memories.
DeleteA grand tale you told, and a fun description, though bittersweet at the end. LOVED that last line about the bulldozer, so vivid. .
DeleteAwesome memory and place. I'm so sorry it was razed.
DeleteRevised - and this breaks one of my basic rules for revision, which is that you probably said everything you needed to say the first time around, and you probably said too much or said it too long-windedly, so all revision should be cutting. Of course, this really isn't a rule, just something to think about. I did some cutting here, and I suspect still not enough, but I also added another scene from Marshfield that I left out the first time, and instantly regretted it.
DeleteMARSHFIELD HILLS, MASSACHUSETTS
They called it "the camp," because it
wasn't winterized, but it had three
bedrooms, a fireplace, a wraparound
porch open in the front with
two rocking chairs, screened
in around the side, a long counter
and stools for breakfast, Kellogg's eight pack—
you chose your own, cut
the front of the box off, added
milk and sugar, and ate it just like that.
The corn flakes always
got chosen last. At five and six
we picked blueberries in the woods, all
around the house, and a drive
to Peggoty Beach with Grandma, where
the grandmothers all wore bathing dresses
with skirts, and the gentle waves
lapped like the tongues of kittens,
or Humarock with Uncle Karl, who sang
a song about a man named Michael Finnegan,
and there were real waves, and older kids.
Then we were those older kids
at 12 and 13, bacon and eggs
for breakfast on the porch, and bicycles
down the woodland path to the road,
and from there to Humarock, ice cream cones
for a nickel at the beach front store, baseball on
the beach, just the two of us, with a bat and a
spaldeen, pitcher and batter, and after you hit one
the argument over whether the imaginary
fielder would have had it.
Then I was a dad, and Woody and I took
Caitlin, who was 16, for a summer, and we had
clams and beer and cokes at the beachfront spot
run by body builders, muscle guys
and muscle girls, and the clams were sandy and
delicious.
When I went back
alone the next year, it was a place with white
tablecloths and waiters in bow ties,
but the beach on Fourth
of July was still dreamlike chaos,
sleeves of firecrackers tossed on bonfires,
random bottle rockets over the waves,
walking through without fear.
Then Aunt Miriam
got dementia, and her lawyers sold the camp
to a developer, and I drove past it once. The
woods had been razed, and you could see the
house from the road, suddenly small and frail,
the bulldozers pressing it like the tide.
I took my herb
ReplyDeleteinto the woods
and found a comfey tree
I sat down upon a root
my head
against the trunk
in my mind
I hear some weeping
for this tree
was once a man
in his life
he’d traveled
and explored the 7 seas
he left his women
all hangin’
and burdened
with a child
his karma was
this permanence
all rooted to the ground
I told him then
if he desired
i’d slay him
when next I came
so then he wouldn’t
have to weep
and he’d be free of earth and dirt
i went back
another day
on my shoulder
was my ax
I leaned against the sad old tee
and when i listened carefully
i heard a joyous sound
laughter and and a chuckle...
my tree had learned
to live...
And you don't need "in my mind" - put yourself right there, with the tree.
DeleteI like the last two lines but I agree the “in my mind” may not be needed.
DeleteI liked this tale, and enjoyed the images very much.
DeleteI agree with both of Tad's suggestions. I think the poem ending with "a chuckle" would be perfect.
DeleteI like "laughter and a chuckle" -- two different responses.
DeleteLovely. You don't need the last two lines.
ReplyDeleteThe Place: My Mind - Eyes Closed
ReplyDeleteIt
is dark
yet I can see
the flashing of images
coordinating my thoughts.
The
dark is
my flashing thoughts
of coordinating, yet
I can see its images.
Yet
can I
coordinate
of the images flashing?
Is it seeing my dark thoughts?
(I used the same 14 words. I don’t know why. It’s just the way my mind was working)
Maybe not "coordinate / of..." It doesn't work grammatically, and that throws everything off. "coordinate / all..." would work.
Deletesometimes repetition is like a poem all its own and makes it powerful. I liked it.
DeleteYes Tad. I agree. I did struggle with that but I used the same 14 words. Getting them ti fit the 12477 pattern and the same words was the challenge I set myself up in.
DeleteMakes sense. Poetic sense.
DeleteThere’s a verse form called the paradelle that uses an absolutely strict word count. It was described by Billy Collins in a book of his — "The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words." Collins included a paradelle in his book, which was terrible.
DeleteIt turned out that (a) his poem was deliberately terrible, and (b) there was no such ancient French verse form. It was a hoax by Collins to make fun of poets (like me) who write in older forms like pantoums and villanelles. But since then other poets (like me) have tossed the hoax back at Collins by actually writing paradelles.
Fun exercise!Clever woman.
DeleteInteresting exercise. And not a bad poem either.
DeleteI like it. The repetition realy works.
ReplyDeletethe place i go
ReplyDeleteis in my mind
I find the fallow fields
of earth direly disappointing
I hide on people
who put me last
and don’t let them in
not at all
I don’t fall
for false flattery
or whiny woman wiles
no, in the place i go
there’s fields of flowers
and soft warm snow flakes
animals to cuddle me
candid conversations with
the clouds
...and me...
I wrote a poem like that myself once.Here it is: It became a song, also, and is quite pretty sung.
DeleteMy Haven
When I was small I made a world
where I could go and hide.
no one could ever bother me
while I was safe inside.
There was no sadness there, no hurt
no one who was unkind,
and the sun was always shining
in the world that I designed.
I left that wold for good one day,
that world so bright and still,
sometimes I think I might return
and yet I never will,
for though I did find happiness
and freedom from despair
I also can remember
I was very lonely there.
Your poetry just keeps getting better. This sets the scene so well.
Delete“Soft warm snowflakes” My favorite line.
ReplyDeleteIt is a vivid, haunting line.
DeleteBow at the door.
ReplyDeleteEnter the dojang.
Remove shoes.
Change to white uniforms.
Command respect.
Martial artists heed
protocol,
reply "Yes sir, yes ma'am",
do not speak first,
listen to black belts,
stand erect,
come to attention, bow
to instructors,
do as they are told,
at least try.
This world is organized,
while on the mats.
Uniform in uniform
they all stand
tall, reach higher, have goals.
When it's time to
leave, face the dojang
bow once more,
return to larger, less
disciplined world.
An excellent description poetically rendered. Good statement of the contrast, too, a nicely layered poem.
DeleteI messed up the form. "Uniform in uniform" has two too many syllables. )-: Maybe "all in uniform" but that's not as powerful. Sigh...
DeleteOr maybe this.
DeleteUniform uniforms
while on the mats.
This world organized,
they all stand
tall, reach higher, have goals.
I thought the cadence was really good actually. I enjoyed your poem. I could picture the people in the group all being respectful and serious.
DeleteTheir world organized, they
Deletestand uniform
in uniform on the
mats. They stand
taller, reach higher, meet goals.
I like it. I was there! Remembering watching Patrick and Arick ....
DeleteThe Collector
ReplyDeleteHow can I find some place to put away
On shelves and tables what's in disarray?
My husband the collector needs more space,
Each lovely treasure must have its own place.
I clean our little home the best I can,
So as to keep it nice for my dear man,
He cherishes his items large and small,
Each one here gladly gathered, wall to wall.
Regardless if it's small it's warm with cheer,
Even neat or messy, home is here.
LOL. Awesome. What does he collect?
DeleteDVDs,antiques, small things that take his fancy--these could be from anywhere in the world. This is the second acrostic I've ever written!Did anyone notice?
DeleteOMG!! I can't believe I didn't noticed the acrostic. Absolutely awesome.
DeleteWonderful!!! I got a real chuckle. I didn't realize Steven was such a collector.!! You must have a great time cleaning!!! I love it!
DeleteI'M HERE TO TELL YOU I MAKE HIM DO THE DUSTING.
DeleteThat should be in the poem. It's sweet and loving, but it would be even sweeter with a little spice.
DeleteLove the acrostic! And the dusting would be a nice add for a smirk.
DeleteSolitude on Top of the Tower
ReplyDeleteOn top of and unnamed mountain, nestled deep in the forest, is a place called Solitude.
Of course that's not its real name, but the name that I've given it.
And on top of this mountain is a tower, abandoned and forgotten years ago.
On top of the tower there is a platform with a view open to the world around.
Standing upon that platform I look out to see a limitless expense of the green foliage for miles every direction.
Standing upon the top of Solitude, I am alone but not lonely. I am kept company by the soft buzz of insects in the occasional call of a bird in flight.
During the day I can see for miles every direction as if staring off distant lands waiting to be explored.
At night solitary lights shine upon the green carpet below, each a testament to the soles that gather around it like a beacon in the dark.
Above me the stars shine bright and plentiful as if in response to the lights below, a recognition of their existence.
I go to Solitude when I need to feel the wind carry my burdens away and dispel them from my mind.
Below me, within the tower walls, our messages and the names of pilgrims who traveled here before me. Will I leave my message and my name as well?
Very nice. I'd like to see it formatted more like poetry, but I'm glad to see you out here finally.
DeleteBut let's just take the next to last stanza for instance:
I go to Solitude
to feel the wind
carry my burdens
away, dispel them
from my mind.
Victoria chose my favorite passage to edit for you. I loved the imagery and the sounds of the insects and birds that this poem provoked!! I loved it. Victoria is right. The way she edited for you is exactly what I would have done! Great poem, Will!!!
DeleteI liked the way this poem made me see everything so nicely, and it brought back memories of being in trees and feeling the same way.
DeleteI enjoyed this. It was relaxing.
DeleteI like this a lot, and I'm fine with the formatting. Russell Edson does this kind of line, and Marvin Bell. The first six lines are linked by words - at least one word from the preceding line in the succeeding line. And I missed that when it stopped happening.
ReplyDeleteThank you everyone. I will work on my formatting. I'm glad to finally be here writing and reading the works of some of my favorite influences in writing.
ReplyDeleteI wrote a second one for this and then lost all track of time. I want to post it anyway. Tad helped me tweak it. Thanks Tad.
ReplyDeleteThe River Place
There is a river of water I watch
that hosts the passing of barges and such
that sail or tug or paddle or float.
Like kayaks and jet packs and jet skis and boats.
The water that flows is dark as a well
what’s underneath is hard to tell.
I wait for a glimpse of the fisherman’s prize.
The ones that escaped were double the size.
The eastern light along the flanks
helps me see whats across the banks
a glimpse of something silver and long
carrying passengers for work or fun.
Over my shoulder, far to the right
is the well traveled bridge of suicidal height
Despite the sign saying Life’s Worth Living, enough poor souls found life unforgiving.
In the pavilion under the sun
are tables and grills with burgers and buns
ready to feed the families and friends
getting together before summers end.
A needed escape to relax and wonder.
til off in the distance I began to hear thunder.
“SH” to my dog who just jumped and growled
“Stop it! I said. There’s no dogs allowed”