One or Two
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
One
Earth apple purple.
Black wet clods.
Skin.
Spuds.
Octobersoak.
Greyslop wetness.
Chuckthumps in a black plastic bucket.
A look back through wellied legs.
A ceiling of mud.
An exploded potato.
Slug gorge.
Riddleholes
in the skin.
A fingernail scratch.
Through a planet.
The wormroute, all the way through.
Earth apple purple.
Black wet clods.
Skin.
Spuds.
Octobersoak.
Greyslop wetness.
Chuckthumps in a black plastic bucket.
A look back through wellied legs.
A ceiling of mud.
An exploded potato.
Slug gorge.
Riddleholes
in the skin.
A fingernail scratch.
Through a planet.
The wormroute, all the way through.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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no turf was spoiled, no cows lost out days
of grazing on those acres. Where dark blood
coloured mud sockets yawned, rays
of mountain sun fell lazily on pools
of flywing rippled water, never drained.
Dribbling tidal gushes and the drools
of storms bore on the rushes when it rained.
Joe stood, deep in his field, while one large, swift
corncrake circled, never gliding low
about his head. Joe saw it fade and drift
out, over to one island where a slow
windtide seemed in the rain to sound,
"Leave this lone poet to a flooded ground".
To midgebuzz in a yellow wave between
whipwindy blades of purple heather fields
and low skywisping flickerlights, one's been
met by something vague. Not sky. Not bog.
Neither eyeblood stars nor raingems. Now,
Head through. Strange haloes, flashing from a fog,
within, without. A shadow and a glow.
A face, a name, gem shatterings surround:
A man deep-fallen in the field-end hollow;
Lain down in the ratblack drowning ground
where only mountain winds will swoop to follow.
Turn down, turn down through Drumslide, through sky broad
Splinterpoints of self. No words. Become the road.
wormroute
these two I liked, and I think a lot of poetry can do well with these combinations of sounds and meanings, but I think you've overloaded the latter poem with a few too many combo-words, or made up words, and it makes it difficult to follow the musings of the author.
I'm not sure what it is, something common, or at the very least, a grim but still pastoral image has been reshaped more by the language of the poet than the feeling of the poet, and in this moment in the fields, with the subject, or the author stuck in the mud, the reader seems to slog through the words and only get a vague feeling of the surroundings, of the importance of the moment because they are stuck digesting these words the author places in front of them. I'm not saying the answer is more simplicity, but maybe to make these words stand out more. They are given to us, as if they are something commonplace, something to plod through the mud of the poem, when in fact they are something extraordinary presented as normal, and that slows us down, makes us skip over the images to the next extraordinary word, and I think in the end, the author's intention is secondary to the reader's attention to these anamoly's and figuring them out, rather than understanding the poem.
As always though, thought provoking pieces
fuck 'em, indeed. how much of our art do we lose when we write for Them That Read? even when one writes something insanely simple, everyone fucking thinks it's more complex than it is. well, most of the time.
however, just as one must write as he likes, another must like as he likes, yeah? ain't no controlling that.
i do enjoy the first poem. the words jar and grate against one-another. i love it. it's dissonant like a nasty sax solo in B flat over an A major melody.
cheers