Soul Searching

EvilToasterElf

When a drunk turns his key
and the engine doesn’t turn over,
I wonder if souls traveling back,
always land in a body. Or are they
simply pulled like asteroids to the earth?

Are they round? Would they skip
across the ponds to the old willow,
that drinks a fat baron’s share of
the water, and litters its fair share
in return?

Would they compress flat onto the
arteries of highways, varicose
across Nevada deserts, sticking
like road kill to the tires of passing
trucks? Again doomed to the
same endless circles.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what happens
to them. The result’s always the same,
we stare at the night sky, it provokes
thoughts of the infinite and our feet
stray from the path.

If so why bother coming back at all?
Unless getting lost was the more sane
of the two options. The ultimate answers
could by nothing but unsatisfying. So do
they still land

in the vast fields of tobacco, or hops,
or marijuana perhaps? Do we take them in,
writing off those imaginative leaps to the buzz?
Are those drunken revelries simply that,
or have we ingested the wrong turns and
failures of meteoric souls?

Who light the fires of lust under our bellies
or the sense of injustice from a life
tragically snuffed, a rock that flares,
hurls itself toward the blue waters
and breaks against the atmosphere.
Like the electric sweat of the sparkplug,
as a drunk drifts harmlessly into sleep.

FinsburyParkCarrots

By far, this is one of the finest pieces of writing I've yet seen on this forum.

EvilToasterElf

Well thank you very much sir, I guess it pays to wait a month or two between posts

FinsburyParkCarrots

Actually, that reminds me of something WH Auden, arguably the finest poet to come from Britain in the last century, would have endorsed. He used to disparage the notion of writing a poem a day and aimed deliberately for a poem a month.

casper leblanc

I find the link between soul searching and the drunk very intriguing. Care to ellaborate?

anOmis

those words just danced on my soul..
excellent writting!

EvilToasterElf

The link is tenuous as of now, it was untitled until I threw it up on the board, the drunk is simply someone saved by chance and I think that's one of the main points of the poem, the irony that chance, the unknown is one of the truest freedoms we have

CranMalReign

This is indeed glorious.

All of my drunken musings (back when I had them) were all focused inward. Sometimes the outside would peak in... but it all related to me. Or I wanted it to.

For some reason, I'm reminded of this one... all inward, or related to self... though outside things (the puppets of mundanity... my neighbors) squeak in sometimes.

~~~

Balcony of Truth
(November 8, 2002)

beer sipping
shunts the ill-placed quips
that reference all those hurtful days
before contempt can retaliate

candlelight licks our cheeks
freshly kissed by tears
which shine like fire
through a pinhole
in satin sheets

and a myriad of poetry by
Pearl Jam and Tori
and Pink Floyd and Korn
drift through the air
when we're not
speaking
but instead
silently exploring
what either of us construes
as the universe

we gaze musingly
at the puppets
of mundanity across the stream
and sing the songs
of our days
being smaller
weaker things

setaside2

I am guilty of trying for 3 a month myself...

ETE

I do not know what you think of my opinion but it matters not...

this is extraordinary work. I bow before you in admiration and deepest respect.

chance is everything. it is what religions were based upon before structured philosophy arose. It is what weathermen base their jobs upon, frequently. It is the one thing from which we can judge that ever elusive word "luck."

it is the thing that, for some reason or another, appears to dictate who lives and who dies. Chance is both savior and aborted time.

inspiring and inspirEDwork. thank you for sharing.

seta

CranMalReign

I just realized my contribution has nothing to do with this thread. Whoops.

That borders arrogance. :-(

Buru

absolutely wonderful...
beautifully descriptive and thoughtful
the idea of bouncing and travelling souls won't ever leave my mind now
The poem also flows very nicely and is not forced at all, so the work you put into it has paid off
It's an excellent poem, and even if I'm a lesser poet I hope you will accept these compliments.

DopeBeastie

indeed, very VERY nice

EvilToasterElf

Sorry guys I have been bouncing around finals this week, but your comments are overwhelming, thankyou for the read and the kind words

I'm actually pulling an all nighter right now to get my portfolio done for the deadline tomorrow so let me pull one or two out and throw em on the thread.

EvilToasterElf

Steve Wheat
CW 350

Southern Fire

In the middle of an Alabama forest
we needed firewood,
so we bought an axe,
and chopped the fallen oak
until the blisters on our hands bled.
But we are no boyscouts, we used a Wal-Mart
starter log to begin the burning
As the sky darkened the forest closed in on
the small clearing of our campsite,
the fire grew as it ate.
We rose from our chairs only
to poke the loose wood,
sculpting the flame.
Wicked faces appeared in the center
of the fire’s stone enclosure.
I looked up,
to a canopy so thin that the branches pinched the stars.
For four hours we stared into our
creation, unwilling to let it die
but knowing how little it cared who had made it.
When the profits of our axework
were spent, we played tic-tac-toe
in the black and orange embers.

Driving down country route 402
I saw the frame of an old house
black and scarred.
Five brick pillars survived, standing crooked watch
with dark plaster at their peaks,
like fingers through which the burning roof
had fallen like loose sand.

EvilToasterElf

...

tenaciousA

t'was good to read this one again, eviltoast

anOmis

Originally posted by EvilToasterElf
When a drunk turns his key
and the engine doesn’t turn over,
I wonder if souls traveling back,
always land in a body. Or are they
simply pulled like asteroids to the earth?

Are they round? Would they skip
across the ponds to the old willow,
that drinks a fat baron’s share of
the water, and litters its fair share
in return?

Would they compress flat onto the
arteries of highways, varicose
across Nevada deserts, sticking
like road kill to the tires of passing
trucks? Again doomed to the
same endless circles.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what happens
to them. The result’s always the same,
we stare at the night sky, it provokes
thoughts of the infinite and our feet
stray from the path.

If so why bother coming back at all?
Unless getting lost was the more sane
of the two options. The ultimate answers
could by nothing but unsatisfying. So do
they still land

in the vast fields of tobacco, or hops,
or marijuana perhaps? Do we take them in,
writing off those imaginative leaps to the buzz?
Are those drunken revelries simply that,
or have we ingested the wrong turns and
failures of meteoric souls?

Who light the fires of lust under our bellies
or the sense of injustice from a life
tragically snuffed, a rock that flares,
hurls itself toward the blue waters
and breaks against the atmosphere.
Like the electric sweat of the sparkplug,
as a drunk drifts harmlessly into sleep.

*steps in and reads it once again*

Evil..this poem is pure poetic gold

EvilToasterElf

Originally posted by EvilToasterElf
Steve Wheat
CW 350

Southern Fire

In the middle of an Alabama forest
we needed firewood,
so we bought an axe,
and chopped the fallen oak
until the blisters on our hands bled.
But we are no boyscouts, we used a Wal-Mart
starter log to begin the burning
As the sky darkened the forest closed in on
the small clearing of our campsite,
the fire grew as it ate.
We rose from our chairs only
to poke the loose wood,
sculpting the flame.
Wicked faces appeared in the center
of the fire’s stone enclosure.
I looked up,
to a canopy so thin that the branches pinched the stars.
For four hours we stared into our
creation, unwilling to let it die
but knowing how little it cared who had made it.
When the profits of our axework
were spent, we played tic-tac-toe
in the black and orange embers.

Driving down country route 402
I saw the frame of an old house
black and scarred.
Five brick pillars survived, standing crooked watch
with dark plaster at their peaks,
like fingers through which the burning roof
had fallen like loose sand.

I was actually just bumping it for this one, but nobody saw it the second time either.

DopeBeastie

i like this southern fire piece...

i'd put the blisters on the hands before i made 'em bleed, though... and expand on those wicked faces...(god i love staring into orange & black coal beds)

the thing about it being your creation and caring not? it reminds me of seta's poem about the leaves... have you read it? pretty neat, but I got that same notion reading that... that the schtitt don't care who started it


and... as, imo, with all your work... the last stanza slays me...

you always end these things so well

EvilToasterElf

Hmm, I wonder about the faces, it's hard to personify fire and keep it fresh, but a very valid observation, thankyou all for the re-reads, or original reads

DopeBeastie

must be very much what the walls down in hell look like, only the faces are specifically designed to torment each individual occupant... LOL...


i've written about wanting to nap in fire... it looks so soft


!