I like it either way.I feel as though a poem can work,if the reader has the thought conceived of the poets job during the reading of the poem,which naturally should take place.If these words ,which seem as though they don't necessarily FIT, are read aloud with emphasis,the poet's piece could work. Poetry isn't so much just written word TO ME,it has to do a lot with the individuality of the writer him or herself-looks given while read,appearance, and where the poet can lead you.
I agree with Ali. Good poem ETF, I liked it alot. Either way I could envison it easily.
There's a hair's breadth between the right word and the perfect word - greatness often comes with being anal
0
coachchris
Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada Posts: 749
Next...this is a newer and much less polished piece
Chance
In Trabzon the streets bleed into the Black Sea,
which isn’t black, more the color of a vast bruise
below the flesh of the horizon.
It is the color of every small city,
the color of used cars and used clothes.
Families live in the revolving door
of generations, spilling into the same
jobs, the same marriages, the same
dreams as their parents.
Thousands of seagulls drift upwards
with the fireworks that accompany
a wedding reception.
Their wings flicker like snow
suspended in the distance;
their squawks become white noise
against the moonlit screen of clouds.
We play Turkish monopoly on a rooftop,
the hat pays rent to the battleship,
and I look into the face of a girl
whose name translates to waterfall,
when the sounds of seagulls bursts
into a wave of Arabic song.
I follow the sounds of a wrinkled voice,
beseeching me to praise the creator of all things.
The call to prayer comes in stereo,
the desert God’s dirge bounces
from the mountains and surrounds me
for a time, before it fades
into the watery bruise of the sea;
black now under the half moon,
which lolls in the night sky,
a picture on the chalkboard
smudged by an absent minded teacher.
Thinking of old classrooms my gaze wanders
to the windows, to the sky, to the water;
and I see a train of lights along the coast.
The moisture rising from the water turns
the lines of streetlights and houselights
into a procession of flickering torches.
The landing strip for an angry mob,
at the climax of an old horror movie.
Coming for the monster who thinks
there is poetry in daily struggle.
The hat lands on a square
and my friend translates my monopoly directions
on the back of a card that reads:
Chance
This poem is simply amazing. The ending left me breathless!! Thanks so much for sharing.
Adolescence in essence is all about trust.
Leaving is for the answering machine.
I climb for fifteen minutes,
in sun and spirals
on cobbled paths worn flat,
surrounded by high hedges.
Shafts of light explode through those shrubs
like bullet holes,
and I peer into the distant past,
to Warwick Castle---
Gray walls grow, the crenellations
more distinct,
the archers sockets black.
The empty moat covered with an oak
drawbridge, drawn by chains
too strong to succumb to rust
that announce the Earl of Gloucester
riding his moon colored horse,
with half-drawn, veteran eyes.
The moat was not filled with water
but human and pig waste.
Its heavy brown bubbles promise
sores and blindness.
The gateway, a dozen feet wide
caddy corners to another gate further inside,
and in between a murder hole.
Space for screams and corpses,
pierced through the face and armpits with arrows,
and melted with boiling cauldrons from above.
The stone walls block the wind, and only a sliver
of sky can enter with me
No army ever breached this castle, or fought
through this gate.
But one entered
with promises of wealth
for the captain of the guard,
who hung from the church spire with his master,
until the sounds of bare feet slapping rock
in the elevated wind
faded into fairy tales
and post cards.
Murder Hole – An area in between the gates of a castle, surrounded by archer’s slots where the heaviest defense of a castle was usually mounted
When a butterfly flaps its wings,
One theory says, the breeze
can cleanse a man’s soul.
Another theory says
There never was a soul at all.
Just an empty space,
we never bothered to fill.
And the day we fill that space
we die. As there was only
so much we could hold on to.
The heart can only beat
through so much gelatinous
memory.
So many leave this world
blissfully unaware,
of how much space they wasted.
How many faces lingered
long after they disappeared
from sight, before we had
the courage to engage them?
If our bodies were weather beaten
fishing trawlers, scowling
across the Atlantic, our souls
would be the nets. But we
can’t throw back the license plates,
and old tires, or soggy boots,
they stay there on the deck,
with all the lovely tuna.
I guess I've got plenty of time to reflect on mortality living in the suburbs
That is a signature line quote in the making, you funny Elf
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I watch colors spin in the rinse cycle
through the foggy glass of a Laundromat
I see hours spent buying jeans and shirts
A Spanish woman falls asleep behind me
with coupon clippings in her lap
and an open scissor in her hands
A crack runs along the dirty tiles
from her chair to the front door,
a few dollars and glass and silver bells
that make a depressing chorus to the
hum of washing machines when
the next customer limps quietly
inside
Their frustrations stored in plastic
laundry baskets, in dirty socks
and yellow armpit stains
Out of all of these, which 2 do you want me to focus on now?
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
well the poem I promised was coming is turning into a multi-page monster like stairmaster to heaven, so I wrote one to wet your appetite in the interim. I really don't like it, but...better than nothing
Wait Staff
I’ve always wanted to pull the tablecloth
from under a load of stemware and plates.
An urban matador deftly avoiding the irate
bus boy, or simply the aproned philosopher
speakingin the vaguest possible terms,
that the cloth was never there in the first place.
For the sweaty spectrums of service,
there is no magic left in the world,
just spite and paychecks. The real trick
would be to make the obnoxious patrons
disappear, while the heat rises in white vapor
from their dinner plates.
One day it did happen though,
It happened to all the stockbrokers,
all the politicians, the titans of industry,
the lawyers, surgeons, golf-pro’s, models,
and actors, musicians, bankers, they all
had the carpet of sanity pulled from underneath them.
The obscurity of their efforts came like a solar flare,
a great wave swept across them, some ran
into walls, or traffic, some burst into flames,
others just fell down, and crouched in a ball,
but the vast majority climbed
all day and all night, the rose through the office
buildings, bridges, monuments, statues, houses,
anything they could find really. We left the steaming
plates on the tables, the wine in the glasses. When we finished
cleaning the kitchen, and vacuuming the restaurant
we saw
them falling, silently screaming
From the rooftops, and the bridges
Doing flips and corkscrews, or straight
As airborne rigor mortis, the world had
become a wedding flipped upside down,
So many suits and dresses flapping toward
the ground.
So we, all of us, did exactly what we could
With the magic granted us, we grabbed every
tablecloth, and without so much as the spilling
of a drop of wine, removed them from the full
tables. We tied these stained capes around our necks,
and flew out the door to save the day.
I was smiling away as I read this one, ETE. It's fun and yet I'm not so sure if it was meant to be fun. I still think I need to read it a few more times, when I'm in a different mood perhaps, and maybe I'll see it differently. I think the first stanza was the best by far!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
I was smiling away as I read this one, ETE. It's fun and yet I'm not so sure if it was meant to be fun. I still think I need to read it a few more times, when I'm in a different mood perhaps, and maybe I'll see it differently. I think the first stanza was the best by far!
Thank BE, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, it's very scattershot, it helped me work through a block though
Thank BE, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, it's very scattershot, it helped me work through a block though
You're most welcome! Ack, you're too hard on yourself but I suppose it's a good thing as I recall you saying you'd like to publish. I'd have to say, anything that helps get you through a block is worth pecking at. And I reiterate--the first stanza is great!-I hope it won't change if you decide to keep at this one.
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
i think it's cool, evil. not so "scattershot", as you say because it keeps it's theme and avoids mixed metaphor quite well. it's a little "loose", perhaps ~ the imagery could be tightened down a bit, and it's not "heavy", per se ~ but they can't all weigh three tons, so...
A substitute teacher takes a break from showing videos,
he wanders the halls, to escape the tedium of busy work,
of little lives, bullied into learning what they can't understand
will help them
He finds an empty auditorium and sits in the last row,
eating his lunch he suddenly hears a violin,
and watches a small Japanese music teacher,
oblivious to his meager audience,
he plays his way through the memories that haunt him,
a not yet failed poet, watches a failed musician
watches the fluidity of a bow cutting through the scraps
of a past life, past desires of performances he watched,
but could never play
the man in the audience takes out a small notebook,
and begins to write, suddenly oblivious
that what he's hearing inside of himself
has travelled through a set of strings from the mind
of another man
the two men sit a hundred feet apart inside of each other's heads,
when the violin becomes furious, so too, does the pen
the poem traces it's way through a life spent following
characters of books he knows he could never write,
settings he could never have imagined,
and the crushing failure of his own inadequate brain
the violin pauses and the teacher heaves a vast sigh
into the air that never reaches his ears, because the
vacuum of the missing music has been replaced
with the sighs of the poet
for the first time since sitting down, the maker of music
meets the eyes of the maker of poetry
they nod their heads, and then continue without saying
a word. When the period ends they both get up and leave,
going back to their classrooms, and during the brief
walk down the hall, when the sound of music and scribbling
is replaced with aimless volleys of coarse chatter
they realize that
every man's ambition is an island, solitary and wasted
but they had each been visited by a small bottle
with a note that only reminded them to stay alive
every man's ambition is an island, solitary and wasted
but they had each been visited by a small bottle
with a note that only reminded them to stay alive
....wow....
Love that last bit..... so true you know that enitre poem, why do we all settle for what we are?
Love that last bit..... so true you know that enitre poem, why do we all settle for what we are?
happiness is the final harbor of the selfish
I think this piece is going to hold a special place for me, as I sat in this auditorium staring at this old man playing this violin, realizing how alone we both were in a building full of thousands of people, it came to me that I was doing exactly what I needed to do for my art to escape to Japan. I am firmly convinced that until you've at least temporarily severed the cords to your entire childhood familiarity you can never reach your full potential, because it's impossible to be selfish enough to be happy and successful in the proximity of a network of family and friends that you care about. It's a cynical and lonely journey, but I think there are some of us that can't live with regret.
To say he was a starving artist
would only be a cliché. He wasn’t
starving, we have soup kitchens
in our cities. But dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the happiest corner of the street,
facing the entrance to the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
With one last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The thought of a brush struck
hovering in the mind before the brush
begins its fateful dip into the paint
And the savage thrash against the canvas
Writhing like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body
A man leaving the latest exhibit stops on the steps.
He wonders why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, slashed
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember having a conversation
With any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent, was like interrupting
a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed a lone artist,
standing at the corner with an easel, but before
he noticed the gun, he noticed the snow distort,
fly wildly around the muzzle. He didn’t so much
feel the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, stopped dead by the bullet he couldn’t hear
his senses focused wholly on understanding the snow.
The dying man, now laying on the ground, stares
straight up at the snow. Listening to it soak up his life,
Beneath him, he began to blink his eyes to the same
rhythm as he walked, and all was quiet again.
He turned his head to watch the artist, his palette
Turning white, his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom. He wanted
To shout to him, scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
To say he was a starving artist
would only be a cliché. He wasn’t
starving, we have soup kitchens
in our cities. But dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the happiest corner of the street,
facing the entrance to the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
With one last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The thought of a brush struck
hovering in the mind before the brush
begins its fateful dip into the paint
And the savage thrash against the canvas
Writhing like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body
A man leaving the latest exhibit stops on the steps.
He wonders why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, slashed
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember having a conversation
With any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent, was like interrupting
a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed a lone artist,
standing at the corner with an easel, but before
he noticed the gun, he noticed the snow distort,
fly wildly around the muzzle. He didn’t so much
feel the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, stopped dead by the bullet he couldn’t hear
his senses focused wholly on understanding the snow.
The dying man, now laying on the ground, stares
straight up at the snow. Listening to it soak up his life,
Beneath him, he began to blink his eyes to the same
rhythm as he walked, and all was quiet again.
He turned his head to watch the artist, his palette
Turning white, his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom. He wanted
To shout to him, scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
this is such a beautiful piece to read,... and very moving,... a well-done thanks is certainly not enough, but tis all i've got behind this computra screen. you do this sort of thing alot eh...?
this is such a beautiful piece to read,... and very moving,... a well-done thanks is certainly not enough, but tis all i've got behind this computra screen. you do this sort of thing alot eh...?
well a thankyou not being enough goes both ways. I don't do this sort of thing as much as I'd like
this piece still needs a lot of work, but it all came out in one ten minute spurt so I'm pretty happy so far
To call him a starving artist
would be cliché. We have soup kitchens
in our cities, but dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the corner of the street, facing the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was his last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The flakes likes thoughts of brush strokes
hovering in the mind, before
the fateful dip into the paint
and the savage thrash against the canvas.
Bristles writhe like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body.
A man leaving the latest exhibit
stops on the steps. He wonders
why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence,
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, frozen
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember a conversation
with any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent,
was like interrupting a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed
a lone artist, standing at the corner
with an easel. Before he saw the gun,
he watched snow distort, fly wildly
around the muzzle. He didn’t feel
the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, leveled by a bullet the victim couldn’t hear
his senses tune wholly on the falling snow.
The dying man on the ground stares
up at the snow. He listens to it
soak up his blood beneath him, he blinks his eyes
to the same rhythm he walked.
He turned his head to watch the artist,
his palette turning white,
his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
The man on the ground wanted to shout,
scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
To call him a starving artist
would be cliché. We have soup kitchens
in our cities, but dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the corner of the street, facing the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was his last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The flakes likes thoughts of brush strokes
hovering in the mind, before
the fateful dip into the paint
and the savage thrash against the canvas.
Bristles writhe like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body.
A man leaving the latest exhibit
stops on the steps. He wonders
why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence,
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, frozen
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember a conversation
with any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent,
was like interrupting a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed
a lone artist, standing at the corner
with an easel. Before he saw the gun,
he watched snow distort, fly wildly
around the muzzle. He didn’t feel
the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, leveled by a bullet the victim couldn’t hear
his senses tune wholly on the falling snow.
The dying man on the ground stares
up at the snow. He listens to it
soak up his blood beneath him, he blinks his eyes
to the same rhythm he walked.
He turned his head to watch the artist,
his palette turning white,
his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
The man on the ground wanted to shout,
scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
I think this piece is going to hold a special place for me, as I sat in this auditorium staring at this old man playing this violin, realizing how alone we both were in a building full of thousands of people, it came to me that I was doing exactly what I needed to do for my art to escape to Japan. I am firmly convinced that until you've at least temporarily severed the cords to your entire childhood familiarity you can never reach your full potential, because it's impossible to be selfish enough to be happy and successful in the proximity of a network of family and friends that you care about. It's a cynical and lonely journey, but I think there are some of us that can't live with regret.
Reaching your full potential, artistically or otherwise requires practice, study and critique. That's it. There's no need for cynisysm and lonliness... that'll only bring you your full potential in despair, and who the fuck needs that?
There's no selfishness in being happy. That's confusing happiness with ignorant, aloof detachment. That's saying, "fuck you and your problems, I'm moving on up. Whee! Look at me!" It's arrogant, and it's bullshit. (And, I only know this cuz i've done it... and i've hurt the people I love... and have much regret because of it ~ ain't no choice... I have to live with it.)
What's impossible, in my estimation, is to be successful AND happy without that network of family and friends you care about. Sure, there's drama... but there is also much joy and much support when you need it.
I think that leaving home for a while is good good stuff, and everyone should do it. And, I will be foaming green with jealousy when you do finally go to Japan ~ I do hope you choose to do so with the biggest smile, ever, Evil. I HOPE you have a BLAST! (Buy me some records while you're there, ok? They get all the good stuff)
Are you Catholic or something? Family giving you shit for wanting to leave? Bagh... they'll get over it, I'm sure. You do your life. It's not selfish... it's all you got. One shot, then it's pure bliss and pearly gates and all that crap... ain't no poetry in that, fo sho.
Reaching your full potential, artistically or otherwise requires practice, study and critique. That's it. There's no need for cynisysm and lonliness... that'll only bring you your full potential in despair, and who the fuck needs that?
There's no selfishness in being happy. That's confusing happiness with ignorant, aloof detachment. That's saying, "fuck you and your problems, I'm moving on up. Whee! Look at me!" It's arrogant, and it's bullshit. (And, I only know this cuz i've done it... and i've hurt the people I love... and have much regret because of it ~ ain't no choice... I have to live with it.)
What's impossible, in my estimation, is to be successful AND happy without that network of family and friends you care about. Sure, there's drama... but there is also much joy and much support when you need it.
I think that leaving home for a while is good good stuff, and everyone should do it. And, I will be foaming green with jealousy when you do finally go to Japan ~ I do hope you choose to do so with the biggest smile, ever, Evil. I HOPE you have a BLAST! (Buy me some records while you're there, ok? They get all the good stuff)
Are you Catholic or something? Family giving you shit for wanting to leave? Bagh... they'll get over it, I'm sure. You do your life. It's not selfish... it's all you got. One shot, then it's pure bliss and pearly gates and all that crap... ain't no poetry in that, fo sho.
Rachel
On the contrary, my family isn't very religious, nor are they giving me shit for leaving. The very support they offer is the crutch I need to shed. It's independance plain and simple, practice study and critique can only go so far in an environment you don't find conducive to doing whatever it is you want to do. I need some time alone from my family, from my friends and everything else. I need to be able to take a couple of steps completely on my own after Japan, follow any whim I feel will take me closer to this intangible ideal I'm chasing and see it through to the end.
I know it's the third version already, but I can't let this go until I'm finished with it.
Death Imitating Art
To call him a starving artist
would be cliché. We have soup kitchens
in our cities, but dear God how unhappy
his life has become. He sets an easel at
the corner of the street, facing the
small nexus of narrow alleys.
Tonight, he thinks, is his last shot
at becoming an artist, because he’s lost
the will to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The flakes swim like thoughts
of brush strokes before the dip
into paint and thrash against canvas.
Bristles writhe like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body.
A memory floats down the stairs
across the street, a teenage boy
rides his horse under the full moon
it’s pockmarked wastes, reflected
in the sheen of new snow.
A man leaves his apartment and
stops on the steps. He wonders
why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
The avenues become paths along
his family’s farm, searching for holes
the horse might catch her feet in,
under the fresh powder.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, frozen
onto the canvas.
Stopped under a streetlight
he tries to remember the name
of his long dead horse, at just this moment
he notices a lone artist, stretching
above an easel. Before he sees the gun,
he watches snow distort, and fly wildly
around the muzzle. He doesn’t feel
the bullet enter his chest
but somehow understands it’s inside him.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist drops his pistol
and lifts his brush and palette.
So his full attention can focus
on the life passing onto the canvas
leveled by a bullet the victim couldn’t hear
his senses tune wholly on the falling snow.
The dying man on the ground stares
up at the snow. He listens to it
soak his blood, he blinks his eyes
to the same rhythm he walked.
He turns his head to watch the artist,
his palette turning white,
his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
The man on the ground wants to shout,
scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory canters
through his brightly shining brain.
It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white,
turning everything
to snow.
Comments
There's a hair's breadth between the right word and the perfect word - greatness often comes with being anal
This poem is simply amazing. The ending left me breathless!! Thanks so much for sharing.
Leaving is for the answering machine.
Thanks for reading
I climb for fifteen minutes,
in sun and spirals
on cobbled paths worn flat,
surrounded by high hedges.
Shafts of light explode through those shrubs
like bullet holes,
and I peer into the distant past,
to Warwick Castle---
Gray walls grow, the crenellations
more distinct,
the archers sockets black.
The empty moat covered with an oak
drawbridge, drawn by chains
too strong to succumb to rust
that announce the Earl of Gloucester
riding his moon colored horse,
with half-drawn, veteran eyes.
The moat was not filled with water
but human and pig waste.
Its heavy brown bubbles promise
sores and blindness.
The gateway, a dozen feet wide
caddy corners to another gate further inside,
and in between a murder hole.
Space for screams and corpses,
pierced through the face and armpits with arrows,
and melted with boiling cauldrons from above.
The stone walls block the wind, and only a sliver
of sky can enter with me
No army ever breached this castle, or fought
through this gate.
But one entered
with promises of wealth
for the captain of the guard,
who hung from the church spire with his master,
until the sounds of bare feet slapping rock
in the elevated wind
faded into fairy tales
and post cards.
Murder Hole – An area in between the gates of a castle, surrounded by archer’s slots where the heaviest defense of a castle was usually mounted
When a butterfly flaps its wings,
One theory says, the breeze
can cleanse a man’s soul.
Another theory says
There never was a soul at all.
Just an empty space,
we never bothered to fill.
And the day we fill that space
we die. As there was only
so much we could hold on to.
The heart can only beat
through so much gelatinous
memory.
So many leave this world
blissfully unaware,
of how much space they wasted.
How many faces lingered
long after they disappeared
from sight, before we had
the courage to engage them?
If our bodies were weather beaten
fishing trawlers, scowling
across the Atlantic, our souls
would be the nets. But we
can’t throw back the license plates,
and old tires, or soggy boots,
they stay there on the deck,
with all the lovely tuna.
I guess I've got plenty of time to reflect on mortality living in the suburbs
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I watch colors spin in the rinse cycle
through the foggy glass of a Laundromat
I see hours spent buying jeans and shirts
A Spanish woman falls asleep behind me
with coupon clippings in her lap
and an open scissor in her hands
A crack runs along the dirty tiles
from her chair to the front door,
a few dollars and glass and silver bells
that make a depressing chorus to the
hum of washing machines when
the next customer limps quietly
inside
Their frustrations stored in plastic
laundry baskets, in dirty socks
and yellow armpit stains
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
umm... A question of fate, and bushwhacking - both on page 3, thanks
Wait Staff
I’ve always wanted to pull the tablecloth
from under a load of stemware and plates.
An urban matador deftly avoiding the irate
bus boy, or simply the aproned philosopher
speakingin the vaguest possible terms,
that the cloth was never there in the first place.
For the sweaty spectrums of service,
there is no magic left in the world,
just spite and paychecks. The real trick
would be to make the obnoxious patrons
disappear, while the heat rises in white vapor
from their dinner plates.
One day it did happen though,
It happened to all the stockbrokers,
all the politicians, the titans of industry,
the lawyers, surgeons, golf-pro’s, models,
and actors, musicians, bankers, they all
had the carpet of sanity pulled from underneath them.
The obscurity of their efforts came like a solar flare,
a great wave swept across them, some ran
into walls, or traffic, some burst into flames,
others just fell down, and crouched in a ball,
but the vast majority climbed
all day and all night, the rose through the office
buildings, bridges, monuments, statues, houses,
anything they could find really. We left the steaming
plates on the tables, the wine in the glasses. When we finished
cleaning the kitchen, and vacuuming the restaurant
we saw
them falling, silently screaming
From the rooftops, and the bridges
Doing flips and corkscrews, or straight
As airborne rigor mortis, the world had
become a wedding flipped upside down,
So many suits and dresses flapping toward
the ground.
So we, all of us, did exactly what we could
With the magic granted us, we grabbed every
tablecloth, and without so much as the spilling
of a drop of wine, removed them from the full
tables. We tied these stained capes around our necks,
and flew out the door to save the day.
Thank BE, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, it's very scattershot, it helped me work through a block though
You're most welcome!
yeah
it's kinda cute, promisekeeper
A substitute teacher takes a break from showing videos,
he wanders the halls, to escape the tedium of busy work,
of little lives, bullied into learning what they can't understand
will help them
He finds an empty auditorium and sits in the last row,
eating his lunch he suddenly hears a violin,
and watches a small Japanese music teacher,
oblivious to his meager audience,
he plays his way through the memories that haunt him,
a not yet failed poet, watches a failed musician
watches the fluidity of a bow cutting through the scraps
of a past life, past desires of performances he watched,
but could never play
the man in the audience takes out a small notebook,
and begins to write, suddenly oblivious
that what he's hearing inside of himself
has travelled through a set of strings from the mind
of another man
the two men sit a hundred feet apart inside of each other's heads,
when the violin becomes furious, so too, does the pen
the poem traces it's way through a life spent following
characters of books he knows he could never write,
settings he could never have imagined,
and the crushing failure of his own inadequate brain
the violin pauses and the teacher heaves a vast sigh
into the air that never reaches his ears, because the
vacuum of the missing music has been replaced
with the sighs of the poet
for the first time since sitting down, the maker of music
meets the eyes of the maker of poetry
they nod their heads, and then continue without saying
a word. When the period ends they both get up and leave,
going back to their classrooms, and during the brief
walk down the hall, when the sound of music and scribbling
is replaced with aimless volleys of coarse chatter
they realize that
every man's ambition is an island, solitary and wasted
but they had each been visited by a small bottle
with a note that only reminded them to stay alive
....wow....
Love that last bit..... so true you know that enitre poem, why do we all settle for what we are?
happiness is the final harbor of the selfish
I think this piece is going to hold a special place for me, as I sat in this auditorium staring at this old man playing this violin, realizing how alone we both were in a building full of thousands of people, it came to me that I was doing exactly what I needed to do for my art to escape to Japan. I am firmly convinced that until you've at least temporarily severed the cords to your entire childhood familiarity you can never reach your full potential, because it's impossible to be selfish enough to be happy and successful in the proximity of a network of family and friends that you care about. It's a cynical and lonely journey, but I think there are some of us that can't live with regret.
I was miserable for the firs 5 months or so, but I learned the language and I learned to get around. I barely made ends meet alot. But...
It was the best thing i've ever done with my life. And I never would have beena ble to do it had my family or friends come with me.
To say he was a starving artist
would only be a cliché. He wasn’t
starving, we have soup kitchens
in our cities. But dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the happiest corner of the street,
facing the entrance to the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
With one last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The thought of a brush struck
hovering in the mind before the brush
begins its fateful dip into the paint
And the savage thrash against the canvas
Writhing like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body
A man leaving the latest exhibit stops on the steps.
He wonders why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, slashed
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember having a conversation
With any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent, was like interrupting
a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed a lone artist,
standing at the corner with an easel, but before
he noticed the gun, he noticed the snow distort,
fly wildly around the muzzle. He didn’t so much
feel the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, stopped dead by the bullet he couldn’t hear
his senses focused wholly on understanding the snow.
The dying man, now laying on the ground, stares
straight up at the snow. Listening to it soak up his life,
Beneath him, he began to blink his eyes to the same
rhythm as he walked, and all was quiet again.
He turned his head to watch the artist, his palette
Turning white, his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom. He wanted
To shout to him, scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
this is such a beautiful piece to read,... and very moving,... a well-done thanks is certainly not enough, but tis all i've got behind this computra screen. you do this sort of thing alot eh...?
see Ed's church?--he's breathing fire.....
well a thankyou not being enough goes both ways. I don't do this sort of thing as much as I'd like
this piece still needs a lot of work, but it all came out in one ten minute spurt so I'm pretty happy so far
To call him a starving artist
would be cliché. We have soup kitchens
in our cities, but dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the corner of the street, facing the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It was his last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The flakes likes thoughts of brush strokes
hovering in the mind, before
the fateful dip into the paint
and the savage thrash against the canvas.
Bristles writhe like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body.
A man leaving the latest exhibit
stops on the steps. He wonders
why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence,
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, frozen
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember a conversation
with any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent,
was like interrupting a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed
a lone artist, standing at the corner
with an easel. Before he saw the gun,
he watched snow distort, fly wildly
around the muzzle. He didn’t feel
the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, leveled by a bullet the victim couldn’t hear
his senses tune wholly on the falling snow.
The dying man on the ground stares
up at the snow. He listens to it
soak up his blood beneath him, he blinks his eyes
to the same rhythm he walked.
He turned his head to watch the artist,
his palette turning white,
his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
The man on the ground wanted to shout,
scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
very good!
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
Reaching your full potential, artistically or otherwise requires practice, study and critique. That's it. There's no need for cynisysm and lonliness... that'll only bring you your full potential in despair, and who the fuck needs that?
There's no selfishness in being happy. That's confusing happiness with ignorant, aloof detachment. That's saying, "fuck you and your problems, I'm moving on up. Whee! Look at me!" It's arrogant, and it's bullshit. (And, I only know this cuz i've done it... and i've hurt the people I love... and have much regret because of it ~ ain't no choice... I have to live with it.)
What's impossible, in my estimation, is to be successful AND happy without that network of family and friends you care about. Sure, there's drama... but there is also much joy and much support when you need it.
I think that leaving home for a while is good good stuff, and everyone should do it. And, I will be foaming green with jealousy when you do finally go to Japan ~ I do hope you choose to do so with the biggest smile, ever, Evil. I HOPE you have a BLAST! (Buy me some records while you're there, ok? They get all the good stuff)
Are you Catholic or something?
Rachel
On the contrary, my family isn't very religious, nor are they giving me shit for leaving. The very support they offer is the crutch I need to shed. It's independance plain and simple, practice study and critique can only go so far in an environment you don't find conducive to doing whatever it is you want to do. I need some time alone from my family, from my friends and everything else. I need to be able to take a couple of steps completely on my own after Japan, follow any whim I feel will take me closer to this intangible ideal I'm chasing and see it through to the end.
and the grin will be large
hey... you didn't say anything about my records, dammit
Death Imitating Art
To call him a starving artist
would be cliché. We have soup kitchens
in our cities, but dear God how unhappy
his life has become. He sets an easel at
the corner of the street, facing the
small nexus of narrow alleys.
Tonight, he thinks, is his last shot
at becoming an artist, because he’s lost
the will to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The flakes swim like thoughts
of brush strokes before the dip
into paint and thrash against canvas.
Bristles writhe like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body.
A memory floats down the stairs
across the street, a teenage boy
rides his horse under the full moon
it’s pockmarked wastes, reflected
in the sheen of new snow.
A man leaves his apartment and
stops on the steps. He wonders
why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
The avenues become paths along
his family’s farm, searching for holes
the horse might catch her feet in,
under the fresh powder.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, frozen
onto the canvas.
Stopped under a streetlight
he tries to remember the name
of his long dead horse, at just this moment
he notices a lone artist, stretching
above an easel. Before he sees the gun,
he watches snow distort, and fly wildly
around the muzzle. He doesn’t feel
the bullet enter his chest
but somehow understands it’s inside him.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist drops his pistol
and lifts his brush and palette.
So his full attention can focus
on the life passing onto the canvas
leveled by a bullet the victim couldn’t hear
his senses tune wholly on the falling snow.
The dying man on the ground stares
up at the snow. He listens to it
soak his blood, he blinks his eyes
to the same rhythm he walked.
He turns his head to watch the artist,
his palette turning white,
his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom.
The man on the ground wants to shout,
scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory canters
through his brightly shining brain.
It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white,
turning everything
to snow.