Yale Series of Younger Poets Poem #5
Ms. Haiku
Posts: 7,265
This restricted vastness is her robe and rope;
a carefully measured box wider than an arm's length,
a formidable solution taller than a garden hoe.
She outlines the smoothness of the first stones;
hesitates at familiar scratches on cell bars,
and listens for rhymes between bricks, and the closing of doors.
There was a time when scrupulous music braided
between the shuffle of leaves. A time she welcomed Spring.
As she sealed the lock, trees transformed into cathedral pews.
Melodies of breezes tightened to touch.
This is her prayer book; a bound life of sectioned mysteries
too complete to engage others too engaged in routine.
As life loves she hears closed doors open.
As life lives she counts her fingers again and again.
She hides at will, moves by choice,
she knows when her cell will crumble;
and considers each moment as two,
and considers each moment twice.
As with Poem #4, please give me feedback especially on what works, and what doesn't work. Thank you.
a carefully measured box wider than an arm's length,
a formidable solution taller than a garden hoe.
She outlines the smoothness of the first stones;
hesitates at familiar scratches on cell bars,
and listens for rhymes between bricks, and the closing of doors.
There was a time when scrupulous music braided
between the shuffle of leaves. A time she welcomed Spring.
As she sealed the lock, trees transformed into cathedral pews.
Melodies of breezes tightened to touch.
This is her prayer book; a bound life of sectioned mysteries
too complete to engage others too engaged in routine.
As life loves she hears closed doors open.
As life lives she counts her fingers again and again.
She hides at will, moves by choice,
she knows when her cell will crumble;
and considers each moment as two,
and considers each moment twice.
As with Poem #4, please give me feedback especially on what works, and what doesn't work. Thank you.
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
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
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Comments
Maybe to balance the picture, she could move through the halls of the place she lives and think about the people there too?
this is absolutely my favorite line, and it's in my favorite stanza and reminds me of one of my favorite lines in one of my other favorite poems, by Erica Jong ("If a woman wants to become a poet . . . she should listen to the breathing of sleeping men")
I really have little to offer other than I really like this one.
I like this stanza:
She outlines the smoothness of the first stones;
hesitates at familiar scratches on cell bars,
and listens for rhymes between bricks, and the closing of doors.
(there are a lot of sound effects, they are not overdone, it mirrors what is happening, scratching and listening: smoothness stones and cells / between bricks closing -- sounds are really tight! -- the imagery, being imprisoned in a poem? fabulous, smart interesting! It reminds me a some quote about writing that I have somewhere from some author, but it is "For me the only way out was to go further in")
All of the different metaphors for being closed in,
the rope and robe
the measured box
the bound life of a prayer book -- sosososososo smart!!
i could go on. I really like so many things in this poem. talk about it a bit?
A few years ago, I read a fictional novel which takes place in the 1500's or so, and the main character's mother is an ascetic. It was the first time I heard of asceticism. The daughter brings her mother food and some human contact, but as a whole the mother is a minor character. The interesting thing about the mother is that she chooses this life of deprivation for spiritual purposes. I tried to bring out the deprivation, but also to discuss what is worth this deprivation. A life based only on inner spiritual conversations could be or maybe not. The mother's goal was to live only for what could happen after death.
If a person is in a cell for years and years and years, she would know it's shape, sounds, light sources, anything. It become part of her body, I assume.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The first two don't quite flow as comfortably for me. It reminds me a bit of Margaret Atwood, more so the imagery.
Ohhhh, so she really WAS in a very small space unable to get out. Thanks for explaining that aspect.
that's good stuff.
This:
"The interesting thing about the mother is that she chooses this life of deprivation for spiritual purposes."
plus this:
"This is her prayer book; a bound life of sectioned mysteries"
got me thinking about once again how smart it is, you know the mystery plays I think they were called, the old school mysteries, they were religious -- in other words, yours, for spiritual purposes. It's just a damn smart poem.
Thanks to all of you for the feedback, I'll rewrite it again, and move on to the next poem. I still welcome comments on Poem #5 and Poem #4. Hopefully, Poem #1 will be next, but it may be Poem #6.
Why numbers? I decided that the title will be "Shared Images" because I'm sharing on the internet. Some people share files on the internet, but I share poetry. I like to write poetry that people can hook on an image. That's where the title comes from. Also, I number the poems instead of titles because in this way the reader will see all of the poems as part of the whole book. We learn that 1 is before 2 and 4 is after 3, and because of the relationship the numbers have they can not be set alone. Since the poems are written specifically for this book, the poems can not be alone.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
a carefully measured box wider than an arm's length,
a formidable solution taller than a garden hoe.
She outlines the smoothness of the first stones;
hesitates at familiar scratches on cell bars,
and listens for rhymes between bricks, and the closing of doors.
There was a time when scrupulous music braided
between the shuffle of leaves. A time she welcomed Spring.
As she sealed the lock, trees transformed into cathedral pews.
Melodies of breezes tightened to touch.
This is her prayer book; a bound life of sectioned mysteries
too complete to engage others too engaged in routine.
As life loves she hears closed doors open.
As life lives she counts her fingers again and again.
She hides at will, moves by choice,
she knows when her cell will crumble;
and considers each moment as two,
and considers each moment twice.
This is my favourite of your pieces for submission, so far. I like the hendiadys in line one (two nouns in conjunction), with its phonemic near repetition. That's clever. I love the flow of sibilance in the second stanza, and the equivalence of verbs "outlines"/"hesitates"/"listens": Observation, pause, consideration and scrutiny are not passive but creative activities, in this poem. The consonantal patterning in "scrupulous music braided/ between the shuffle of leaves" is a braiding of sounds in itself: The line "Melodies of breezes tightened to touch" is enviably conceived. Anaphora (repetition of words or phrases at the beginnings of lines) works well in the final stanza, and I like the subtle nuance of semantic change in "and considers each moment as two/ and considers each moment twice."
I'd go so far as to say this is easily one of the most accomplished poems I've had the privilege of reading on this forum and, where as you know I've offered constructive crit when asked, I have to say I wouldn't change a thing here. Not a thing. This is worthy of submission and serious contention in any competition.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
It's the inspired by PJ one she's looking for!
Bibliobella
Don't Release Me
Inspired by Pearl Jam's "Release" off of "Ten" Sony copyright 1991
I know this scene well after listening
for years as a crisis line counselor.
Man in casual Friday clothes directs
the son to the room where he waits cross-legged.
A true nightmare. Sleep does not protect me
from this worn story’s cryptic finale.
I feel a tap on my upper arm. I
feel it stronger and more frequent until
I wake up. The sharp tapping persists. I’m
annoyed, yet realize that I’m alone
early Saturday morning Pacific
Standard Time, mid-summer of last year. Hot
waves of gratitude flush my face, and I
yell thanks to my empty room, to mom’s dad.
"Inspired by Pearl Jam's "Education" by Bibliobella
A woman climbs between rocks small and big.
Each breath a gift wrapped in the full moon's light
given by the ocean. She sees the waves'
inquiries and agrees to move forward.
She heard the stories from mothers and friends.
She heard where the earth is a soft rug
for bruised feet, and where it is broken glass.
She heard the mist chooses to encourage.
She rests to touch the petal of one rose.
Her hunger satisfied by the leaves' scent.
She communicates with other mountains
using the warm wind as her messenger.
The moon, the earth, and ocean are women.
Feel what they know as they rotate their hips."
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird