Poetry versus useful study
wingspan penworthy
Posts: 8
Hello folks, this is my first forray onto internet forums, and my first post on the PJ message pit. The excitement is tangible. Having said that, it is 4am here, and I have just listened to the entire Mansfield Massachusetts box set start to finish, with a short pause to listen to a new track by my good friend Darren... a poet and magician of notes.
So to the poetry, it varies in quality and never amounts to any great importance, but it's my release, and it could be nice to read your reflections on it. This first one,"Victim," explores how i felt after Layne Staley's tragic death, in April 2002...
“Victim”
You drilled in the U district.
Pulled and torn at, so plugged and dropped.
Hailed and hunched over in a fading light,
Skin cold, and teeth black as burnt spoons.
Spent needles, empty cares of the wasteland.
Strained hearts, and hopes of neat methadone
Lies in pools of stained wastes.
Plucked and pumped, arm of cold silver.
Taken on the crest of the dark wave,
Feinting motions of the last in the list,
A shot relief from the storm.
Cut and spat at friends, to feel alone.
Expert in sitting up and laying down.
Joining in the mad season,
Older watching on, no such shock here.
Following faint love through the void,
Chasing the past down the rabbit hole.
Breaking the last chains out of this hell,
Bought and soul to this fame.
Nothing taken from Wood’s, or Spring
Dropped white blossoms in the road, to be
Dripping dyed red poppies, in warmer summer rain.
Goodbye Layne.
And since then, my life experiences, all being beautiful in themselves, have shaped my poetry. At the moment I'm accepting an entirely new way of life, a new belief system, and a new outlook on modernity. A recent poem called "Sermons" deals with the realisation that great icons of history, and more importantly, the ideology they championed may not be all it seems...
"Sermons"
Crimson rivers all but flow from me.
They say I’m drying up ever so slowly.
Probe and pumping at the very waters.
A drop of blood with every spot of rain.
Hair standing on end and heart jumping.
Alone with sunken eyed demons, in my cell.
The one book I was left cover to cover full,
Lies begotten and better forgotten for all
Its worth it turned me, the fool easily fooled.
Blanched scratched prints of glory days.
Of their holiness and my hopelessness.
The prophet gave just the slight word,
An echoing bullet shot into their ears,
There I stand crowded, and half shrouded,
Behind red flags and honest lawyers.
Mega-drone man and the infinite battle,
The call to arms of these spirits of noise.
For all we needed, they gave us the machine.
Pocket folds blurred the marching songs.
So now they just read like the lies they spoke.
Prophets of second chances and changes,
When all we needed, was the sense, and love,
and everything that’s free at any day door.
Knowing all I know now, and grasping the final,
Fading portrait of innocence, I can't cry tears,
For the water’s too rare and the carpet will stain.
And everyone would laugh until they’re sore.
And having realised how long this message has become, I shall wrap it up with a final poem, "Retreat," which attempts to question our modern outlook towards sex. This was taught to me as a great virtue, as a gift that was not to be given lightly, but of course reality will put a stop to that...
The brothel lost its door, no exit.
Eat it, drink it, feel it and speak it.
Encircled with virgin looks
Down, up, and around,
Any distraction will do.
Head at the alter brings back
Memories, tastes, the wrapper.
Stockings, shillings, latex.
Retire from the race,
Run, your, own,
See you cross the finish line,
Never break the boundary,
Run, on, time.
So there is a small cross section of my poetic works at the moment. The stylistic influences are fairly stark. I take pearl jam, soundgarden and Alice in chains from a musical point of view along with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Blake as poetic models. I hope you have gained something from reading this overlong message, if only the knowledge that it can still 'suck' to be a teenager today. pearl jam more than any other band encouraged me to look closer at myself and the world I find myself in, and for this I amvery grateful. They do indeed rock in the free world.
peace and love x
So to the poetry, it varies in quality and never amounts to any great importance, but it's my release, and it could be nice to read your reflections on it. This first one,"Victim," explores how i felt after Layne Staley's tragic death, in April 2002...
“Victim”
You drilled in the U district.
Pulled and torn at, so plugged and dropped.
Hailed and hunched over in a fading light,
Skin cold, and teeth black as burnt spoons.
Spent needles, empty cares of the wasteland.
Strained hearts, and hopes of neat methadone
Lies in pools of stained wastes.
Plucked and pumped, arm of cold silver.
Taken on the crest of the dark wave,
Feinting motions of the last in the list,
A shot relief from the storm.
Cut and spat at friends, to feel alone.
Expert in sitting up and laying down.
Joining in the mad season,
Older watching on, no such shock here.
Following faint love through the void,
Chasing the past down the rabbit hole.
Breaking the last chains out of this hell,
Bought and soul to this fame.
Nothing taken from Wood’s, or Spring
Dropped white blossoms in the road, to be
Dripping dyed red poppies, in warmer summer rain.
Goodbye Layne.
And since then, my life experiences, all being beautiful in themselves, have shaped my poetry. At the moment I'm accepting an entirely new way of life, a new belief system, and a new outlook on modernity. A recent poem called "Sermons" deals with the realisation that great icons of history, and more importantly, the ideology they championed may not be all it seems...
"Sermons"
Crimson rivers all but flow from me.
They say I’m drying up ever so slowly.
Probe and pumping at the very waters.
A drop of blood with every spot of rain.
Hair standing on end and heart jumping.
Alone with sunken eyed demons, in my cell.
The one book I was left cover to cover full,
Lies begotten and better forgotten for all
Its worth it turned me, the fool easily fooled.
Blanched scratched prints of glory days.
Of their holiness and my hopelessness.
The prophet gave just the slight word,
An echoing bullet shot into their ears,
There I stand crowded, and half shrouded,
Behind red flags and honest lawyers.
Mega-drone man and the infinite battle,
The call to arms of these spirits of noise.
For all we needed, they gave us the machine.
Pocket folds blurred the marching songs.
So now they just read like the lies they spoke.
Prophets of second chances and changes,
When all we needed, was the sense, and love,
and everything that’s free at any day door.
Knowing all I know now, and grasping the final,
Fading portrait of innocence, I can't cry tears,
For the water’s too rare and the carpet will stain.
And everyone would laugh until they’re sore.
And having realised how long this message has become, I shall wrap it up with a final poem, "Retreat," which attempts to question our modern outlook towards sex. This was taught to me as a great virtue, as a gift that was not to be given lightly, but of course reality will put a stop to that...
The brothel lost its door, no exit.
Eat it, drink it, feel it and speak it.
Encircled with virgin looks
Down, up, and around,
Any distraction will do.
Head at the alter brings back
Memories, tastes, the wrapper.
Stockings, shillings, latex.
Retire from the race,
Run, your, own,
See you cross the finish line,
Never break the boundary,
Run, on, time.
So there is a small cross section of my poetic works at the moment. The stylistic influences are fairly stark. I take pearl jam, soundgarden and Alice in chains from a musical point of view along with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Blake as poetic models. I hope you have gained something from reading this overlong message, if only the knowledge that it can still 'suck' to be a teenager today. pearl jam more than any other band encouraged me to look closer at myself and the world I find myself in, and for this I amvery grateful. They do indeed rock in the free world.
peace and love x
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
Here's hoping.
Thakyou very much for such kind reflection on my work. Since my feedback has been 100% positive (you being the only person to have read it) I will indeed dig out some of my older favourites and some recent work soon.
Thankyou again
peace and love
Thankyou again
peace and love
Thanks again
peace and love
I appreciate the promotion of my poetry in the above posts courtesy of my partner in crime, Harvey (Wingspan penworthy). I still believe him to be overly modest when it comes to writing. but then, aren't we all? It's hard to be so open and self assured about ones work when it flows from such complex, often painful, strings of emotion. Sometimes I think I tug at these strings all too often.
Anyway, here's something about keeping positive... having faith in humanity. Though its masked in pessimism, this is merely a way of coming to terms with reality...... I like to think of the core meaning of this piece as being a positive reinforcer to those with weak faith, that good people do exist. However, like i always say, make of it what you will. This may be one of my poems but i don't own it anymore, i've released from my cocoon of thought to be harvested upon by your emoted souls.
***********
Brain Child
A portrait held in my mind.
I’m lying in solitude… serenity.
I observe the night sky as it reflects my thoughts,
And wonder if they’ll ever make a difference.
Trivial to those superior,
Foolish to those knowledgeable.
So my proposals will stay behind,
Accompanying the stars in the sky…
Meaningful to them, at any rate.
Still they lie unscathed.
But mutually in tune with the cosmos.
Aligning with the hopes and dreams of others…
…Finding their dwellings in a flow of disregarded imaginings which could have made calm the song of humanity…
We have a dream…
Now lets uncover hopefulness, encouragement.
And watch as people appreciate the course of life offering freedom from distress and sorrow…
And cry for those who prefer to promote rivalry and hostility, condemning this world to ceaseless hurt...
lets keep dreaming...
dream.
dream.
*****************
Thanks. By the way, the poem about Layne which Harvey posted above had some marvellous artwork accompanying it the first time I read it. The poem itself is marvellous, but the marvel was amplified by some beautiful background work. Its a shame you don't get to see such things on message boards. Still, the language itself is a gift not to be taken lightly.
keep posting friends! I love reading everyone's work.
The Layne Stanley poem was excellent. Some of the images will stay with me for a while, teeth like burnt spoons I think was my favorite, and I liked how you worked in the rhyme at the end as well.
************************************
Step into today
The past can be a blissful place to be,
They sit romanticising about things that could have been,
Day’s roll by. No change. No direction.
Regrets plague their minds.
Escape the entombment of anguish,
Why stay locked away?
You hold the key in your palm, but wait…
These consuming thoughts,
Impostors in your brain,
Dictating your consciousness,
Concealing your confidence,
Striking down your resolve,
Banishing you to depravity.
You don’t have to stay there…
I’m here…
Step into today.
Hiding it may perforate your heart,
Releasing it may subject it to nothingness.
What are we to do but watch the world hate?
See the light. (Ignite)
Open and yield to consequence or smoulder in compunction,
When will they acclimatize?
Living in the past,
Suffocating on regrets and condemnation
Can lead a mind to revulsion.
A mental block… or seemingly so,
Is really a surviving mistake? Consider…
You don’t have to stay there.
I’m here…
Step into today.
Time will rebuild your sense of existence,
Let go…
Let go…
Endure and outlast…
*******************************************
Treno_blue's last contribution displays what makes him such a great poet with quiet a rare talent. I think you could call it "Depersonalisation," which isnt as cold and hostile as it sounds I assure you. By using what we may call more "scientific" or "complex" lexis, the writer is actually only seeking a greater understanding, a sharper clarity and a bolder image. All of this means the poem is clinical in its delivery, but maintains its impact as an emotion. So to demonstrate, here is an abstract poems that doesn't follow the same approach. This sounds like a literature lesson, but I want to show you language in poems. If Im patronising you all, humour me because Im new to this forum game and I just want to support my friend.;)
This first one is called "Life in Technicolour."
Painted fence of glass gardens,
By a mystic eye and a superhero.
Open hand crosshairs at what I see…
A two tone heart and church’s shadow,
Moonlight voyage for Max’s bunny men.
Ocean too blue for this peeping sight,
Nine years heaven sent heroin stands.
White dress dotted red, paint dripped streak.
Great balloon stands up sky above.
Two faces and an orange mirror I can’t remember,
Maybe sometime so long, a flower opened birth.
A genesis on same deathbed blanket perhaps,
Misery of ten eyes watch on along the walk.
Their gaze so hot it strokes the very soul,
They just paint beyond, soaking the walls,
Melting down the cages all around and below.
Fist shaking down the final rubble piled stone,
No need for an army of course to raise ,
For Frida will still pose, women keep themselves.
Suit shades a deeper fire between,
A road that burns village after village,
Lava volcano that spits money, smoke made of hawks.
Towering, shooting fire made machine,
And pulled at their faces when they faded
Into blood and oxygen and snow.
Ghosts of fighters were all that was left,
Concealed under flashing light box.
Glitter for the shroud,
For me and my worth, not for Tibet.
Mothers will raise empty hands not for begging,
But for prayer, searching for elsewhere’s grasp
To know that someone listens.
Their screams are deafening, as I run my hands on
Dried vein from some red, long felled tree.
Ignoring the sign of ‘curbing runaways’ and ‘no
L-O-I-T-E-R-I-N-G’ to stand and whistle wind.
Cryptic map to the cosmos, unopened, I can’t read.
But for the women’s building the great book
Of faceless souls and untold history,
All in an open palm.
Doctor of their children, and girls
Spirit of the heart and fight of peace.
Diego’s wall will win the war,
Build the modern man and silence muzzles.
She will stand by, the master of the plan,
And the ground will roar of the plough,
And from here and a million miles beyond.
So aside from the Neil Young reference, the poem's message of art being all around us isn't very clear I think. I wrote this in the Mission District in San Francisco, where the murals inspired me, but I doubt if the imagery is vivid enough to take an unknown reader there with me. This is my lack of "Depersonalisation," a lack of objectivity that means that vivid concepts are lost.
So I then went back to another new poem and tried to apply Treno_Blue's approach to give the verses depicting jealousy more vitality. This is called "Gone" and is my first recent attempt at "depersonalising" some work.
Gone midnight and my first hour to reconcile my meaning.
Whether old or new, strung between the past I can’t admit or a future that too is full of broken dreams as everyday I’ve lived yet.
Where did I find the right to feel so abused? Why shouldn’t I be grateful for the minute heavens in every speck of dust and each fleck of grass?
Why, this is the plugged ears, the blinded eyes and the numb tongue talking.
All senses mute, silent and bored to the charms of hope and faith.
Both which I lost somehow, somewhere along the way, and which can’t be bought for money in a glossy white tiled market. They can’t be shot from the sky with a jet cold machine gun.
I’ve lost it and I can’t steal, beg or borrow it back. That essence of human soul is wasted and raw somewhere in this shell. If I was cold all along and this fire in me was doused many lovers ago, then this life can’t be for me to live again. Truth, my favourite thing was hidden from my every thought, every dream. Until like I began, I lie frozen alone.
I think it needs a little more work, it says too little in too many words, but this experience of stripping down the poetry is a really exciting experiment adn one I thank Treno_Blue for inspiring.
Thankyou for patience
peace and love
Until my lectures start tomorow I have spare time to write again. This gave me the chance to bring an old poem up to date with some re-working along the lines I discussed earlier. "side effects" is my new 'garage' style, stripped down poetry that attempts to find the real feelings and thoughts behind a moment. I would love to know what you guys think of my new approach.
Sky blue light shines back,
Long grass shorn short flecks the lids.
Eclipses the lamps of neglect,
Hides the glimmer of doubt.
After all this was all my work,
Evil schemes to keep prisoners quiet.
Promises return and secrets reject,
Passing the river of repeat.
“This is wingspan penworthy,.
And this is my new motor boat.”
Promises return and journeys reflect,
On another horizon to safety.
Documents chart rise and fall,
Peter pan grieving at his deathbed.
Maturity renounces and attraction withers,
Killing the searchlights of freedom.
4:50 and mouth says “no sleep,”
85 and the heart feels heavy “unlove.”
Resurfacing medical cascade reports illness,
Condemning its patient to dieing.
Willing dragon peels its tongue back,
Racks its bones and bites its teeth.
Contemplating night watchmen reward,
Racing back to camera slots.
Sheltering mother and keeping father,
Pets died in a childhood funeral mask.
Ramifications lay papers in the “out” tray,
Toilet friends congregate to smoke kisses.
Trigger turned finger pistol thumb,
Points silenced directly at the voice box.
Putting down the cry of feeling,
This vocal lobotomy nurses a respite.
Demanding strangers blunt branding,
Scars flinching hairline thin mass.
Monograph anonymity melts with friendship,
Through trusting respect and authority.
Thankyou for yout time
peace and love