The best...and worst of EvilToasterElf

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  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    twin2 wrote:
    I love reading all of yours. Your descriptions are amazing, but the one below, without a doubt, is breathtaking in my opinion. Just beautifully written.

    This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.
  • twin2
    twin2 Posts: 894
    EvilToasterElf wrote:
    This is one of my favorites too, my choice for the first poem in the manuscript. Thanks for reading.


    You are welcome. Good choice for first.
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    The rain in Binghamton

    scours the leaves from frosted branches.
    The wrinkled fingers of oaks and spruce
    cling a month too long to Autumn
    like aging grandmothers
    and remain outside until the sky
    is bleached winter gray.

    The rain in Binghamton
    scatters the clusters of stray cats
    and the faded fur mixes with dirt
    almost black and almost orange.

    The rain in Binghamton
    breaks through the spotted holes of rooftops
    and fills the dents in curling linoleum
    like an army encampment
    fills slim valleys before battle.
  • Being Enlightened
    Being Enlightened Posts: 5,746
    BTW, your thread is delightful! I haven't commented in it because, as you know, I'm not much of a critic :) but I do love your poems and think it's awesome that you're going to publish!!! Please let us know when and where we can get a copy once you've been printed. :)
    Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
  • Ms. Haiku
    Ms. Haiku Washington DC Posts: 7,390
    The Drive

    Stale pictures fill are these the best words?
    the pavement
    between glimpses of the road, stolen
    from the storm by windshield wipers
    at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant

    I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action
    through memories
    scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
    She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived.

    a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
    ,

    grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
    of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
    classical symphony, and a talking head playing
    the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?


    And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?

    booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
    straight from childhood wonder good

    through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite?
    of fatherhood.

    She sits with our child wrapped
    in the ambiguous white linens,
    smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
    ,
    a cobblestone path to my our?
    little girl,
    who hoola-hoops around guard rails
    and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
    and do you need this word?
    I follow her.

    I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good

    footfalls fade into dry pavement.
    My windshield wipers hum, need the comma?
    against the blonde strands of dawn
    kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
    as and?
    she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.
    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
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    Bibliobella wrote:
    The Drive

    Stale pictures fill are these the best words?

    You're right, this line could be a lot stronger.

    the pavement
    between glimpses of the road, stolen
    from the storm by windshield wipers
    at high speed. And I drive through it. redundant

    Is this redundant? What if I was sitting in my driveway, or on the side of the highway, the only movement mentioned previous is the wipers

    I drive through the rain picking this verb should mirror previous action

    I'm not sure what this means

    through memories
    scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
    She twirls through those memories, By including “She” in this paragraph it distances the reader. If “She” is written in the next paragraph to start “She” would have more importance. Depends on how you want “She” perceived. That's a good point, but I think the rest of the poem reinforces her importance

    a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white should these three words be after silent?
    I think it's better than the other way around. A silent movie is more like a memory.
    ,

    grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
    of the broadcast signal’s strength. Classic rock,
    classical symphony, and a talking head playing
    the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity. and She, too?


    And in that static XXX song plays, I couldn’t figure out this line for a while. Did you want pauses?

    Well what we have so far is a father driving in the middle of a storm, seeing pictures from his past in the windshield, listening to the radio shifting between all these different kinds of sounds, and then fixating, with all of his power on this one thought, his daughter. So she doesn't have to be mentioned in that fighting for clarity line, because she wins clarity. In the static, and the rain, and the darkness, it's just her.

    booming down the rails on a genetic word seems forced train
    straight from childhood wonder good

    through the still quiet redundant/need opposite of wonder or near opposite? I'm not quite sure opposites are needed, opposites are predictable.
    of fatherhood.

    She sits with our child wrapped
    in the ambiguous white linens,
    smiling a full-toothed smileadds an animal-esque element, even though I know it is meant to mean joy.
    ,
    a cobblestone path to my our? Well, the poem is about him, he's inside his own head, I think it's ok to be a little selfish.
    little girl,
    who hoola-hoops around guard rails
    and hop-scotches over the double yellow,
    and do you need this word?
    I follow her.

    This is an element I wanted to repeat from the part you didn't like in the first stanza. "and I drive through it. I drive. / and I follow her. I follow"

    I follow her Reebok puddle jumps until good

    footfalls fade into dry pavement.
    My windshield wipers hum, need the comma? that comma could move down to dawn probably
    against the blonde strands of dawn
    kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
    as and?
    she fades into the distant mountains. first time we read of mountains.
    It's the first time in the poem it's been light enough to see them. but yeah, they're just kind of mega-happy ending (a la Wayne's World) thrown in there

    Once again thankyou so much for digesting this. I'm probably coming off hyper defensive but you've definately brought up things I have to look at, specifically the opening line. Have a pleasant weekend.

    ETE
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    Bleach

    I live in a dirty town,
    gray as the ethereal hair
    of the widows who live in
    the burned out peaks of Johnson City.
    I wipe grime from a thin window,
    which clouds like a snow globe,
    left to dust and mothballs in a shoe box
    filled with pictures of old vacations, sun burned
    and smiling in the Keys.

    I live in a town
    where far more water bursts from pipes
    than inspiration from empty factories,
    and baby boomers cause more
    fender benders than teenagers.
    Blenders and microwaves rattle
    the jaundice yellow of peeling paint,
    not replaced since the sun set on JFK,
    that top down day in Texas.

    I live in a town
    where ambitious work begins at midnight,
    prying through garbage for beer bottles,
    seeking redemption one nickel at a time.
    Where shoulders brush overweight whores,
    who prowl bare assed down Mather Street,
    looking for a trick with a light.

    I live in a town,
    that is lifetime holder of the title,
    “Carousel Capital of the USA,”
    because even going in circles is movement.
    Parents and siblings spin between three jobs,
    to cling to the milky meniscus of the poverty line.
    They pour into the cracks of state budgets
    and a Welfare to Work program,
    under the quiet snow.
  • stuckinline
    stuckinline Posts: 3,407
    when are you going to get published?
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    gluten919 wrote:
    when are you going to get published?

    You guys will know as soon as I do.
  • stuckinline
    stuckinline Posts: 3,407
    EvilToasterElf wrote:
    You guys will know as soon as I do.
    ok, thanks!
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    What God left in the Rough

    The fifth shot
    on a par five,
    follows the last three
    into the trees.
    I find the first ball,
    and I notice a small building
    tucked between saplings.
    Two stone pillars hold
    the remnants of a roof
    above colored blocks.
    They guard
    a rusted candelabra;
    three rows of black troughs,
    tiered with moldy candles.
    I stumble through forgotten shrines
    bypassed arteries
    to the heart beat of suburbia.

    These religious relics
    fade in the woods,
    with waterlogged
    Top Flites and Pinnacles,
    whose three iron prayers
    for birdies and a good lie
    were never answered.
    The processions of nuns
    from a nearby convent
    dim like the flowers
    and weeds pressed flat
    by the grass
    of the seventh fairway.
    The crunch of footsteps
    become the hum
    of passing golf carts.
    Though the hail Mary’s remain,
    uttered silently on the back swing.


    If I had hit my drive
    fifty yards farther
    my search would take me
    to a clearing,
    filled with moss and tall grass.
    In that overgrowth stands
    a rotting podium,
    two feet above the plants,
    where the litany's
    and incantations of mass,
    were conducted to those
    who sit in outdoor pews,
    covered in weeds,
    remembering that religion
    consisted of more than words
    in books and ceremony.

    I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
    many for every dimple of the shot
    that I had found,
    and I offer up my own,
    in the hope
    that stoking the embers of memory
    will steer me through the back nine.
  • twin1
    twin1 Posts: 902
    EvilToasterElf wrote:
    What God left in the Rough

    The fifth shot
    on a par five,
    follows the last three
    into the trees.
    I find the first ball,
    and I notice a small building
    tucked between saplings.
    Two stone pillars hold
    the remnants of a roof
    above colored blocks.
    They guard
    a rusted candelabra;
    three rows of black troughs,
    tiered with moldy candles.
    I stumble through forgotten shrines
    bypassed arteries
    to the heart beat of suburbia.

    These religious relics
    fade in the woods,
    with waterlogged
    Top Flites and Pinnacles,
    whose three iron prayers
    for birdies and a good lie
    were never answered.
    The processions of nuns
    from a nearby convent
    dim like the flowers
    and weeds pressed flat
    by the grass
    of the seventh fairway.
    The crunch of footsteps
    become the hum
    of passing golf carts.
    Though the hail Mary’s remain,
    uttered silently on the back swing.


    If I had hit my drive
    fifty yards farther
    my search would take me
    to a clearing,
    filled with moss and tall grass.
    In that overgrowth stands
    a rotting podium,
    two feet above the plants,
    where the litany's
    and incantations of mass,
    were conducted to those
    who sit in outdoor pews,
    covered in weeds,
    remembering that religion
    consisted of more than words
    in books and ceremony.

    I sit among the phantoms of prayers,
    many for every dimple of the shot
    that I had found,
    and I offer up my own,
    in the hope
    that stoking the embers of memory
    will steer me through the back nine.

    Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.
    Our love must not be just words, but True Love, which shows itself in action,
    No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
    After you die...you know how to LIVE!
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    tchaliz wrote:
    i definitly like what you do, each one is a picture of a moment in life, thanks for sharing,
    T

    Thanks for reading, this little threat is actually beginning to show me some patterns I haven't fully realized yet. I seem to fixate on two things, people and places. Although that may seem like a pretty broad generalizations, this isn't what's really in vogue right now. Most poets even authors are writing memoir and introspection.
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    twin1 wrote:
    Wow, this is truly fantastic! You are so descriptive, I can visualize being there easily and taking those steps myself. You have very good word usage and it flows nicely. I really enjoy your work.

    Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments
  • twin1
    twin1 Posts: 902
    EvilToasterElf wrote:
    Well that's the motto that most poetry teachers will beat into your head, show - don't tell - thanks for kind comments

    See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!
    Our love must not be just words, but True Love, which shows itself in action,
    No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
    After you die...you know how to LIVE!
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    twin1 wrote:
    See, I just learned something too! I am just an average "Jean" (my real name) and know nothing about what poetry teachers teach nor any formal education on poetry. People like myself who love poetry but lack the formal education can learn alot from those like yourself. Thanks again!

    Well it's like those children's sport's coaches say, it's not practice that makes perfect, it's perfect practice. The best way to learn and evolve as a writer is to keep reading poetry - since it's pretty expensive if you're taking a shot in the dark - hit up the library
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    She’s come undone

    as dusk enfolds the trail.
    She climbs until starlight melds
    with the canopy, and severs
    flashlight spectrums into silver coils
    that bathe bare oak limbs.
    Her foggy breath became memories
    of skinny suburban kids
    camping in backyard sing a’ longs
    chanting guns and roses to an audience
    behind sliding glass doors,
    where smiling parents swell with lemonade
    waiting for children’s dreams to reach murky fruition
    in college dorm rooms, energized with hormones,
    slaves to unknown thoughts that cling
    like beer stains to white shirts.
    Before professional entropy grips
    that cubicle of the mind,
    she sings in the shower to sold out crowds.
    Imagined audiences scream her name
    in voices that rise and fall to the stage,
    rolling like quiet waves at a vacation getaway,
    dancing in the air, like
    the five pointed oak leaves that glide,
    playfully to the grass,
    outside her window.
  • twin2
    twin2 Posts: 894
    EvilToasterElf wrote:
    She’s come undone

    "she sings in the shower to sold out crowds."

    I liked the whole poem, but the line above made me smile.
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    The way they ride their bikes

    they stand on their pedals
    hovering above the seat
    the seat they never sit on
    it does no good to get comfortable

    they ride a few feet ahead
    and turn

    they measure themselves by hours per mile
    and dollars per hour
    by customers per night

    the rusty fords stop
    on the one corner without a street light
    the window rises as fast as it falls
    and as cars speed away the bikes
    continue to wade circles into the sidewalk

    they ride their bikes in the same patterns
    as smoke rising from a joint
    dissipating in the wind of police sirens

    they ride like a bike was never built
    that could outpace a lumbering junkie
    never built to fly down a hill
    with painless water in your eyes

    they ride their bikes with unlaced boots
    and wear undershirts
    from the big and tall
    with weapons smoldering in their eyes
    potentially lethal
    like blank checks and empty pages

    they ride their bikes like urban hawks
    driving over fields of drifting addicts
    .
    real estate on the wrong side of main street
    can be gauged in the aluminum spokes
    that slowly cleave the moonlight
    in a place where the prestige of selling
    sex and dope is survival

    I know that Binghamton, the drug nexus
    of the southern tier will always be measured
    by the way they ride their bikes
  • EvilToasterElf
    EvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
    The part that leads and follows

    A man walks along a pier
    following his own shadow,
    considering the state of his marriage
    he does not notice when his shadow
    swallows a dog, or a squirrel.
    or two old ladies eating lunch on a bench.

    He walks with the sun on his neck
    and the world on his mind,
    led by a human cloud,
    which tilts its head
    lets its arms absently fall to the side
    and crushes a half dozen pigeons.

    A shadow plays in the waves
    while he looks out over the water.
    He stares farther and farther away
    as if he could only peer into himself
    by following his gaze along the
    curve of the Earth’s circumference.

    He turns to go back to his office
    and his shadow follows him like
    a cape, an echo that keeps pace
    with its source.

    When he arrives at his building
    the shadow of that tower consumes his own.
    He is left a man in the dark.

    When he reaches the window
    of his corner office, his shadow
    returns silently to his desk and
    across the carpet.

    The shadow of his left hand
    cast darkness over his signatures,
    and the surrounding legal texts.

    When he folds the documents back together
    and leans back in his chair,
    the curve of his head is cast
    onto the entirety of his divorce.

    His wife arrives under the streetlights,
    her shadow is bloated with an unborn
    child.
    The pregnant darkness sheds no water
    from its two dimensions.
    Soon that shadow will split in two
    and will live under the black
    worrying veil of its father.

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