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< | -- MichaelHilton - 11 Feb 2010
Hey man, that's actually really good. I enjoyed reading it; I like the flow.
-- ChristopherCrismanCox - 15 Feb 2010
I second that. Thanks for sharing.
-- JessicaCohen - 18 Feb 2010
Thanks for taking a look guys - got anything of your own? I know there are bound to be at least a few more folks out there with some creative spark, ya shouldn't be shy. Are we really as risk-averse as Eben says? (I'd like to think no) Take a risk, let someone see a different side of ya!
I finished another poem recently. Take a look.
A Plastic Bag Was
A plastic bag was
buffeted, blown, and
inextricably enveloped
in the clear;
that white shining soared,
awash in the air, empty
of anything's absence.
It rose, riffling in the cold
current, carried high
its shadow, drifting
small on a red-brick wall.
Inundated in sky it slit
that building-bounded blue,
slid and spun, engulfed
in eddies and enticing.
It will flex, bend, swell
with the wind's rising
- rolling hollows heave,
engorged in the waxing
flow that fails - then,
lolling and pellucid,
edify in its ebbing
and end. Embraced,
entangled in angled limbs,
worn ragged by the bark
of backlit branches.
Alright, got a new one. This is what you call complete, but unpolished. The entire thought is formed, and down, but the specifics are lacking, and the desired effect is impeded. I see this happen with lots of writing, not just poetry, and it translates into arguments (like my first version of the first paper). It's possible to have a whole thought, but lack the polish, the specificity, that makes it convey what you're after. While the idea may be a good one, it's a given that the flaws in language can and will be used by opponents to imply meanings, while not intended, which can seriously detract from the argument's overall effectiveness.
Enough rambling, here's something to read.
Star Fruit
The night is still
now, quiet, dripping,
damp lamplights long
ago gone bright -
bloomed, flickered
open like the evening's
morning glory, throwing
flashes of pale pink;
an angle's trumpet,
brugmansia's orange
opening gave way, now
white, heavy and held
high, spilling over into
the darkness. The black
tarmac is slick, saturated
shining branches sway slightly
overhead; twigs droop,
drops hanging clear and
pendant at their ends
as if budding, as if
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches
the star fruits swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky.
I like this, especially the line about the lamplights gone bright.
One thought: angle's trumpet: was angel meant here?
-- DevinMcDougall - 17 Apr 2010
Thanks for taking a look! Yes, angel was most definitely what was meant (nice job on the close read). See what I said about lacking polish? Also a terrific example of why it's nice to have someone proofread your work, because I sure read angle as angel every time.
-- MichaelHilton - 20 Apr 2010
Alright, so here's a second version, same poem after comments and critiques have been taken into account. Is the change stronger?
Star Fruit
The night is still,
now, quiet, now
dripping, damp lamplights
long ago gone bright -
bloomed, flickered
open like an evening
angel's trumpet,
a midnight morning glory -
now white, heavy and
held high, spilling into
the darkness, blanketing.
The black tarmac underfoot
is slick, saturated, now
branches sway overhead;
twigs droop, drops,
hanging clear, shine
pendant at their ends
as if budding, as if
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches
the star fruit swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky.
Well I'll be damned, got another one. Eben said something today regarding disassociation, and I think the speaker in this is nothing if not disassociated. And, yes, that is a nod to Thomas Wolfe in the title! (Also, had to go with the wiki formatting on this one due to the lack of italics in the other mode. It stretches out the poems, and irks the hell out of me, but I suppose it's alright to fit with the trend in this one.)
Conversation With My Angel
I’ve said this
so many times before
I should write this down
I’ve said this so many times
before I no longer know
where to begin, I’ve said this
so many times before
I no longer
know what I’m saying,
if these words have any
meaning, wont you tell me
I know I no longer love
you, I love who
you were, no longer
are, and don’t know
you at all, know you
hardly, maybe,
I’ll always know
you, who you
are or were
to me at least
what that meant
Ok, so, back! As it turns out if you forget your password and leave the piece of paper it's written down on in NYC while you're away (helping out convicted criminals - but that's a different story) it's awfully hard to update your ill-read thread. In any case, I got a little writing done this summer. The weather was warm, so maybe that influenced my decision to play in around in shorts. Got two about plums, not sure which I like best so they're both included. The entire set is pretty repetitive, but it was done as an exercise so that's kinda the point. Also included in this update is a poem I started fiddling with...almost a year ago? Easy to tell which one that is. In any case, y'all enjoy! (Anyone still reading this, that is)
Breezy
That is not
a warm wind
sighing in your ear;
it is Summer
coming on.
How to Eat a Peach
Put teeth to wet skin,
bite; lightly
until the juice
dribbles
down your chin.
Berry Picking
Sample. Savor
them slowly: taut
between fingers,
rolling
tender on your tongue.
Strawberry
After picking
they will be
stained her lips
red - the tips
of your fingers.
Plum (one)
Behind that bitter
exterior, firm flesh
rushes sweet, tickles
at the corners
of your mouth
Plum (two)
After its end
lingers: the taste
(skin's tart twang)
in the corners
of your mouth.
Lemonade
That last sip
lingers
(saccharine, tart)
like the print
of your lips.
[Untitled]
At four a.m. I followed
the water fumbling
through the cracks
in the sidewalk slabs,
beneath the swaying
lights, reflected,
green-yellow-red
rolling down
the uptown avenue,
the damp asphalt,
a black-tar river running
through the night.
In the gutter there was,
ribboning on its way,
a silver-backed snake
threading down
from the high ground,
away from the morningside ridge
to the steps
of Shelburne Hall.
Where I found
inside, realized, I
did not recognize
the sound of rain,
sat in the stairwell
and etched
its echo in my mind.
That's right, two updates in two days. Figured I'd share with you folks some edits I've made to poems written last semester (why should the new ideas have all the fun?). I hope I can keep this up and serve as an example that you too, dear reader, can be a [mediocre] law student at an [elite] institution without giving up the pieces of yourself you promised not to leave behind. Onward with the edits!
A Plastic Bag Was
A plastic bag was
buffeted, blown, and
inextricably enveloped
in the clear;
that white shining soared,
awash in the air, empty
of anything's absence.
It rose, riffling in the cold
current, carried high
its shadow, drifting
small on a red-brick wall.
Supplication
The leaves have come
and gone again
and still
the bags remain
as I first found them
entangled in angled limbs,
hanging limp,
like cloth for mending,
like a prayer,
but pellucid, listless
until the breeze blows.
And then,
how they strain
at their bonds,
such strange ships
tugging at their moorings,
longing to become
steeped in sky, inundated,
to flex, bend, and swell
with the wind's rising.
I have seen them
engulfed,
in eddies,
enticing;
I have seen them
worn ragged
on the bark
of backlit branches;
I have seen them
edifying in their end.
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