Writing prompt week 4

[fishingthe_sky]

Hi guys and gals,

Since last week's prompt was a formal one, this week's prompt is going to be more subject-based: first, pick a city. Make it an unfamiliar one, maybe one where your experience with it is you stopped at McDonald's for a quick bite on a long road trip, or maybe one that you've always wanted to go to but have never actually been to. The point is, it shouldn't be one you know like the back of your hand. Next, pick some weather. Could be sunny, could be a bit breezy, could be snow in August, doesn't matter. Finally, pick an item of furniture. Tables, chairs, sofas, love seats, ottomans, lamps, whatever you want.

Got them? Good. Now you're going to write a 15-25 line poem using two of these three things as metaphors and metaphors only. You're not going to place your poem in Paris, but perhaps refer to a girl as being as hot as a Parisian summer. You're not going to mention that it was raining, but say that her words sounded like the drips of rain on pine needles. You're not going to say that she was sitting on a bar stool, but that her legs reminded you of the finely carved oak stool legs, with nice curves but a skinny figure. See what I mean?

Just to recap: Pick an unfamiliar city, pick a weather pattern, pick a piece of furniture. Write a 15-25 line poem. Use 2 of the 3 things you chose as metaphors in your poem. Do not use them for anything other than metaphors

Remember, if you post a poem, please comment on at least one other poem in the prompt.

Good Luck!

[thespearkid]

Question: Would it be ok to use a state instead of a city?

[fishingthe_sky]

Question: Would it be ok to use a state instead of a city?
Sure, I'll allow it.

[The Personist]

I like this.

In keeping with my notebook a month experiment, I will be switching to a new notebook tomorrow, and this will be the first thing I write in it.

[OveriseFan]

Love, love, love this prompt. I'm on summer vacation now... so hopefully I can actually start doing these, rather than say I'm going to do them!

[beazer32]

I've never posted anything here before, but I really wanted to participate in this one so here it is (I hope I'm doing it right):


Staring
Frozen like that Winnipeg Christmas
When I decided to go get the mail
Without putting any shoes on
Even though “it’s Sunday and we go through this every week”
Sorry, dear, you know that I’m expecting something
Or perhaps someone

Struck by a mental block
Like the furniture rearranged itself while I was blinking
So that old couch nobody likes is now
Barricading the only door to the outside world
That awful 1970s floral pattern
Mocking, “I’ll show you abrasive”
And I did have a comeback

Until a whirlwind of violent tranquility
Ripped through the bedroom
Tossing white sheets and pillows
And, I think, loved ones around me
Until the cable went out, the lights flickered
And I was just left
Staring

[bootsydan]

Wicked prompt.

[TheSkyline]

This is awesome, and I'll try to come up with one, although it will probably suck. haha

[TheSkyline]

I'd like to point out I am no poet, I write lyrics though and I figure this kind of stuff will help. So here it goes, haha.

Saying Goodbye

I remember when you first spoke those words
last night, and I was so unprepared
The news hit me so hard
like a lightning storm from Tampa
I didn't even know how to react

Saying goodbye was something I was never good at
I just wanted to go back in time, and forget it all
I was left wishing I was in the middle of that lightning storm
Because I just couldn't imagine life away from her
Every second I had with her was a second well spent

She came and went, like my favorite chair I used to write in,
It looked better in her apartment anyways
I then realized there was something that needed to be said
But when I came out of my daze to say goodbye
She had already left, and was long gone from my life.

[The Personist]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly
—or rather mostly—
because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"
Because you are
pink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.

[The Personist]

OK, the spacing got a little fucked up, but I think you get the gist. There should be the indents, but not the extra enter between the lines involved in the indents.

[TK]

These roads are all sentimental;
They turn and they fold,
They split and they merge, but
No one uses them,
they're simply scenery
But you're free to take them
If you'd like
Just don't go and get loss and try
To make a call
Because what's down those roads,
I don't know at all.
I spend all of my time reflecting
In between these two lakes
Reminiscing our last cloudless, sunny day
That we shared between
Just the two of us
So I don't mean to be rude,
I just simply don't have the time to spare
Guessing what lies down the street
Because for now,
Interlaken's been fine for me.
The weather's been cold,
But predictable
So even without that degree,
Life's been manageable.
And don't look so unhappy
With the decision you've made
Just look at it like a dresser
If you're unhappy with what you're wearing
Just go back and put on a new outfit
Dangle a different outlook
Take off those shoes and socks
And together, we'll take a walk.

[TK]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.

I always feel like such a joke of a "writer" when you post your stuff. I should take some classes.

By the way I think you're missing "as" in the first line.

[patpratt]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.

wow

[patpratt]

These roads are all sentimental;
They turn and they fold,
They split and they merge, but
No one uses them,
they're simply scenery
But you're free to take them
If you'd like
Just don't go and get loss and try
To make a call
Because what's down those roads,
I don't know at all.
I spend all of my time reflecting
In between these two lakes
Reminiscing our last cloudless, sunny day
That we shared between
Just the two of us
So I don't mean to be rude,
I just simply don't have the time to spare
Guessing what lies down the street
Because for now,
Interlaken's been fine for me.
The weather's been cold,
But predictable
So even without that degree,
Life's been manageable.
And don't look so unhappy
With the decision you've made
Just look at it like a dresser
If you're unhappy with what you're wearing
Just go back and put on a new outfit
Dangle a different outlook
Take off those shoes and socks
And together, we're take a walk.

this is also very very good

[The Personist]

I always feel like such a joke of a "writer" when you post your stuff. I should take some classes.

By the way I think you're missing "as" in the first line.

Nope. Don't need the as. But I appreciate the comment.

Classes are nice, but reading helps a lot. If you read, you see what other people have done before. We have a rec thread you should thoroughly lurk somewhere in this forum...

[Animalhill]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the

irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like

a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.
LOVE this. My favorite thing I have read of yours. I honestly have no bones to pick.

[OveriseFan]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.

I love this at times, and at times I feel the prompt restricts you and makes me, as the reader say, "What the hell is that?"

"The ottoman of my most pungent desires." stuck out the most. It just doesn't make sense. My only guess is that some lover, perhaps, rather than being your lover (mattress/in bed) instead took advantage of you, walking all over you, putting their feet on you (like an ottoman)?

I don't know - I think on the whole, the meaning of this is a bit lost on me... not sure if it's my inability or because of you being restricted by the prompt to bring in metaphors that aren't as completely developed as yours usually would be.

The language throughout most of it is very nice though, and while I don't understand how this, "because I am turquoise like Chicago after midnight" makes sense (turquoise after midnight? What? Turquoise is pretty light... and I've been in Chicago at midnight and it could hardly be described as turquoise) or even what it means, I think it's a beautiful image.

[Animalhill]

I am a moral leper.
I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you-
symmetrical and enthused.

I've warned you of my insatiable hands-
how they exist to make sandcastles from skin
and pollinate lost mermaids, making them
forget the smell of the sea through the tidal
movements of my bedsheets (ordained by the
moon and the gravitational pull of my poetry).

Our honeymoon would eclipse you, and you would sigh hurricanes.

I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you.
You would forever float as a moat around the
balustrades of my personal hells.

[TheSkyline]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly
—or rather mostly—
because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"
Because you are
pink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.
Wow dude, that was great!
I always feel like such a joke of a "writer" when you post your stuff. I should take some classes.

By the way I think you're missing "as" in the first line.
Hahah I agree. Especially because his is right after mine, it makes mine look even more horrible than mine already is. Haha

[SuicideKing]

I've never posted anything here before, but I really wanted to participate in this one so here it is (I hope I'm doing it right):


Staring
Frozen like that Winnipeg Christmas
When I decided to go get the mail
Without putting any shoes on
Even though “it’s Sunday and we go through this every week”
Sorry, dear, you know that I’m expecting something
Or perhaps someone

Struck by a mental block
Like the furniture rearranged itself while I was blinking
So that old couch nobody likes is now
Barricading the only door to the outside world
That awful 1970s floral pattern
Mocking, “I’ll show you abrasive”
And I did have a comeback

Until a whirlwind of violent tranquility
Ripped through the bedroom
Tossing white sheets and pillows
And, I think, loved ones around me
Until the cable went out, the lights flickered
And I was just left
Staring

the first two stanzas are great. the furniture rearranging itself is such a clever interpretation of the prompt.
the only part i don't get is the "whirlwind of violent tranquility." could you explain that to me? to me the contradiction is a little empty, like you were trying to force something clever. that's the only thing i had a problem with, otherwise, very well done.

[thespearkid]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.
I find it odd that you, Kathleen, and myself all seemed to have found a style we enjoy writing in but I find myself envying you guys' skill. There are parts of this that sort of struck me as strange for the sake of strange but there are other lines I really enjoyed. Everything before "the irony of plaid shirts" in the last section is really nice. Would it be out there to assume this poem is about indie elitists?

[SuicideKing]

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly
—or rather mostly—
because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"
Because you are
pink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.

i really enjoy reading your stuff, man. the last line made me laugh aloud.

[thespearkid]

I am a moral leper.
I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you-
symmetrical and enthused.

I've warned you of my insatiable hands-
how they exist to make sandcastles from skin
and pollinate lost mermaids, making them
forget the smell of the sea through the tidal
movements of my bedsheets (ordained by the
moon and the gravitational pull of my poetry).

Our honeymoon would eclipse you, and you would sigh hurricanes.

I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you.
You would forever float as a moat around the
balustrades of my personal hells.
you're really starting to get at the idea of avoiding cliches and presenting ideas in original ways. I like this. Sex is a difficult idea to write about sometimes and it's nice to see you something like this done in a relatively fresh way. It sounds a little arrogant, which could work to the betterment of the piece but it just makes me feel as if your poem is like a guy in a bar wearing too much cologne, thinking he can sleep with every woman in the place. That's my only complaint. Overall though, again, I like it. Definitely the best I've seen from you. Keep up the good work.

[thespearkid]

Did I leave more sweat on you or the mattress?
Physicality taxed all my fingertips. Actually, most
Of the night, I was shifting haphazardly up on
Top of the stack of black magazines. With a pleasure
Created by and for the Almighty King of Kings long
Before a masculine rain dripped drops on feminine
Seeds of grain, we sowed a seed of change. It grows
Like hurricanes blow: violently and unpredictable, never
Slowing down to avoid a crash through city towns or a
Good ol' fashioned "Wizard of Oz" style cow floating past
Your bedroom window. Never the less, we'll cover it
With wood so you can't see them and go down to the
Cellar so we can't sense or smell the sights or tell-tale signs
That our brick house is built on a foundation of straw and
Sticks. Down to our knees, we pray. "Our Father, who art
somewhere far away..." Such and such until the light
Of Day glows unmistakable. Another storm, thank You, and
Testimony.

[SuicideKing]

I am a moral leper.
I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you-
symmetrical and enthused.

I've warned you of my insatiable hands-
how they exist to make sandcastles from skin
and pollinate lost mermaids, making them
forget the smell of the sea through the tidal
movements of my bedsheets (ordained by the
moon and the gravitational pull of my poetry).

Our honeymoon would eclipse you, and you would sigh hurricanes.

I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you.
You would forever float as a moat around the
balustrades of my personal hells.

to be perfectly honest i think out of anyone posting here your stuff has changed the most. i mean that as a compliment. the first few posts i saw of yours i didn't like at all and i pretty much dismissed them. this is pretty astonishing. the only thing in here i don't like is the parenthetical statement. however, i think the sandcastle and mermaid lines are fantastic. well done.

[SuicideKing]

I’m recycling summers.
Folding memories
To reach the moment when you told me,
“You’ve got a helluva tongue.”

I know it’s colder than a winter in Michigan
And sharper than an autumn leaf.
And it may have been made of mercury,
But it loved you once
And stretched a smile on your face.

A smile so brightly lit
It could make all Caesar’s neon look dimmed.
A smile that could cut my tongue loose
Like a foxtail starting wildfires.

The pyramid it built you was a poem
Sounded out by ribcages bursting with honeycomb.
A cenotaph crafted from glow-in-the-dark stars
Arranged in the shape of planets slow dancing with the sun.

But you said it murdered melody
Like an archer with a borrowed bow
From a third string violinist.
Now all that’s left is a throat
Erupting in minor chords,
Trying to kick up comets for you to wish upon

[The Personist]

I find it odd that you, Kathleen, and myself all seemed to have found a style we enjoy writing in but I find myself envying you guys' skill. There are parts of this that sort of struck me as strange for the sake of strange but there are other lines I really enjoyed. Everything before "the irony of plaid shirts" in the last section is really nice. Would it be out there to assume this poem is about indie elitists?

I used plaid shirts because I always used to associate that with elitism, but it's more general than indie elitists. It's actually about a specific person I know.

[newtothis]

So, I'm not sure about this one. It is a little...dark... for me, I suppose. We'll see what you think, I guess. haha.



“Adam and Eve were the first to sin,
The first to touch what was forbidden.”

The universal mantra of Sunday school teachers
Rings through the streets of Salem.
Rank with the taste of those who grew to learn the hymn by heart,
the city is decorated only with ropes and overturned,
wooden chairs. A festive occasion. I am bewitched.

“Adam and Eve were the first to die,
The first to do what was not right.”

There are trials in Salem. The crowd is the judge,
The witnesses the jury. The verdict? Simple.
Sin equals judgment. Judgment means demise.
The fallen chair cowers underneath the blazing
Sun that gleams forth from the eyes of the mob.

“God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our food.
Amen”

The morning after.

[thespearkid]

So, I'm not sure about this one. It is a little...dark... for me, I suppose. We'll see what you think, I guess. haha.



“Adam and Eve were the first to sin,
The first to touch what was forbidden.”

The universal mantra of Sunday school teachers
Rings through the streets of Salem.
Rank with the taste of those who grew to learn the hymn by heart,
the city is decorated only with ropes and overturned,
wooden chairs. A festive occasion. I am bewitched.

“Adam and Eve were the first to die,
The first to do what was not right.”

There are trials in Salem. The crowd is the judge,
The witnesses the jury. The verdict? Simple.
Sin equals judgment. Judgment means demise.
The fallen chair cowers underneath the blazing
Sun that gleams forth from the eyes of the mob.

“God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our food.
Amen”

The morning after.
This a lot different from your more recent pieces. There's no humor element, no biting sarcasm, no wit. You just take this darker image and put it forth. It's fairly well-executed. The fourth stanza, however, comes across as a little weak. It just seems a little too obvious, too easy. The second stanza is the best. Characterizing the witch hunt as "festive" is pretty cool, especially since it is the protagonist who is being hunted here. All in all, I'm pretty in the middle on this one. It's not a particularly original idea so it would require a stellar execution to make it fresh. Your execution is good here, as I said, just not good enough to make the piece all that fascinating.

[newtothis]

This a lot different from your more recent pieces. There's no humor element, no biting sarcasm, no wit. You just take this darker image and put it forth. It's fairly well-executed. The fourth stanza, however, comes across as a little weak. It just seems a little too obvious, too easy. The second stanza is the best. Characterizing the witch hunt as "festive" is pretty cool, especially since it is the protagonist who is being hunted here. All in all, I'm pretty in the middle on this one. It's not a particularly original idea so it would require a stellar execution to make it fresh. Your execution is good here, as I said, just not good enough to make the piece all that fascinating.

Yeah. I actually agree. I reread this, and was like, "ew." Feel free to make fun.

[The Personist]

I love this at times, and at times I feel the prompt restricts you and makes me, as the reader say, "What the hell is that?"

"The ottoman of my most pungent desires." stuck out the most. It just doesn't make sense. My only guess is that some lover, perhaps, rather than being your lover (mattress/in bed) instead took advantage of you, walking all over you, putting their feet on you (like an ottoman)?


You didn't miss anything.

I don't know - I think on the whole, the meaning of this is a bit lost on me... not sure if it's my inability or because of you being restricted by the prompt to bring in metaphors that aren't as completely developed as yours usually would be.

The language throughout most of it is very nice though, and while I don't understand how this, "because I am turquoise like Chicago after midnight" makes sense (turquoise after midnight? What? Turquoise is pretty light... and I've been in Chicago at midnight and it could hardly be described as turquoise) or even what it means, I think it's a beautiful image.

This one time four years ago, I saw Wicked in Chicago. When we were leaving the theatre thereafter, I looked up. That's where the image comes from

[The Personist]

i promise to comment on all these posts tomorrow. I'm very tired right now, however, so whatever I say might be construed as fairly useless.Never fear!

[Animalhill]

to be perfectly honest i think out of anyone posting here your stuff has changed the most. i mean that as a compliment. the first few posts i saw of yours i didn't like at all and i pretty much dismissed them. this is pretty astonishing. the only thing in here i don't like is the parenthetical statement. however, i think the sandcastle and mermaid lines are fantastic. well done.
Mad thanks! Its very encouraging to hear.

[Animalhill]

you're really starting to get at the idea of avoiding cliches and presenting ideas in original ways. I like this. Sex is a difficult idea to write about sometimes and it's nice to see you something like this done in a relatively fresh way. It sounds a little arrogant, which could work to the betterment of the piece but it just makes me feel as if your poem is like a guy in a bar wearing too much cologne, thinking he can sleep with every woman in the place. That's my only complaint. Overall though, again, I like it. Definitely the best I've seen from you. Keep up the good work.
Again, thanks very much for the kind words. I love the image you took from it as well- not quite how I planned it, but that's exactly what I love about writing, and poetry in particular.

[Animalhill]

I’m recycling summers.
Folding memories
To reach the moment when you told me,
“You’ve got a helluva tongue.”

I know it’s colder than a winter in Michigan
And sharper than an autumn leaf.
And it may have been made of mercury,
But it loved you once
And stretched a smile on your face.

A smile so brightly lit
It could make all Caesar’s neon look dimmed.
A smile that could cut my tongue loose
Like a foxtail starting wildfires.

The pyramid it built you was a poem
Sounded out by ribcages bursting with honeycomb.
A cenotaph crafted from glow-in-the-dark stars
Arranged in the shape of planets slow dancing with the sun.

But you said it murdered melody
Like an archer with a borrowed bow
From a third string violinist.
Now all that’s left is a throat
Erupting in minor chords,
Trying to kick up comets for you to wish upon
Dude- I LOVE this. The opening is strong and immidiately engaging.
The fourth and fifth stanzas seem the strongest, and the way you tie the imagery together in these two (planets, stars, comets) is perfect. I would have liked to have seen this type of imagery in the second and third stanzas, though the nature/element driven imagery is not too distant a parallel to work well.

[The Personist]

Massive post time. Replying to everything in the thread posted thus far.
Staring
Frozen like that Winnipeg Christmas
When I decided to go get the mail
Without putting any shoes on
Even though “it’s Sunday and we go through this every week”
Sorry, dear, you know that I’m expecting something
Or perhaps someone

Struck by a mental block
Like the furniture rearranged itself while I was blinking
So that old couch nobody likes is now
Barricading the only door to the outside world
That awful 1970s floral pattern
Mocking, “I’ll show you abrasive”
And I did have a comeback

Until a whirlwind of violent tranquility
Ripped through the bedroom
Tossing white sheets and pillows
And, I think, loved ones around me
Until the cable went out, the lights flickered
And I was just left
Staring

I think you should properly punctuate. But I also think you have some decent ideas here--going to get the mail on Sunday, the furniture rearranging itself, and the whirlwind of violent tranquility--that just need to be developed better. I think "violent tranquility" is too obviously contradictory to give the reader any satisfaction, so you might want to make that delightful subversion a little more subtle and understated. My favorite of these ideas is going for the mail on Sunday. Do you think you could play with that more? Expand it? It was definitely an interesting concept.


Saying Goodbye

I remember when you first spoke those words
[/B[B]]last night, and I was so unprepared
The news hit me so hard
like a lightning storm from Tampa
I didn't even know how to react

Saying goodbye was something I was never good at
I just wanted to go back in time, and forget it all
I was left wishing I was in the middle of that lightning storm
Because I just couldn't imagine life away from her
Every second I had with her was a second well spent

She came and went, like my favorite chair I used to write in,
It looked better in her apartment anyways
I then realized there was something that needed to be said
But when I came out of my daze to say goodbye
She had already left, and was long gone from my life.
There are a lot of cliches here. I've never been to Tampa, so I don't know what the lightning storms are like, but I did enjoy the image, even if the piece itself does need a little work. I think you should take all the cliches--here bolded for your convenience--and try to approach them in a new way, a way that hasn't already been articulated or said. Also: do you think you could play with the favorite chair for writing image? I think it's cool, but underdeveloped. And how'd it end up in her apartment if it was your chair? I guess the best thing to do would be work on talking about saying goodbye...without saying "goodbye." "Goodbye" songs are something of a commonplace thing these days, and if you could get away from that, it might help you in the long run.

These roads are all sentimental;
They turn and they fold,
They split and they merge, but
No one uses them,
they're simply scenery
But you're free to take them
If you'd like
Just don't go and get loss and try
To make a call
Because what's down those roads,
I don't know at all.
I spend all of my time reflecting
In between these two lakes
Reminiscing our last cloudless, sunny day
That we shared between
Just the two of us
So I don't mean to be rude,
I just simply don't have the time to spare
Guessing what lies down the street
Because for now,
Interlaken's been fine for me.
The weather's been cold,
But predictable
So even without that degree,
Life's been manageable.
And don't look so unhappy
With the decision you've made
Just look at it like a dresser
If you're unhappy with what you're wearing
Just go back and put on a new outfit
Dangle a different outlook
Take off those shoes and socks
And together, we'll take a walk.
First off, I like this. I like the idea, and I think this more than anything else I've read of yours has a consistent narrative that arcs throughout. I think the loose rhyme scheme is a little bit distracting at times, because it's inconsistent in its prevalence. "call/all" is pretty blatant rhyming, but "predictable/manageable" is not so much so. My favorite part is the end with the dresser, though I think you use "unhappy" too much and it sounds clunky. Can you rephrase that differently? There are some instances of awkwardness still in this: "Reminiscing our last sunny day" (one reminisces of/about something; it's a passive verb) "that we shared between/Just the two of us" (redundant and awkward). It's definitely solid, though.

I am a moral leper.
I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you-
symmetrical and enthused.

I've warned you of my insatiable hands-
how they exist to make sandcastles from skin
and pollinate lost mermaids, making them
forget the smell of the sea through the tidal
movements of my bedsheets (ordained by the
moon and the gravitational pull of my poetry).

Our honeymoon would eclipse you, and you would sigh hurricanes.

I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you.
You would forever float as a moat around the
balustrades of my personal hells.
First of all, I love the pun with "belle"--I'm assuming it's a joke about the Liberty Bell, and even if it isn't, lie to me about it, because that is brilliant. This is the best thing I've seen you write. Someone else on here remarked about your improvement, and they're right. The middle stanza makes good use of a continuous metaphor of the ocean/beach, and in a striking way. I don't like the honeymoon line; it sounds like something Chiodos might sing. Also, the last two lines feel weaker than the rest; "float as a moat" and "balustrade of my personal hells" just don't do it for me. Also, I'm not sure "moral leper" really flies, to me. I think that's telling what you're showing in the rest of this piece. If you nix that line, this still works. Overall, though, this is quite good. Keep on writing and keep on improving.

Did I leave more sweat on you or the mattress?
Physicality taxed all my fingertips. Actually, most
Of the night, I was shifting haphazardly up on
Top of the stack of black magazines. With a pleasure
Created by and for the Almighty King of Kings long
Before a masculine rain dripped drops on feminine
Seeds of grain, we sowed a seed of change. It grows
Like hurricanes blow: violently and unpredictable, never
Slowing down to avoid a crash through city towns or a
Good ol' fashioned "Wizard of Oz" style cow floating past
Your bedroom window. Never the less, we'll cover it
With wood so you can't see them and go down to the
Cellar so we can't sense or smell the sights or tell-tale signs
That our brick house is built on a foundation of straw and
Sticks. Down to our knees, we pray. "Our Father, who art
somewhere far away..." Such and such until the light
Of Day glows unmistakable. Another storm, thank You, and
Testimony.
I have mixed feelings about your interpretation of change. On the one hand, I like the idea of it being tumultuous. On the other hand, you give the sense that we plant the seed and then it is tumultuous on its own. It's very hands-off...which I disagree with. But that's mere opinion. Aesthetically, this has its moments: "physicality taxed my fingertips" sounds really cool, and i couldn't help but laugh at the Wizard-of-Oz-style-Cow line (though I think you could present this in a subtler way that holds onto the humor but loses some of the awkwardness of the line). I like the conversational style you have. It's clearly influenced by Aaron Weiss and your faith, and it's nice to see you so readily incorporating your strongest subject into this. I think your imagery is a little cliche--bricks, straw, and sticks--and while fundamental to your point, you don't manipulate or present this in a way that makes it more interesting to the reader than a typical use of these commonplace structural gestalts. I'm pretty ambivalent about this, as I said, because of the interpretation of "change" but also because of the intense andromorphic imaging of God. It is traditional to use God as being a King and Father and such, but as a deconstructionist I think you see the myriad issues that one could raise with this particular interpretation of God. I'm not trying to attack your personal faith, but I do think that artistically, the image of God as a King who is our Father is somewhat stifling. This is a decent poem, nevertheless.

I’m recycling summers.
Folding memories
To reach the moment when you told me,
“You’ve got a helluva tongue.”

I know it’s colder than a winter in Michigan
And sharper than an autumn leaf.
And it may have been made of mercury,
But it loved you once
And stretched a smile on your face.

A smile so brightly lit
It could make all Caesar’s neon look dimmed.
A smile that could cut my tongue loose
Like a foxtail starting wildfires.

The pyramid it built you was a poem
Sounded out by ribcages bursting with honeycomb.
A cenotaph crafted from glow-in-the-dark stars
Arranged in the shape of planets slow dancing with the sun.

But you said it murdered melody
Like an archer with a borrowed bow
From a third string violinist.
Now all that’s left is a throat
Erupting in minor chords,
Trying to kick up comets for you to wish upon
"A cenotaph crafted from glow-in-the-dark stars" is such a fantastic line. THe last two stanzas of this are quite good. Before that, though, I feel like the poem doesn't really know where it's going or what it wants to do.

So, I'm not sure about this one. It is a little...dark... for me, I suppose. We'll see what you think, I guess. haha.



“Adam and Eve were the first to sin,
The first to touch what was forbidden.”

The universal mantra of Sunday school teachers
Rings through the streets of Salem.
Rank with the taste of those who grew to learn the hymn by heart,
the city is decorated only with ropes and overturned,
wooden chairs. A festive occasion. I am bewitched.

“Adam and Eve were the first to die,
The first to do what was not right.”

There are trials in Salem. The crowd is the judge,
The witnesses the jury. The verdict? Simple.
Sin equals judgment. Judgment means demise.
The fallen chair cowers underneath the blazing
Sun that gleams forth from the eyes of the mob.

“God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our food.
Amen”

The morning after.
First and foremost, just because you have a writing style that works for you doesn't mean you have to conform to it with every poem. If you're gonna write something dark, write something dark. You need not apologize because it isn't what people expected from you. That seems silly. O'Hara said "go on your nerve"; if your nerve is dark today, why not go on it just teh same as any other day?

That said, this poem did not strike me as your best work. I feel like it's somewhat contrived if only because of the already-been-done subject matter. Also, I almost feel like you're supporting, not condemning, the Salem witch trials. I could be wrong, but I definitely got that sense from the second longer stanza, where it felt very much like you were accepting that as a witch, you sinned, and now must die to repent. I'm hoping this is just a misread on my part, because, different though our theologies may be, I think everyone can agree that the Salem witch trials were a dreadful occurrence, and that sort of paranoid thinking has long since been abandoned. Again, though, I may just be misreading. That aside, I also think some of your images aren't as compelling as they could be--the cowering chair feels awkwardly passive concerning the nature of the hanging, and you don't really grab my attention or keep the reader very much engaged. I also don't understand the significance of the portions in quotations, either. I think therein lies the tonal confusion that makes for my confusion that I mentioned earlier.

[Animalhill]

Mad thanks man- and yes, the bell/belle pun was intentional (liberty bell etc).

[OveriseFan]

Writing Your Name in Both Directions

Her hair, brushed back with a smile,
golden like Vegas Summer,
shone through my window as I laid in bed last night.
And I tossed and turned as little photographs,
Or movie reels,
Of every girl I’ve ever kissed
(Or in her case never kissed)
Flickered through my mind like little raindrops.
No, a hurricane. Uncontrolled.
I pretend like I don’t care, like I don’t wish
I wasn’t an asshole and I wasn’t scared and
Kissed her when I had the chance in that parking lot
Right before the snow came down.
And I was not afraid to be not alone for once.
So I’ve been practicing the words and
Hannah, I think I might be able to say,
after writing your name in both directions,
I…

[thespearkid]

Warning: The weakest thing posted in this thread to come.

I haven't been able to write a damn thing for the past year, pretty much. Spare a random inkling popping into my head that gets (through hours of struggle, and still not perfectly) turned into a song. So, hopefully by writing these prompts I can get a single good idea, and find something to work with. I'm going to go back through all the old ones the next couple days, too. I don't know where I'll post them (or maybe I just won't); we'll see how they turn out.

Writing Your Name in Both Directions

Her hair, brushed back with a smile,
golden like Vegas Summer,
shone through my window as I laid in bed last night.
And I tossed and turned as little photographs,
Or movie reels,
Of every girl I’ve ever kissed
(Or in her case never kissed)
Flickered through my mind like little raindrops.
No, a hurricane. Uncontrolled.
I pretend like I don’t care, like I don’t wish
I wasn’t an asshole and I wasn’t scared and
Kissed her when I had the chance in that parking lot
Right before the snow came down.
And I was not afraid to be not alone for once. (awkward but cool)
So I’ve been practicing the words and
Hannah, I think I might be able to say,
after writing your name in both directions,
I…
It's not all that bad. There are some cool moments (I bolded them for you). I'll try to post a more detailed comment in the morning.

[OveriseFan]

I'm not sure if you guys will read the Discussion thread, so I thought I'd post what I posted in there in here too:

"I want to take a moment to commend all the new posters I've seen around - Animalhill, Artfully Aborted, New To This, Fishing the sky, and anyone else I missed. You guys are truly adding a new life to this forum, and it's fantastic. It's really, really great to see. I love the writing prompts, I love the criticism and praise I'm reading, and most of all, I love the writing!

I just wanted to say thanks, welcome, and if you all could introduce yourselves in this thread *The Josiah's Discussion Thread Is Better Than James's (just like a name and a little bit about you) that'd be great."

[The Personist]

I'm not sure if you guys will read the Discussion thread, so I thought I'd post what I posted in there in here too:

"I want to take a moment to commend all the new posters I've seen around - Animalhill, Artfully Aborted, New To This, Fishing the sky, and anyone else I missed. You guys are truly adding a new life to this forum, and it's fantastic. It's really, really great to see. I love the writing prompts, I love the criticism and praise I'm reading, and most of all, I love the writing!

I just wanted to say thanks, welcome, and if you all could introduce yourselves in this thread *The Josiah's Discussion Thread Is Better Than James's (just like a name and a little bit about you) that'd be great."

Done.

[fishingthe_sky]

Wow, so many poems! I'm sorry I haven't gotten around to this sooner, but I'm totally stoked that more and more people are participating in these things and everyone's getting good feedback. I'm going to do all of these in one go, and I'll post mine tomorrow most likely.

I've never posted anything here before, but I really wanted to participate in this one so here it is (I hope I'm doing it right):


Staring
Frozen like that Winnipeg Christmas
When I decided to go get the mail
Without putting any shoes on
Even though “it’s Sunday and we go through this every week”
Sorry, dear, you know that I’m expecting something
Or perhaps someone

Struck by a mental block
Like the furniture rearranged itself while I was blinking
So that old couch nobody likes is now
Barricading the only door to the outside world
That awful 1970s floral pattern
Mocking, “I’ll show you abrasive”
And I did have a comeback

Until a whirlwind of violent tranquility
Ripped through the bedroom
Tossing white sheets and pillows
And, I think, loved ones around me
Until the cable went out, the lights flickered
And I was just left
Staring
Punctuation would help this poem a lot. There are some points in this where the potential potency of your lines are lost because there's not a clear separation where one idea ends and the next one begins. As far that the prompt's metaphors go, the furniture one was more successful, only if it gives a better image. That stanza in particular is a bit wordy. A condensing like "Struck by a mental block/ Like the furniture rearranged itself while I was blinking,/ That old couch nobody likes now/ Barricading the only door out,/ That awful 70's floral patten" would keep all the important parts but eliminate a lot of excess wordage and improve the flow (I'm not suggesting you make it what I just did; I'm just trying to show you how a quick run through can get rid of things that are unnecessary). The last stanza kind of loses it. As has been said before, "violent tranquility" is not an effective paradox because they're so inherently opposite that there's no real meaning in it. Also, your use of phrases like "I think" are not really working effectively here; they're more distracting than anything, and you're not presenting us with enough uncertainty to qualify their usages. Good job, though, especially for your first post. You did the prompt right, and I encourage you to keep posting with us!

I'd like to point out I am no poet, I write lyrics though and I figure this kind of stuff will help. So here it goes, haha.

Saying Goodbye

I remember when you first spoke those words
last night, and I was so unprepared
The news hit me so hard
like a lightning storm from Tampa
I didn't even know how to react

Saying goodbye was something I was never good at
I just wanted to go back in time, and forget it all
I was left wishing I was in the middle of that lightning storm
Because I just couldn't imagine life away from her
Every second I had with her was a second well spent

She came and went, like my favorite chair I used to write in,
It looked better in her apartment anyways
I then realized there was something that needed to be said
But when I came out of my daze to say goodbye
She had already left, and was long gone from my life.
Artful said a good deal of the things I would say on this. These feel more like lyrics (which you mentioned) that poetry, which is taking away from the overall poesy of the piece. A place to start would be to perhaps utilize more the lightning storm image in how the words struck you; imagery will move you away from the plain language you use throughout this piece. I also want to hear more about the chair. What was important about enough to make it be qualified as your favorite? These details are important if you're going to make such a statement, and could provide a great deal of interesting things for you to say. Please continue to use these prompts as a way to better your craft, though. The more the merrier!

Po-Mo and the Art Of Tight-Pantsed Reverie

I have become alarmingly indifferent of
late. I blame this on the mattress, partly
because of the allegations of beard worship,
partly because I am turquoise like Chicago after
midnight, partly because I can't stand the
irony, and partly—or rather mostly—because the mattress lied and was not
a mattress at all but rather
the ottoman of my most pungent desires.
This has myriad implications.

One of these, the most important, is how
like a hailstorm I am, pounding on the
windows and begging for validation.
"Why must I seek such attention like
a small child?"Because you arepink and grey and a little bit like a desk chair
used to prop open the door during the
Marxist revolution. I still don't
understand what's so
fucking ironic about plaid shirts.
Not bad, Artful. "I am turquoise like Chicago after midnight" is a fantastic abstraction, and certainly Po-Mo. The last two lines of the second stanza I am unsure of, mostly for the reflexive reason you give. The implications are so varied to such an image that it's very difficult to make sense of it, though OveriseFan's interpretation is one I can get behind. To be honest, once I got to the final stanza you lost me quite a bit, which pissed me off a little bit, since the sentiment in the third stanza is very clear and present. And then I got pissed off even more because this is fairly obvious in its Po-Mo intentions and I can't fault the piece for something it already claims to be. But still, the reference to the Marxist revolution is perhaps a bit too broad, or perhaps a bit too overstated to really be as effective as an allusion to something else might be, and the the last three lines really do nothing for me personally in this piece, despite its predetermined context from the title. In all honest, I would almost perfer this to end at the third stanza, which presents both a powerful image and encapsulates the poem within its own emotion quite well.

These roads are all sentimental;
They turn and they fold,
They split and they merge, but
No one uses them,
they're simply scenery
But you're free to take them
If you'd like
Just don't go and get loss and try
To make a call
Because what's down those roads,
I don't know at all.
I spend all of my time reflecting
In between these two lakes
Reminiscing our last cloudless, sunny day
That we shared between
Just the two of us
So I don't mean to be rude,
I just simply don't have the time to spare
Guessing what lies down the street
Because for now,
Interlaken's been fine for me.
The weather's been cold,
But predictable
So even without that degree,
Life's been manageable.
And don't look so unhappy
With the decision you've made
Just look at it like a dresser
If you're unhappy with what you're wearing
Just go back and put on a new outfit
Dangle a different outlook
Take off those shoes and socks
And together, we'll take a walk.
I disagree with Artful that the rhyming here is distracting. I think that the flow of this piece allows it to operate well, despite its inconsistent use. I think that using more rhymes of the less obvious kind (internal rhymes and such) would improve both their flow and the effectiveness. An inconsistency that is a bit distracting is the punctuation, though; there seems to be some places where everything is properly paced by the punctuation and some places where you ramble on a little bit. The repetition of "unhappy" is awkward, and there are definitely stronger words to convey what you're trying to say. The only other issue I have are the instances of extra phrases/words that are just superfluous, which I've bolded. The only one that isn't exactly superfluous is the first line of the poem, which I've bolded because saying the roads are sentimental is so vague and rather weak. Your first line, if it's going to make a statement about the subject, should propel is with some force. "Sentimental" does not have any force behind it. These things being said, I like this poem a lot. I think the last metaphor you make with the dresser is great. You take it to a place that ends the poem on a nice note, which has all the hints of sentimentality without making any statment directly addressing the sentiment, and in this sense, it's a totally effective metaphor. Good job.

I am a moral leper.
I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you-
symmetrical and enthused.

I've warned you of my insatiable hands-
how they exist to make sandcastles from skin
and pollinate lost mermaids, making them
forget the smell of the sea through the tidal
movements of my bedsheets (ordained by the
moon and the gravitational pull of my poetry).

Our honeymoon would eclipse you, and you would sigh hurricanes.

I am the wrong side of Philadelphia
for a belle such as you.
You would forever float as a moat around the
balustrades of my personal hells.
As other people have noted, this shows a great amount of improvement. I don't know if I like "moral leper" much, since it's a very strong but not entirely fitting or appropriate image. "Symmetrical and enthused" is a great description though, and gives a great deal of intregue to this poem. The second stanza is great, though without the paranthetical it's even better. These kind of tongue-in-cheek self-reflections on art are rarely pulled off successfully, and it's really just not working towards anything here. I love the phrase "sandcastles from skin." I like the idea of sighing hurricanes, not so much the honeymoon part, so take what you will from that. The last stanza is weakened by "float as a moat" both by its obvious and kind of cheesy rhyming and by its incorrect idea, since moats don't actually float at all. Great job!

Did I leave more sweat on you or the mattress?
Physicality taxed all my fingertips. Actually, most
Of the night, I was shifting haphazardly up on
Top of the stack of black magazines. With a pleasure
Created by and for the Almighty King of Kings long
Before a masculine rain dripped drops on feminine
Seeds of grain, we sowed a seed of change. It grows
Like hurricanes blow: violently and unpredictable, never
Slowing down to avoid a crash through city towns or a
Good ol' fashioned "Wizard of Oz" style cow floating past
Your bedroom window. Never the less, we'll cover it
With wood so you can't see them and go down to the
Cellar so we can't sense or smell the sights or tell-tale signs
That our brick house is built on a foundation of straw and
Sticks. Down to our knees, we pray. "Our Father, who art
somewhere far away..." Such and such until the light
Of Day glows unmistakable. Another storm, thank You, and
Testimony.
There are some things I really liked about this, and some things that didn't quite click with me. I love the phrase "physicality taxed all of my fingertips." That whole first image is a nice set up, but then when it gets to the part I've bolded, it seems to trial off and ramble a bit. While this is not necessarily a bad extended metaphor, it just isn't working for me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it seems like it's disjointed too much from the first image, which starts very much in a small locality, then builds somewhat incongruously to the much bigger image of a hurricane-sized disaster. I like the phrase "go down the the cellar" and want it to go somewhere that tells us what you say immediately after, only I don't want you to state it so obviously; what I mean is that I want you to capture the lack of sensory perception in the language without actually telling me that there's this lack overtly. I think perhaps trying to move from the bed to the house to outside the house would be a more fluid way to progress in this poem. I see a good deal of potential in this, though.

I’m recycling summers.
Folding memories
To reach the moment when you told me,
“You’ve got a helluva tongue.”

I know it’s colder than a winter in Michigan
And sharper than an autumn leaf.
And it may have been made of mercury,
But it loved you once
And stretched a smile on your face.

A smile so brightly lit
It could make all Caesar’s neon look dimmed.
A smile that could cut my tongue loose
Like a foxtail starting wildfires.

The pyramid it built you was a poem
Sounded out by ribcages bursting with honeycomb.
A cenotaph crafted from glow-in-the-dark stars
Arranged in the shape of planets slow dancing with the sun.

But you said it murdered melody
Like an archer with a borrowed bow
From a third string violinist.
Now all that’s left is a throat
Erupting in minor chords,
Trying to kick up comets for you to wish upon
This poem meanders quite a bit before bursting open in the last two stanzas, where you have a great deal of excellent imagery bounding through your lines. I think the first stanza's a decent set up for context, and the last line of it is a nice use of reflexivity. The second stanza's the weakest one, with not much being said to build this sufficiently and the least exciting imagery. I assume you're making allusions to Las Vegas in the third and maybe fourth stanzas, which are nicely buried. I think you might need to rethink how you refer to the tongue, though. Referring to it as "it" throughout the entire poem is a bit too minimal, and caused me to get lost on what exactly "it" was referring to the first time through. Nicely done!

So, I'm not sure about this one. It is a little...dark... for me, I suppose. We'll see what you think, I guess. haha.



“Adam and Eve were the first to sin,
The first to touch what was forbidden.”

The universal mantra of Sunday school teachers
Rings through the streets of Salem.
Rank with the taste of those who grew to learn the hymn by heart,
the city is decorated only with ropes and overturned,
wooden chairs. A festive occasion. I am bewitched.

“Adam and Eve were the first to die,
The first to do what was not right.”

There are trials in Salem. The crowd is the judge,
The witnesses the jury. The verdict? Simple.
Sin equals judgment. Judgment means demise.
The fallen chair cowers underneath the blazing
Sun that gleams forth from the eyes of the mob.

“God is great, God is good,
Let us thank him for our food.
Amen”

The morning after.
Artful actually said a lot of what I was going to say about this poem. It's hard to pin down the tone of this. There's very little in the language directing us as to whether this is supposed to be in support of or condemning the trials. I also agree that compared to the other work I've seen from you this falls short. The language and images are comparably plain. I don't mean that necessarily as a dig on this poem; rather, I mean to say that I think you've proven yourself to be of a level of skill not really present in this poem.

[fishingthe_sky]

Writing Your Name in Both Directions

Her hair, brushed back with a smile,
golden like Vegas Summer,
shone through my window as I laid in bed last night.
And I tossed and turned as little photographs,
Or movie reels,
Of every girl I’ve ever kissed
(Or in her case never kissed)
Flickered through my mind like little raindrops.
No, a hurricane. Uncontrolled.
I pretend like I don’t care, like I don’t wish
I wasn’t an asshole and I wasn’t scared and
Kissed her when I had the chance in that parking lot
Right before the snow came down.
And I was not afraid to be not alone for once.
So I’ve been practicing the words and
Hannah, I think I might be able to say,
after writing your name in both directions,
I…
I like where this started and where it led us to. The second line is great, and one of the best metaphors made from the prompt, in my opinion. I think that in the 5th/6th stanzas you should choose to either use photographs or movie reels as the metaphor, but not both, since both present different connotations to how the metaphor will be shaped, and setting them up with an "or" statement doesn't allow the reader to fully develop either (hah, a photography pun). I also am not sure how I feel about the repetition in the "kissed/never kissed" lines. I feel like the second one shouldn't be almost a carbon copy of the one preceding it, perhaps something like "in her case, never." I think you could do without the "when I had the chance" with no ill effect; same with the "So" a few lines after. I was pleasantly caught off guard by your mentioning of the girl's name, which was a great way to personalize this and make it very concrete, and it made the ending all the better for me. Great job, and I'm glad to see you posting in these things.

Now, to introduce myself in the other thread...

[xxmannequin]

I wish I was a good writer. I enjoy reading everyone else's poems quite a bit though.

[bootsydan]

Writing Your Name in Both Directions

Brushed back with a smile,
Her hair shone through my bedroom window
Golden like a Vegas Summer.
And I tossed and turned as celluloid reels
Of every girl I've never kissed
Flickered through my mind like little raindrops.


Just a suggestion...

It still lacks a little flow, but I noticed you had a bunch of good images in the first couple of lines that were not very well organized. I never meant to re-write that for you either. Sorry. I was only going to offer a suggestion for one line, but ended up doing more...

Anyway fishing the sky and artfully aborted seemed to cover all bases on the others, but I just thought I'd throw my two cents in for this one.

[OveriseFan]

I like where this started and where it led us to. The second line is great, and one of the best metaphors made from the prompt, in my opinion. I think that in the 5th/6th stanzas you should choose to either use photographs or movie reels as the metaphor, but not both, since both present different connotations to how the metaphor will be shaped, and setting them up with an "or" statement doesn't allow the reader to fully develop either (hah, a photography pun). I also am not sure how I feel about the repetition in the "kissed/never kissed" lines. I feel like the second one shouldn't be almost a carbon copy of the one preceding it, perhaps something like "in her case, never." I think you could do without the "when I had the chance" with no ill effect; same with the "So" a few lines after. I was pleasantly caught off guard by your mentioning of the girl's name, which was a great way to personalize this and make it very concrete, and it made the ending all the better for me. Great job, and I'm glad to see you posting in these things.

Now, to introduce myself in the other thread...

I wish I was a good writer. I enjoy reading everyone else's poems quite a bit though.

Just start writing! That's the only way to become a "writer." You've been reading some great poetry in here, but look up some of the "greats" (there's a recommendation thread somewhere in here) to read too. Start doing these prompts. Even if you think what you write is no good, post it.

[SuicideKing]

I wish I was a good writer. I enjoy reading everyone else's poems quite a bit though.

if you really want to be a good writer all you have to do is start writing. Don't worry about whether it's good or bad, just be willing to accept criticism and feedback without being afraid of it (even when it's harsh). there are people here with lots of advice to help steer you in the right direction if you're willing to listen.

[fishingthe_sky]

I wish I was a good writer. I enjoy reading everyone else's poems quite a bit though.
Go here http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=1048642 to find a whole slew of good poems that you could use as a jumping point. Also, you could just try the prompt! It's a good way to get some practice in, and they will expose you to a good deal of poetic technique that you won't be able to find just by reading. The only way to turn those wishes into reality is to try, so try!

[The Personist]

Someone should find a link to Bukowski's poem "So you want to be a writer." That kind of kicked me in the pants back when I was like "ehhhhhhhhhh" about continuing down the path of writing.

[OveriseFan]

Someone should find a link to Bukowski's poem "So you want to be a writer." That kind of kicked me in the pants back when I was like "ehhhhhhhhhh" about continuing down the path of writing.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16549

so you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/394)
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

[The Personist]

The part about the sun burning in the gut is my favorite. It's also the way I feel about writing; you do it because you have to.

I disagree with Bukowski's notion of "if you have to revise it, you're fucking stupid," because revision is important, but I think he still has a point: you can't define yourself and your artistic life using other people and other people only.

[OveriseFan]

I have my doubts about how serious the poem is, to be honest... I think lots of it is being either ironic or just poking fun at "writers." I don't know...

[The Personist]

I think there's a degree of irony entailed, but the first stanza seems to be pretty straightforward.

[newtothis]

Artful actually said a lot of what I was going to say about this poem. It's hard to pin down the tone of this. There's very little in the language directing us as to whether this is supposed to be in support of or condemning the trials. I also agree that compared to the other work I've seen from you this falls short. The language and images are comparably plain. I don't mean that necessarily as a dig on this poem; rather, I mean to say that I think you've proven yourself to be of a level of skill not really present in this poem.

I understand what you are saying. I actually agree with both of you. I reread this after I posted it, and really didn't like what I saw. I might go back and revise it later, but thanks for the advice. and the complement as well :)

[xxmannequin]

Go here http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=1048642 to find a whole slew of good poems that you could use as a jumping point. Also, you could just try the prompt! It's a good way to get some practice in, and they will expose you to a good deal of poetic technique that you won't be able to find just by reading. The only way to turn those wishes into reality is to try, so try!
Just start writing! That's the only way to become a "writer." You've been reading some great poetry in here, but look up some of the "greats" (there's a recommendation thread somewhere in here) to read too. Start doing these prompts. Even if you think what you write is no good, post it.
if you really want to be a good writer all you have to do is start writing. Don't worry about whether it's good or bad, just be willing to accept criticism and feedback without being afraid of it (even when it's harsh). there are people here with lots of advice to help steer you in the right direction if you're willing to listen.
Thank you guys. :-) Maybe I'll try one of the prompts sometime. I appreciate the advice.

[The Personist]

Quote me to remind me to read this tomorrow.

[fishingthe_sky]

Quote me to remind me to read this tomorrow.
You be quoted

[OveriseFan]

Hey guys, here's mine finally. Sorry it took so long; I've been a bit slow to write and comment this week. I also want to say thanks for such a successful prompt, and I can't wait to see what we'll churn out next week!


Orwell*

These days, I watch
the sparrows strip
bark, apparently for nests,
and wait for you
to come like sharp
frost during night.
I check to see
if the blossoms are damaged,
the wood brittled by cold.
I sway soft these days,
the venetian blinds in front
of an open window,
a pendulum clocking short
sunny intervals of an impending
summer.

After about two days,
the sparrows plucked the courage
to leave their houses,
flew off and presently
disappeared.

*This is just a temporary title. I titled it this for now because I got the idea of the last stanza after reading something from the Orwell Prize.

Simple and very beautiful. A lovely poem.

There's not much I can really say about it - it's just absolutely gorgeous. Great imagery, the metaphors are fantastic. Wow. This is great.

[SuicideKing]

Hey guys, here's mine finally. Sorry it took so long; I've been a bit slow to write and comment this week. I also want to say thanks for such a successful prompt, and I can't wait to see what we'll churn out next week!


Orwell*

These days, I watch
the sparrows strip
bark, apparently for nests,
and wait for you
to come like sharp
frost during night.
I check to see
if the blossoms are damaged,
the wood brittled by cold.
I sway soft these days,
the venetian blinds in front
of an open window,
a pendulum clocking short
sunny intervals of an impending
summer.

After about two days,
the sparrows plucked the courage
to leave their houses,
flew off and presently
disappeared.

*This is just a temporary title. I titled it this for now because I got the idea of the last stanza after reading something from the Orwell Prize.

i'm pretty sure that from now on you're always going to have to post your pieces last. this would be really intimidating to try and follow up... =P

[The Personist]

You be quoted

I feel like a dick, but would you mind quoting me again tomorrow? I'll try to remember, but some crazy shit has gone down today and I'm going to spend the rest of the night on the phone trying to keep from dissolving into a spineless wreck (i'm a wreck with a spine at the moment), and I may not get to it tonight, though I promise to read and critique.

[OveriseFan]

I feel like a dick, but would you mind quoting me again tomorrow? I'll try to remember, but some crazy shit has gone down today and I'm going to spend the rest of the night on the phone trying to keep from dissolving into a spineless wreck (i'm a wreck with a spine at the moment), and I may not get to it tonight, though I promise to read and critique.

Best of luck man - we all know how that goes.

We're here in the Discussion thread... if you want it. Haha.

[fishingthe_sky]

Simple and very beautiful. A lovely poem.

There's not much I can really say about it - it's just absolutely gorgeous. Great imagery, the metaphors are fantastic. Wow. This is great.

i'm pretty sure that from now on you're always going to have to post your pieces last. this would be really intimidating to try and follow up... =P
Thanks guys. I'm absolutely flattered by these comments.

[fishingthe_sky]

I feel like a dick, but would you mind quoting me again tomorrow? I'll try to remember, but some crazy shit has gone down today and I'm going to spend the rest of the night on the phone trying to keep from dissolving into a spineless wreck (i'm a wreck with a spine at the moment), and I may not get to it tonight, though I promise to read and critique.
You asked me to quote you again, so here I am doing it again.

[OveriseFan]

Thanks guys. I'm absolutely flattered by these comments.

Keep doing what you're doing, man. That's one of the best poems I've read in a while - and one of the best I've ever read on any website.

[SomedayTheFire]

Untitled (no idea about a name). I guess this is the last day for this, but I liked the idea, so I quickly wrote a poem.

Breathing down the neck
of an unforgiving alley, waiting for the call
to say 'come home and spend the night alone'
Breaking, staying with the world outside.
Loving, what won't be mine. I want to spend
the night alone.

There she lays.
She's an old and beaten stool
worn thin, from nights without contempt.
Queueing a break from from anything
living everyday as if it is her final
lonely death

Breathing the neck
of a spectre so alluring, beguilling
she's a Vegas night and I'm a White Rock winter
The power she exhudes not a man can disdain
Loving what will be mine, one night I will
not be alone

[SomedayTheFire]

Hey guys, here's mine finally. Sorry it took so long; I've been a bit slow to write and comment this week. I also want to say thanks for such a successful prompt, and I can't wait to see what we'll churn out next week!


Orwell*

These days, I watch
the sparrows strip
bark, apparently for nests,
and wait for you
to come like sharp
frost during night.
I check to see
if the blossoms are damaged,
the wood brittled by cold.
I sway soft these days,
the venetian blinds in front
of an open window,
a pendulum clocking short
sunny intervals of an impending
summer.

After about two days,
the sparrows plucked the courage
to leave their houses,
flew off and presently
disappeared.

*This is just a temporary title. I titled it this for now because I got the idea of the last stanza after reading something from the Orwell Prize.
Damn, that is really good, I feel I have a lot of work to do.

[OveriseFan]

I want to say it again, thank you all for reviving this forum. Wow, just going through and reading this thread makes me go back to the "good old days". I'd argue that what's going on in threads like these is even better than what was posted years ago when this forum was "good". Great work, everyone. I mean that - there isn't one bad poem in this thread.

[fishingthe_sky]

Keep doing what you're doing, man. That's one of the best poems I've read in a while - and one of the best I've ever read on any website.
That's honestly the best compliment I've ever received about my work. I'm beyond flattered.
Damn, that is really good, I feel I have a lot of work to do.
Thanks. The forums are here so we all can grow as poets and challenge ourselves to "do work" haha. Oh, and just to let you know, there's no time limit on the prompts. Even though a new one will be posted tomorrow, you can post in any of the old prompts at any time if you'd like, and I'm sure you'd get at least a couple of critiques (I'd do one).
I want to say it again, thank you all for reviving this forum. Wow, just going through and reading this thread makes me go back to the "good old days". I'd argue that what's going on in threads like these is even better than what was posted years ago when this forum was "good". Great work, everyone. I mean that - there isn't one bad poem in this thread.
I, and I'm sure all the other members you mentioned, really appreciate this. I know that I personally have wanted to make this something other than a dumping ground for mediocre poetry and lyrics, and I'm glad to see that all of our efforts are paying off, and to have an older member of the forum say this really makes it all worthwhile. So thank you.

[fishingthe_sky]

Breathing down the neck
of an unforgiving alley, waiting for the call
to say 'come home and spend the night alone'
Breaking, staying with the world outside.
Loving, what won't be mine. I want to spend
the night alone.
I like what this first stanza is doing. The initial metaphor may be a bit unoriginal (feels almost almost like a film noir-esque phrase, if that makes sense), but the unexpected twist with spending the night alone makes up for it for me. The repetition of this idea at the end works.

There she lays.
She's an old and beaten stool
worn thin, from nights without contempt.
Queueing a break from anything
living everyday as if it is her final
lonely death
I would suggest removing the "and" between old and beaten to make the sounds harder. This would add some grit to the already gritty imagery.There should be a period after "anything," otherwise it runs into the next idea and confuses it. The idea of living everyday as if it's a dying one is an idea that's been overused, and if you can find a way to possibly convey the same sort of resignation while not using that specific idea this stanza will be much stronger.

Breathing the neck
of a spectre so alluring, beguilling
she's a Vegas night and I'm a White Rock winter
The power she exhudes not a man can disdain
Loving what will be mine, one night I will
not be alone
A logical and appropriate end, but definitely the least interesting and weakest of the three stanzas. It all sounds nice, but the images and ideas here have all been done before, so we're left with nothing new here at the end. Not at all a bad poem. I hope you'll continue participating in the prompts.

[The Personist]

Hey guys, here's mine finally. Sorry it took so long; I've been a bit slow to write and comment this week. I also want to say thanks for such a successful prompt, and I can't wait to see what we'll churn out next week!


Orwell*

These days, I watch
the sparrows strip
bark, apparently for nests,
and wait for you
to come like sharp
frost during night.
I check to see
if the blossoms are damaged,
the wood brittled by cold.
I sway soft these days,
the venetian blinds in front
of an open window,
a pendulum clocking short
sunny intervals of an impending
summer.

After about two days,
the sparrows plucked the courage
to leave their houses,
flew off and presently
disappeared.

*This is just a temporary title. I titled it this for now because I got the idea of the last stanza after reading something from the Orwell Prize.

I love the use of venetian blinds, if only because i've used them myself. I think this is really good, and it's tough to critique because I think it works so wonderfully. It also hit me just so, given my current disposition. If I were to make one suggestion, it would be that the final word, the "disappeared," be something different. That literally was the only part of the poem that didn't feel like it fit perfectly.

Awesome job, dude.