Without a Paddle
I drove on
a mountainside road.
A Suburban followed
me. A sign reading
"no outlet" bisected the rocks.
I braked before a narrow,
naked, earthy tunnel.
Another notice above
the concrete hall: "low
clearance."
The Suburban turned
around; I accelerated. In the rear-
view, two cock red, rectangle
signs told me "wrong way."
I made a right
turn when I could
and got caught
in traffic behind
a Suburban.
The mountain grew
smaller in the distance. I
didn't recognize the road
signs. I asked for
directions. I was pointed
back to where I came from.
Commentary: I was trying far too hard to be abstract. As I wrote to my professor at the end of the semester, "I wasn't writing poetry for myself, but for the people reading it." I was writing what I thought poems were to others, not what it could be for me.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Concerta Tab 36mg
Prodding the butt
mush of my brain, meds
fade like colors on a spin
cycle. This brushed-under-
the-rug-self engulfs. Mom
rushes to refill the prescription. I lose
focus on my home-
work. Elefence on icy
alps, lead by Lecter. Skeeing
down my frontal lobe. Forgetting
how to concentrait, my thoughts
turn to idioms and anymalls. Doctours
are quacks. Dentests
are clucks. Diplomas
are the cat's meow. Myself,
the doomed rat Algerian,
miss using the wards
in my vocabulary, I shoulder
at the mirror thought
Commentary: I give myself credit for trying something so different in only my second poem. Not that I think it's all that good, but I'm glad I took the risk. This poem is responsible for my ever-growing attraction to word play. This was also the first poem that was inspired by someone in my family (so, so many more came after and are still to come).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
*I'm too lazy to figure out column formatting right now, so ignore the camouflaged periods and the crooked second column. Use your imagination to make it straight.
Reap
isolated.........................................my dad, in a booth
he lay wincing...............................surrounded
no longer......................................by his life's
living,...........................................disappointments.
we entered....................................me in the corner,
white covered him,........................mom across,
his machines beeped,.....................sister on his right,
begging.........................................smiling.
i wanted to laugh ..........................when he started to choke,
he went out...................................eyes bulged
like a pansy,..................................no one helped.
my friend said. .............................his heart deserved it.
Commentary: Once again I shamelessly applaud myself at taking the challenge of a column poem on so early in my writing of poetry. Even if it wasn't good, people gave me credit for that. This was the first time I ventured into my favorite genre too: dysfunctional families.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
my father died...............................after last dinner,
screaming......................................mince his final words.
"burning up"................................."steak tartare"
"damn"........................................."whiskey"
"burning up"................................."steak tartare"
"damn"........................................."whiskey"
isolated.........................................my dad, in a booth
he lay wincing...............................surrounded
no longer......................................by his life's
living,...........................................disappointments.
we entered....................................me in the corner,
white covered him,........................mom across,
his machines beeped,.....................sister on his right,
begging.........................................smiling.
i wanted to laugh ..........................when he started to choke,
he went out...................................eyes bulged
like a pansy,..................................no one helped.
my friend said. .............................his heart deserved it.
Commentary: Once again I shamelessly applaud myself at taking the challenge of a column poem on so early in my writing of poetry. Even if it wasn't good, people gave me credit for that. This was the first time I ventured into my favorite genre too: dysfunctional families.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
The Price is Wrong (just given title)
shiv-
ers. eye
on screen
artist, comic
holds the knife.
clock strikes thirteen,
the witching hour of night.
investigate the thump,
heartbeats devour,
open up di-
ary, see
rage.
puppeteer
of skeleton
and horror.
forgotten
70s icon.
now, an ever
aging
must-
ache.
Commentary: I honestly don't know what I was doing here. The letters at the end in the first stanza make "VINCENT PRICE" but at the cost (high price [pun intended]) of forgetting all other aspects of poetry. The first "i" is "eye" and the last "c" is "see." As much as I dislike this poem, I like that mustache image.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Nobody Says the "B" Word
My whole life is a dark room. One. Big. Dark. Room.
Until green and orange plastic snakes guide me
up to his musty vest, plastic busting buttons.
Four inch legs spread open on my dresser.
The ghost with the most's arms frozen open
invite my words, "I am alone,
I am utterly alone." He grins, it's showtime.
"I'm thinking of offing myself," I whisper
in his ear. A ring sticks from his back.
Pull the string, "Geez, I don't know,
I mean, I always said if I ever did it
I was gonna do it once and that was it."
Pull the string, "I'm telling ya honey,
she meant nothing to me. Nothin' at all!"
None of it make sense. Or helps
my broken heart. What did I expect
from him though? Figures
around him on the desk grin.
Advice rests in the hands
of a killer, handgun and alcohol.
Commentary: Well then. First of all, this second of my "passion poems" as I call them, (Vincent Price one being the first) just shows that my indescribable love for these topics is just that: indescribable. This one isn't as cringe-worthy as the Vincent Price one, but still...yikers. That last stanza was written weeks after the first three as a tongue-in-cheek response to writing the poem. I'm almost proud of that...almost.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Poems 6, 8 and 9 (Family Portrait, Home Field Advantage and Turkey) are at the Thanksgiving Collection post I put up at the end of 2011.
Commentary on Family Portrait: My breakthrough! Tom Waits inspired me to write Family Portrait with his rich and numerous characters living in a run-down but beautiful world. I'm not making an inkling of comparison of myself to Waits, but just pointing out. Literally overnight I went from being completely lost on line breaks to realizing their potential. Nothing makes me happier than coming up with a really great line break, it's the reason I write poetry.
Commentary on Home Field Advantage: I think there's flaws I can go in and easily fix in this poem, but I don't have the passion for it. I'm not a fan of this poem for personal reasons. I think I did an okay job at what I was trying to say and some of those dysfunctional family line breaks make me smile, but I just find it lukewarm, especially after Family Portrait. I am proud of that last line however, I think it's one of my better images in the series.
Commentary on Turkey: Controversial! You can see that I wasn't sure where I was going with the poem when I start talking about the cookbook, but once I hit the word "cavity" I knew where I was headed and it ain't pretty. This isn't the only time I've written from the female perspective, but it's the first. Everyone hated the first line "my apron covered stains," but I was (and still am) here to defend it! I'm a fan of double meaning, so it could literally mean that her apron covered the stains on her shirt but also that her stains are apron covered. The difference is that one hides and the other is covered. By the end of the poem, when she removes the apron, I think both of those meanings fit really well. But I would know, I wrote it. Oh, and by the way, put ejaculation and turkeys in the same poem, professors love it (at least mine did).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Going back to my seventh poem:
Specs
On my twelfth birthday, I got a pair
of crimson-tinted glasses,
but what I saw my dad give
my older brother was a model.
Jedediah got the day
off. I trudged to the coop
with my dad, double-checking
I brought my worthless gift.
They weighed down my inside
coat pocket.
My dad picked for the runt,
I was ordered to calm down
the chicken. I focused on
the white wings held steady
by Dad's forceful hands.
I put on my glasses. For Dad
slaughtering was business.
For me, it meant blood, blackouts
and bruises, By Dad's clenched fists
the stump and axe stood stained,
at a tilt. I swooned and my eyes pierced
his gift to me. "Great," my dad said
"You deserve this, hemophobic
runt." Body freed from featherless head.
On the ground, docile chickens wore red glasses.
Later, I woke up. My brother
held up the broken frame,
Complaining to the head of
my family, "He broke it."
Commentary: Right after Family Portrait, I felt pressure to come up with something that could compete. The more I read this, I enjoy the story more than Family Portrait, but I agree that it's not executed as well. I'm really happy with of a lot of the line breaks and was overjoyed when a classmate asked me where the farm I grew up on was. Honestly, I'm proud of this poem and am really surprised I haven't posted it earlier. Another writing tip, start out a poem with puberty imagery, professors love it (or at least mine did).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
lye
Commentary: I was afraid that my poetry was going to begin to trail into cliches and sentimental crap after the semester ended and I wanted to write something that had potential to be all that while I was on a hot streak. It's not the first of my homosexual poems actually. Without a Paddle, Family Portrait and even Specs were all written with the intention of homosexual undertones. I mean, none of them worked, but I'm glad for that. lye is a curious one. My professor said it was second best to Family Portrait which is surprising because she was the number one enemy of sentimentality. She commented that it gave strong enough feeling of shame that the blatancy of it was honest and not hokey. I think some of my other homosexual poems since have been stronger, but I think this one has the most feeling to, and behind (pun intended) it.
So, there it is; the evolution of my creative poetry writing. Sometimes I look back and am disappointed that these are stronger than the ones I write now, but it just means I have to try harder. The whole reason I wrote this was because I'm having a slight situation with writer's block (or really, I'm writing, but none of it is good enough for my standards as of now). Hopefully this therapeutic trip down memory lanes helps. Thanks to anyone who read all of this and hope it was entertaining and not boring. I realize it's a lot and am thankful that there's even the chance that one friend might have read this and learned a little more about me. Because in the end that's what it's all about, isn't it? ME BABY, ME!
shiv-
ers. eye
on screen
artist, comic
holds the knife.
clock strikes thirteen,
the witching hour of night.
investigate the thump,
heartbeats devour,
open up di-
ary, see
rage.
puppeteer
of skeleton
and horror.
forgotten
70s icon.
now, an ever
aging
must-
ache.
Commentary: I honestly don't know what I was doing here. The letters at the end in the first stanza make "VINCENT PRICE" but at the cost (high price [pun intended]) of forgetting all other aspects of poetry. The first "i" is "eye" and the last "c" is "see." As much as I dislike this poem, I like that mustache image.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Nobody Says the "B" Word
My whole life is a dark room. One. Big. Dark. Room.
Until green and orange plastic snakes guide me
up to his musty vest, plastic busting buttons.
Four inch legs spread open on my dresser.
The ghost with the most's arms frozen open
invite my words, "I am alone,
I am utterly alone." He grins, it's showtime.
"I'm thinking of offing myself," I whisper
in his ear. A ring sticks from his back.
Pull the string, "Geez, I don't know,
I mean, I always said if I ever did it
I was gonna do it once and that was it."
Pull the string, "I'm telling ya honey,
she meant nothing to me. Nothin' at all!"
None of it make sense. Or helps
my broken heart. What did I expect
from him though? Figures
around him on the desk grin.
Advice rests in the hands
of a killer, handgun and alcohol.
Commentary: Well then. First of all, this second of my "passion poems" as I call them, (Vincent Price one being the first) just shows that my indescribable love for these topics is just that: indescribable. This one isn't as cringe-worthy as the Vincent Price one, but still...yikers. That last stanza was written weeks after the first three as a tongue-in-cheek response to writing the poem. I'm almost proud of that...almost.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Poems 6, 8 and 9 (Family Portrait, Home Field Advantage and Turkey) are at the Thanksgiving Collection post I put up at the end of 2011.
Commentary on Family Portrait: My breakthrough! Tom Waits inspired me to write Family Portrait with his rich and numerous characters living in a run-down but beautiful world. I'm not making an inkling of comparison of myself to Waits, but just pointing out. Literally overnight I went from being completely lost on line breaks to realizing their potential. Nothing makes me happier than coming up with a really great line break, it's the reason I write poetry.
Commentary on Home Field Advantage: I think there's flaws I can go in and easily fix in this poem, but I don't have the passion for it. I'm not a fan of this poem for personal reasons. I think I did an okay job at what I was trying to say and some of those dysfunctional family line breaks make me smile, but I just find it lukewarm, especially after Family Portrait. I am proud of that last line however, I think it's one of my better images in the series.
Commentary on Turkey: Controversial! You can see that I wasn't sure where I was going with the poem when I start talking about the cookbook, but once I hit the word "cavity" I knew where I was headed and it ain't pretty. This isn't the only time I've written from the female perspective, but it's the first. Everyone hated the first line "my apron covered stains," but I was (and still am) here to defend it! I'm a fan of double meaning, so it could literally mean that her apron covered the stains on her shirt but also that her stains are apron covered. The difference is that one hides and the other is covered. By the end of the poem, when she removes the apron, I think both of those meanings fit really well. But I would know, I wrote it. Oh, and by the way, put ejaculation and turkeys in the same poem, professors love it (at least mine did).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Going back to my seventh poem:
Specs
On my twelfth birthday, I got a pair
of crimson-tinted glasses,
but what I saw my dad give
my older brother was a model.
Jedediah got the day
off. I trudged to the coop
with my dad, double-checking
I brought my worthless gift.
They weighed down my inside
coat pocket.
My dad picked for the runt,
I was ordered to calm down
the chicken. I focused on
the white wings held steady
by Dad's forceful hands.
I put on my glasses. For Dad
slaughtering was business.
For me, it meant blood, blackouts
and bruises, By Dad's clenched fists
the stump and axe stood stained,
at a tilt. I swooned and my eyes pierced
his gift to me. "Great," my dad said
"You deserve this, hemophobic
runt." Body freed from featherless head.
On the ground, docile chickens wore red glasses.
Later, I woke up. My brother
held up the broken frame,
Complaining to the head of
my family, "He broke it."
Commentary: Right after Family Portrait, I felt pressure to come up with something that could compete. The more I read this, I enjoy the story more than Family Portrait, but I agree that it's not executed as well. I'm really happy with of a lot of the line breaks and was overjoyed when a classmate asked me where the farm I grew up on was. Honestly, I'm proud of this poem and am really surprised I haven't posted it earlier. Another writing tip, start out a poem with puberty imagery, professors love it (or at least mine did).
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
lye
Commentary: I was afraid that my poetry was going to begin to trail into cliches and sentimental crap after the semester ended and I wanted to write something that had potential to be all that while I was on a hot streak. It's not the first of my homosexual poems actually. Without a Paddle, Family Portrait and even Specs were all written with the intention of homosexual undertones. I mean, none of them worked, but I'm glad for that. lye is a curious one. My professor said it was second best to Family Portrait which is surprising because she was the number one enemy of sentimentality. She commented that it gave strong enough feeling of shame that the blatancy of it was honest and not hokey. I think some of my other homosexual poems since have been stronger, but I think this one has the most feeling to, and behind (pun intended) it.
So, there it is; the evolution of my creative poetry writing. Sometimes I look back and am disappointed that these are stronger than the ones I write now, but it just means I have to try harder. The whole reason I wrote this was because I'm having a slight situation with writer's block (or really, I'm writing, but none of it is good enough for my standards as of now). Hopefully this therapeutic trip down memory lanes helps. Thanks to anyone who read all of this and hope it was entertaining and not boring. I realize it's a lot and am thankful that there's even the chance that one friend might have read this and learned a little more about me. Because in the end that's what it's all about, isn't it? ME BABY, ME!
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