I know that I've got a million threads in the Workshop, but this thread really is distinct from the Lyrical Poems thread. The Lyrical Poems thread is more, well, lyrics than poetry. It doesn't make conscious use of the elements of true poetry that this thread will. I am currently taking an actual poetry class with a fantastic professor who is a moderately well-known professional poet from New York who studied at Sarah Lawrence. Kinda neat too, she went there with Lucy Grealy, and spent some time also with Jo-Ann Beard. But I digress, this thread will consist of my actual poetry assignments, one each week. I think it might be fun to watch it progress, and eventually look back to see what kind of progress I've made. The first few poems will be posted as a reply to this sort of thesis OP. Enjoy!
The Stone In The Vault The steel beneath her skin The needle without thread, twisted Almost pulling through, but stopped. The chemicals that keep it from festering, In her ears, in her mouth, down her back. I've never thought it appealing But this is the girl, this is the girl With The vault in the attic, The attack and decay, The tulips and ivory, The hinges and knives, The redwood and trimming, The well giving life. The stone in my bowl The mist that rolls off, rested After collecting on top, frosted The steam by the fire below, In my head, in my heart, in my legsCon't--> She'd never thought it firm But I am the boy, I am the boy Am The wandering stump The borrower's blunder The pondering rabbit The rickshaw with caddy The moribund habit The cross bearing dead
The lines are to simulate spaces, in order to keep the formatting. The Curator Rolled out and ruined, A stone beyond the waves, I've been left To my devices and throwing bones. She held a war of arrows Aimed at apples over casks of wine, And she filled those busted barrels With tightly wound watches. But though age makes right The fruit of the vine, Not so in tying The hands of time. All the wasted hours Poured out from the wounds of the keg, Across floors of wood that swelled, Drinking their fill of memories. The heat of the moment Drew up the stagnant reservoir. It came into heavy showers And piled like skirted letters at the door. I boarded up the windows To keep it all inside, So that no one would see The mess she'd made. I had it stacked to the ceiling, Pressed into the walls, Creeping down through the gaps in the floor, But when it reached the foundation... The ramparts cracked along the mortar- The blocks began to pebble- The age-drenched, mold-infested doors were severed and cast off- The useless, weathered windows burst into the light of dawn- The rattling walls bulged and breached- The steam that squealed from the irons- The boiler's gall-glowing pipes- The rumble of words on the pyre- The blinding break of daylight- Plumed forth into the morning, Bloomed ire across the sky, Threw hours all over the planet, As the trickling second drift by. -----------------------------------------...And then silence. -------------------------------...And then ringing. ---------------------...And then light. To my head... -------------------------To my hands... ---------------------------------------------------To my feet. Now hear the running water. Time flowing gently, Intently forward; The tempo of life.
With many more to come, pretty soon. Teddy Bear His button eyes, sunken, black as a fractured satellite, filing my childhood. Neither of us see quite clearly now. His threaded smile-- frayed, crooked, loosened, then lost. It hides beneath bold cable wires. His hair grown fine, nearly bare, scarce from reckless prying hands. Beguiled are we, filled with fluff and shovings, with muffled voices inside. Through his museum expression, some stifled cry, What have I become? For Shadowing The Hedges It was a cloudy summer afternoon in the garden. I was pretending to be a bear, hand in the fountain, toying with a clown fish. Then came the blinding sun, and a girl, a strawberry blonde stranger from next door, placed her hand on my little bear wrist. She said her hedges were safe from the light. She was a tiny thing, she made me feel much larger than I was. My parents had never wanted me to enter the hedges, as it is difficult to find your way once inside. The girl gripped tighter at the sound of my wary voice, so I held her hand as she led me into her sheets, stretching over the hall of bushes, for shadowing the hedges.
Of The Chair A dark shadow stains the tan upholstery where my grandmother sat for the forty years, widowed. Looking upon it now, in this moment I know: the dark is its true color, and the light is nothing more than a lingering glow from the many years she sat watching television, alone in the night.
Oh man, I think I just wrote my best poem for this semester. Gotta share it with people, cause we won't get to workshop it for over a week. Here goes. Baptism A stone met my head at the bottom of the river. I returned to the howl of the stranger who is my father. I do not know who I am. I wonder who I have been. I open my eyes. There is nothing of me hidden under this wet white robe. Blood surfaces for air, blushing at the world.
Not intentionally vague, more intentionally split in presentation. I wanted there to be a literal story with a symbolic story paralleled.
Pretty deep stuff. That said, I'm no poetry expert per se. But I have committed to memory a couple that start out "here I sit, my cheeks a' flexin'...."
Good things! My poem, "Teddy Bear" (post number 4), was chosen to be published in the National Society for Collegiate Scholars' Spring 2012 edition of their magazine The Collegiate Scholar. Got a press release and everything.
Revisions! Several of which become almost entirely new poems. First up is "Of The Chair." Of The Chair A dark shadow stains the tan upholstery where my grandmother sat for forty years, widowed. I think of her there, not hearing the door present the low, warming voice of her husband, not hearing her dead son, not hearing her dead daughter. The sunken stain drowns in the light of the chair's true color, The lighter margin reaching in to consume her earthly shadow. David Perry
Next, "Before The Lightening Chair," which is a revision of "A Cat Called Madness." Before The Lightening Chair No matter the hour, this cell is buried in the night. The clock does not bring the brightness of day, but only the reminder of the appetite I do not have for my final meal. Though, there is another hungry thing, lingering around the margins of the cell-- a black cat, which they have assigned to me, to keep me company in my final days. He is quite the creature, yawning and clicking his wild nails across the concrete, stalking mice and insects, clawing at anything quick. Sometimes we both watch the clock. In the late hours he will sleep upon my chest. I can feel the weight of him there, the heat swelling and shrinking. His tail wavers, a drunken metronome, the timer for the lightening chair. When I wake, he is motionless at my bedside, casting a rusted shadow, coming and going as the lights flicker. David Perry
Finally, "Life Is Not Still / Here." It is a revision of "So Too, In Death." Life Is Not Still Here. I've grown tired of chamomile tea, of hammers, of comets, of restless matter. I've left this world of shivering atoms, the incessant vibrations of all things beneath the bent glass of a microscope. I've lain beneath the ground, and felt the wind inside my head. I have seen God. I have kissed his callused, arthritic hands. I bereave me. David Perry
Gravity I stand naked, eyes closed, leaning with my head against the shower wall. I consider the waste basket, consider the mirror and the washer, consider my wallet and my father. I open my eyes and consider the smallest drop of water hanging onto the wall. It clings to the gripless surface, the smooth, rust-darkened fiberglass. Other bulbs reach toward it, some slipping into it, bringing with them all their weight. I am unsure if it is different now, with its collective nature, or the same, with other bits thrown in. Suddenly the drop falls, leaving a trail of tiny beads, shedding what is either itself or the bits of the others. It sinks into the shallow water and is lost.
Two more, both written last night. The first is one that people seem to love more than any of my others, oddly enough. I like it, but I'm not sure it's my best or anything. I I wrote it in about fifteen minutes. Here's that one, "Death Of A Stranger." ------------------------------------------ Death Of A Stranger His obituary came in the Sunday paper. The morning rain drained the ink from the photo, spilling his eyes over the concrete. The bold black letters stained my fingertips; a paraphrasing of eighty years wiped over denim jeans, washed down the kitchen sink. And to think, but one week earlier and the paper would have provided a proper fire starter.
This is the second one. Personally, I think it needs revised and trimmed down to the most relevant images. --------------------------------------------------------- With Child The sparrow's alarm draws the Sun into focus, searing against the bedroom ceiling on a hot August morning. The air is pregnant with water, pressing in through the window. The thick breath of Summer peals the paint from the pane. Sweat pours over white wall bubbles. Hazy eyes open, glazed skin slips out of bed. Dawn flows into the bathroom. The shower pipes yawn beneath the floor, and squeal at the release of rain. Something came in with the heat in the flow of the night before. Her face glows with the greatness of feeling, with the bracing love of revealing. She turns the knob, the head drizzles and stops. The front door closes. He had shut the window and turned on the air conditioner before returning to the street. She stands in the bedroom, dripping upon the floor, cold, but not alone.
