the old ones limping lying left over rubbing shaving cream in their armpits and waking scared checking bank accounts for money which finally and for real means nothing singing sometimes clinging to the voice words music tune sinatra martin frankie laine little old wine-drinker me are you my daughter the question he hasn't asked yet but will (like a rag doll ballet) the old sphinx riddle the lead- footed extra clump my father used to leap into air scissor kick his feet knees together to make us laugh and though we will never seem him dance that dance again last time in the kitchen I caught him waltzing with his walker ruined hands gripping metal lifting (underneath these impossible stars) my mother's moon occupies the wrong place I see it too and wonder if the river in our kitchen has returned, the cold roast beef of baby woodchucks she has booted with her broom my mother always trying to rearrange the room. (I did not love you well enough) it's good to learn again how failure flummoxes the brain hurts the heart and erodes the soul leaves you cold-footed and alone lifting chianti toasts to empty boots wishing you'd let the voice of unreason win the unrace until none of the things that don't matter don't matter and while it's not true that you don't matter it is true that there is no one to whom you matter most so
you must make matter matter and love the flesh of books, the blood of impossible stars and persimmons.
Ruth, you have some lovely images here, and to be honest, I believe your poem actually starts here:
Clinging to the voice(s)
and I think, with a few cuts, you can get this to be really sharp:
sinatra, martin, frankie laine little old wine-drinker "are you my daughter?" he hasn't asked yet but will
(like a rag doll ballet) < love love love this! the old sphinx riddle, lead-footed, my father used to leap into air scissor kick to make us laugh
and though we will never seem him dance that dance again last time in the kitchen I caught him waltzing with his walker ruined hands gripping metal lifting (underneath these impossible stars)
my mother's moon occupies the wrong place I see it too and wonder if the river in our kitchen has returned, the cold roast beef of baby woodchucks she has booted with her broom my mother always trying to rearrange the room. (I did not love you well enough) it's good to learn again how failure flummoxes the brain hurts the heart, erodes the soul,d leaves you cold-footed and alone lifting chianti toasts to empty boots wishing you'd let the voice of unreason win the unrace until none of the things that don't matter don't matter and while it's not true that you don't matter it is true that there is no one to whom you matter most so
you must make matter matter and love the flesh of books, the blood of impossible stars and persimmons.
I think, with well-placed linebreaks and the addition OF PUNCTUATION, you'll be able to make this story clearer. I also wonder if the mother can't have a few more lines? just a thought. You've ignited curiosity about her but I don't feel as though she is meaty enough yet (no pun intended)
In the cellar with the dead, the bones keep talking. They lift a finger to wag from the grave. In the cellar with the dead, my grandmother says, I refuse, I refuse, the flowers on her wrinkled duster growl.
Do you hear? This is my grandfather singing, Tanduay, Tanduay, cradling bonesharp bottles filled to the brim with sand. Motherland, motherland.
Do you hear? Here is the slow drip of the faucet. A dribble of water when he craved rum.
Even now, the air is wild from sugar fields. My mother bites down on cane, teeth gritted between sticky fibers. My grandmother sets a bowl down, shaking her head. My grandfather says, sugar, sugar, resting his arm on the kitchen table.
My mother fills empty bottles with peppered vinegar. The air is wild with sugared lace.
Their dreams hang above them, not the same dreams. My grandmother says, forget you. Her children climb shelves and shelves for long rows of glass, their legs dangling.
I am always amazed at how well humanity and magic and history weave themselves in your work in a way that pushes the truth into its rightful spotlight. Thank you for this.
It's hard to tell whether Blogger derailed your format, or whether you intended the long lines, so I'm just going to talk about the actual content (although for me, I feel like this would do well to be a big block of justified text)
Tanduay, Motherland
In the cellar with the dead, the bones keep talking <"talking" feels too laid back for bones. The rhyme of "speaking," following "keep" seems to do a little more here
They lift a finger to wag from the grave. In the cellar with the dead, my grandmother says, I refuse, I refuse, the flowers on her wrinkled duster growl. Do you hear? This is my grandfather singing, Tanduay, Tanduay, cradling YES! filled to the brim with sand. Motherland, motherland. Do you hear? < > the slow drip of the faucet - **A dribble of water when he craved rum.** <-- that's a book title. great line. Even now, the air is wild from sugar fields. My mother bites down on cane, teeth gritted between sticky fibers. My grandmother sets a bowl down, shaking her head. My grandfather says, sugar, sugar, resting his arm on the kitchen table. My mother fills empty bottles with peppered vinegar. The air <> wild with sugared lace. Their dreams hang above them, not the same dreams. My grandmother says, forget you. Her children climb shelves and shelves for long rows of glass, their _____ legs dangling. A slap when the bottles hit the ground.
Meaningless calendar-clock, sun circles… I saw something and long strands of fear < slight switch up suggested here were pulled from me as if by magnet
There on the grass, as I walked at dawn, things were showing the telltale darkness of passions and pain unacceptable and just how far we will go
It sickened me, not the reveal, but the illusion crumbling < suggested a slight switch up, here <>as the sun rose, I knew no one would believe me they have secrets of their own, hearts hidden from their dark selves <LOVE THIS LINE, but I think it can get beefed up with this offered rearrangement
exposure is no cure unless we all agree to see < ah, YES! I speak truth softly, repetitively from my own lawn < FABULOUS CLOSING LINES!
Laura! I really enjoyed this. The only thing I would suggest other than the notes I included in the text above is pushing yourself to go beyond the language that comes naturally to you as you write this. What are new ways to present passion and pain? What kind of weather do they bring? What kind of music are they? Ballads? Waltzes? Dirges?
Week 4--Justice--Ghost Line Poem
ReplyDeleteby Ruth
(but my one heart falls/like a sad fat persimmon)
the old ones limping lying left
over rubbing shaving cream
in their armpits and waking
scared checking bank accounts
for money which finally and
for real means nothing singing
sometimes clinging to the voice
words music tune sinatra martin
frankie laine little old wine-drinker
me are you my daughter the question
he hasn't asked yet but will
(like a rag doll ballet)
the old sphinx
riddle the lead-
footed extra clump
my father used
to leap into air
scissor kick
his feet knees
together to make
us laugh and though
we will never
seem him dance
that dance again
last time in
the kitchen
I caught him
waltzing with his
walker ruined
hands gripping
metal lifting
(underneath these impossible stars)
my mother's moon occupies the wrong place
I see it too and wonder if the river in our kitchen
has returned, the cold roast beef of baby
woodchucks she has booted with her broom
my mother always trying to rearrange the room.
(I did not love you well enough)
it's good to learn again how failure
flummoxes the brain hurts the heart
and erodes the soul leaves you
cold-footed and alone lifting chianti
toasts to empty boots wishing
you'd let the voice of unreason win
the unrace until none of the things
that don't matter don't matter and
while it's not true that you don't
matter it is true that there is no
one to whom you matter most so
you must make matter matter and
love the flesh of books, the blood
of impossible stars and persimmons.
Ruth, you have some lovely images here, and to be honest, I believe your poem actually starts here:
DeleteClinging to the voice(s)
and I think, with a few cuts, you can get this to be really sharp:
sinatra, martin, frankie laine
little old wine-drinker
"are you my daughter?"
he hasn't asked yet but will
(like a rag doll ballet) < love love love this!
the old sphinx riddle,
lead-footed, my father
used to leap into air
scissor kick
to make us laugh
and though we will never
seem him dance
that dance again
last time in
the kitchen
I caught him
waltzing with his
walker ruined
hands gripping
metal lifting
(underneath these impossible stars)
my mother's moon occupies the wrong place
I see it too and wonder if the river in our kitchen
has returned, the cold roast beef of baby
woodchucks she has booted with her broom
my mother always trying to rearrange the room.
(I did not love you well enough)
it's good to learn again how failure
flummoxes the brain hurts the heart,
erodes the soul,d leaves you
cold-footed and alone lifting chianti
toasts to empty boots wishing
you'd let the voice of unreason win
the unrace until none of the things
that don't matter don't matter and
while it's not true that you don't
matter it is true that there is no
one to whom you matter most so
you must make matter matter and
love the flesh of books, the blood
of impossible stars and persimmons.
I think, with well-placed linebreaks and the addition OF PUNCTUATION, you'll be able to make this story clearer. I also wonder if the mother can't have a few more lines? just a thought. You've ignited curiosity about her but I don't feel as though she is meaty enough yet (no pun intended)
Tanduay, Motherland
ReplyDeleteIn the cellar with the dead, the bones keep talking. They lift a finger to wag from the grave. In the cellar with the dead, my grandmother says, I refuse, I refuse, the flowers on her wrinkled duster growl.
Do you hear? This is my grandfather singing, Tanduay, Tanduay, cradling bonesharp bottles filled to the brim with sand. Motherland, motherland.
Do you hear? Here is the slow drip of the faucet. A dribble of water when he craved rum.
Even now, the air is wild from sugar fields. My mother bites down on cane, teeth gritted between sticky fibers. My grandmother sets a bowl down, shaking her head. My grandfather says, sugar, sugar, resting his arm on the kitchen table.
My mother fills empty bottles with peppered vinegar. The air is wild with sugared lace.
Their dreams hang above them, not the same dreams. My grandmother says, forget you.
Her children climb shelves and shelves for long rows of glass, their legs dangling.
A slap when the bottles hit the ground.
Rachelle!
DeleteI am always amazed at how well humanity and magic and history weave themselves in your work in a way that pushes the truth into its rightful spotlight. Thank you for this.
It's hard to tell whether Blogger derailed your format, or whether you intended the long lines, so I'm just going to talk about the actual content (although for me, I feel like this would do well to be a big block of justified text)
Tanduay, Motherland
In the cellar with the dead, the bones keep talking <"talking" feels too laid back for bones. The rhyme of "speaking," following "keep" seems to do a little more here
They lift a finger to wag from the grave.
In the cellar with the dead, my grandmother says,
I refuse, I refuse, the flowers on her wrinkled duster growl.
Do you hear? This is my grandfather singing, Tanduay, Tanduay,
cradling YES! filled to the brim with sand. Motherland, motherland.
Do you hear? < > the slow drip of the faucet - **A dribble of water when he craved rum.** <-- that's a book title. great line.
Even now, the air is wild from sugar fields. My mother bites down on cane,
teeth gritted between sticky fibers. My grandmother sets a bowl down,
shaking her head. My grandfather says, sugar, sugar, resting his arm on the kitchen table.
My mother fills empty bottles with peppered vinegar. The air <> wild with sugared lace.
Their dreams hang above them, not the same dreams. My grandmother says, forget you.
Her children climb shelves and shelves for long rows of glass, their _____ legs dangling.
A slap when the bottles hit the ground.
Justice
ReplyDeleteby LAURA HULL
Meaningless calendar-clock, sun circles…
I saw something and long strands of fear < slight switch up suggested here
were pulled from me as if by magnet
There on the grass, as I walked at dawn, things were showing
the telltale darkness of passions and pain unacceptable
and just how far we will go
It sickened me, not the reveal, but the illusion crumbling < suggested a slight switch up, here
<>as the sun rose, I knew no one would believe me
they have secrets of their own, hearts hidden from their dark selves <LOVE THIS LINE, but I think it can get beefed up with this offered rearrangement
exposure is no cure unless we all agree to see < ah, YES!
I speak truth softly, repetitively
from my own lawn < FABULOUS CLOSING LINES!
Laura! I really enjoyed this. The only thing I would suggest other than the notes I included in the text above is pushing yourself to go beyond the language that comes naturally to you as you write this. What are new ways to present passion and pain? What kind of weather do they bring? What kind of music are they? Ballads? Waltzes? Dirges?