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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 24, 2011 6:39:02 GMT -6
A charming young lady fondly cherished the hope that she and the poet might some day elope.
She pictured a future with this sensitive man and imagined the day that he’d ask for her hand.
But her dreams were all dashed when he sent her a letter in which he confessed that he loved someone better.
Pretty verses that flowed from his pen drove him wild so he married himself, by his own words beguiled.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 24, 2011 5:53:48 GMT -6
Hi Dianne, This is great. It's sad, cynical and humorous, all in one. I think you should find a publisher for this one! I especially like this "As each piece of the icy patchwork melts"...very neat imagery.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 24, 2011 5:49:56 GMT -6
Hiya Greg, I love this. Very cute. I do agree with Heather, though, about the word "treatise", since a haiku is about as far from a "treatise" as you can get, being a long exposition on some topic. I think just plain old "detritus" would serve this little piece much better. (Especially since haiku don't technically have titles). The title is kind of a cute play on words, but definitely not in the spirit of true haiku, which is all about "less is more".
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 21, 2011 7:31:02 GMT -6
Beautiful! You are so talented.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 21, 2011 7:29:34 GMT -6
Hi eiken, Great image. You're just lucky it wasn't a parliament of owls---that would really have blocked the light.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 21, 2011 7:22:49 GMT -6
Hi Greg, I really enjoyed this. I thought your reference to rpm's in the first verse was great. This brought back lots of vivid memories. I still remember my excitement over getting my first LP---with a bright reddish-orange cover---Ray Charles' "Modern Sounds in Country Western Music". To this day, I think there's nothing like a licorice-black record spinning on a turntable. I'm happy to see that the LP is experiencing a revival. And eiken, I see that you've already posted your piece in the "Your Other Writing Section", which is fine.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 21, 2011 7:14:09 GMT -6
Hiya eiken, What a great story and a great poem. Your daughter really looks like you (except for the hair). I think the poem is a great metaphor for her life. Who knew that all it would take would be a little rain to get her straightened out! One note, even allowing for regional differences, I think you meant curling tongs rather than curling thongs. (Unless, as they say, she got her knickers in a twist!). Thanks so much for sharing this with us. Brigid
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 19, 2011 7:07:53 GMT -6
Hi Faith, Good to see you back here. You've expressed some very sweet sentiments here. I am a bit confused, though, by your use of language, switching from the sort of slang they might use in "The Help" (you be beautiful) to regular English (you're the kind). If you're going for a certain effect, I think it would be better to carry it through throughout the poem, otherwise the slang seems affected. I'm not sure you really need your last two lines. Since it's pretty clear from the rest of the poem, you're drawing a conclusion for us that's already been "given". It's interesting that this could be written about a baby boy or a much older male. Mentioning a "shade of blue" especially conjures the image of a baby for me. As for the kind of eyes that can drive a girl crazy, I guess we're all a sucker for the innocent, intent gaze of an infant, so full of wonder. It's been mentioned before that some of your poems would lend themselves well to song. I think that's also the case with this one.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 19, 2011 6:50:04 GMT -6
Hello eiken, What a lovely confection you've offered up for us! This one captures not only the beauty of a moment in time, but the beauty of the being who painted it. Thanks for sharing both with us.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 18, 2011 6:34:01 GMT -6
Heather's "Neatly Rapt" reminded me of this poem I wrote last year.
Revision (Thanks to Greg) What is it that draws me out of my skin and further out of my mind— speaking in silent tongues that bend their way down the twistings and turnings that lead to my center? Who is it that tugs against my reluctance, calmly, with exquisite attention to each gentle opening, unhooking hooks, unbuttoning buttons, pulling apart my will like a gossamer web blowing broken in the breeze at dawning— a silvery flag with no country now. Original What is it that draws us out of our skins and further out of our minds— speaking in silent tongues that bend their way down the twistings and turnings that lead to our center? Who is it that tugs against our reluctance, calmly, with exquisite attention to each gentle opening, unhooking hooks, unbuttoning buttons, pulling apart our will like a gossamer web blowing broken in the breeze at dawning— a silvery flag with no country now. [a href=" poetry-here-and-now.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=free&action=display&thread=973"] poetry-here-and-now.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=free&action=display&thread=973[/a]
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 18, 2011 6:27:44 GMT -6
Hi Heather, This is lovely. It could apply equally to the eternal or to a lover. My only question is why you used "knew" rather than "know" in this line: "light the things I knew to be" since the verbs surrounding it are in the present tense. Great job.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 17, 2011 13:41:29 GMT -6
Hi Dianne, You raise a very interesting point here. I like to watch TV shows about people looking for houses. The kitchen is the BIG seller and everyone wants granite counter tops, restaurant sized refrigerators, an island with a sink and its own electrical outlets (in addition to the ones in "normal" locations"). One of the first comments is, "Oh, this is outdated, those cabinets must go, those counter-tops must go, oh, everything must go!" After reading your poem, I'm going to wonder how many of these kitchens will go virtually unused! I'm not sure about the meaning of this line: "bums on seats vibrating on idling engines" since "bum" can mean posterior OR "hobo" or some other ne'er-do-well. I'm thinking rather than "Yet", perhaps " Now new kitchens..." since what you're saying isn't really in opposition to what you said above. In the last stanza, let me suggest something like this for your last lines: Yet new kitchens sell houses stainless steel appliances glimmer like new internet fridges on brilliant display used as often as the cookbooks in op shopsThe reason for switching this up a bit is that your last lines say: "like the cookbooks in op shops unused but nevertheless on show" and the cookbooks are not "unused", in fact, they are no longer used unlike the kitchens which, according to this piece, are not used at all. (I'm also not clear on what is meant by an internet fridge). As usual, you bring us a well-thought-out commentary on modern life. Good job.
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 17, 2011 10:33:14 GMT -6
Hiya Reilley,
Well, if my poem was timely, it's only because the "death" of this particular legend has been very much on my mind and when I saw this challenge, it was naturally the first thing to pop into my head.
It's beyond the scope of this poem, but, tragically, so much more died than just one man's legend. It's so sad to see the values we once thought rock solid have been so compromised by the lust for wealth, power, and adulation.
Something may be rotten in Denmark, but it can't hold a candle to what went on in Pennsylvania, and what is, sadly, probably going on still, in other places, even as I write this.
Now, back to your previously scheduled Challenge...
Brigid
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 17, 2011 10:15:40 GMT -6
Hi Reilley,
Great job here and perfect (terrifying) illustration too. Yes, fury does seem to be a "student" of fire, doesn't it---mindlessly destroying everything in its path, without regret.
Brigid
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 17, 2011 7:29:39 GMT -6
Thanks to all of you for your kind comments. This poem is an example of what I really love about our forum---the way we inspire each other. Keep that inspiration coming!
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Hot
Nov 16, 2011 5:30:01 GMT -6
Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 16, 2011 5:30:01 GMT -6
Hi Dianne, Sometimes there's something to be said for not being subtle. This is one of them. This is great! Although it's cooler here now, I can definitely relate to this one from about June through October! A very enjoyable read!
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 15, 2011 22:47:14 GMT -6
Hiya Heather, Yeah! You go girl! This one also gets the approval of the Resident Anti-Rhymer (me). It's fast paced and clever. Great job. Brigid
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Bedroom
Nov 15, 2011 22:39:13 GMT -6
Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 15, 2011 22:39:13 GMT -6
Hi Rachael, Let me suggest that, in the future, when you make revisions that you post the revised version above the original, so that others may compare and contrast the way the poem was and the way it is. It's a great learning device for all of us to do it that way. Not everyone does it, but I sure wish that they would. I think it makes for a much more interesting read. I am so happy you're here. No need to apologize about anything like computer-phobia. Especially since no one would ever know that you're more comfortable reading printouts than stuff on the screen, etc. And, if we do all know---so what? Different strokes for different folks. I think you're doing just fine. You've figured out how to post and revise with apparent ease. If you'd seen how I botched my first attempts at posting (on another forum) you would think yourself an expert by comparison. Brigid
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 15, 2011 22:30:35 GMT -6
Hi Faith,
I know what you're trying to say here. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, so to speak. I'm not sure if this is supposed to be about a small child (it sounds like it from "sulk, pout and cry"). I'm not too clear about what the "worn-out lie" might be, either.
I don't think the last line logically follows the one before it. Something more like "I decided to be bad" would make more sense. What the child (or narrator) learned doesn't spring out of the indifference, it springs from the realization that the child (or narrator) gets more attention by bad behavior.
I think we really need a bit more insight into what the lie might be and that those last two lines need to be revised a bit, so the latter logically follows the former.
I'm usually a big fan of short poetry, but in this case I feel that this could be fleshed out just a bit more in order to offer us something really unique.
Perhaps some others will weigh in here and offer their suggestions as well...
Brigid
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Post by Brigid Briton on Nov 15, 2011 11:42:02 GMT -6
Great challenge Reilley! Your poem is funny and a great memorial to Don Adams, the immortal Agent 86.
Mine, not so much:
The Death of a Legend
A legend died on Wednesday, the ninth of November, at the age of eighty-four. Esteemed by many and worshiped by some, he seemed to embody honesty, integrity and a bull-headed desire to do things the right way.
He would have been remembered fondly forever if he hadn’t turned his back on the certain knowledge that things were not right in Pennsylvania, and for some little boys, now young men, things will never be right again.
In the dark of the night, there is no excuse that’s good enough, no record that’s stellar enough, no amount of admiration and love, that will ever erase the images of what was sacrificed for sport.
May he rest in peace, if he’s able.
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