Poetry Workshop

Quality Online Poetry Workshop

obelletto — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 04:15:29 GMT

Dear poet friends,

Come to The Gazebo .

It's what we've been looking for: a good online workshop.

Fresh edit of an old poem

obelletto — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 09:14:33 GMT

... which means I have no idea if this is as effective as I think it is, or if it's merely dealing in sentiment.

So as Not to Forget

Silvio died from Alzheimer’s.
Towards the end, he was a curious creature,
shy and yet developing a hesitant romance
with a lady in a similar condition.

Dixie called it, “cute,”
and I suppose that’s what it was.
One couldn’t help thinking of playground
affairs. We put his car keys in the casket.

He had loved to drive.
She moved to Lodi, of all places, to be near him
and she volunteered at the home,
I suppose learning him all over new,

The way his mother had learned the child.
The first thing the home had done was slim him down,
so by the time he was at his rest, his skin
was oversized. It’s not the sort of thing you notice

on a living person. They’re just wrinkles.
We left things that were no longer his,
twelve long-stemmed roses for his favorite color
and toothpicks for his pocket.

Auntie Jean made herself busy writing notes
and taping them on the bottom of lamps,
credenzas, rocking chairs, to ensure the history
of each oil well lamp and brass bed frame.

Those of us … who weren’t preoccupied
with how history could be saved
made awkward jokes in the cramped limousine.
I told myself I wouldn’t write it,

letting go of the casket,
or laughing with the cousins.
Easter was coming.
For Lent,

I gave up foolish resentments of Lazarus,
and Jesus,
who had ways out of those holes dug
to keep them.

Avocado Beach

galaxydream — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 03:15:54 GMT

Red warm bright eyes swirling close distance
Hypnotic black night comfort entangle minds
Skin wave trickle finger tips trace resistance
Below support mocks conversation aligns

Wind chill caress goose bumps climax breathing
Friction kiss lips part engulf worlds heal mankind
inside twist infinite knowledge flows streaming
Merge pallets transcend emotion universe glows love light

nineblackcats — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 03:40:55 GMT

The Doldrums

The ocean holds her cobalt breath in check
and stillness softens round horizon's rim;
all rig and rope lie limp upon the deck
as world awaits a breeze's whispered whim.

My ill-caulked heart drifts over azure water;
the vastness of these skies enthralls my mind.
A sister; friend; a loving, baffled daughter -
deep distance dulls the wind I seek to find.

Too long my sheltered port, your loving arms;
*me, half-unsure of tales of sails that tore.*
But sea has lured me, baits me now - becalms
and hides the wreck and whirlpool at her core.
In time, when she puts forth these wilder charms,
then will you wait for me, upon the shore?

***

I've tried to rework this poem several times and I'm still not quite happy with it. The sestet is causing me the most issues, but I'm open to criticism on the rest of the poem as well. I do have a few specific questions, though:
1. Does the asterisked line scan alright, or is it a mess of too many rhymes / not enough proper grammar?
2. Have I used the word "becalms" correctly, in the sestet? I've been staring at it way too long today to be sure.
3. Are there any other lines or words (or even whole sections) that are particularly awkward to read, or where the metaphor falls prey to the rhyme?

FIFTY MILES FROM NOWHERE, MONTANA

psifi1138 — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 16:47:10 GMT

She sits on moonlit tracks leading nowhere
And the smoke curls from her lips
Into the moist, caressing breeze
Only to lose its scent in the smell of the wood from the mill.

She shifts her feet in the fuzzy slippers she, again,
Had forgotten to take off.
And now they were getting dirty and torn
And Mother would be asking her soon
How they'd gotten so ragged.

From far off in the distant dark
The air carries the rumble and clatter of steel
Rolling on unknown tracks leading
Somewhere.

This is where she sits most nights
After her goodnight kiss.
When Mother's and Daddy's light goes out
And Whiskers and baby Charlotte lay cozy in their little beds
She slinks out of the rusted aluminum neighborhood,
Barefoot when she remembers to be,
And watches the moonlight dance
Or feels the cold rain soak her nightclothes.

She often goes to Dean's house
Because it's probably a bad idea.
Dean, who's old enough to drive but never does
Because there's nowhere to ever go.
Dean, who sits around all night with bottles and knives
While his father works 'the grave.'

The grave. The pile of lumber fifty yards down track.
The place the most recent body'd been found,
Half-eaten by something half-human.
And she wonders what it must have felt like.

She and Dean had spoke a bit about it
And he'd said it must become addicting;
That maybe the first time was hard and awkward
But that you must start to get horny for it.
And though he kind of understood it
He wasn't sure he'd "have the stones", he'd said.

And she can understand it too
Because it must be quite a thing to feel.
And there is nothing to experience here.
And her body keeps changing and wanting to feel new things.

There are so many sensations she wants to try
And she always wonders "What was it like?"
Of what someone else had done.
And she knows only what it's like to sneak back into bed
With dirty feet or tattered slippers.

So she smothers the cigarette against the rail
And watches the flame slowly die,
Exhaling its ghost into the damp heavens.
And she looks across the rails and the street
At the light in Dean's window.

And she walks in the dark to his door
To find out what it feels like.
The knife entering flesh,
The rush of blood, the rush of breath.
And she tells him
"I want to be your first time."

A kind of introduction...

nineblackcats — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 05:12:08 GMT

It feels a little awkward to be posting here without having commented on anyone else's poetry yet, but I am dubious as to whether critiquing poetry from 6 months ago would be of any use to the people who posted it. Hmm.

Well - after a bit of deliberation, I thought I'd post this one... a sonnet in couplets that I wrote quite a while back, and a poem I want to develop to make it sound a little less... basic. It'll serve as a kind of self-introduction here, too, but it needs some work - I'd love to hear what you think needs help, either specifically or generally!

Personally, I suspect the metaphor becomes a bit too clunky by my revealing its meaning in the 10th line... and I'm never entirely sure about whether I over-use punctuation.

The magpie
The magpie spent her life collecting
shiny, pretty things for nesting.

Burnished keys and tiny bells;
chocolate wrappers, pearly shells.

'Mongst shards of glass and polished stone,
her own reflection: monotone.

Embarrassed by her black-and-white,
she saw no point in taking flight.

Besides, joy came from other birds;
she sought new poets, craved more words.

A hungry thief, she saw no choice,
unaware she, too, had voice.

Now the magpie spreads her wings,
pulls in breath, and learns to sing.

Interest in the Workshop

obelletto — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 04:17:28 GMT

Hi, this message is for nineblackcats

(You appear to have your settings such that I cannot reply personally to the message you sent me. So I'll post my reply here, and perhaps you'll see it.)

I think there were several people who were interested in getting this community up and running, but it never seemed to get off the ground.

I'm still interested, and I keep a watch. If nothing else, you can be guaranteed that I'll reply with some critique.

Some have found my advice helpful, others have been very opposed to it, but I can assure you I put a lot of thought into it.

The only thing to consider is that I will assume any poem posted is looking for serious critique. In other words, be prepared for advice like, "Cut this line, it isn't working," or "I loved your metaphor, but I can't help feeling there's more work to be done to flesh it out."

I look forward to seeing your work!

Oreste

Questions

apoetryjunkie — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 00:59:49 GMT

"I/you" format vs. "he/she". This has always perplexed me. How do they differ? I mean, what aspects of a poem (or any narrative) does the "I/you" emphasize, that "he/she" doesn't (and vice-versa.) When do you use "I/you" or "he/she" and why?

Sorry if this isn't clear. I've just been stuck in an "I/you" rut lately, and I'm wondering what red flags I should look for that would tell me if I'm abusing it.

This one was an experiment

h_dorn_poetry — Sat, 24 Feb 2007 03:24:59 GMT

... After this, I'll try to stay away from free-verse and venture into other kinds of poetry, just for the sake of being able to say that I've ventured.
Anyway,

Stone-carved

The stone carver spat at her feet after he poured
wine in her keyhole,
spilled oil on her paralyzed door,
a door that would not melt,
a door whose flames licked his lit
match crumpled through the crack.

She could not see him through
cement-filled eyes,
she could not speak through
a cement-filled mouth,
she reconstructs white lies, what lies
in
memory
of
red wine. He said he would sell
his mother for sweet wine.

He loved her bricks and mortar next to his
tortoiseshell suburbs.
She flattened tortoiseshells with elephant feet.
She drove him underground, under
water, under sound. He smuggled
bootleg discs and headphones through a ring of fire,
underwater, under sound.
When blood howled through his salt tracts,
and crickets burned bridges, he loved her
underwater, under sound.
He loved when she stitched wounds with train tracks,
when her fingers formed webs crystallized
words she learned him, unlearned him in shared silences,
dial tones, keystrokes tapped swarms of gnats, he found love in
wireless underwater, under sound, in a sand trench
underground.

She, his surrogate mother taught him speech,
she shaped his lips, she stretched the muscles
in his jowl, cracked the bones in his jaw and
his tongue belonged to her.

The stone carver spat at her feet as he lay dying,
she force-fed him peace,
she heard the crickets singing,
and Napoleon stared at her.

I struggle with line-breaks and I have mixed feelings over repetition.
I won't be able to reply for about a week though because I'm in Taiwan right now, killing time with my boyfriend's laptop until my jet-lag subsides, so I apologize ahead of time for my lack of response to any (if any) comments/queries.

Body is the First

obelletto — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 22:55:11 GMT

Body is the first philosophy we’re given.
Its motions become emotions, and stay that way.
Touch can soothe, and touch can burn. The sting from
a lover’s palm can do both. Find the nerve that roots
in earliest truth, knowing no better, and there ends
the mystery of love. Only to begin romance.

Grab a rattle, teethe a drum, pound it in driven
snow. We’re windswept into choreography,
the dancing fiddler, or a drunken lecher’s hum,
our valentines turn pirouettes on the same beat
because of these crib-early tempos. Skinned, we dance.
Aching to get us into each others pants,

Body asks, Are my rhythms shackles? Do they mood
the bent wrist, or heel at the chain? Do they draw blood?

Hello. New here.

h_dorn_poetry — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 22:26:14 GMT

This is exactly the type of online community that I'm looking for. I've recently started writing poetry and I'm very serious about it (my livejournal account is a portfolio.) I read a lot of poetry, specifically the Modernist period, though it might not reflect in my work. I'm also very interested in international works. I hope to receive constructive criticism and feedback for improvement, and I have no problem with critiquing and encouraging other works as well. (I'm not here for an ego-boost, trust me.)

So without further ado:

Stilettos;
high heels’ sophisticated
sisters. Metal or plastic
tips wound carpets and floors, and
eroticize height. Hips swinging, Femme Fatale
marches on.
Click, clack, click, clack,
metronome chorus concludes
with a dig into a submissive
partner’s skin, yielding, abdominal
muscles contracting,
against the attack of
two inverted towers that cause
buckling legs and back. That ain’t sexy,
Dominatrix.

Stilettos send
young automatons toppling down
catwalks sprawled in fabric, twisted limbs
exposed by exploding electric bulbs
for picture-perfect pictures
of disaster.

Stilettos once hid in Imelda’s closet.
They crushed skeletons too old,
too tired to weep, swept under the rug,
her closet recycled, reborn a Mecca where
Sandal and Slipper Streets meet.
Her allergic reaction to ugliness
was beautiful.

Buckling legs and back. That still ain’t sexy,
Dominatrix.

Note: My super funky stiletto boots started this, and a conversation I had with a friend filtered through. For my own ass-coverage, I asked him to cite his sources for the very useful, inadvertent, word-of-mouth inspiration he contributed to this piece. If anyone else is interested in reading about the infamous Imelda Marcos, the links are below.

“Homage to Imelda’s shoes.” BBC News. 16 February 2001. [http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1173911.stm].

Gunness, Christopher. “The Day I met Imelda Marcos.” BBC News. 13 October 2000.
[http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/asia-pacific/1000140.stm].

x-posted.

talkingdonkey — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 22:24:52 GMT

The Emptied Plate

We, the poets eat
our world, a field
of comestibles.
We, the consumers
taste the world
and digest it.
Enzymes and pens,
catalysts and ink,
poems churn forth
from the emptied plate
and the full stomach.

An older piece. Not sure I like line breaks on this piece. Haven't been producing much lately unfortunately. Any thoughts on getting back into that when in a slump?

My Poem

mijea — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 23:29:34 GMT

The Hag of Immature Stupidity

Ignorant, controlling, ugly soul,
Walks the room, fills the bowl.
Fat for breakfast, fat for tea.
Fat she tries to force down me.
Words spoken before a single thought,
Insinuating comments hastily sought.
In this my heart will always hate,
The day my dad married his fate.

Five is young for a marriage,
But who would know, when hidden by a body of age.
Only those who can see clearly behind the mist,
Those who really read the words on the page.

Ignorant, controlling, ugly soul.
Walks the room, fills the bowl.
Fat for breakfast, fat for tea.
Fat she tries to force down me.
Words spoken before a single thought,
Insinuating comments hastily sought.
In this my heart will always hate,
The day my dad married his fate.

She curses my mother,
A woman un-met
All on un-forgiven words,
A record is set.

Ignorant, controlling, ugly soul.
Walks the room, fills the bowl.
Fat for breakfast, fat for tea.
Fat she tries to force down me.
Words spoken before a single thought,
Insinuating comments hastily sought.
In this my heart will always hate,
The day my dad married his fate.

Guilt she trys to feed my throat,
Because the fears she’ll always hold.
Controlling everything in her path,
I’m a mind she’ll never mould.

You see I’m a different person,
To what she’s used,
She’s not one to think,
Can’t handle the bemused.
She’s not one to think,
A dying soul
She’s not one to think,
As dumb as a troll.
She’s not one to think,
And I’ll be her end,
Unless her lies, and comments she’ll mend.
She’s not one to think,
She’s growing cold.
No more blood left,
No one to hold.
On this I swear the day,
That I stand over her,
Sword in hand,
Where she lay.

Ignorant, controlling, ugly soul,
Walks the room, fills the bowl.
Fat for breakfast, fat for tea.
Fat she tries to force down me.
Words spoken before a single thought,
Insinuating comments hastily sought.
In this my heart will always hate,
The day my dad married his fate.

greetings

belovedpariah — Sun, 28 Jan 2007 03:26:56 GMT

Hello, I’ve always loved poetry, and have written myself, intermediately. However it is mostly just lyrics for songs I had written, lacking any definitive structure.
I would like to get more serious about both reading and writing.

i would greatly appreciate any advice for books a novice might pick up. Either for simple enjoyment or a solid how-to to help with my writing

~isaac

Let me know what you think

obelletto — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 12:26:24 GMT

Why So Clever?

How many times can you wipe your ass
before it turns into play?
I think you’ve been in there.

How far can you drive into a tunnel
before you’re driving out?
If you think yourself this disgusting,

then there’s really no crossing
the fucking hour I’ve already waited
on this side of the door.

Shave it. Wipe it. Wash it.
It’s like deliberately writing a bad poem
in the middle of which a hummingbird

sips at the trees outside your window.
Something’s clean only once distracted,
once the light in front becomes larger

than the one shrinking. Fuckin’ A.
We’re gonna die. And believe me,
I’ll be sorry if it’s not Jesus freshly showered,

each body part scrubbed by whore-hair and tears,
each wound glistening blood—
peace sign with a nail hole in it.

But that’s too familiar, and something in me
hopes despite the evidence, that where I
go won’t be already used.

For Christ’s sake hurry up!
Yours isn’t the only journey
that’s gotta flush.

I have got to settle dark smear
onto fresh sheet
and send it down into hiding, too,

and pretend:
below me, the smart rim refills.
That motion, that’s what I’ve

been talking about this whole time, but
the beating of a thumb-sized angel blurs.
We send parts of ourselves to announce

an eventual arrival.
Why are we so clever hiding the destination?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Because of all the fucking flies.

The poem that I posted somewhere else

exshakespeare — Sun, 07 Jan 2007 13:59:22 GMT

Hi. Here's the poem previously mentioned.

FROM ME TO YOU

this is me writing you a wordless letter.
i'm sure that death and birds exist somewhere.
the opposite of birds exists somewhere too.
i'm sure about it. i can't imagine the opposite
of death, eventhough little kids repeat it
continuously in classrooms very far away from
here. here. here, all the windows are shut.

i draw spirals into myself. i try to reach you,
i really do, but sometimes, most times, i
end up believing that you're not there and even
if you were, you wouldn't care for one more
face in the subway, one more face in the elevator
at the moment that you want to be left alone.

i know how it feels wanting to be left alone.
no more misinterpretations, wasted feelings and
bitter ends. no more me and you walking by the river
on a non-existing sunday of a non-existing spring.

we're kindred spirits, someone might say, but someone
might say whatever. there are no limits to what someone
might say. someone is to big a person.

metaphorically speaking, there is a whole world beyond
these walls. there are mothers and rain. there are
all opposites working for the same denial. and, then,
your face against all odds. the touch of your skin
not being valued. the gentle weight of your eyelids.

someone may think that i'm in love. someone may think
whatever. i'm here. you are
(and i just feel like not ending this sentence.)

someone doesn't know us. there are no limits.
someone could never know us even if
(and i just feel like not ending this sentence.)

new here

exshakespeare — Sat, 06 Jan 2007 13:16:11 GMT

hi, i'm new here.
here's a short poem that i just finished writing.
comments are very wellcomed.

GOD

i’m the old lady from that book
you once read. i cross something
but i long for something else.

i’m the stranger that shows up
in your dreams.

i’m the rude stare of a mirror.
i’m not a mirror.

i’m the beauty – distant and
fearful. i can resurrect.

and i’m also a chair.
yes, a chair.
one chair.

Inside Job

syzygy07 — Sat, 06 Jan 2007 06:45:25 GMT

This one definitely needs some work, but I just felt some odd urge to post it.

I hope it has some hidden potential.

This bigoted wiring
throws down its gauntlet
"Are you like me...
should I care what you think?"
At the failure of this instant test
all words can be discarded,
as mouths tighten and eyes fold up.

This then safe little grinning group,
insulated from change.
Safe
  safe
safe
from these outside evil "others".
Bundled in hardened smiles,
blind entitlement gripped tight
they swallow whole their
sampled ancient history.

These allegiances bring one back
to the origin of this school yard tale
where one look from the collective eyes
could make one feel like diddly.

  Though you wanted no role as puppet
  to their lazily strung up show,
  the mirror just didn't look the same
  when you stood ashamed
  as those eyes took you in
  and spit you out.

  As mouths spilled their putrid tales
  and summoned you in to shiny teeth.
  Chewed up and blown out
  until your soft putty-form
  showed every bite.

  That flush as you looked
  at a solitary marked up self
  in your reflected wall.
  Patching adopted wounds with
  spackle and paint to hide the scars
  lest someone new notice
  that you had been marked
  by this bitter losing battle.

One grows weary of this age old tale,
this cycle of woe and fright.
Stored up inside any able minded me
is the independent pluck
to stare in the eyes of these
negated offenders.

Be no puppet poppet.
This walk is for these solo shoes,
indelible eyes on the trail.
Blind to this sad
oft repeated
diversion.

obelletto — Fri, 05 Jan 2007 12:01:57 GMT

You might recognize this poem of mspixieears' from APC. As I will no longer be posting in APC, and I can't figure out how to send mspixieears a personal message, I will post my response to her extraordinary poem here.

Après Sir Thomas Wyatt

À un cher ancien prince de lutins

I

Blame nott the lute
its, vile untunid stringes
like so forsworn from
much pashenate play.

Blame not my lutte (5)
thou cockling, forfoughten and vinèd
as once, your limbs about my form.
O holy, purfled member
whose sublimation doth make
the jaded-gated garden grow! 10
The straines on
as eies meet countenaunce:
serene, unstainèd, pure.
Restore this halidom!

Title Fr. ‘after/in the style of Sir Thomas Wyatt’
Dedication Fr. to a dear former elf prince
3 forsworn vb p pt. i. (LME) worn with much use; ii. (Mod E) to renounce or to perjure
5 lutte Fr. n battle, struggle
6 cockling n. young one, child
forfoughten vb p pt. weary with fighting
vinèd adj. closely entwined
8 purfled adj trimmed, adorned with
9 sublimation n. elevation to (object’s) extreme
10 jade-gatèd garden see notes
13 serene n. [though used here as adj.] harmful dew of summer evenings
unstained adj vb p pt. not yet deprived of lustre, particularly in reference to wooden musical instruments
14 halidom n. holy relic

III

Minstrel was I once (24)
consorteth with one other, 25
but consort have I no more;
griefe hath cropped my locks
for so that I may goe
to sing a pleasaunt song
where it may be heard, 30
and therefore known.

But ah! the concords, they ringeth still
As cries, as echoes of les petites mortes.

33 les petites mortes Fr. ‘the little deaths’; colloquial/familiar expression to signify ‘orgasm’

V

Withouten sound crept I (42)
Out of your enchafing chambre
Into the crepuscular, frozen dawn.
Coiled with new and precious metal, 45
the tunes do sound more pleasing;
but now the strings,
falsely do they ring –
replace, retune, or record?

But bitymes these nimble fingers 50
again stray upon their instrument –
tension, release, morendo;
with the pluck comes the decay.

43 enchafing adj. (heart-)warming
44 crepuscular adj. twilight(-like)
49 record vb. to make (instrument) sound again
50 bitymes adv. soon
53 morendo It. [esp. musical term] dying away; indicating that music should be played in this manner

VI

‘It skills not, it skills not,’ (54)
doth quote the gadlyng slender, 55
shaking his solemn, noble head.
‘Wayment this loss of sensuality no more.’

Eche seketh the discord:
As the fauxbourdon is
composèd to the tenor trew. 60
It doth make the concord sweter;
the humors are imbalanced,
the hormones, they rageth with the seasons too –
but do remembre, dere herte,
they die in concord pure.

54 it skills not middle Eng. ‘it does not matter’
55 gadlyng n. young fellow, youth
57 wayment vb & n. lament
59 fauxbourdon see notes

NOTES
Title The poem acknowledges the literary influence of Sir Thomas Wyatt, courtier at King Henry VIII’s court, also reputed to be one of Anne Boleyn’s lovers.

In particular, the following poems were found copied into a notebook of the poet’s, either in part or in full:

‘Who so list to hount’ (No. 7, Egerton Ms. 2711; this is Wyatt’s reworking of Francesco Petrarca’s Canzoniere 190)

‘Thou hast no faith’ (no. 19 Eg.)

‘They fle from me’ (no. 37 Eg.)

‘At moost myschief’ (no. 51 Eg.)

‘Marvaill no more’ (no. 52 Eg.)

‘My lute awake’ (no. 66 Eg.)

‘All heavy myndes’ (no. 84 Eg.)

‘Blame not my lute’ (no. 132, Devonshire Ms Add 17492)

‘Sins you will nedes’ (no. 137 Dev.)

‘Patiens, for I have wrong’ (no. 162 Dev.)

Dedication Written to the poet’s former lover, known only as ‘X——’ in her journals, though we know this person was the writer Xanthus von Aschenbach. The word ‘former’ indicates the absence of the lover’s previously long hair; upon first meeting X——, the poet likened him to a creature of Tolkienesque elfin beauty, affectionately nicknaming him ‘sweet elf prince’. When he cut his hair, she called him by this present title, not to signify loss of favour, despite no longer being lovers, but rather in continuing fondness.

1-14 Obviously composed upon puns on ‘lute’ and ‘viol’ but also echoing Hume and Dowland’s rivalry (see note for ln 4)

1 See Wyatt, no.132, Devonshire Ms Add 17492.

4 English solder and composer Tobias Hume used the term ‘pashenate play’ as a musical direction in his Musicall Humors (1601). He did much to popularise the viol, or viola da gamba (It. ‘viol of the legs’) in England, where the lute enjoyed more favour among the aristocracy. This was largely due to lutenist and composer John Dowland, dubbed the ‘English Orpheus’ because of his beautiful songs and their affectation of melancholy. The poet played the viol and would have encountered Hume’s work, and knew that him and Dowland had a very public musical rivalry.

It is also likely that the poet is hinting at the mutual physical enjoyment previously experienced.

8-9 Though ‘purfled’ means ‘trimmed’, as if adorned or embellished with lace etc., it also indicates here that the lover’s sexual organ is trimmed literally, i.e. circumcised, therefore physically ‘lacking’ rather than added to. A somewhat audacious acknowledgement of X——‘s Jewish heritage (see notes to line 14 also).

10 The term ‘jade gate’ euphemistically appears in various tantric and Eastern sex treatises as the term for the female vaginal opening; the ‘garden’ being inside after the gate (see James Joyce, Chamber Music X, a cycle of Renaissance-inspired poems that the poet currently under discussion was very fond of). Possible echo of the nursery rhyme ‘Mary, Mary quite contrary/ how does your garden grow?’.

11-14 Obscurely hinting that the affair died as soon as the summer ended (see line 14), much to the dismay of the poet who attempts to make light of it by pretending that the loss is merely a physical one, hence the ‘worship’ of X——‘s genitalia.

24-26 In the Elizabethan era, a group of early musicians playing the same instrument (i.e. four viols) were collectively called a consort. If the instruments were different (e.g. a lute, some viols, keyboard etc.), the group could be called a broken consort. Undoubtedly, consort as one’s lover or ‘consorting’ is also meant.

A minstrel was employed as an entertainer at a royal court, but here is likened to a trouvère (similar to the more aristocratic ‘troubadour’), a roaming ‘wooer’ who sung and probably played a lute or small harp in accompaniment.

32-33 A musical concord, in the Western musical tradition, is a sounding of notes, either simultaneously or consecutively, that sound ‘pleasing’ to the ear, in harmonic or contrapuntal composition. The ‘pleasing’ sound is also due to the physiological construction of the human ear (which hears some pitches better than others depending on its loudness). For this reason, several ‘tunings’ or ‘temperaments’ (whereby individual pitches are worked out by ‘ear’ rather than mathematically (e.g. A = 440 Hertz, A flat or G sharp = 415 Hz. Depending on what temperament or tuning one wanted to use, for aural purposes, these would not be so fixed.

‘Concords’ here also suggest a previously harmonious physical relationship, which continues to haunt the poet and resurface in her memory.

40-41 Indicates unease that the poet sometimes experienced with words as a means of communication, though ironically the only mode of communication she has left with X——, hence the poem’s existence. Perhaps an acknowledgement of some of the ideas put forward in deconstruction theory, which the poet accepted but did not necessarily like. The poet ‘creates’ or ‘constructs’ her lover with words, and ‘vandalises’ him with them (see note above to lines 38-39), in believing them to be inadequate, as compared to gesture, and also within themselves.

42-44 The poet recalls countless instances where she had had to sneak out of X——‘s bedroom and house, and that this often happened as dawn was approaching.

45 Doubly referential:

i. viol strings, post-Renaissance and in France around the time of Marais and Lully, were overwound with thin wire either made of alloy or of precious metals such as silver or gold, making the overall string much thinner and therefore easier to produce a sound upon, as opposed to the Renaissance rope-like overwound gut strings.

ii. Clumsy attempt to refer to the name of an album by a group called Coil, whose work X—— enjoyed. The poet mistakenly thinks the album title to be ‘Gold is the new metal’ but it is actually just ‘Gold is the metal’. X—— had a copy of this and it is likely that the poet first learnt of the group and album from him.

48 When a string is ‘false’, it is out of temperament because it has stretched with use and wear and therefore needs replacing.

50-52 Composed from a line taken from Joyce’s Chamber Music I – ‘Fingers straying upon an instrument’; the ‘instrument’ for the poet is the body of the lover and this may have been written in echo of a line out of X——‘s diary extract sent to her: ‘A body that cries for manipulation’ (10/2/2003, see note to line 11-14). But in imitation of Joyce, the ‘instrument’ could definitely be the lover’s penis. It seems a common device of the poet’s to create humour and/or sexual innuendo in order to deflect attention away from what must be the real issue: the pain that the lover’s absence caused.

53-54 Explanation of this auditory phenomenon in terms of acoustic physics.

59-66 A complicated metaphysical conceit based on the art of polyphonic counterpoint: there are strict rules governing the composition of a melody or adding of a melody to an existing cantus firmus (a bass progression, either newly composed or historically passed down); ‘discords’ had to ‘resolve’ (become concordant) in a prescribed manner. What the poet is trying to suggest is that discords, or ‘clashes’, make the concords – the moments of agreeance, of beauty – seem even more beautiful, more rewarding; and the ending in ‘concord pure’ stands for the poet’s hope that despite no longer being lovers, some sort of balance or can be achieved, friendship can continue. Contrapuntal compositions had to end with a concordant interval, and depending on what the penultimate note was, would most likely resolve to the first, third or fifth degree of the implied chord, the movement being as small and smooth as possible.

60 Fauxbourdon (foe-boor-don) was a fourteenth and fifteenth-century style of Western musical composition. There is a cantus firmus (see explanation above) or a ‘tenor’ (the ‘held’ part, derived from the Latin word ‘to hold’) as a given melody, then a part below composed in intervals of thirds and sixths, then a higher part above the tenor called a descant which would have an extremely elaborate part as if improvisatory in nature.

63 In Elizabethan times, it was believed that one’s constitution was determined by the balance of four primary ‘fluids’ or ‘humours’ (middle Eng. Spelling ‘humors’) - blood, phlegm, choler (yellow bile) and melancholy (black bile). Overbalances of either caused a person to be sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric or melancholy.

64 A reminder that the affair had its peak in summertime; the poet would prefer to believe the mutual attraction was merely a result of ‘nature’ rather than true ‘feeling’ or affection; that X——’s interest in her can be explained away by biological imperatives in order to ignore her own feelings for him, which were perhaps stronger, and unfairly so, than those he possessed for her.

In Seine Reflected

talkingdonkey — Fri, 05 Jan 2007 00:40:31 GMT

A piece I wrote some months ago that has never felt finished. I feel too much like I'm talking in this piece. Any thoughts are appreciated. Thanks.

I often think of Paris
reflected in the Seine
and I see the color gray.
Clouds and architecture
swirl around boat propellers
in ancient swells
around Javert's bones.
Even the yellow
of the city's infamous lights
has been tainted,
and the grayness rises
from the river
taints the Sphinx's landmarks,
Quasimodo's bells
and even rolls
down the roads into the Hall
of Mirrors in Versailles
where it echoes sadly.

A poem by Henri Michaux, French surrealist

obelletto — Wed, 03 Jan 2007 10:31:53 GMT

After My Death

I was transported after my death, I was transported not into a closed space, but into the immense vacuum of the ether. Far from being depressed by this immense opening in all directions as far as the eye could see, in the starry sky, I pulled myself together and pulled together all that I had been and all I was just about to be, and finally all I had planned to become (in my secret inner calendar), and squeezing the whole thing together, my good qualities too, and even my vices, as a last rampart, I made myself a shell out of all this.

Around this nucleus, energized by anger, but by a clean anger no longer based on blood, cold and whole, I set about playing porcupine, in a supreme act of defense, in an ultimate refusal.

Then, the vacuum, the larvae of the vacuum that were already extending their soft pockets tentacularly toward me, threatening me with an abject endosmosis—the larvae, astonished after a few futile attempts on this prey that refused to give in, retreated in confusion and disappeared from view, leaving alive the man who deserved it so much.

Free, henceforth, on this front, I used my power of the moment, the exaltation of the unhoped-for victory, to weigh towards Earth, and repenetrated my motionless body, which the sheets and blanket had luckily prevented from growing cold.

With surprise, after this struggle of mine which outdid the efforts of giants, with
surprise and joy mixed with disappointment I came back to the narrow closed horizons where human life, to be what it is, must be lived.

Beginnings

obelletto — Tue, 02 Jan 2007 06:56:48 GMT

As the group gets started, I imagine things might go a little slowly. On the positive side, that means whoever posts early on will have my undivided critical attention.