Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Poem 3
Delivery
From farthest corner iris of his eye
Was caught a glimpse of tarnished crimson stain.
A berry red grotesqu’ry of one maimed,
Malignant pigment dye of one who died.
Lady who dressed in burgundy velour
Departed ‘fore stiletto hit the floor.
A masquerade of bloody haut-lacquer,
A foreign siege by violent connoisseur.
Sir Criminal knew not of precious spark
That dwelled within his lovely luscious mark;
It slept in silence, dormant, lost in dream
While Lady bled in tear-stained reverie.
The bullet in her breast danced full in bloom
As limb-by-limb the womb becomes fleshed tomb.
“Two lives,” roared Zeus, “cannot this world entwine!
Each human life is bound for sure decline.”
Yet twisted fate lets one alone survive.
Birthing hips now conquered by new life.
From farthest corner iris of his eye
Was caught a glimpse of tarnished crimson stain.
A berry red grotesqu’ry of one maimed,
Malignant pigment dye of one who died.
Lady who dressed in burgundy velour
Departed ‘fore stiletto hit the floor.
A masquerade of bloody haut-lacquer,
A foreign siege by violent connoisseur.
Sir Criminal knew not of precious spark
That dwelled within his lovely luscious mark;
It slept in silence, dormant, lost in dream
While Lady bled in tear-stained reverie.
The bullet in her breast danced full in bloom
As limb-by-limb the womb becomes fleshed tomb.
“Two lives,” roared Zeus, “cannot this world entwine!
Each human life is bound for sure decline.”
Yet twisted fate lets one alone survive.
Birthing hips now conquered by new life.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Poem 2b
The Loudest Silence in Michigan
Little Jimmy, he saw that game he wanted
Gleaming through the plexi-glass
Of that pretentious store window.
The Melrose Place of X Box 360—
Who charges triple digits for a fucking plastic cartridge?
Little Jimmy, his body craved that game.
He thirsted for that rush only available
Via live adrenaline.
A rush must had
So he rode his shiny two wheeler home,
Tires gritting against ripped pavement:
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Little Jimmy, as the clock struck five
And fathers sprouted facial shadows
And rush hour traffic clogged the pipes of Metro-Detroit
(Perpetually under construction),
He crept up that flight of steps,
Rode that foot-powered elevator up
And took a Michigan left at level two.
As his shabby tatty sketcher
Stepped foot onto that gainsboro carpet,
Little Jimmy knew
that he was in dangerous territory now.
This was the master bedroom
And mommy’s purse,
red patent gleaming in the closet.
Little Jimmy played the role of Sherlock,
Accomplice Watson Wallet just begging to be fondled.
Little Jimmy, in went his clumsy hand,
Stubby fingers tampering with a self-induced crime scene,
Molesting George Washington,
Abraham Lincoln,
John Adams.
When in walked Mom, so trim and work-appropriate,
Her disbelief perfectly framed by salon curls,
Her porcelain face as speechless as a china doll.
Little Jimmy, face ashen wish shame
As he and Mom and experienced
The loudest silence in Michigan.
Little Jimmy, he finally got his rush.
Little Jimmy, he saw that game he wanted
Gleaming through the plexi-glass
Of that pretentious store window.
The Melrose Place of X Box 360—
Who charges triple digits for a fucking plastic cartridge?
Little Jimmy, his body craved that game.
He thirsted for that rush only available
Via live adrenaline.
A rush must had
So he rode his shiny two wheeler home,
Tires gritting against ripped pavement:
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Little Jimmy, as the clock struck five
And fathers sprouted facial shadows
And rush hour traffic clogged the pipes of Metro-Detroit
(Perpetually under construction),
He crept up that flight of steps,
Rode that foot-powered elevator up
And took a Michigan left at level two.
As his shabby tatty sketcher
Stepped foot onto that gainsboro carpet,
Little Jimmy knew
that he was in dangerous territory now.
This was the master bedroom
And mommy’s purse,
red patent gleaming in the closet.
Little Jimmy played the role of Sherlock,
Accomplice Watson Wallet just begging to be fondled.
Little Jimmy, in went his clumsy hand,
Stubby fingers tampering with a self-induced crime scene,
Molesting George Washington,
Abraham Lincoln,
John Adams.
When in walked Mom, so trim and work-appropriate,
Her disbelief perfectly framed by salon curls,
Her porcelain face as speechless as a china doll.
Little Jimmy, face ashen wish shame
As he and Mom and experienced
The loudest silence in Michigan.
Little Jimmy, he finally got his rush.
Poem 2
An Obvious Object
Well as I write this bumbling poem,
The credit surely goes to me,
Yet stop! Lets analyze to whom
This honor really should esteem.
The pen’s a wondrous sort of thing,
With ebb and flow she brings to life
The every whim of human being,
No complaint of tiring strife.
My fingers run across her white
And shiny plastic body, oh
What lovely artificial life
We spark into that inky flow.
Vermillion green, she stains my lines.
That green, it churns within her shaft:
Translucent, labeled “vision fine,”
Fine indeed—you ease my task.
Her ballpoint bearing dipped in ink,
It glistens while it procreates.
What happens when ink’s gone, you think?
Pen runs dry, she’s done with play.
Well as I write this bumbling poem,
The credit surely goes to me,
Yet stop! Lets analyze to whom
This honor really should esteem.
The pen’s a wondrous sort of thing,
With ebb and flow she brings to life
The every whim of human being,
No complaint of tiring strife.
My fingers run across her white
And shiny plastic body, oh
What lovely artificial life
We spark into that inky flow.
Vermillion green, she stains my lines.
That green, it churns within her shaft:
Translucent, labeled “vision fine,”
Fine indeed—you ease my task.
Her ballpoint bearing dipped in ink,
It glistens while it procreates.
What happens when ink’s gone, you think?
Pen runs dry, she’s done with play.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
notes 9/17
*meter= a way of describing "our awareness of those rythmical patterns in poetic lang which can me msred and formulated
3 ways of meaning:
1) All meter, by distinguishing rhythmic from ordinary statement, objectifies that statement and impels it toward a significant formality and even ritualism.
2) Meters can mean by varying itself from metrical norms, powerfully reinforce emotional effects.
3) Meters can mean by association and convention (ie “Hickory dickory dock . . . )
Accentual-syllabic meter: Metrical system in which both accents and syllables are measured and numbered, often in terms of feet, or conventional patterns or units of stressed and unstressed syllables.
common feet:
*iambic (unstressed/stressed)
*trochaic (stressed/unstressed)
*anapestic (unstressed x 2/stressed)
*dactylic (stessed/unstressed x 2)
*spondaic (stressed/stressed)
*pryrhic (unstressed, unstressed) ex: in the/wind blown (<--spondee)=double iamb
[# of feet]meter (ex: pentameter)
scanscion=any system of representing conventional poetic visual symbols for meter analysis/criticism (changes it from oral-->visual)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Poem 1
514 Monroe
Sleepy eyelids open,
Rose-colored glasses recede.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set, its
Short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips
Are crusted with remorse, but
We still suck in this atmosphere
Visibly thick with teenage pollution.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to our memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled clothing;
Remnants of egos won and lost.
Demons swarm our minds
As we realize
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
Sleepy eyelids open,
Rose-colored glasses recede.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set, its
Short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips
Are crusted with remorse, but
We still suck in this atmosphere
Visibly thick with teenage pollution.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to our memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled clothing;
Remnants of egos won and lost.
Demons swarm our minds
As we realize
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
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