Fumbling In The Dark

Could there be a better title for writing poetry? I'd extend the metaphor, but then the poem would get written in its explanation. I just want to play with the device of a flip-flopping perspective between light and dark. My strategy for the ending is to center on a cute or heartwarming image at the very end -- success will be defined on the uniqueness of the parting image and how unlikely it would be to appear in a Hallmark card.

Midnight Home Maintenance

Click. The light fuses are alright.

Their timer is not. Go downstairs,

not three at a time, stumble anyway,

stomp extra hard at the ground floor

because your eyes say there is no bottom.

Click. There are the stairs.

How did your body forget them all?

And the many legs that stand before you,

predictable as a picture,

just overdeveloped. Now to end this charade--

Click. The stubbing begins.

Your furniture become gangsters,

thumbtacks roll out to catch you

and the slippers have betrayed their king

in a dusty exile. Thrust a hand out,

use your boundaries for balance--

Click. Punch a lamp over.

Accident, but should scare the others

from any more pranks. Pause

between rooms; where's the timer?

It's a panel behind the kitchen...

Click. You are not being watched.

The circle of glasses on the dining table

reflect moonlight as a lens

and focus on you, but not because you are there.

And who knows how many discarded forks.

The switch is definitely in the hall closet.

Click. Open the panel. Click.

Click, click, click. Is this thing on?

Pick up the lamp, dust it off.

Toes reunite with lost guardians.

Listen closely and you could almost hear...

Pat the houseguests on their clearly visible shoulders

as you size up the stairs. There they are,

all fourteen, appreciating the attention,

creaking with delight. Go to bed,

should be as easy as flipping a switch.

-----------

As you can see, I did not tug a single heartstring at the end, but I like the suggestion of a house that subtly haunts its owner each time the lights go out. There's potential there. I thought about making the ending about the 2nd-person narrator joining a family that wasn't woken by the lights at all, or went to bed as soon as the light timer was reset, but that would be Lame. There should be a series of entries about certain words and concepts that can be retired from 21st-century poetry (or at least anything that I read because clearly I am always right).

The title comes last in this case, and I want something that is at best whimsical and suggests something weird/mysterious happening at bedtime, and at worst something vague and mysterious. Nothing threatening or menacing for this title. Did I hit the mark? It's kind of plain, but fits the bill for now.

Terrible Two

It is in the nature of poetry (and often, poets) to expound on the feeling of the wheels of life just spinning without impact. A poet can go through enough images of the world trying to find the right one that the thought occurs, where is this all going? What have I really done? And it is the mark of a productive poet to not succumb to such emotions and to instead mine those thoughts to fulfill personal writing quotas.

Natasha Bedingfield got away with such a writing exercise with her first major single, "Unwritten," which features such elementary-level lyrics I will not bother dissecting them here. I'm not knocking the song for creating a cheerful mood (one that I enjoy, as a matter of fact), but the words are self-help noise. Now, if I may help myself, here are a couple of my poems in need of a good polishing that both stem from a love of seeming clever in titles. I am too close to these poems at the moment to give them the thrashing and corrections they deserve, but there are enough almost-there sections to give you an idea of what I expect from my rough drafts.

My Exponential Ex Potential

What started in bad habits

used to end in awkward silence,

elbows in hands,

not knowing what was wrong

or why.

But one goodbye after another

has turned the long farewell

into the short see you later,

the earnest breakup

into I told you so.

The million mutinies grow bolder:

this time, I didn't even want to leave,

but was talked into going solo.

Would you like a receipt?

Shall I request a gift registry

at the next opened door?

None of this is cheating,

simply gaining more interest in loss

than any chase. Someday the great gaffes

will make a reel, across it played

such hilarity and growing pain

that bridges burnt will build again,

everyone grateful for their part.

New chapter. Triple threat from brains

to heart to toes. Binding love, humble me.

There are potentials so transparent

that ambition cracks the glass,

and I see no way through but up

as another phoned-in dear John.

****************

My Exponential Ex-Potential

The brain surgeon's weakness:

dropped on my head at age two.

I was in line to become CEO

until grade schoolers cut in line

and kindness held me back.

Running oriented my compass

toward medals, sponsors,

mustached coaches crying

over my last-minute sprains.

Star Wars hit before the sprint.

Legendary lovers laid in a path,

once, now plucked away

as my checklist closes their ranks:

caring too much, not enough,

or just wishing for solitude

and getting it.

With years, culture shapes the pages

of my potential on the shelf.

Self-awareness does not combust;

age turns accidents into design,

the ship sailing bottled seas

as instructions intend.

Snow is perfect for being white,

but I have no chrysalis to make me feel deep.

If another man crumples from sleepless nights,

am I fulfilled in sleep?

Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline

This latest poem was granted permission by a friend and coworker, given to me in run-on form. Here's the raw version:

FIRE
I let the fire burn like a candle glowing brightly on a dark night, the fire burns with intensity that sets the stars aglow, the fire burns into my soul knowing that the light will never die. I go on feeling the fire as if it's apart of me burning every part of my body until I die, I won't die as long as the fire like a candle keeps on burning setting my soul alive."

There will be a time and a place for prose poems, but this is not that time. Let's give this giant Kit-Kat a break, shall we?

Fire

I let the fire burn like a candle,
glowing brightly on a dark night,
the fire burns with intensity
that sets the stars aglow,
the fire burns into my soul
knowing that the light will never die.

I go on feeling the fire
as if it's a part of me
burning every part of my body until I die,
I won't die as long as the fire,
like a candle,
keeps on burning setting my soul alive.

The poem centers on a singular image --the narrator burning up in the night-- with the sentiment of an immortal spirit. And that can be stirring if you've ever stood out at midnight and gawked at far-away suns. Is the poem about the fire of the will to live? The fire of feeling satisfied with one's place in the universe? A passion of purpose, perhaps? That's the trick with poems like these, especially when editing: the standard rules say I should tag some solid imagery and sensations to this mysterious fire and give it context, but that clearly is not what the original poet intended and I would rather keep the wide-eyed perspective intact than pose some rhymes about campfires and fireflies.

"Like a candle," though. The original poet uses this simile twice and doesn't extend the comparison much. Why, yes, candles do contain fire. Care to elaborate? Rub your hands together, it's about to get toasty!

Fire

I stand alone beneath dim stars,
my fire a consuming flicker.
Though I glow bright on this cold night,
my hands struggle to handle the wicker.

The heat descends into my soul,
a light about to fade out.
But it is only after shadow descends
that paths are found by the devout.

Within, the fire spends and renews,
a quiet death lit out of sight.
My soul reborn, I am a star,
candle to those huddled at night.

What could that all mean?! I gave the poem rhyme and a fairly regular meter, which almost demands that it tell a story instead of convey a mood (see, change the methods and you change the story). The actions of the poem are no less abstract than the original, except these three stanzas develop the fire rather than describe it. In the original, the fire burnt up the narrator and kept her soul alive. In my edit, the fire is weak at first, then enters the narrator, then transforms the narrator into becoming like the stars --other bodies of flame-- along with some pseudo-spiritual metamorphosis into a protective entity.

What I wanted to capture was the feeling in the original that the fire, or clinging to the fire, would risk the narrator's life. In my case, faith in the fire leads to freezing in the cold, except this is one of those magical fires that rewards the soul and looks after its keeper. The body dies but the soul thrives, heating/lighting up the night to help people in winter.

Now to write a companion piece about an ice cube that saves lives after its owner has a heat-induced stroke...

Doggy Doodle

A new challenger approaches!

Original:

Here I sit,
Eatin' a strudel.
Tom plays with Barbies,
...And Mike eats doggy doodle.

While limericks are to be honored and memorized, this one is cruelly short and doesn't bring out the full strength of its teases. Which way to go on the reformat, then? Is there greater justice in a series of poetic flourishes, or would a mean streak of "eat dog doodle and play with dolls" feel as satisfying? There is always, of course, the combined (not middle) road of "be incredibly poetic about eating dog doodle and playing with dolls," except for one problem: these Tom and Mike fellows require invention. Maybe you know a Tom and Mike, but this blog does not. I'm a Joe.

What follows, then, is free reign over the madlib of "sitting, strudel, playing with dolls, eating doggy doodle." A yacht journeying across the Atlantic, farmer ashamed of his lazy sons, and what the moon dreams during our daytime are all topics that could cover these ideas. Again, there is a way to combine all of these ideas, but there is also a way to knock over a house of cards. Let's see how long it takes before I reach 52 Pick Up...

Edited:

Here I sit,
between storefront and beach side,
before morning tide but next to ring side,
as two pigeons fight over my strudel.

Between the peck and flap, I see my brother Tom,
he of fairer feathers. His dolls modeled,
mine were models of destruction,
rocket launchers mismatched against pumps.

The table jolts,
and a splotch of white on my jacket
diverts me to the angel Michaelangelo,
Tom's regal rendition chiseled in stone.

The statue's frozen song
draped me in silver at school,
so while Tom basked in gold
I put words in Mike's mouth
as scraped from the dog house.

The pigeons depart, tails in synch
in glide and stripes. Brothers,
learning over disputed spoils
how rivalry keeps them fresh.

---

Okay, so that's not off to a bad start. The imagery is a little random, but has the vibe of "ooh the sensitive poet saw some birds and decided to make himself the center of attention on the page." There is a lot of implied action, especially in the fourth stanza where I had no choice but to use an extra line! The rank amateurness of it all!

Maybe it would work better as a limerick?

Editing Mandy

For tonight's post, I shall try to redeem a poem by a friend, Mandy, who sent the poem with a message: I'm placing my fresh steaming pile of manure into your hands for the cultivating. I trust your skill and discretion as a writer and artist. Also, I should note that this is the first in a series of crap I will be shoveling in your direction. Thanks in advance.

I am perfectly willing to edit the work of others in lieu of my own, so without further ado...!

Original
"One Flesh"

Run your fingers through my hair
Slide your hands from here to there
Taste my pleasure, sinful lust
Inhibitions turn to dust

The hours slip by stealthily
Passion ensues healthily
Fuel the fire, feed my flesh
Two are one taut entwined mesh

Tease me, taunt me, make me moan
Sensation surging to the bone
Cloud the windows with our love
Soft breaths ascend to the skies above

One flesh; discover what love is
He is mine, and I am his.

---

The first thing I notice about this poem is the forced rhyme. The term "forced rhyme" deserves explaining, since rhymes are not "forced" only when they spend a mouthful of words trying to put two sounds together. Rhymes are also forced when they exist for their own sake. This will make more sense in the edited version, but consider this: does this poem have a definite narrator, audience, actions, images, and inducible message? I'd say so, and that the rhyming is getting in the way of all those things. All of the ingredients for a better poem are already here, the recipe just needs changing.

• Bonus points to Mandy for not attempting some cute phrase for boners or penetration. Such images are always awkward and are best alluded to, if addressed at all. I don't mean that as some prude who's against dicks in poetry, I just think describing literal intercourse draws attention to itself in a bad way, unless the theme is "rising passions, warm afterglow," in which case I'll just nibble some cake until your poem's over, thanks. Running is about feet hitting the ground, but I wouldn't advise being that literal, either.
  
• The A-A-B-B C-C-D-D rhyme scheme is too basic to serve the passions being written about here. If there are to be any rhymes at all (beyond the always-fun internals), they should show finesse. Placement. Lines should happen to rhyme, not exist to rhyme. Example: the first stanza's lines are interchangeable. They rhyme without connecting.
  
• The poem ends with reciprocal partnership, yet the male has done everything to the female. Unless the one-sided actions are on purpose, this romance needs more give and take. Whether that means a change in perspective is up to Mandy, but I'll keep her senses on for this process.
• "Stealthily" and "healthily?" New words, please, or at least form change.
• "Ascend to the skies above" -- If the breaths are ascending, then they're going above. This is a redundancy, like sunrises in the morning. Sunrises are always in the morning!
  

Edited

Slide your hands from here to there,
Hold my pleasure, sinful lust
With your hands running through my hair
Inhibitions turn to dust.

The hours burn with great stealth,
Fuel for our passion's fire,
Flesh combined to share a health
When they would, apart, expire.

The windows cloud with our love
Muffling teased and taunted moans,
Soft breaths hover just above
Sensations surging through our bones.

One flesh knows what love is;
He is mine, and I am his.

---

It's still a very physical, sensual poem, but I think the checkerboard rhyme scheme, greater use of "our," linked phrases, and a finishing couplet that doesn't announce the title all make the images more cooperative with one another. Poetry should be an orgy of kindnesses toward the reader, you see. Without cooperation and team effort between the elements of style, a poem's just wanking itself.

"Pedestrian," or, Internal Rhymes Are Fun

Original:

We were raised to look both ways
because witnesses are too curious
about the applied physics of cars.

We once dodged together, you and I,
our toes poised between traffic cones,
dashing between gaps in the flow of the world.

A signal changed, and the HOV lane
adopted you. Will I appear as a shadow
in your headlights, or a speed bump?

All in all, a somber little poem about separation. Sometimes a short but sweet poem can feel like a major victory after several larger poems crumble under their own weight. You mean a story came across in just three stanzas? Whew! You're darn right that will take up a whole page in publication!

But like any poem, it can be refined, so let's go top-down.

• The second and third lines are too dry and miss an opportunity for description. Are curious witnesses so bad?
• Any line that starts with "We once" and ends with "you and I" is within hazardous range of high school flair and should be changed. I'm sure my fictional girlfriend is just the most precious firefly in the jar, but please. Less fawning and more originality?
• Any edits made to this should push for adding internal rhyme. I love poems of all styles and sizes, including free verse and complex rhyme structures, but personally, free verse with specks of internal rhyme also feel great to read. It's the equivalent of watching the characters in the background of a movie scene. (note: all of the tricks of poetry are "like watching the background") This isn't a 100% dominant rule, but it's almost never a bad idea unless it's used to cute excess (and even then...).
• Does the poem communicate its intended message? Well, it's a tidy little love-lost fable that uses traffic imagery and metaphors. It's debatable what being adopted by an HOV lane means -- is that an orgy? an apartment of roommates? a family moving away? -- but the point is, the girl's gone and the narrator doesn't know if she will look back on her past relationship with consideration or malevolence.

Edited:

We were raised to look both ways

because witnesses are willing to pay

to watch the applied physics of cars.

We joined atop a smog-darkened median,

our toes poised between traffic cones,

dashing between gaps in the flow of the world.

A signal changed, and the HOV lane

adopted you. Will I appear as a shadow

in your headlights, or a speed bump?

Jumping Tracks

Word count: 5,278

Donald ate some food that was prepared using Louise's wine that absorbed her bitterness, so he's in a coma inside her subconscious. Much of that journey is already chronicled in 10,000 words of rough draft, and it's been my goal since the start of Nanowrimo to retell that portion of the story with new purple prose and tons of padding (and, in SOME cases, copying text where I wouldn't change a word of what's already there, don't worry I'm not cheating my way to the finish line).

However, retreading old ground is boring. I could change up the events for Don (and will), but for really early in the plot, his plight is STILL boring to me. I don't want to think of getting him and Rory from the valley to the Infatuation Field. I want to bust out some new funk.

SO, since Louise blacks out after accidentally taking one of Don's "blue pills" and enters his subconscious, and for the past couple of months I've had nothing but fun and colorful ideas surrounding what sorts of things and characters would fill a male mind, my writing process has skipped ahead in the story to Louise's journey. Perhaps the added prespective will help me write each's story so that they link in a few ways. Or at least, I can write in one story until I hit a wall then switch to the other. The words I generate for Nanowrimo do not have to be linear!

Also, minor note of annoyance at discovering tonight just before 9pm that I had a big assignment due by midnight. Several hours of would-be nano sacrificed to a 10-page assignment. Why is it that I can scratch up 2,200 words in three hours for a school assignment but it's still molasses-torture just to generate 800 words in a single day? :(