![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jakebe
Well, the deadline is tomorrow, and I have the cover letter, poems and check all ready to send to Poesia. Here are the final versions of the poems I've submitted -- I know you guys are probably sick of looking at them, but I promise this'll be the last time you'll have to deal with them. :) I've included a bit of commentary at the end of each poem about the piece and its progression, written more as notes for myself then as some ego-induced 'glimpse into the mind of an AUTHOR'. OK, maybe it's a bit of the latter, too, but mainly it's just so I can try and capture how the idea solidified in my head. ;)
******
The Spill
Montgomery is in a bad way.
Thirty years now,
pouring himself into the same woman,
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all this time
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself a big hole,
left a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all empty because he's got nowhere to pour--
even if she was what she was,
at least he had a place to go.
Most of the changes made to this were little words that I substituted to kind of give it a more conversational, easy dialect. The language doesn't sound quite so formal and high-concept tragic, I guess; now it's just a guy relating a bad spot to another guy. I changed 'confused' to 'empty' near the end because I liked the idea of someone's functionality being purely dictated by their use. He's full when he's got a reason; when that reason goes, so does everything he's got.
The poem still strikes me as being relatively clean; I pruned a few words that were kind of unnecessary (So she ripped herselfout a big hole) and I kind of like the end result. The woman's alluded to being a drain, but it's not actually outed as such; she could be any number of things that constitutes the purpose of being a waste of time. :) I like the vagueness there, because it means that people can insert their own meaning and idea about what the woman's like, and what/who she is. Indirectly, they can determine the level of melancholy that way as well.
*****
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I was born a small black child...
not just black, but black
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or the rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with everything that's left to tend to
its own decomposition
or at least claimed by its fellows such as me.
I was vulgar, humble, unseen
and proud:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation --
dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
the grubworms say, "and don't look no higher than your nose
else you'll be lookin' down at us."
Oh, but what a sky of celestines there are!
I couldn't help it, and once you brush your eyes with cosmic
it just doesn't come off.
So, I'm talking faster than I crawl
(not the right weight for either)
and my stratum of mulatto
has no place for dusty travelers to sit and swap stories.
Still, this is just on the level,
my job of rooting the brother grubworms
and searching for their heavenly limbs.
Microsoft Word says that I misspelled the plural of 'mulatto,' and for some reason I find this really funny -- here's this big poem about branching out and exploring new lofty things, and I can't even spell the words in the title correctly. I liked it so much I kept it in.
******
The Spill
Montgomery is in a bad way.
Thirty years now,
pouring himself into the same woman,
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all this time
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself a big hole,
left a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all empty because he's got nowhere to pour--
even if she was what she was,
at least he had a place to go.
Most of the changes made to this were little words that I substituted to kind of give it a more conversational, easy dialect. The language doesn't sound quite so formal and high-concept tragic, I guess; now it's just a guy relating a bad spot to another guy. I changed 'confused' to 'empty' near the end because I liked the idea of someone's functionality being purely dictated by their use. He's full when he's got a reason; when that reason goes, so does everything he's got.
The poem still strikes me as being relatively clean; I pruned a few words that were kind of unnecessary (So she ripped herself
*****
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I was born a small black child...
not just black, but black
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or the rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with everything that's left to tend to
its own decomposition
or at least claimed by its fellows such as me.
I was vulgar, humble, unseen
and proud:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation --
dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
the grubworms say, "and don't look no higher than your nose
else you'll be lookin' down at us."
Oh, but what a sky of celestines there are!
I couldn't help it, and once you brush your eyes with cosmic
it just doesn't come off.
So, I'm talking faster than I crawl
(not the right weight for either)
and my stratum of mulatto
has no place for dusty travelers to sit and swap stories.
Still, this is just on the level,
my job of rooting the brother grubworms
and searching for their heavenly limbs.
Microsoft Word says that I misspelled the plural of 'mulatto,' and for some reason I find this really funny -- here's this big poem about branching out and exploring new lofty things, and I can't even spell the words in the title correctly. I liked it so much I kept it in.
[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<:)>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]
Well, the deadline is tomorrow, and I have the cover letter, poems and check all ready to send to Poesia. Here are the final versions of the poems I've submitted -- I know you guys are probably sick of looking at them, but I promise this'll be the last time you'll have to deal with them. :) I've included a bit of commentary at the end of each poem about the piece and its progression, written more as notes for myself then as some ego-induced 'glimpse into the mind of an AUTHOR'. OK, maybe it's a bit of the latter, too, but mainly it's just so I can try and capture how the idea solidified in my head. ;)
******
<lj-cut text="The Spill.">
The Spill
Montgomery is in a bad way.
Thirty years now,
pouring himself into the same woman,
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all this time
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself a big hole,
left a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all empty because he's got nowhere to pour--
even if she was what she was,
at least he had a place to go.
Most of the changes made to this were little words that I substituted to kind of give it a more conversational, easy dialect. The language doesn't sound quite so formal and high-concept tragic, I guess; now it's just a guy relating a bad spot to another guy. I changed 'confused' to 'empty' near the end because I liked the idea of someone's functionality being purely dictated by their use. He's full when he's got a reason; when that reason goes, so does everything he's got.
The poem still strikes me as being relatively clean; I pruned a few words that were kind of unnecessary (So she ripped herself <s>out</s> a big hole) and I kind of like the end result. The woman's alluded to being a drain, but it's not actually outed as such; she could be any number of things that constitutes the purpose of being a waste of time. :) I like the vagueness there, because it means that people can insert their own meaning and idea about what the woman's like, and what/who she is. Indirectly, they can determine the level of melancholy that way as well.</lj-cut>
*****
<lj-cut text="Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air">
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I was born a small black child...
not just black, but <i>black</i>
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or the rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with everything that's left to tend to
its own decomposition
or at least claimed by its fellows such as me.
I was vulgar, humble, unseen
and proud:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation --
dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
the grubworms say, "and don't look no higher than your nose
else you'll be lookin' down at us."
Oh, but what a sky of celestines there are!
I couldn't help it, and once you brush your eyes with cosmic
it just doesn't come off.
So, I'm talking faster than I crawl
(not the right weight for either)
and my stratum of mulatto
has no place for dusty travelers to sit and swap stories.
Still, this is just on the level,
my job of rooting the brother grubworms
and searching for their heavenly limbs.
Microsoft Word says that I misspelled the plural of 'mulatto,' and for some reason I find this really funny -- here's this big poem about branching out and exploring new lofty things, and I can't even spell the words in the title correctly. I liked it so much I kept it in. <:)
The last four lines in the previous incarnation of the poem gave me a lot of trouble; there are a couple of lines that are really strong I think and here the ending completely failed them. I spent at least 30 minutes searching for the right words to say 'heavenly limbs'...and I'm still not sure that's exactly the right phrase I would like to use. Still, it's better than the last two lines I had before. I need to buy a thesaurus. <:)
Kutztown/Brian made a comment that kind of made me bristle; he liked the poem, he said, but didn't know what to say because he "wasn't allowed to relate." WTF? This is the problem, I think, with the perception of poetry in general, *"ethnic"* poetry in particular...people feel that it's always talking about Some Other Guy (tm) and they can't take it and make it their own. If poetry isn't immediate, if it doesn't affect you directly (no matter whether it's talking about being a big fat black man or not) then there's something wrong. Yes, the specific situation is growing up black and what that entails, but if the underlying feelings and themes *under* it aren't clinging despite that, then shit. It's garbage. The whole "Me being black gives me shit to talk about that your poor honky ass can't even begin to comprehend so don't even try." angle is just bullshit, and I hate people who pull that attitude, and I pray to whatever god might be listening that I don't ever do anything to make it seem remotely that I'm copping that. I write the poem to be related to. The ethnicity is just dressing; chuck it if you don't like the clothes, and view the damned thing naked if you have to.
Anyway, it was pointed out to me that there were way too many "I"s in them, so I cut a lot of them out...which is good, because I should probably start talking less about myself anyways. <:)</lj-cut>
*****
<lj-cut text="Untitled">
Untitled
In the midst of the fire
there is a seed waiting to awaken;
the snowflake carries with it
the threat of spring.
The darkness contains
its choice to end
and it's for this reason
we can laugh
when our heads our underwater
and our lungs are fit to burst.
I replaced "every" and "each" with "the" to give it a more direct feel, and avoid the slightly-Hallmark feeling that's been nagging me about it for quite some time. I took Sue's advice and replaced the original last line, because it does lend the poem a good sense of immediacy.</lj-cut>
*****
SO off they go tomorrow! I have no idea when I'll hear from them; my past experience of rejection has been waiting until January, seeing the new issue with the winners, and figuring they were too busy laughing at my poetry to get back to me. :) One really valuable thing I've learned through all of this, win or no, is that if I'm patient and dogged enough, I can always improve something I write. I've always kind of known this, but to actually see it put into effect like this, to actually shape something with my hands by constant editing, frees me up to write something sucky because I know that it can always develop after it's already been 'created'. Nothing needs to be perfect the first time.
And Maart, I haven't ignored your question; it's just taking me a good long while to come up with a good answer. Expect one sometime within the next two years. :P
******
<lj-cut text="The Spill.">
The Spill
Montgomery is in a bad way.
Thirty years now,
pouring himself into the same woman,
knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out where he'd been going
all this time
and why, even after
he poured until exhausted
she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
So she ripped herself a big hole,
left a scattering of trash-compacted
desperation and silverware.
Montgomery's in a bad way now;
all empty because he's got nowhere to pour--
even if she was what she was,
at least he had a place to go.
Most of the changes made to this were little words that I substituted to kind of give it a more conversational, easy dialect. The language doesn't sound quite so formal and high-concept tragic, I guess; now it's just a guy relating a bad spot to another guy. I changed 'confused' to 'empty' near the end because I liked the idea of someone's functionality being purely dictated by their use. He's full when he's got a reason; when that reason goes, so does everything he's got.
The poem still strikes me as being relatively clean; I pruned a few words that were kind of unnecessary (So she ripped herself <s>out</s> a big hole) and I kind of like the end result. The woman's alluded to being a drain, but it's not actually outed as such; she could be any number of things that constitutes the purpose of being a waste of time. :) I like the vagueness there, because it means that people can insert their own meaning and idea about what the woman's like, and what/who she is. Indirectly, they can determine the level of melancholy that way as well.</lj-cut>
*****
<lj-cut text="Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air">
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I was born a small black child...
not just black, but <i>black</i>
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or the rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with everything that's left to tend to
its own decomposition
or at least claimed by its fellows such as me.
I was vulgar, humble, unseen
and proud:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation --
dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
the grubworms say, "and don't look no higher than your nose
else you'll be lookin' down at us."
Oh, but what a sky of celestines there are!
I couldn't help it, and once you brush your eyes with cosmic
it just doesn't come off.
So, I'm talking faster than I crawl
(not the right weight for either)
and my stratum of mulatto
has no place for dusty travelers to sit and swap stories.
Still, this is just on the level,
my job of rooting the brother grubworms
and searching for their heavenly limbs.
Microsoft Word says that I misspelled the plural of 'mulatto,' and for some reason I find this really funny -- here's this big poem about branching out and exploring new lofty things, and I can't even spell the words in the title correctly. I liked it so much I kept it in. <:)
The last four lines in the previous incarnation of the poem gave me a lot of trouble; there are a couple of lines that are really strong I think and here the ending completely failed them. I spent at least 30 minutes searching for the right words to say 'heavenly limbs'...and I'm still not sure that's exactly the right phrase I would like to use. Still, it's better than the last two lines I had before. I need to buy a thesaurus. <:)
Kutztown/Brian made a comment that kind of made me bristle; he liked the poem, he said, but didn't know what to say because he "wasn't allowed to relate." WTF? This is the problem, I think, with the perception of poetry in general, *"ethnic"* poetry in particular...people feel that it's always talking about Some Other Guy (tm) and they can't take it and make it their own. If poetry isn't immediate, if it doesn't affect you directly (no matter whether it's talking about being a big fat black man or not) then there's something wrong. Yes, the specific situation is growing up black and what that entails, but if the underlying feelings and themes *under* it aren't clinging despite that, then shit. It's garbage. The whole "Me being black gives me shit to talk about that your poor honky ass can't even begin to comprehend so don't even try." angle is just bullshit, and I hate people who pull that attitude, and I pray to whatever god might be listening that I don't ever do anything to make it seem remotely that I'm copping that. I write the poem to be related to. The ethnicity is just dressing; chuck it if you don't like the clothes, and view the damned thing naked if you have to.
Anyway, it was pointed out to me that there were way too many "I"s in them, so I cut a lot of them out...which is good, because I should probably start talking less about myself anyways. <:)</lj-cut>
*****
<lj-cut text="Untitled">
Untitled
In the midst of the fire
there is a seed waiting to awaken;
the snowflake carries with it
the threat of spring.
The darkness contains
its choice to end
and it's for this reason
we can laugh
when our heads our underwater
and our lungs are fit to burst.
I replaced "every" and "each" with "the" to give it a more direct feel, and avoid the slightly-Hallmark feeling that's been nagging me about it for quite some time. I took Sue's advice and replaced the original last line, because it does lend the poem a good sense of immediacy.</lj-cut>
*****
SO off they go tomorrow! I have no idea when I'll hear from them; my past experience of rejection has been waiting until January, seeing the new issue with the winners, and figuring they were too busy laughing at my poetry to get back to me. :) One really valuable thing I've learned through all of this, win or no, is that if I'm patient and dogged enough, I can always improve something I write. I've always kind of known this, but to actually see it put into effect like this, to actually shape something with my hands by constant editing, frees me up to write something sucky because I know that it can always develop after it's already been 'created'. Nothing needs to be perfect the first time.
And Maart, I haven't ignored your question; it's just taking me a good long while to come up with a good answer. Expect one sometime within the next two years. :P
