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Re: The Last Scene; The Prologue

crow. said:
The Last Scene; The Prologue

Dead-eyed involucres writhe and breathe,
The bride-ends scream Whitey Pete,
Ricin, mustard, sugar red, Delacroix Mead.
The xy blossoms sing piperine
At raw foundations, burp mercury
Vapors housed in glazed strawberries.
Mastic heads lick heat. Soft-hogged beans
Pop purple, cambered pink. Red lace clings . . .
They bead him, unnettled, unfazed, unbeaten, sheet

The air with antlers. He doesn't blink.
They wither, stinking green. He walks on, into
The wishing chamber, sees the light beyond
The suffering. His skin crawls upon
The air, sublimates to mist. Naked,
The man, clutching three sheets takes

Position, stretches out a clue.
The world waits, hopeful,
He says, "This," unfolds the blues,
And blinks out of existence
Click to expand...

After using both Google and my imagination, I've failed to engage with the poem. I really tried! Can you provide Cliff Notes? Is it an experimental piece just to play with sonics and novel juxtapositions of nouns and verbs?
 
Note to readers: please don't let the subject matter keep you from offering suggested changes.


Lincoln's Birthday,
February 13, 2006

For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
 
BolusOfDoom said:
Note to readers: please don't let the subject matter keep you from offering suggested changes.


Lincoln's Birthday,
February 13, 2006

For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Click to expand...

This is a beautiful and I wonder if it is (auto)biographical. How tragic and sad if, so. It also made me think of the 75 word September challenge on alternate history, in particular, a different 'Lincoln'.

I should say I am not poet, or expert on poetry, either, but the pace and meter are a delight. There are half rhymes which flow well, too.

Particularly, I liked:
'...too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb...'
'...The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed...'

It is so sad that there is a sense of acceptance until the end when the regrets kick in and make it so much deeper, especially when referencing the inky feet.

Below is the nearest I have come to poetry; I was trying to get a sense of the nebulous feel of nightmares, but what I came up with sounds song-ish and almost like a riddle.

untitled

 As puffy snores and curling haws spiral in the gloaming,
I’m the half-spent landmine, winking at your toffee-foot approaching.
The hidden needle in the sweetie jar,
the silent approach of a weaving car;
all put there by design of mine.
Sweat-begetting, damned, maligned.
Swollen in the village pond, and floating fat when I was done,
the drowning of your silver tabby; pined for like a missing loved one.
All function but no form am I,
A simple fear, by morning dies.
Pure function with no form to bear
A fugue, a phase: a common nightmare.
 
BolusOfDoom said:
Note to readers: please don't let the subject matter keep you from offering suggested changes.


Lincoln's Birthday,
February 13, 2006

For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Click to expand...

It's beautiful, and so poignantly sad. Thank you for sharing this with us!
 
Thanks. It seems like 99% of other miscarriage poems are pink and puffy, Mommy misses you, but Jesus took you to heaven kinds of things. There's definitely a place for that, but I wanted to write something more masculine and secular to whet the loss, not blunt it.

Phyrebrat, as for your poem you can take or leave my advice, but I've read that rhyme is far less effective without a fixed meter. As I read more poetry I think I agree with that, so you could try to rewrite it in a fixed meter. You've also selected a tricky abstract topic, because dreams in some ways are like madness or other states of altered consciousness in that it's hard to relate the experience to another reader in a concrete way.
 
Last edited:
Death, at Exodus

Death, at Exodus

The viral curse, the blessing, the desire,
Spins radiant and repulsive epaulets,
Grows blood-red venomed lozenges where eggs
Should be, kept cold and coughed in rage, wires
To slick black shells a panoply of spikes
Which drip necrotic overflow in wet
Hot sticks, and breeds a massive intellect
Through vast millenia of genocide.
See, from those same repulsing shoulder flames
That once flashed, “Hate them! Kill them! I am pain!,”
A tender flare for the tender dead. “Forgive
Us,” she says, “And stay to vouchsafe our ascent.
Bear witness to your million angels, lifting, leaving,
Through the wasted atmospheres, to find a better Death.”
 
Solenopsis

My reckless foot uncovers butter-hued
caviar, cached in chambered soil. Thorn-jawed
soldiers advance; the mound blushes. Imbued
with phermoned rage, the garnet pseudopod
swarms up my leg and wreaks a stinging pox.
I dance, spout smut, and brush them off my socks.
 
BolusOfDoom! I have the lucky first edit :)

Solenopsis

My reckless foot uncovers butter-hued
caviar, cached in chambered soil. Thorn-jawed
soldiers advance; the mound blushes. Imbued
with phermoned rage, the garnet pseudopod
swarms up my leg and wreaks a stinging pox.
I dance, spout smut, and brush them off my socks.

This is finely wrought. I'll make a case for it's inclusion as a scifi poem: there's not a genre of science poetry. Well, surely there is, and I'm sure it has worth, but science fiction poetry is so niche, let's welcome all comers :)

Meter
Line 2 *can* be read as pentameter, but it's quite a pretzel getting it there. I'd say, usually, junk the meter--now that you've formed a solid set of iambic pentameters, find reasons to deviate. And, if you like, do. Argument against the iambs: 1 set of genes leads to 3 to 8 (?) adult forms and at least three forms toward maturity. A soldierly line, a queen line, several drone lines--that'd be resourceful!

In favor: ants are orderly. 'Nough said.

Content
The interesting moment is when you get bitten. As is, they attack you and you react. You're as much an automoton as the ants. If you describe pain, fear, or any other emotion in an interesting way--it's better. The idea "caviar" is neat. Can you bring the idea of pain and the idea of luxury together?
 
Here's my scansion of it:

my RECK/ less FOOT/ unCOV/ ers BUTT/ er-HUED
iamb-----iamb-------iamb---iamb------iamb

CAVi/ ar, CACHED/ in CHAM/ bered SOIL./ THORN-JAWED
trochee-iamb------iamb-----iamb---------spondee

SOLdiers/ adVANCE;/ the MOUND/ BLUSHes./ imBUED
trochee---iamb------iamb-------trochee---iamb

with PHER/ moned RAGE,/ the GAR/ net PSEU/ doPOD
iamb-------iamb---------iamb-----iamb------iamb (iffy stress promotion on POD)

swarms UP/ my LEG/ and WREAKS/ a STING/ ing POX.
iamb-------iamb----iamb--------iamb-----iamb

i DANCE,/ spout SMUT,/ and BRUSH/ them OFF/ my SOCKS.
iamb------iamb---------iamb-------iamb------iamb


I've seen discussions elsewhere about whether IP is supposed to be "perfect", i.e. 5 iambs in a row, or whether one should purposefully salt IP with "valid" substitutions in order to reduce the monotony of da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM.

The guidelines for valid IP substitutions I've been using can be found by Googling "Handy Dandy Vest Pocket Guide to Iambic Pentameter".

Everyone seems to have their own threshold for acceptable IP though. I think line 4 has the weakest IP since dictionary-wise, the last 2 syllables of "psedopod" are unstressed, and the reader has to do a slightly unnatural promotion.

I hadn't thought of luxury when I used "caviar", I was actually thinking of Escamoles, sometimes called "Mexican caviar".
 
I come from music, and don't claim to be a poet (my sister is, so I know the difference), and have vowed not to opinionate on any poetry (a bit like the challenge threads where we are allowed 'I like it', but nothing negative). Still, someone starts throwing around words like iamb, anapest or trochee – oh, you didn't offer anapest? That must have been my niece's youngest. (no, my latest attempt is largely dactylic) – how can a poor pedant resist?

Poetry and song, even if having different muses, share a lot of characteristics, both being mnemonic devices relating physical activity to text elements, fixing a history for the future before writing came along to crystallise it. Griots can bring forth word perfect half hour performances, because the jigsaw pattern of words can only fit together in one way and be right; right rhythmically, correct sonority, integrated rhyme pattern. The reasons even people who are incapable of getting the punchline to a joke correct can still remember the fate of the young lady from Tottenham.

So, if you go for a 'traditionalist' rhythm approach, (as I tend to do), and decide the pattern is too rigid, needs shaking up, which may well be true – rules in poetry require as much enforced flexibility as in any other artform; unless you are preparing for a professor, no-one expects another song of Hiawatha – try and make sure the bumps in the road wake your audience on important words, details you want them to remember, not just random places where you couldn't easily find an alternative.

But you're not restricted to march time. I personally love the music of Dave Brubeck, composite rhythms, letting the words dance rather than plodding, but I'm not a poet, though I am a wordsmith, and songcrafter. So, having accompanied my sister to a poetry reading evening this week (the first I've been to in English for decades, and possibly the first ever where it hasn't involved 'bring two microphones, could you, and an extra loudspeaker for the bar') I'm working on a piece specifically to annoy them that's starting:-
Yesterday evening, poetry reading,
My sister's the poet, not me
Computer projection, Vocal inflection
An interval chat, over tea.

And, I hope holds that pattern. (I can't put any more in because it's not crystallised yet, but I'm not apollo-gising for the internal assonance instead of rhyme.) More fun than marching, even if it does have difficulty being taken seriously.
 
CAVi/ ar, CACHED/ in CHAM/ bered SOIL./ THORN-JAWED
trochee-iamb------iamb-----iamb---------spondee

My problem was, Stephen Pinker's book dissuaded me from thinking English spondees work, so I miscounted.

That being said, I'd love to see an extended version. You've got six lines, why not go for the full 14? Add another two descriptive lines, then let something of science fiction take hold in the last six? I'd love to read it.
 
Some statement, BolusOfDoom!

First, now I want to read that, a poem about Phase IV, a movie I saw as a kid in USA Up All Night and kinda loved.

Second, it's all been done, but in the sci-fi/horror world, you can bet it's not been done very well. The best writers, my guess is, steer clear of campy conceits and mundane plot lines--but why not sci-fi ants? There's a lot there, as I referenced above, from a science-only perspective. There's also the Myromidians (sp?), an inborn fear/fascination in us toward ants that's almost the inverse of snakes and cockroaches, and their almost bizarre diversity--it's a ripe species is what I'm saying, for a good poem.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I want to give it a go.
 
Phase IV

I don't want to tear you to pieces, I just . . .
Want to bring back something good for all my friends.
You'll suffer (so much) for (so much) good beginning . . . So who cares?
Remember that icicle? You slammed out, it busted
It's grip on the gutter? And you never trusted
Your anger again? Said it made the scar it gave you sting?
You can be angry now :) I pulled it from your twitching
Lips. If I had ears, I'd hear the thankfulness.

When You were Psyche, and I piled up the grain?
Last Valentine's You left no meat for Me . . .
But You left yellow cakes! And I'm grateful.
So here's a taste
Of being like Me, gifted and graceful, silently moving
In pieces, feeding My babies, emerging skyward without blinking.
 
I gave myself ten minutes to write and ten to edit--if anyone wants to rewrite it for an edit, I'm happy to see what you do with it.

Otherwise, here's the challenge: take a quick minute and write an ant poem. I think it'd be fun to read a few
 
I wasn't trying to be obscure--it's ants eating a person alive and trying to make it sound like they're doing the person a favor. The person lived with a scar that they reference when tempering anger. The ants, while killing the person, are magnanimous in saying, now that we've carted off that scar, you can be angry (here, presumably, they're giving their victim permission to be mad at them, the ants, as they're doing this terrible thing).

Maybe there's a change I could make to improve the clarity of the work?
 
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