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Author Topic: Frienditors are us: Writer's Circle
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 19 July 2001 12:21 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hi everyone. I'd like to welcome you to babble's writer's circle. Please feel free to share articles, essays, poems, stories, etc. If you would like a frienditor, just say so. I would love to avail myself of the creativity and ability that I see on babble, and I'd like everyone to share their creative endeavors. You included.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Trisha
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 387

posted 19 July 2001 09:03 PM      Profile for Trisha     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Dawna, I'd like to take you up on this, if my head ever stops hurting enough to get back to my novel. I may haul out some of my old poetry and submit it to you.
From: Thunder Bay, Ontario | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 20 July 2001 01:59 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
You're willing to submit? Submission is what I like to see. *JOKE*

Maybe I should submit, and ask that smarty-pants rasmus to eviscerate it. And it looks like there's a fair amount of editors on rabble that could pare me down a bit.

HMM. Here goes.
A poem for you all.

Snow through the Beast

You remember it hollowly
Ringed round by bulldog boys
At bay in the trees like game
or a rolling-eyed runaway slave
Their hands that shouldn't be there
the secret triumph of your hate

You cave into a child at times
running from fat bees down reforested corridors;
flying through matrixed aisles of bronze needles
Time disected by sun-thin gold

And later
the car door slams on your whisper
Your eyes close to receive the red morse code
of the passenger seat
Intent on the same obscure message
of drugs and sleep

You dream then,
of morning crystal crewette sets
scattering prismatic flecks
on your nut-brown brother,
on your small red palms:
You were beaten before breakfast by his beauty.

You wake silent to the adrenaline hour
Furiously lock-picking your sister out of carved mahogany
in those last-life photographs
she is tiny, blonde
wet and freezing
too young to die so willingly

Don't wonder what rope she twisted on
what cruel wind snatched her sweet small heat
Your lips have always spoken the same shade of blue
You were marked for winter too

As you listen to that echo of borrowed life
recall what never happened
more clearly than what did

Somehow you know
what strange animals
are hunted in other worlds

What secrets arrive
in moving light

You know that the cold veil sheathes some
and sends a diamond sliver through another

You know what drives
and drives
the beast through the snow
and the snow throught the beast

There has always been madness behind the wheel
These many miles,
at least


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 20 July 2001 02:27 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Sorry for double posting, but should we maybe have another thread for frienditor's advice? Or should it go on this thread. It may be too complex to divide it. I dunno. Whaddya think?
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
rasmus
malcontent
Babbler # 621

posted 21 July 2001 12:08 PM      Profile for rasmus   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hi DM,

I am more than happy to oblige. However, my tendency when editing is to be profuse with criticism and stingy with compliments. That's just my personality. So if you're ready...

Or we can do it off-board if you like.


Rasmus


From: Fortune favours the bold | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 21 July 2001 09:45 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Eviscerate, please.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Charles
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 200

posted 21 July 2001 11:30 PM      Profile for Charles   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Going to sound like an odd question, but are there any folks out there with writing/editing experience that are also familiar with the Catholic faith? I am just about finished the first act of a new play about Catholic priests (a comedy!) and the grant $ I'm working from doesn't allow for a dramaturge and the program in NS that pairs playwrights and dramaturges has been abused by me recently (two scripts aided and abetted). So, are there any board-people who are intererested in reading act I of a script in progress with a Catholic-check in mind? It's been a long time since I walked among them, as it were and I'm not sure if my Catholic-isms are still on the mark...
From: Halifax, NS | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
rasmus
malcontent
Babbler # 621

posted 22 July 2001 02:40 AM      Profile for rasmus   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles: Are you looking for a nihil obstat or a literary critique?
From: Fortune favours the bold | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Charles
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 200

posted 22 July 2001 02:19 PM      Profile for Charles   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
bit of both...
From: Halifax, NS | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
rasmus
malcontent
Babbler # 621

posted 23 July 2001 12:35 AM      Profile for rasmus   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles: can't help you with the Catholic stuff. And I don't have the time now to do a literary edit of that much material, unfortunately.

DM: I will get to your poem, but it might take a few days.


From: Fortune favours the bold | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 23 July 2001 12:17 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Spank you very much, rasmus.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
jabber
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 144

posted 23 July 2001 03:38 PM      Profile for jabber     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles,
I am not a professional editor/writer but I have had a little published in the Catholic press. I do know the politics of Catholicism and what I do not know, I can make enquiries of good contacts. Would be interested in discussing your needs more fully. How big are we talking about?

From: Dryden | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
jabber
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 144

posted 23 July 2001 03:40 PM      Profile for jabber     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles,
I am not a professional editor/writer but I have had a little published in the Catholic press. I do know the politics of Catholicism and what I do not know, I can make enquiries of good contacts. Would be interested in discussing your needs more fully. How big are we talking about?

From: Dryden | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 690

posted 26 July 2001 03:22 AM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Warning: personal material follows:

Okay… I apologize to Dawna Matrix: I’m not a poet, and I read your peom but… well, I don’t understand it. The references, the images are too disjointed for me to make sense of it. But, again, who am I.
I was thinking maybe people should start a bit smaller. I had a poem and I want to hear people’s criticism of it. Now, I should mention this is the first peom I’ve attempted since I was forced to write Haiku in high school, so obviously, it’s no good:

If your waiting to hear the truth,
I suggest you get comfortable,
For the forest's carbon sinks
will have been credited then debited
the ledger lost,
the fire spent,
the land paved over,
before attainment of enlightenment.
Nor would I suggest
seriously contemplating that quest.
The acrid sweetness you quote as "bitter,"
is a subjective modifier of human fancy.
The truth,
being objective, being pure of thought
cannot be viewed with the rods and cones
of your particular retina.
But do know this:
If you ever catch a glimpse
of that elusive neutrino with the proper spin
just remember, close at hand,
is a lot of frosted icing.

Now, you can argue mechanics and stuff, and I’d like to hear it (although, again, I’m not a poet so the theory of why it’s wrong will be over my head… but I still want to hear it).
My whole problem with poems is how do you, the reader, understand what I am saying. For instance, I wrote this with a specific message. I ask you, the reader, what is that specific message? Did I convey it properly?
Given that no one challenged my assertion that Hitchhikers is better than Shakespeare, I assume most of you are of the literary initiated (ie, you spot something so stupid there is no point in responding). But, I harbour feelings that compel me to at least try and write. I’ve made up my mind to go back to university, but I don’t know what for: an Arts degree or Science. I lean towards Science, but that little irrational section of my mind screams arts. And since I have a couple months to decide, I need input. I need some person to say: “stop taking drugs, you’ll only make it with a science degree” or “keep taking drugs, you’d do well in an Arts degree”.
And I feel I need to say this outright: I’ve been “BBSing” since I was 13 (anyone remember FidoNet?). Even then, I understood that when I butt into a conversation, it’s only a matter of days when it’s dead. I don’t know why: I could claim it’s because I’m so smart and people realize I’m right, but I think that’s the wrong explanation. So, to state this outright, I’m really not contemptuous of dissenting opinion, however I may come off.
Maybe this is the wrong place to bear my anti-anarchist soul, but I give you an example. Way back when, in grade, oh, 11, I think, we had to write a character “thing” (profile, sketch, I can’t remember the term) on someone in Macbeth. Everyone wrote about Macbeth and how great he was. I, being the smart-ass I am, argued differently. He was a moron, a poor political operative, a Sahara of military tactics, a dupe, in other words. My teacher didn’t agree, but gave me an A anyway. I want to be rated. I’m Lisa Simpson. I need to decide if the arts would be my thing, but I’m leery.
I read translations of “good” writers from foreign countries, and I’m amazed at how critical they are: the bad grammar, the horrible spelling, the little puns you’d never understand in English, the coarseness of the manuscript. Now, I’m not puffed up to suggest I could someday be translated into a foreign language, but given the writers and editors on this site, given some people here just “see” the talent, I want to know. Am I moron for thinking I could do the arts, or should I stick with my parabolas and regressions in the sciences?
I’m not trying to get you older and wiser folks to say I’m a little pile of excrement or a bowl of ripened strawberries. But you have the power influence someone’s life course here (and I only ask this because I don’t know where else to turn). Is this poem, or my “writing” have that little spark that would say, “Yeah, why not, you might benefit from an arts course or two?”
I only write this because I think the people here seem upright and honest, and to tell you the truth, I have no idea what I should pursue (or even enjoy). Please, be critical, be honest, and understand I haven’t yet written a lengthy piece of “literature.” I am a dimwitted factory worker. But, I am human, and people seem to think I have potential. I just need to hear it from non-friends. And, maybe I’ve mistook you people, but I believe you’d provide a decent analysis. Hehe, tell me! And I hope no one is scared off by this brief insight to my dark little soul.


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 478

posted 26 July 2001 10:25 AM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hi, clockwork. I will go this far: in answer to your question

quote:
Is this poem, or my “writing” have that little spark that would say, “Yeah, why not, you might benefit from an arts course or two?”

Yes. Very yes, and more than a spark.

People have so many different ways of thinking about and criticizing and evaluating poetry. You're going to run into some, eg, who believe poetry must still work according to very strict forms, and that those forms must somehow be manifest in your poetry. You'll run into others who passionately rebel against any/some such formal demands. Some of us are less partisan and more open to being convinced, case by case, by the poet's particular way of putting passion and discipline together.

I think you have one of the poetic talents I like most, which is a talent for condensation, precipitation -- images or single words as precipitates of thought.

And I don't want to go any further, because I am not comfortable with much criticism in public -- or something. In public, I do teacher better; so what I would say further is that I hope you will do at least a few arts courses when you go back to school, first of all to listen to other people with "literary" opinions and to size them up. Decide for yourself, yes, although also give people who've been thinking about these things for a long time a chance to prove themselves to you. You sound as though you want to do both, and both are necessary, so that's good.

Above all, you might look for chances to hear poets talk about what they do. They will all say different things, some radically different things. You will be listening for what resonates for you. Nobody's figured out a better system, far as I can see.

Thanks for this poem already. I'll think about it some more.


From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Athena Dreaming
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 435

posted 26 July 2001 11:06 AM      Profile for Athena Dreaming   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hey clockwork:

I enjoyed your poem, but I didn't get it. And while I understand the desire to see if people can get it to figure out whether you're doing the right thing or not, it is generally easier to give constructive feedback when you know where the poet is trying to go. So...where? I do like the rhymes and you have some good metre and some good imagery.

About the Arts/Science dilemma--well--can't you do both? For the first year, anyway? It may help you to make up your mind. IN the meantime, I would suggest reading a lot of contemporary poets and literary authors. I like Ann Carson (Canadian poet, well recognized). You may also want to dig up some literary biographies.

A little book I found that has been very helpful to me, anyway, is the Writer's Little REjection Book. It's a small book that collects publisher's rejections to the most famous works in the English language. If you can name a famous author who wrote a Pulitzer or Nobel prize winning work, that book will have some publisher's rejection of it. It can be great balm for the ego.

A while ago I wrote a series of poems on women and anger (three guesses why). Here's teh first one:

Fury

I am an angry woman.
Oh yes, I'm quite mad.
I would like to say that rage
is my sword
but that's too phallic--
I don't have a sword,
if you know what I mean.

Anger is my weapon,
But it doesn't jut or ejaculate.
It keeps out or takes in.
My anger is a mouth,
with teeth.
I'll chew you up and spit
you out, or swallow.

I am an angry woman.
Hell yes!
Why shouldn't I be mad?
I live in the world which is
and that's enough
to drive any non-phallic person
to the point.

And the world which is
is all screwed up;
it thinks if you haven't got a sword
then it's safe to grind you down.
You won't bite back.
Your venom,
they believe, is no match for steel.

I am an angry woman.
Gods YES
and I would rather be mad.
You've turned my sisters into mocassins
to keep your feet free of dirt
and then condemned them for their stains.
You've pierced them with your swords,
laughed at them for bleeding.

My mouth does not have to be a weapon.
But it does have teeth.
Those teeth are sharp.
And I
can
bite
your
sword
in
two

***

As you can see, I like to hit my reader over the head. I much prefer writing fiction, but it's hard to fit a story into these little boxes.


From: GTA | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 26 July 2001 12:50 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
clockwork: It's 10 percent talent and 90 percent work. You've got the ten for sure.

As for asking people to interpret your poem, don't. A poem carries more meaning when it is interpreted individually by the reader. I can't count the times I have been so disappointed by poets who exposed their thought processes, and it turned out to be a totally uninspiring reason why and how they wrote a piece in the first place. It's this kind of thing that makes me think there is a bigger hand at work than just the writer - as if there were something bigger speaking through us.

Anyways, as for your question, the poem has to do with the chain of psychological illness that I see in my family and have seen since childhood - even though some of them do not realize it. The sister I speak of hung herself because of an abusive relationship. Her grandmother committed murder-suicide on her grandfather. Much of it is personal, but a lot involves the nature of psychotic episode. OK. That's the last time I tell anyone why I wrote anything.


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Charles
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 200

posted 26 July 2001 05:33 PM      Profile for Charles   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
jabber: The work I have finished on the play so far is one act (equal to about 1hour, 10 minutes) as well as the beginning and end of the second act. It's not a strictly Catholic piece though the four main characters are RC priests. It also examines Buddhism, fundamentalism, agnosticism, and the devil. That said there are a number of passages relating to the RC church and I spent many a year serving mass et al as a youngin', it's been a long time since it was my world. It's a comedy but pretty non linear and the majority of the play steps outside the linear plot line (think the movie/play "Jeffrey", or early Woody Allen work).

AD: I would love to get a copy of this rejection book. Any publishing info, editor, writer, etc? I want to order a copy. Any writer who has faced humiliating rejections should have a copy of this handy at all times...


From: Halifax, NS | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Roger Mosher
recent-rabble-rouser
Babbler # 1120

posted 26 July 2001 06:11 PM      Profile for Roger Mosher     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles, Dawna, et. al.

I find the discussion of poetry fascinating and disconcerting at the same time. I suppose I come from an earlier more romantic era but to me the only requirement of writing is to speak honestly. I am less abstract and intellectual in my approach... and I dislike rhymes.

Dawna I didn't understand your poem either but then again I don't understand Pablo Neruda and he's also full of imagery which is brilliant in its own right. But his poems are like broken glass relfecting in a hundred directions at once.

I should like this. I think I am an anarchist... but I find it disconcerting.

Charles, your poem reminded me of one of my own, though the message may be quite different, the sense of time is similar...

Were it time

we would discuss the sadness in the failing light,

in the wind which cools the evening,

in the silent hope of wild flowers,

we would discuss those things,

allow those meditations which arise

to have their moment...


Were it time.


But who was it said such quiet intimations

are any the less or any the more

than the colder intentions of a purposeful mind


and who supposes that he who sifts the meaning

from these quiet moments, from the whispering wind,

from the day gathered in reflection,

draws anymore than comfort and self-deception:


Even the enduring hills will in time be worn to plain,

and the forest we condescend to leave will fall

beneath the ice of ages yet to come.


We were a flicker in the light, our anxious

sorrows less than a hesitation or a care, and

as we rested in ourselves we were nothing,


and though we felt our losses keenly

they also were nothing.


The flower which blooms in summer's heat

will soon be forgotten, but return nonetheless,

again.


Return, and return,

and then not.


PS. I am not always so gloomy


From: Nova Scotia | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 26 July 2001 07:44 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Le sigh. Thanks for the peaceful feeling, Roger, and welcome to rabble.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Athena Dreaming
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 435

posted 27 July 2001 09:29 AM      Profile for Athena Dreaming   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Yes, Roger, that was lovely.

Jabber, I don't have it handy, no; but I'm going to the library today anyway so I'll look it up and let you know.


From: GTA | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 27 July 2001 12:06 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
All petrified poets, take a chance, and enter the Word Literary Contest by August 1st, 2001. See details on the Writing Contest thread.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 690

posted 27 July 2001 05:54 PM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hehe. DM, your talking to a person that enjoys the idea of the peer review. That’s where all the fun is. But, I suppose I could attempt to keep my mouth shut.
And if poetry is some manifestation of quasi-psychotic thinking, why is it taught in school? I could remember analyzing a poem or two. I this just another example of our liberal, new-math education system that has failed us all?

From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Debra
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 117

posted 27 July 2001 08:09 PM      Profile for Debra   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
This really isn't up to the standard that has been set, I wrote it when I was 13 and thought I would post it as a gift to my ' inner child'.

Fairytales shattered
Hard cold edges
Slice the child's wrists
See the blood flow
Close an empty fist
Take in the reality
Of a child dying alone
Cry for the child
Who never had a home
Is it so hard to percieve
The harsh cold emptiness
A time when none believe
See the child smile
As she dies
She could no longer take
All their foolish lies
Death her only freedom
Pain her only friend
Remember her as you
Walk the street
And see the begger at your feet
And see the junkie making love to his needle
Feel the shattered fairytales
Listen to the longing painful wails
Life for some holds beauty
But only for those who cannot see.


From: The only difference between graffiti & philosophy is the word fuck... | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Athena Dreaming
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 435

posted 28 July 2001 12:08 PM      Profile for Athena Dreaming   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Earthmother, I think your inner child needs an ice cream cone! What flavour would she prefer?
From: GTA | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Debra
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 117

posted 28 July 2001 07:14 PM      Profile for Debra   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Chocolate! Thanks
From: The only difference between graffiti & philosophy is the word fuck... | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 29 July 2001 04:55 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Clockwork:

"And if poetry is some manifestation of quasi-psychotic thinking, why is it taught in school? I could remember analyzing a poem or two. I this just another example of our liberal, new-math education system that has failed us all? "

I didn't say that poetry is a manifestation of quasi-psychotic thinking. I said that this particular poem was about psychotic thought. I also have poems about politics, about those triplets of cliche, love, death and sex, and a variety of other things. I don't think the education system has enough poetry in it as it is. And the poetry that is taught isn't current. I'm not saying that old-school stuff is no good - but I'm saying that there are alot of living artists that should be on reading lists who are not.


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Catalyst
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 237

posted 29 July 2001 09:45 PM      Profile for Catalyst   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Labour Relations 101

Looking down their noses

At the queue of workers

Filing into the factory

Our "superiors" seem to sneer

We trudge past them to our

Appointed places on the line

Casually chatting with our peers

And awaiting the bell

Line supervisors view us as robots

Highly replaceable tools of the trade

Merely machines without thought or feeling

Only pleasant background noise

Until something goes wrong

And we become "bad workers"

Petulantly playing mind games

Making them do their jobs

Upper management sees us

As minuscule parasites

In the organism of our factory

Each raise and benefit

An entry in red ink

Sucking the lifeblood of the company

A bunch of squalling childish brats

Trying to steal their power

The factory is a place

Where we are imprisoned

Six long days a week

We are handsomely rewarded

With wages enough for home

And family needs

And a fancy coffin

For our early graves

Our foremen stalk the line

Like schoolyard bullies

Sharp eyes squinting

Like gunfighters of old

Trying to win their superiors' favour

By increasing the bottom line

Living in a "dog-eat-dog" environment

At the bottom of management's food chain

As "rank and filers" in our union

We stand proud as foot soldiers

In the struggle for our rights

And rightful place in the community

Tackling tough issues

And committing spare time

Not always unanimous

But always unified

Unions and companies stand as polar opposites

Each expecting the worst from each other

Attributing all our problems

To personal vendettas

On rare occasions one side's facade slips

Revealing their humanity

Yet never long enough

For the other to notice.

I wrote this while frustrated with a certain supervisor I had while working on the assembly line at DCX here in Windsor. I got a chance to vent on paper and avoid workplace violence. I don't condone it, but believe me I understand where it comes from. It took all my breaks for a week to complete.


From: gone | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 478

posted 30 July 2001 09:36 AM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
It's got a nice beat, Catalyst.

Look at the words you've put in quotation marks. Try taking the qu marks off. If it then seems to you that the word isn't doing the work you want it too without the props, can you think of another word that would -- a less obvious word but even a plainer one, a word that might mean an imaginative leap but would still be logical?


From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 690

posted 30 July 2001 12:00 PM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Whoops, sorry DM... being a smart ass again. Most people I've met that enjoy peotry would be defined as "wierd" or having "problems" in the circles I hang out. I apologize for the association.

Catalyst... I'm, I'm... in tears.

This isn't peotry, but while were slagging the factory life, here's something I wrote a while back. It's a bit harsh, but this is why I've finally said screw it and am going back to university while I still have the chance:

I arrive at work when the little hand hits seven. AM, PM, it doesn’t matter on a 12 hour swing shift. Under the fluorescent light of my windowless purgatory, concepts like daytime and nighttime have no meaning. 7:00 I start work, 7:00 I finish. I’m a blue-collar worker.
I make bags, plastic ones. Nothing as trivial as ones you’d find stuffed under your kitchen sink after a grocery excursion. These bags, I am told, have no “margins”. I make bags with margins, bags that get filled up with all kinds of insidious chemicals with warning labels like “keep out of reach from children.” Although, the idea that some parent would keep a 25kg bag of ammonium nitrate lying around the house is something I do not like to entertain.
My day begins by observing that my fellow coworker who I’ve just relieved is, in all likelihood, not a Mensa member. Analogous thought and pattern recognition abilities probably do not become apparent until basic arithmetic and linguistic skills are sufficiently mastered. Or, given my respected coworker had a whole 12 hours to work, I would wonder what he did to pass the time away. It’s not readily apparent. Next, I’d observe the state of my line, analyzing what’s wrong with it and how I can fix it with cardboard and tape. Fundamentally, everything can be fixed with tape and cardboard.
Content that I’ve minimized my Prometheus Index (amount of work and grief divided by amount of production), I congregate to the cafeteria to pay homage to that all-important part of the day, break time. I get to partake in a cuisine of a quality found unparalleled in the airline industry while socializing with my fellow labourers. Their philosophic musings on some person’s ability to hit, shoot or lob spheres of varying size goes long and deep. Their analysis of the day’s page 3 specimen in the local paper is frank and honest. To imagine these critical thinking skills are squandered on something as mundane as making plastic packaging would make Karl Marx churn in his grave. From each according to his abilities, indeed.
On day shift, the after-break time is most interesting. It’s the part of the day Important People run around doing important things. For instance, a customer would call to inform our sales reps that he made an implicit assumption that the bags he ordered would have some type of opening so, you know, he could get his insidious chemicals into the bag. Customer comments always generate a flurry of activity from Important People. Important People would come visit my line and look around intently. With a bemused look, I sit there and watch them making analogous observations such as the sky is blue. Then these Important People would scurry off to their respective cubbyholes and fire off emails to other Important People stating that the sky is, in fact, blue. Well, to be more precise, they write, “Whent down to line. It seems that the sky looks blue. I think we should monitor the sky for awhile until were sure the sky stays blue.”
Satisfied with a job well done, these Important People would scurry home to families and social lives. I imagine that Important People have these. I once read a memo from a Very Important Person that he’d switch jobs so he could spend more time on some boat. I, on the other hand, am not allowed to let extra-circular activities interfere with my work time. While Important People run home to their boats, I’m still packing bags for a customer who probably expects that the bag size he requested would be the bag size he receives. Customers are so naive. The key point of our business model is that the person who orders the bags is not the same person who fills them.
The rest of the shift is always the hardest part of my job, struggling to stay awake lest my production fall on the floor or my line run out of material. At least if my line runs out of material, buzzers will blare and flashing lights will alert my coworkers to saunter over and play a prank to wake me up.
Then, I go home and have supper or breakfast and fall asleep ‘till morning or night. After a slow process of waking, I fetch my paper and read about people who have terribly pressing problems with art or finance, people who read Animal Farm and mistook it as a management guide to labour relations, people fighting for control of my income tax, or control of their own as the case may be, and people just trying to make the world a utopia of their dreams. I shake my head, laugh at the ultimate futility of it all then realize I have to get ready. The little hand is nearing the seven again.


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
judym
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posted 30 July 2001 12:13 PM      Profile for judym   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Wow.
From: earth | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
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posted 30 July 2001 01:53 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Fer sure.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Croesus_Krept
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posted 01 August 2001 12:04 AM      Profile for Croesus_Krept   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Dawna, I like your long poem, let me reread it... I will try to find something recent and decent to put up here... My last poem needs gestation time...
Your work is fresh, and your images are striking and highly original... Do not fear if people say they don't understand, that's because they are used to reading prosaic stuff made of platitudes. You are writing pure perception/emotion distilled instantly into free form thought-poetry - which is the essence of the finest ultramodern poetry...

cr..s.s


From: Taiwan | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
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posted 01 August 2001 09:57 AM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Arkham, I don't think you're going to get much for $150 -- I don't know what these people do; do they describe at all what's on offer? Just a general opinion, say, or line-by-line work? What kind of magazines are making the offer?

Just to give you something to judge by, editors working for trade (ie, commercial) publishers are charging between $30 and $50 an hour at least. For that, they're taking a book right up to publishable form, of course; I know the figure often shocks people, but these are people trying to make a living, and I suspect most of them still qualify for a GST refund.

One practical way to get really helpful advice on a longer piece of writing is to find a good writing course. Typically, you'll get reactions from both your instructors and your fellow students; you'll also get excellent advice about contacts, markets, agents, etc. I can't tell where you are, but the Humber College course in Toronto is a terrific one.

Courses may cost a bit, but way less than hiring an editor; and editors can't necessarily steer you in the right direction if they don't know who the publisher is likely to be -- publishers differ a lot in what they want from books once they've signed them.


From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
judym
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posted 01 August 2001 12:28 PM      Profile for judym   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
There are plenty of freelance editors. They'll look at your manuscript, suggest edits and possibly suggest where and how to submit the work to a publisher. This doesn't mean the work will be published after an edit. No freelance editor can promise that. Only a publisher can. Once there's a signed contract, a completed manuscript and a massive stack of books.
From: earth | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
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Babbler # 156

posted 02 August 2001 01:15 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
I use the frienditor approach - get six friends, who you trust with the English language (or whatever language you write in), and give them each a copy and a red pen. Buy them ice cream and call them in a month. If there are any edits that you agree with, from anyone, then change it. Or you can remember that they're idiots the next time you need a frienditor, and find six other friends entirely.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
audra trower williams
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posted 02 August 2001 09:46 PM      Profile for audra trower williams   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
All I ever write are journal entries.
From: And I'm a look you in the eye for every bar of the chorus | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
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posted 03 August 2001 12:41 PM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Meadows.
Meadows are green,
full of nature’s goodness.
The call of the birds,
babbling away,
like an ADSL line
packet switching with rabble.ca.
Brooks,
veering left, meandering right,
gently eroding the shore,
it’s flow one with time,
twined, subtle,
hyper-spatial fractal correlation.
Blooming flowers,
the sweet smells not only attract the bees.
Interplay of colour,
size and form
gently swaying to the wind,
a natural concert,
a Beethoven symphony.
Joy! Joy, I see
And run off in the picturesque expanse.
Ouch, bloody weeds.
The rash getting redder,
I sneeze.
I trip and fall,
The mud all over my new khakis.
A sudden rattle,
a hiss,
my welcome overstayed.
The bike path
is obviously for me.
---
This is actually quite fun, you know.

From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
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posted 03 August 2001 03:12 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
What's actually fun, clockwork - dirt-biking or poetry? I'll stick with the one where the only injury possible is a paper cut or carpal tunnel syndrome.

Thanks for the compliment, Croesus. I hope to read you soon.


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
oldgoat
Moderator
Babbler # 1130

posted 04 August 2001 01:25 PM      Profile for oldgoat     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Clockwork: I just finished reading your factory piece. By coincidence, I was also listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan's Tin Pan Alley at the same time. When I was done, I moved the tone arm on the turn table back and did it again. Give it a try if you get a chance.

[ August 04, 2001: Message edited by: oldgoat ]


From: The 10th circle | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
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posted 04 August 2001 04:44 PM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Hey oldgoat…
For some reason that sounds like I shouldn’t say it…
But, hey oldgoat. I was curious and searched the internet for the song lyrics. Couldn’t find it. Tried to find an mps, but the morpheus, the file sharing thing, doesn’t like my computer… or my Windoze doesn’t like morpheus. Why can’t all the software just get along?
Argh.

DM: I don’t know… would a poet beat me for using imagery like “an ADSL line packet switching” or “hyper spatial fractal corelation”?
Dazed, I’d wander in Brownian motion, hoping my parity checksums flag the error of my ways. But then I hit the firewall, unable to find the correct port of entry. My mind racing like a strange attractor, bifurcating like a period 4 function, I finally encounter a general protection fault. I shut down.

I really got to get a life.


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
oldgoat
Moderator
Babbler # 1130

posted 05 August 2001 01:15 AM      Profile for oldgoat     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
hey clockwork: If you're not into blues, it might not work for you. The atmosphere of the music was a dark smoke and bourbon filled room. There was a certain grittiness and suffering in your writing that really lent itself to the genre, and I read it to the pacing of the riffs I was hearing. (Although neither Leadbelly nor Muddy Waters would have made a reference to mensa.)

BTW, you may not find it all that readily on the internet. I think "Tin Pan Alley" may be public domain, and the album I was listening to is fairly old.


[ August 05, 2001: Message edited by: oldgoat ]


From: The 10th circle | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
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Babbler # 156

posted 05 August 2001 11:18 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Alot of contemporary poetry relates to computer workings, clockwork. I myself have written one.

Internet

www-dot, can you help me dot-com
I-dot seem to have a problem, dot-shtml
http, backslash, sometimes I don't, underscore
feel-dot real anymore


Phlip Arima, a Toronto poet, also does some spoken word that is very mechanical/robotic along these lines.


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
DrConway
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Babbler # 490

posted 07 August 2001 09:18 PM      Profile for DrConway     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
My Journal Entries. Yay.
From: You shall not side with the great against the powerless. | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
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Babbler # 690

posted 08 August 2001 10:15 AM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Oldgoat:
Got morpheus working, found Tin Pan Alley. Well, I found the first 4 minutes of it.
Yeah, I can see the bluesy angle to it… but if I had to pick accompanying music, I’d pick a mellow, spoken word, cello accompaniment, fuzzy static sampled piece with a light breakbeat.
I thought you wanted me to see what’s going on. Apparently it’s really hot down there. But, oddly enough, sometimes I really do think there is no place I’d rather be. Hehe, I originally took your reference as an example of other places I could reside in…

DM:
I wasn’t really thinking of poetry that deals exclusively with technology. Your poem uses internet references but it is about the internet. So the references fit with the idea of the poem. The reason I made my comment was that I don’t think most people would associate a description of nature with science and technology. I would, but I grew up studying math, so I’m a freak.

It’s like reading a piece about someone’s dog dying and lacing it with economic references:
My dog died. How can I inventory my supply of excess sorrow? How can I cope? Will my sorrow and pain be discounted because I have no demand for it? Alas, the toll is exacting, for it’s a perfectly inelastic market. The write-off will push me deep into the red.
The diminishing returns have finally approached zero. I only wish I hadn’t squandered it’s marginal utility. My poor dog. The free trade in emotion and love was great, our current account balances even. But now the ultimate barrier to trade has gone up. The protectionist forces have finally drained all the activity out of my bipedal friend’s little body. Our Goldilock’s economy ruined, the structural adjustment finally run its course. Now I am left with the absolute advantage but it is of no intrinsic value: my productivity will drop precipitously. I only hope it doesn’t turn into a Depression.
My dog, my dog! How will I ever find a substitution for you?

See, it just doesn’t sound right.


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 09 August 2001 05:49 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Yah, but it's funny as hell. That's poetry too!
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
Croesus_Krept
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Babbler # 964

posted 11 August 2001 10:08 AM      Profile for Croesus_Krept   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Spoon some into me, baby !
don't know nothing or nobody

this first is a jazz-rap song with plenty of
fast and slow parts... the second two
are poems...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dockside Baby

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
my woman to be dockside baby
I'm so lonesome
spoon some into me
boys say you're no good
but I'll eat you anyway
look your knee is bent
love me baby
the world is dumb without you
dockside baby drink me
loopy nude thing
don't let your daddy know
where you got that ring
who bought that mink
lust is money love is shit
you are a dancing blow
like wet silk I hear you sigh
ahhhh dockside baby
no one knows but me
you think you're nothing
but those guys really did like you
you want to make a bet
tie your shoes and run run run
I don't care or listen to the news
dockside baby is squirming on my dick
she's deep and likes it hard
she'll do anything and has before
enough cash and she'll smile
stash that humus
hop and slip that rogue
he's nothing and you're all I've got
this world's too long for questions
move your thighs for me
yes like that's it
pump that stiff for lots of money
give me your eyes purring spark
give me all his money
get on your knees and beg me to accept it
what oh what's wrong
right all right
the dawn won't abide by talk like that
stuff like that hot hat
she lies like lead
duck down in my ear
sneeze and laugh
dump that chump because
I'm rumptious bumptious
bellicose and a whale
a scale can't measure this longing
I'm swallowing the time
I could have had with you
only yes you were her and she was you
you knew it too and I'm saying so
so slow by the dockside
baby you bends your knee
pride fashions a dream
wedge your wood sled you could
snow man hoe woman
give pride a rest or whatever you call it
poverty is a brother to love
call it what you will want me
slut me cut me but never forget me
give your boy his lusty cake
hearty hellow and tallow by byes
hape a jape too tape
low up speed down
clowning and heaving
the cookies were probably a backstage coach
like the dust jacket on this book
you took you took my dime
deposit develop compose the ballot
strike nine pay your fine fine
give me spivy make it drippy
suck it juicy
tender was a hooray for yellow
forget it schlepp it hep it risk it
remember to boil it first
rubber mother and sister wish
credit the day you first thought of me
but be wise this guy's onto something
dockside baby has a pert tail
some say I'll over-end you
I kill myself everyday
to never get the chance
she knows me raw
eat you cheat beat you
got to get you
have to have you
it's all so
whiskey white and obsidian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Min Pros Do So Max Less

some pros dress in black shoeshine
their guardhouses are built for drivers
beside the roady river
for others who live by night, it's easy to love
freedom goes home in his arms

but they know me for something, and it troubles me
what is it?

I haven't a clue

-- get down -- get down and kiss her tall shoe --
shit, maybe he will and maybe he must,
but I won't, no I won't

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I lived in a land

I lived in a land you don't know
the trees and birds poor
nobody could hear their own hearts
our dreams were bigger than dinner
everyone I knew was afraid of love
and rushing quickly to forget it

the girls walked slower than my wishes flew
it turns out a comedy of misses and excuses
they would have spoken to me
had they known what was wrong

you want someone to explain the women
animals and birds raise their voices
I still can't understand
the difference I'm supposed to tell
between saying no and bringing lust home

everything moves into like afflictions
the world follows similar dreams
people are drawn into seeing the same
comfort comes when moments mate
meaning and love make community

the civilization is like a foothold
upon everything made of nothing
we came from a star named ignorance
we meet in a town called love
it's our life needing to come home

let me say it again some other way
in a nearby city, the dawn also comes before we awaken
again, the life we know begins before the time will tell us
art is for explaining
the meaning we make of oblivion

the people buy tickets to the same wish
because the future knows the past by its mistakes
going together for thousands of years
is like wanting to grow up
but we can't

stuck on the beginning
we forget the ends of matter
with minds pricked by rumors of spirit
and ghosts nobody knew personally
we ought to laugh
not weep

and then go on to see
the first time in the last lover
she is like the wisdom they want
she has waited to be filled up with words
age answers for lovers who miss love
she rules solitude and confides
with the heart between memories
she forgives you and I all our faults

( copyright 2001, by motherfucking old shit )

[ August 11, 2001: Message edited by: Croesus_Krept ]


From: Taiwan | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
Croesus_Krept
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posted 11 August 2001 11:09 AM      Profile for Croesus_Krept   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
i just wrote this tonight... my girlfriend's been spurning me lately cause I wanna move to another country again...
in the meantime, I'm daydreaming of hot
black sluts and blondes I can't get - yet...
no patience and my girl is teasing and angry - could be more willing and I need some regular action...haaaaaaaaa ! when she comes, she come for real too... damn it...


and cup her with my mouth

oldie itsy-bits and slippery chits
I'm walking through the wire
she's stewing rummmmy, shining mommy
haven't any love left, cause she's flyin'
the witch got three dins and stays unhitched
and ya can't pry my shinie...
my hiney hurts without the bitch!
if we weren't so slickety-split...
jiggle ass - you giggle.
I'd triple that dimple?
wanna unstaple the wind from unda my ass?
you'se afraid o' my stash?
owwwhhh,
wanna sidle up to tha' bitch
then touch huuh as she flaunts it
cup huuh wi' maaa mowwwwth

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[ August 12, 2001: Message edited by: Croesus_Krept ]


From: Taiwan | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
grrr
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 275

posted 11 August 2001 01:40 PM      Profile for grrr     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Charles,

I have an Irish catholic upbringing. Part of my journeys through life included attending journalism school with some editing thrown in. My experience, up to now, would be editing essays for friends attending university.

If you have not yet found anyone to peruse your work with a critical eye to detail and some Catholic insight, I would be happy to oblige.


From: Toronto | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
stile
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 659

posted 13 August 2001 03:28 AM      Profile for stile   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Well, I don't write poetry.

But tonight the sky was so ferociously beautiful...and I was in such a dark mood...I couldn't help myself.

I feel naked in front of all you experts, so please be gentle.
----------------------

Tonight the sky bleeds,
Crazy deep dark raspberry red.
Rebel stormclouds, fashionably late,
Attack the ground with seething sparks,
Reluctant to shed life
Upon the unworthy creatures below.

I ride home, through this land of lakes
Surrounded by rednecks
In their giant pickup trucks,
And wealthy oil-men on vacation
With their SUV’s and trophy wives
And their perfect pre-paid children.
They all ooze with a
Testosterone-injected, turbo-charged,
Self-righteous satisfaction.
Because they own this land.
They have conquered it.

And they hate me.
Because I am fool enough to love this earth
Even though I don’t own it.
Tonight the sky and I are comrades.
We mourn for one another in secret silence.


From: B.C. | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
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Babbler # 156

posted 13 August 2001 12:49 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Damn good spill, stile.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
hibachi
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Babbler # 956

posted 20 August 2001 12:43 PM      Profile for hibachi   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
There once was a man named Mike
Who had to go out for a bite
So he bit on a wiener
Which sickened the Premier
And Tory Cement had a fright.

I have written some prose, and it is all (along with some photos) on my web site which is
http://www.geocities.com/hibachi0

Every week or so when I am not travelling I put up something.

Try it! You might like it!


From: Toronto, Ont. | Registered: Jul 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 478

posted 20 August 2001 12:59 PM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
I did! I do!
From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
grrr
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 275

posted 22 August 2001 01:03 AM      Profile for grrr     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Imagine how the world could be
Imagine wonders we could see
As love unfolds sweet lullabies
Through the mirror of our eyes.

Time is lost without a trace
From this passion of embrace
We are two who are one
In a life just begun.

Take my hand but don't be led
Words of wisdom left unsaid
Take comfort in the gifts we share
The world will always be out there.

Imagine that you are me
And I'll be you and what we'll see
Will always be a mystery...

I am on vacation!


From: Toronto | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
skdadl
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 478

posted 22 August 2001 09:48 AM      Profile for skdadl     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
You are one happy lucky duck!

And it's true what you say about the world -- it will always be out there, and that's usually good enough for now.


From: gone | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 22 August 2001 02:53 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
grrr and I are on vacation at the same time!

Last Of My Tribe

Escape the fickle mistress of segregated moments.
Nothing is ugly unless you think so.
You can still race the sun across the afternoon.
Isolate your senses. Smell your skin.
It remembers the wind the way the earth remembers rain.
Those lazy rooftop fans of industry are rusty daisy-wheels.
Those rocks piled in abandoned window frames are history; civilization caught in the act of falling.
Peeling paint on drainpipes is the coddled masterpiece of weather.
You have the world - do not despair.
It is still Eden.
Orpheus plays. The metered clink of cars on loose sewergrates, the foetal hymn of electricity. It is a symphony yet.
Consider it ancient.
Let the words of the signs be hieroglyphs.
Instructions for the long dead.
Admit that this may be you, sacrificed to consciousness.
Shake loose from the frame. Deny your death.
You are still alive.
All perfection embodies it's opposite - you are not a boundary.
Beauty does not stop at the heatsong of cicadas, in the sexual tongues of lilies.
It is dirt-stained brick and graffiti.
It is shady porches and weary factories.
It is the new clouds, the contrails.
It is not only the black lace of trees on evening skies,
but the one-armed Jesus of streetlamps and the glitter in their eyes.
There is spirit, even here.
Do not think you are the last of your tribe.


From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 690

posted 05 September 2001 12:34 PM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Okay, like here goes DM:

Poetry analysis by the non-poet.

Hmm, I sit here and stare into the phosphorus glow of my screen, pondering the pixelated message that has mysteriously appeared before me. I do this, because I feel I have been asked to peer into the obfuscated thought of some disembodied soul. A message has been produced, it’s content dormat, concealed. If Canada Post delivers a letter and no one opens it, has anything been said?
To be truthful, I’ve seen this message before, but my Enigma machine is broken. The cipher too complex. No public key on hand, and no war to be won, the message was ignored.
But now I’m back, following the contours of an approximated Veranda font. “Last of my tribe”, what does it mean? I light a cigarette, the semantics of the piece only further clouded by a carcinogenic haze.
Alone in my little apartment, I tackle the first lines:
Escape the fickle mistress of segregated moments.
Nothing is ugly unless you think so.
Hmmm. I think back to a column I’ve taken to reading in my Saturday paper on poem appreciation. I read the poem, I read the analysis and wonder if I haven’t skipped a page somewhere.
My mind begins to wander, thinking about the purgatory I’ve just returned from called work. Ugh, and to think I must return there forever more. Then I think of my surrounds: I haven’t left purgatory, I’m still in it! Deep down I think “Brampton” means “decaying solitude of working class hell” in some long forgotten language.
“It is still Eden.”
I return back to the poem. Who the hell is Orpheus? As I search the online encyclopedia, I turn up my radio up in order to drown out the sounds of that infernal jackhammer just outside my window. Representatives from the City of Brampton have been tearing up the street for the whole week. Well, one of them has, the rest just watch.
I scratch my head: Shake loose from the frame. Deny your death. How does one deny their death (or her death)? Frames are used to build around. Walls encompass them. What’s the relationship?
Harrumph. My mind keeps returning to Brampton. “A bleak Ontario suburb where even the grass has no roots,” a Globe and Mail editorial mused. Apparently someone wrote a book here. I cough out my last drag, I laugh like I was high for the first time.
“There is spirit, even here.”
I wander over to the fridge, check my Coke bottle. Almost out. I slide into my sandals and wander to the convenience store, through the park. They just renovated the ball diamonds here. That’s all I think anyone cares about in Brampton, softball. Shiny new diamonds gap the cityscape.
I return to my decrepit abode, fizzy drink now in hand. Oh, yeah, the poem. Hmmm: “Do not think you are the last of your tribe.”
I surrender. I am defeated. I can’t understand. Poetry sucks.

---
I think I skewed my original thinking of the poem (and I think the end could be more polished), but

quote:
As for asking people to interpret your poem, don't. A poem carries more meaning when it is interpreted individually by the reader.

But the real meaning still burns me up inside. I wonder if I even got part of the gist.
I’d hate to think what I wrote is true.

[ September 05, 2001: Message edited by: clockwork ]


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 05 September 2001 12:42 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
You think it is ugly - and so it is.
Is there anything beautiful outside your window, clockwork? The poem is about how industry is seen as separate from humanity - when in fact it is by far it's most accomplished child. Your critique is either a very clever illustration of this schism, or you are genuinely effected by the hope contained in the words and it's schism from your own mindset. Which is it? A bit of both perhaps?

From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
judym
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 29

posted 05 September 2001 01:10 PM      Profile for judym   Author's Homepage     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
I have a story in the infernal collection I've been working on that is about Brampton (sort of). I'll post a chunk of it in the essays thread later today.

I've got a cold-water shack just outside of Brampton (yes, clockwork, it's true!), and take the GO bus through the city pretty regularly. I've also ridden my bike from downtown Toronto, through some parks, across Weston and along Steeles (yes clockwork, it's true!).

Brampton is a really interesting place. But that's really despite city hall and the obsession with growth and development. Near my cold-water, tar-paper shack, there is this shiny new subdivision crowded with houses on steroids. Huge and flimsy, like something you'd find on the set for Dynasty: not built to last.

Kaneff, anyone?


From: earth | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
clockwork
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 690

posted 06 September 2001 11:05 AM      Profile for clockwork     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
quote:
Is there anything beautiful outside your window?

Oh yes! About three feet away, there is this wonderful sturdy wall. The symmetry of the brickwork is to die for.
While I don’t know whether industry is humanity’s most accomplished child, I do think there is an appreciation to be had. It’s a bit like advertising: you got put up with it, it’s all around you, it’s annoying but it’s still fascinating from the right perspective. It’s just different, you know, when your on the inside looking around as oppose to being on the outside looking in.
So yeah, it’s a bit of both.

Judym, I agree. I occasionally take my bike up around Springdale/Heartlake/Snelgrove. I’ve watched the hideous growth for the last ten years. Mayfield road is like a highway now, I don’t like traveling it anymore. But they have to plot for a doubling of the city size in the next decade. I don’t think they’re really “planning” anything.
And Brampton is more interesting then I let on. During Christmas, I found this picture book of Brampton. What a piece of sanitized trash. It had one little section devoted to “multiculturalism.” One! They portray it as some sort of sideshow. This wasn’t the Brampton I live in: the Portuguese grocer down the road, the African American bookstore, the Italian guy down the road who makes his own wine, the Indian restaurant whose name, well, I think it has a name. The cabbies hang their Sikh banners from the rearview mirror. And I never even saw a picture of the Rosetown Inn or the S&S. The S&S is one of our most famous landmarks. (It’s the “entertainment” centre just before Kennedy and Queen, visible from the GO bus).


From: Pokaroo! | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged
Dawna Matrix
rabble-rouser
Babbler # 156

posted 06 September 2001 12:48 PM      Profile for Dawna Matrix     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
Clockwork - here's a hug - 0 - I'm sorry you are not fascinated by mortar.
From: the stage on cloud 9 | Registered: Apr 2001  |  IP: Logged
ikosmos
recent-rabble-rouser
Babbler # 531

posted 27 September 2001 04:22 PM      Profile for ikosmos     Send New Private Message      Edit/Delete Post  Reply With Quote 
a poet's response to the prospect of war.

Osama bin Laden. (with a nod to Dr. Seuss)

Osama bin Laden.
(whispering) Osama bin Laden.

bin Laden am i.

That Osama bin Laden!
That Osama bin Laden!
I do not like that Osama bin Laden!

Do you like the Taliban?

I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.
I do not like the Taliban.

Would you like them here or there?

I would not like them here or there.
I would not like them anywhere.
I do not like the Taliban.
I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.

Would you bomb Jalalabad?
Would you bomb Islamabad?

I will bomb Jalalabad.
And I will bomb Islamabad.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.
I will eliminate the Taliban.
I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.

Have you bombed Baghdad?
Have you bombed Belgrade?

I have bombed Baghdad.
And I have bombed Belgrade.
And I will bomb Jalalabad.
And I will bomb Islamabad.
And I will bomb Kabul.
And I will bomb Kandahar.
I will bomb the Taliban here or there.
I will bomb them anywhere.
I do not like the Taliban.
I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.

Would you bomb Hiroshima?
Could you bomb Hirioshima?
Blast them! Blast them! Here they are!!

I have bombed Hiroshima.

You will like it, you will see.
You would bomb Nagasaki!!

I have bombed Nagasaki.
And I have bombed Hiroshima.
I will not let them be!
I have bombed Baghdad.
And I have bomed Belgrade.
And I will bomb Jalalabad.
And I will bomb Islamabad.
I will bomb them here or there.
I will bomb them anywhere.
I do not like the Taliban.
I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.

Hanoi! Hanoi! Hanoi! Hanoi!
Could you, would you, bomb Hanoi?!

I have bombed Hanoi!
And I have bombed Nagasaki!
And I have bombed Hiroshima!
Osama bin - no one gets away from me!

I could bomb, did bomb, old Baghdad.
I did bomb, could bomb, old Belgrade.
I will bomb, shall bomb, Islamabad.
I shall bomb, will bomb, Jalalabad.
I will bomb them here and there.
I will bomb them everywhere!
I do not like the Taliban.
I'll kill them all, Osama bin!

eh? On the Moon? There on the Moon!
Would you, could you, bomb the Moon?

I would bomb, could bomb, on the Moon.

Would you, could you, bomb Kabul?

I would bomb, could bomb, old Kabul.
Bomb the Moon. Bomb Hanoi.
Bomb Hiroshima. Bomb Nagasaki.
I will bomb them to a flea!
I will bomb Jalalabad.
For I have bombed Belgrade.
I will bomb Islamabad.
For I have bombed old Baghdad.
I will bomb them here or there.
I will bomb and bomb and bomb everywhere!

You do not like the Taliban?

I do not like them, Osama bin Laden.

Could you bomb on Yom Kippur?
Would you bomb on Christmas Day?
Would you bomb Guatama Buddha?
Could you bomb on Ramadan?

I could bomb on Yom Kippur.
And I would bomb on Christmas Day.
And I could bomb on Ramadan.

But it was the Taliban who bombed
Guatama Buddha, Osama bin Laden.

I will bomb Kabul. And I have bombed Hanoi.
I can bomb the Moon.
And I have bombed Nagasaki.
Hiroshima! My list goes on and on.
For I have bombed Baghdad.
And I have bombed Belgrade.
Yes I will bomb Jalalabad.
And I will bomb Islamabad.
You know the rest, Osama bin...
I will bomb here and there.
I will bomb EVERYWHERE!!
I do not like the Taliban!
And I don't like you either,
Osama bin!

You don't like the Taliban.
And you don't like Osama bin.
You have bombed Baghdad.
And you have bombed Belgrade.
One day you will bomb yourself
And nothing left, our earth will die.

Osama bin Laden. Perhaps you're right.
I will not bomb. I will not kill.
I'll wait and see. I will not fight.
I'm not as mad as you.

No, I won't bomb the Taliban.
One day you'll pay, Osama bin.
And I won't bomb Guatama Buddha.
And I won't bomb on Ramadan.
And I won't bomb on Yom Kippur.
And I won't bomb on Christmas Day.

No, I won't bomb Kabul.
Not the Moon. Not Hanoi.
Never again Hiroshima.
No never no more Nagasaki.
All life is precious and good, you see!

I will not bomb Baghdad.
I will not bomb Belgrade.
I will not bomb Jalalabad.
I will not bomb Islamabad.
I will not bomb here or there.
I will not bomb ANYWHERE!

I will not bomb the Taliban
all life is precious
Osama bin Laden...
even yours.

by ikosmos, a kosmos, of Toronto the son.


From: Winnipeg | Registered: May 2001  |  IP: Logged

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