While real poets were pouring pale-skinned sonnets
over smooth paper, I was skinning my brown knees
on my mother’s prayers. While they wrote
long letters to wise professors, and waited for replies,
I was rolling in green grass, watching clouds
take flying lazy leaps off Old Chief Mountain.
When their fingers were stained with ink,
mine were busy molding clay in half-dry river banks.
I was transcribing songs of birds while they practiced
perfecting their calligraphy. I lay sweating in shadows
of leaves, trying to see if God was peering through
woven branches and they were whittling words
to thrum of church hymns. Diverted passions pulsed
like water surged from a fresh spring, on my father’s ranch,
and phrases muddied my body as if I had rolled in them.
They drank from fountains of bookish breasts
their mothers placed before them like a fine Sunday meal.
They weakened in glare of God’s staring face,
while I grew strong and tan and tendered
by running through sprinklers on Sunday’s lawn.
I may never be a real poet, but I know what poetry feels like
when it skates on a pond. I know how a fine poem,
about horse sweat and cow manure, can fling me
into orgasmic ecstasy in remembrance of a rancher I loved.
I can wake in dark night and pen a poem about how it sounds
when a house breathes about death lying next door.
I can tell you, I would rather die, myself, than trade
a beating for a violin bow when my song might just be lovelier
because I know how to print bruises on paper.
In a list
A contest entry
- You know who you are... by Nicole Hanna.
11000 points, ended June 8, 2007, 12 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 53 of 53
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And it is here
my breath is lost. as no eyes can fail to acknowledge a poet's song. The masters may have just been so of the day. And though we can only pay homage to them with thoughts of them then. I on the other hand, set my fingers to pen honor for those who pour beauty on a screens of today. Poet, Poet. We wait the tomorrows to see the new masters, of yesterday. Living today, where once again, you will take our breaths away.
Malabu
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Oh what a nice comment mal...I so appreciate you visiting my poems and giving me feedback
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Oh like I can really help
it is I who needs the help....now you know where my poem for you came from....i was feeling awed in a moment to your words....sigh
Mal
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I had to come back to read this today..
still love it.
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ty rowan.
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Are you sure you didn't write this before hand and than post it into the contest...
I swear I won't tell.
Anyways , I actually fell in love with this poem and I think that is a rare thing for me...Especially since at the start I was really horrified at the format. Glad to see the poem is beautifully motivated and the word use is not cliche at all. I have viewed this a few times since I joined on to help nicole judge this bad boy of a contest and I can tell you right now that this is some strong and powerful poetry. Which is half the reason why I am so amazed you wrote it off your head...A lot of entries I read need work in places and are only on their first edit. This feels well into its final stages. I am also being much more tough of a judge in this contest from some of my others as there's a lot of points at stake....
My one and only critique is on this part:
" I traced doilies with crayons and pasted them
on my mother’s furniture while they tatted words
into filigreed forms of literary decorum. "
- I found this part of the poem a little wordy...Something I always keep in mind when I'm reading poetry that is entered into a contest. I think it's the whole " literay decorum " ending which makes it sound off.
All in all this is some pretty well rounded poetry and I'm glad to have taken the chance to read it.
Good luck and take care ,
James
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ty James, for the great commentary....no, I write often and furiously... I have poems in my head I can not release fast enough some days.
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I am in love with this poem...
you have captured exactly what
I feel, and when I find a poet
who can do this...I treasure
them. Love, Lane
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ty dalaney...
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you just said beating huh huh
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lololol.....
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Simply phenomenal. Enough said.
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ty tenthousand...ten thousand thankyous.
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Speechless.
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ty ever rising...I appreciate you stopping by.
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You appreciate.
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You are a real poet
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aw, ty findingfate.
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excellent.
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ty wolfspirit...... you are such a great pen friend.
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Just a fabulous piece of poetry...such a soul is a real poet without a doubt...
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poet ...and I do mean poet... I want to be you when I grow up...
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OUTSTANDING!
WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Amazing to say the least, my friend!
This is the heart of a poet wrapped in a GOLD poem....
TY for sharing your wonderful heart!!!
Lynda
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ty, pen friend. I have missed you...
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awwwwwww, ty my sweet friend. I have been so busy and kind of down, but I am back now
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Excellent penning. I believe something shiney is coming your way! You are quite a talent Missy
A pleasure to read your work! What can I say that hasn't been said? Excellent ~Tia
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ty, tia.....I have missed you as well.
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If this is not poetry than, lord, somebody needs to show me a better example ... this sings the soul ... ain't that art?
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oh, ty you transcendental...I appeciate you stopping by.
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Uh...wow?
This is incredible. And the wallpaper is great too. Being a novice, I'm hesitant to comment on work that
almost permeates my chest plate. I knew it was good when I took a deep breath and seeped in up like bread in gravy. This part 3-D'd me: "...I was transcribing songs of birds while they practiced
perfecting their calligraphy. I lay sweating in shadows
of leaves, trying to see if God was peering through..." This is a wonderful piece; refreshing.
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I do like this poem...it came so swiftly and so soulfully to me.... it always blows me away when something like that happens. ty for your kind comments.
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Beautiful!!!
Your soulful singing is heard by all!
While real poets were pouring pale-skinned sonnets
over smooth paper, I was skinning my brown knees
on my mother’s prayers. While they wrote
long letters to wise professors, and watching for replies,
I was rolling in green grass, watching clouds
take flying lazy leaps off Old Chief Mountain.
When their fingers were stained with ink,
mine were busy molding clay in half-dry river banks.
You my dear friend are the essence of
A REAL POET!
Keep singing your soulful songs-
We'll continue to listen! ~ Nicholas ~
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I am so glad to have met you, pen friend,.....you always make my day!
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Simply wonderful...a poet cannot be fashioned by the halls of formatted learning, but a poet is a unique spirit...like a seed in the wind...tossed about by elemental forces...a poet becomes a blossom.
Bravo!
Marianne
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ty so much Providence. How kind you are.
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GOLD, GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,GOLD,
the poem
rocks man, wow!!!!!! -
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ty, pen friend..... I love that you stopped by.
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Outstanding
What an absolutely tremendous poem you've penned here. This is the first poem I have read of yours, and it surely won't be the last. This simple is the piece of pure and natural poetry that I've read in quite some time. Thank so much for sharing this treasure, and all the best of luck in the contest- you've got my vote already!
David Michaels
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aw, ty, my friend....pelase come and read some more....you will see my cretivity wanes and wanes but I print out the paper by the reams anyways.
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"I was transcribing songs of birds while they practiced
perfecting their calligraphy. I lay sweating in shadows
of leaves, trying to see if God was peering through
woven branches and they were whittling words
to thrum of church hymns"
Stunning work, my Friend. Brilliant, eloquent verses. Absolutely gorgeous, Sweetie. Good luck in Nicole's contest, Lady. Whoaaa. Wanda
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this is so very true of me, as you know... I seat poems and wishes to be a real poet like some of you, my favorites.
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Too late, Sweetie...You surpassed most of us a lonnnnnnnnng time ago.
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Standing Ovation!!!
Whoa! Oh my god! First words.
A beautiful pc. all the way through. But the last three lines Holy Moly Terrific!
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It's the Maine air.
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and phrases muddied my body as if I had rolled in them.
&&
I can tell you, I would rather die, myself, than trade
a beating for a violin bow when my song might just be lovelier
because I know how to print bruises on paper.
SHIT.
this contest is going to be hard
<3
This was amazing
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It was...this was a great contest..and challenge. There were some awesome poets in here.
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The reader enjoyed and understood the intensity within this very well writen poem,Bukowski said it himself,to be a writer does not mean one has been taught to write but it is a feeling from the heart that one ought to write,when the words are from the heart they are felt and not finished by an editor.Perhaps you wrote this in two stages?The presentation is perfect but wonder why the change in font?No matter,it does not detract from the finesse of the piece,was just curious.Well done indeed
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I never did see the font change again...hmmm....weird...No, when I wrote this poem, it comes out as it comes out...soemtimes fast and furiously. ty for keeping track of me though.
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The ending was perfect. Loved this. I hear you.
Beautiful.
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Yer beautiful too... We are heading that way aroudn the 20th and driving allt he way across on us side then heading up near Havre. I will wave at you from Medicine Hat. *smile*
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You wrote all this already? Lol Holy crap. I'm lucky to spit out a ten line snippet in that amount of time. I'm quite impressed. Beautiful imagery in this one that was a thrill to immerse myself in.
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ty Nicole. As I said, I am sometimes very spontaneous...it simply ours out of me...not that it is good, but I am prolific at times.
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