even in deepest sleep
my love
the dream revolves,
spawned monsters
left over from the remains of the day
easy thefts
diamonds of loneliness scattered
about your deserted bed
such hammers ring
in the old clock
on the shadowed mantlepiece
voices that are nearly my own
ask for the time
or inquire about distance
the demise of old chairs
angles in the tides.--water
rising at the windows
Blue jays are daring and squeal
in the workshop the shavings
are gathered for a new deal;
at dawn the monsters are gone
but they leave the pillow wet
and an ache in your arms.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This was worth reading for a few reasons - the first and obvious was it was good.
such hammers ring in the old clock on the shadowed mantlepiece
appealed to me greatly while lines like "remains of the day" skips around the borders of cliche. But the heart of the piece is excellent with a brilliant last stanza to tie it together with frayed ribbon and regret.
The other aspect of this piece is that it prompts a reply from Lisa that is worth reading as a lesson to any poet
I am a happy man, two diamonds for the price of one
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Imagery, imagery, imagery!
What did I read today about imagery ...
Vivid Images Are Keys to Freedom
I urge you to trust sensuous details to release you from the traps of easy clichés and vague and flabby writing. Defy the odds. Work hard, and believe in the powers of the imagination. Vivid specifics are keys to freedom. Muscle-up your poems with details that surprise you; they will surprise us, too. Trust good common-sense advice handed down by writers for generations. For example: Personal verse probably means a lot to two people. Share with us, through details, specific images. Don't merely tell us about something. Render us through an experience, with images, sounds, and rhythm, in tight, concise lines. Don't be vague or obscure; don't keep the experience hidden in your cupped hands.
Appeal to the senses; give specifics, details, for intensity. Open our eyes to the splendors of your imagination; delight us. A poem is not an ink blot. Therefore, go beyond first drafts; don't send off poems that read like general statements, whether rhymed or not. Try to spot in your own writing the clichés, the easy message. Learn well the difference in power between general statements and specific details, between weak abstractions that tell us and vivid images that shake up the senses. Accept the truism that it's harder — but more effective — to write lively images than to settle for general statements and abstractions.
Overcome the temptation to rationalize that readers should simply get out of poems whatever they want. That's too easy. Anyone can be vague; anyone can write ambiguous lines or stream-of-conscious catalogs. It's hard to be both interesting and clear. Writing is a hard craft to learn, but learn it you must, if you want to compete for good readers' time. If you grapple, and if you like this work, what you'll find will be exciting. The activity itself will reward you, the doing of it, the muscle tone you develop only by effort. "Ripeness is all," Shakespeare wrote. Work for the night is coming. Be active, ready for whatever you discover. I promise three words, if you work hard: "Delight in discovery."
That's what I read about images today.
"voices that are nearly my own" -- i like that.
I can't help but wish to see this with capital letters and such. It just reads like a poem that would benefit from that sort of polish. I know I know I know. Just telling ya.
Also, every time I read the word angles, I wish it was angels.
People prolly don't know you've been writing poems for like 1000 years or so. That's why it is difficult for me to find things to pick on -- you've had eons of practice.
ya ya ya Poet.
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Everyone should read this comment - too bad we cannot applaud other people's comments as this is just a great piece of advice
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Goya would have loved this one, maybe etched something for inclusion in Los Cappricchios(sp)
gentle poem, monsters not withstanding
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shavings can cover a multitude of sins you know and tears are cried to let go of the monsters that haunt you, love is due reward but I guess you have to be willing to be that piece of wood that bends a little to experience it. Sigh...this is music to sleep by C
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Ever the lonely ...
and now the places vacant may become sacred.
But love shall not want.
Myra
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