SoaringIcarus

Ok so you're introducing a schism (I love that word) in the rhyme scheme from the beginning by leaving the last line of this stanza short a syllable or two, it's mildly jarring. Here it's more obvious. "I don't deserve __(enormous lack of a noun)__" Otherwise you would have said "It's not because I don't deserve it" or "It isn't because I'm not deserving", right? I'm not sure how much of a hair-cut this poem has gotten to fit the rhyme. I like this, it's honest, and makes me shrink, not being able to give you an answer. I almost want this line to have it's own stanza... Last two stanzi-- appologetic? MAN! Makes me angry for you. An appologist, just when you got the guts to say that you deserve more than you're getting. Interesting poem, it's like an itch I can't find. Nice to read you again. -Icarus

*looks around absent-mindedly, sniffs, and emits a quiet nasal noise that sounds like: Eurrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....* Why is "condemned because" blue? You know how many millions of things that could mean, but you don't toss your readers any bones. Why blue instead of bold? Bruise imagery? "condemned because" as a pivot point in the poem? Pointing it out to whomever you're talking, because they need it highlighted? I like the form of this poem, how it's very shopping-list. Like "Oh hey, when you go to the store, use my list", and it's read in the frozen dairy section or something. Really cool. Really like how "want to be wanted freely" breaks away from the last stanza. It looks, literally, like what it means. *dons Peredhil cheerleader outfit* Go Peredhil, Go, go, go peredhil! You are freely and lovingly wanted here. Remember that. -Icarus

*dons a pair of needlessly large nerd-glasses* your "so ____" are all one-syllable until the last line! *babies across the western hemisphere begin to cry* *flies to the eastern hemisphere on his PLASMA DRAGON* *Winks to Nyyark* -Icarus

Greetings. I think this poem has potential, but there's a few mixed messages (some good, some bad) that trip me up. With the "Gone to Lunch" image, I think I know what you're going for, but if you take it on a more literal level, it's tough to paint a clear idea of the narrator. Shop owner? "To see if he has gone away" is somewhat void of energy. I know it fits the rhyme, but it slows me, personally, down. Love the corn-feet! I like the "follow/swallow" of the second to last stanza. Last line: "In an In(stant)..." Try saying that ten times fast. No? It's a little garbled to read/think/say. Maybe something that flows a little smoother, like "Seconds later" something to that effect. -Icarus

Hi there, nice to meetcha. I like this poem, the title is dead on: First two lines-- my initial impression-- Homoerotic? Then I got to the bobby pins and "sweats" turned into pants and "hose" also became something women wear on their legs. "Closet" also became a literal closet. The rhyme scheme of this too is also enigmatic, but not in a frustrating way. Did you consciously map it out, or was it a result of the content? I really like this poem as a self-contained little riddle, like a gem, especially considering the last line. Nice work, I look forward to reading more of it. -Icarus

*Icarus over-looks the sexually sadistic part of this post and decides to rejoice in the encouragement of helping others improve their writing* Rejoice!

You guys are swell. Glad to see so many familiar faces around here, maybe it's time for me to put down the SNES controller and dust off my pen. I look forward to seeing what everyone's been up to! Lately I've been on a strict diet of Dostoevsky, Earthbound, and clarinet-ing. Plus trying to transfer. Future, what? Must have been my imagination. Go-go gadget MIGHTY PEN! :wizzie: *Icarus' pocket-protector explodes and ink consumes his shirt* :woot: It's been a while. *-Icarus and his faithful plasma dragon tip-toe out quietly*

Magnets Sometimes I worry that I miss you too much, and that is why you are not here. why not worry sometimes that is you are too you and I here, I miss that much. === Revolving Door I dont know when things end which is why I am usually the one who is left and not The person who leaves Am I the one person who is why things dont know when to end usually the person is left The why is the end === Know that there are some things that you just do not want to know even if you did know everything the chances that you could or would try to help are minimal the things you could do are not everything you would even try some want to help minimal or to know if there are chances that you did know Just that. -SoaringIcarus

Thank you.

Write in a public place where they are always looking over your shoulder and the people know all the words Sit in the place you're supposed to write people who are more than glad to watch you believe now this place has everything. You didn't come with the package, but you might as well have. Wright in a public place wants them to believe and not see. Approaching a crowd one at a time so they will never conspire or share It, exactly. By day behind new lenses but on their bedside tables lies the common ingredient Finding a way into the dreams of strangers. Fingers tracing lines across their brain A stroke, a pinpoint. Hats and wigs aside, our minds satellite the same solid burning nickel in your pocket. It's so easy to forget thoughts of the morning with the view of the sunset a craving for nostalgia. You can't reflect in the beginning. Down with dawn! We watch eclipses to see life in fast-forward: This is your whole month gone in a few hours. Spectacular. Down with dawn Up with the underdog and down with his gravity. Build a hero that's easy to conquer No one single spectator is guilty Convict popular opinion and make them sad during happy music, joyless excitement. It's because of the music that, they know how to feel. Life doesn't alway chime in with anything for you. No one behind the curtain. Radio silence, but the picture goes on. Count the cigarette burns that hold it all together Increase the speed which won't change anything a lunar eclipse that's just fast-forward Too fast and the film melts returned to a can and abandoned with the building-- maybe some other time. We'll play it some other time. Leaving the theater at midnight always feels like a welcome outstayed. Reflect silence on the walk home stage left, no lights poisonous cold gives a background of numb pushing your thoughts into a tighter corner trying to remain barefooted... Emotional gangrene Not yet, not yet-- Don't take human-weaknesses as failure. Defy your form and it will punish you. Your life span would be even shorter as a brain in a jar-- It's from the nerve endings that you cultivate existence Give and take; ultimately you only gave or took: Merchant of sensations. You can't sell what you yourself never possessed. A heart of fool's gold only a child would treasure. Bury it in the backyard for when you really need it next to the cats and the chess pieces and the letter explaining how to build incredible things. Unearthed by rain or dog paws got the cat in the end. Maybe not, maybe my eyes are fooling me Won't get glasses for another six years-- that's a long time to be seeing things: Smiles, mostly blurry trees and beards on the headlights of cars, their ends rooted in me ricocheted to my left Stare straight into me and move on. Leeches. I stared straight back, cat-like blind to the details def to the soundtrack The world was as I imagined it. A silent film that's not a comedy. I'm sorry, I can't tell you how to feel. I'm sorry this is not braille so your nerve endings have nothing to grab hold of. Just black against white The night v.s. a cat living in fast-forward enriches the soil for a tree leaves of paper falling upon the heads of children who build incredible things beyond me and my world in dreams, writing in fast-forward, perpetual twilight a cigarette burn sun. -Icarus

It’s time to write right In four corners until I fall into a manhole, emerge with two kids, and a fish, waiting until God decides to Beam me up! And I’m thinking “Now I’m finally getting somewhere!” On my way up I saw Satan in a helicopter who gave me the finger-wag And a smile, so I shrugged and the whole world fell with my shoulders. When the world went to hell with me, I thought I could do no harm by asking “Are there clouds in hell?” So Satan called the whole thing off. In thanks for the borrowed thought I renamed My fish, Rufus. When I got back in town the coffee shops had spilled, so the streets Were a slip-n-slide of beige Sugar water. Those who were wandering At the time, got lost trying to slide home, since for so long It had been gray. But see, I knew, because, as Brooke Sorber taught me In 9th grade, gray and brown Do not go together. Having dived off of that faux-pas It was just Rufus and I, swimming in the only clean puddle. Zero gravity was fun until we got bored and pulled the flusher. We thought we’d be sucked into Jupiter’s rings, but we didn’t have that kind of money, so what else could we do, but drink our feet back to the ground. Our runoff flows into others’ pools of thought. That is to say, thought poured in a container that’s empty. Not thought leaking out of a container that’s broken. “But some of our greatest Ideas come from broken people!” “Listen, sweethard, you can’t house a school of fish in a soup bowl. Let’s get you that pet snail you came in for.” You, on the other hand, parachuted into my back -yard where I go to run a way from myself; you told me you trusted me, just to see the look in my eyes as I hiccoughed dandelions. Your inner child shared secrets with my inner child, and as we wished away my disbelief, we also planted future weeds in our bed of roses. But maybe after a while it would be the roses that were out of place, so then we could take a Polaroid, mail it to Webster and change the meaning of life. -Icarus

My English professor is going to help me enter an undergrad writing contest in a few months, and told me about the Hopwood room. It's a place where the winners' writings are kept in books amid literary journals and current books of previous winners (i.e. Arthur Miller). I took an hour to read a few of the winners' poetry from last semester and noticed that between three or four authors, they used the word 'feral' maybe 9 times. The Poets convene [Arms folded; hygene: foreign.] "I like these words" A girl proffered her sheet And they thought, Sizing up her literary panties: Would this shape my figure? Will these words cover blemishes? Do they expire? Or only grow stale With grubby finger prints on the pens From which they manifest? In each consecutive poem These communal words Grow a little bit drier A new skin thicker To protect them from the Wear and tear of plucking so many heart-strings. Or so the poets believe. But honestly, Nobody here Consciously Picks up a chisel with the intent Of later painting their sculpture In shades Of hackneyed. That's just what happens when they try To calculate creativity. Poets-- Armored in undergarments With similar stains I decline your hand-me-downs; I'm just not suited to be an emperor. -Icarus

Would it be okay If I just stayed here for a while To clear my psyche Of all the misdeeds I carry, like two soggy suitcases Filled with obsolete documents In a jargon only my blind fingers and numb eyes Can taste. And it's like the spice in the spine of a novel Gone rotten; such bad taste and poor placement. My placement tests. The judges have long since died; Burried within my self-perception. I used to rhapsodize. I didn't used to be this way. Would it be okay If I just stayed here for a while I don't eat much, take up space or make much sound I'll sleep on these suitcases, beneath the guest bed And you won't even know I'm here. We won't even know I'm here.

Good ol' Western Re-capitulation always hits the spot. Well-written. -Icarus

Nice. :-)