Loki Wyrd

My tongue trips over the second stanza. With that exception, it's a song to heard in taverns far and wide. =)

I think The Pen has reached a point at which it's ripe to evolve. Membership has changed; the structure of the realm would be well-suited to represent that.

Participation is to be strongly encouraged, as I know it is, through the acknowledgement of peers. Those who are more active play a larger role in shaping what The Pen is.

Elder members have a lore all of their own, as established through archives of past works; however, a hierarchy is alienating. More strongly recommended are forums which are open, allowing more freedom of participation. The empowered speak. To me, the Pen is a forum to be heard.

It's turtles all the way down--

To mind's end

or a place too small to exist.

Carrying the world upon its back.

And universes bubble forth

as from a cauldron:

Into Rapid expansion

at the release of energy;

(a sigh or a laugh)

escaping unexpected in all its form.

That's a tough pickle to sniff. I'll think on it, and let you know if I come up with anything.

*edit* I'm drawing a blank, sorry. I'm not terribly good with suggestions...

I like it, sounds prrrrty. =)

My only suggestion is to consider the first 2 lines of your last stanza. I think it might be stronger if you were to continue with the structure of your other stanzas (see first 2 lines of other stanzas). Oh, and 'whose'...not "who is." (see last line...sorry for nitpicking)

That's awesome news--I love The Dark Tower series. =)

Ozymandias: Brandon Sanderson has taken over the Wheel of Time series with Robert Jordan's death? I read up to the 7th book, and then figured I would wait until the whole series was out to read the others (I prefer not having to wait between books). Then I read that Robert Jordan had died and I figured that it would be pointless ever reading the rest of the books that have come out.

Thank you for your interest, Wyvern. The poems only real connection is that I wrote them both in the last 24 hours--and they were born from close to the same place within my head.

The preliminary examinations show severe blunt force

trauma to the head. The assailant

likely struck multiple times

before sitting down to have another drink.

Things had not gone as he planned.

Frustrated, he struggled for an

outlet. Something to be defeated.

A sense of control.

The texture of thought

gnawing inside of my cheek.

Burying a hole my tongue can look

through; or uncovering an entrance:

salamanders lurk in full disclosure,

wagging tails like tongues.

Song of the soft pulp

of long-fallen trees,

in my hands

crumble.

I think you might be able to tighten up a few lines here and there to help the flow. Example:

Today I'm a boat.

Tomorrow I'm a sailor <====Tomorrow, a sailor:

Fighting off squids, chasing a wave. <====Fighting squid, chasing a wave

Today I'm a book.

Tomorrow I'm a writer <====Tomorrow, a writer:

Cursing and spitting at the page. <====Cursing, spitting at the page.

Moonlight spilling on the snow

Where no forest creatures go: <=== Maybe "Where forest creatures will not go"

Is an acorn just a cap?

Or is it this: a Lesidhe's hat?

^I'm not sure what Lesidhe is (or how it is pronounced), but I would suggest altering the 2nd line to "Or perhaps, a Lesidhe's hat?"

Do they have stars on their heads <===Maybe "Have they stars upon their heads"

I love the line, "Where do lullabies shift the snow?"

And btw...your Neruda's signature rocks my socks off.

I dig it--very play & puddle-wonderful.

The uncaring glance of the world

passes over me in silence

through eyes translucent as creatures

rummaging the depths of the sea

Without objection, I look back upon it

Realizing

how Precious the struggle.

I enjoyed reading this. Thank you for sharing. =)

Thank you for the reply, Wyvern. They are, in fact, separate poems; however, until I finish a poem I can never be certain what might happen to it. The last stanza on the 1st poem is still a work in progress. I made the other changes & then I had the urge to continue writing...we'll see where it leads.

I like your writing, but I think you have the potential to improve by learning how to tighten up your lines. The general rule is don't use a word unless it adds to or strengthens the body of the work.

Example:

A page is just waiting

into...

A page waiting

We're all guilty of using fluff & redundancy in our writing; to recognize and revise is the important part.

I like it.

You mention a dirge, then say 'nor song to be sung.' Make up your mind. I would suggest keeping dirge, because it's a great word.

I didn't notice what level of feedback you wanted, so I hope you don't mind me tinkering. Some suggestions follow...

The Death of a Swan

 

 

Stolen waters frozen in time

 

winter's breath

chills the houses of the dead

beauty found among the graves

Rigid

 

hush

the feather's dance

speak of ghosts

elegance wrought

in immortality,

thread by romance

 

Gentle are the leaves

that scatter adrift upon the water

reflections gaze back

with the eyes of the moon

 

and death

 

But to embrace

this sweet darkness

feel the pulse it offers

here dwells the deep

true soul.

The first time I read this I didn't even notice the BLUE (I'm slow, in waves...) outline. I think there would be a greater emphasis on 'point of silence' if you ended with a single period. A more jarring finality.

I suggest imagery to make the poem more unique: stamp your footprint in the mud.

Tied into an impossible knot--

As if coincidence conquers all.

The last word converges, echo

algorithms searching through points

of a line. Where am I

on the grid? Part of the whole

folded over fold: memory, pattern

grown in the jostle & shifting

terrain of the senses. Significance

found in the interrelated coincidences.

Quiet, or you'll wake the horses.
Exposed to all that salty air and logic, the corners
of my eyes crawl with fingerprints folded
to muscae vitantes: flies caught in a window.

How do they get in to begin with?
Drawn by a sensation of the unexplored;
	  the heat set just right on their wings;
	  a desire to walk the contours
of the insides of eyelids?

Rigid stares bob in the wake of fishing boats
	off to their next spot, where the otter play without
naming their game.  A continuation of the waves.

------------------

2nd draft:

Quiet, or you'll wake the horses.
Exposed to salty air, logic crawls from corners
of the eye.  Fingerprints fold
to muscae vitantes: flies caught in a window.

How do they get in?
Drawn to the unexplored;
	  to revel in the rays of the sun;
	  to walk the contours of eyelids?

Open to look within.  without

Impending stares bob in the wake of fishing boats
	where otter play--a continuation of the waves.


And clouds lit up the sky.  Having waited
at the boat ramp since dusk, I hadn't anticipated
the sound of the rocket firing to take long to carry.
Action finally informed by a rumble on a cool night's 
breeze.

I haven't really been active here for a while, but some of you may remember me still. Hello to all that do.

I intend to vote for Dennis Kucinich in my state's democratic primaries, and I'm hoping others pennites will too.

Who are you pulling for, and why?

http://www.dennis4president.com/go/issues/

As I awaken, my eyes open to the truth.______________Awakened, my..

Just one more day, another lost memory,__________/me disapproves of the nature of this line

Confusing me, grinding my teeth till I chip a tooth.______Grinding my teeth, fugue in confusion

But still can't see through this haze of mediocrity._______Sight obscured through...

I ask myself questions, to discover the root.________"Throw us a metaphor; I'd stick with the smoke one and tie the paragraph around it "

Everything around me seems to go up in smoke,

and when I ask for help, no one could give a hoot,

so I guess I'll just sit back and have a toke.________...at this point, the apathetic stoner in me speaks that in order to find poetry in your life, you must distill the bounds that define you. Figurative language is at it's best when it's something alive something fresh.

Why do I keep getting stuck in this rut?

Where in this world is my way out?

How many more situps to get rid of this gut?

They blame my faith because it isn't devout.

No matter what I do, it always seems to backfire,

Like a misloaded gun blowing up in your face,

Or believing in a man who is known as a liar.

At times the questions they seem so vague,

a bit of this, a bit of that, and everything between.

They follow me and hound me just like a plague

but with that my vision has become so keen.

As I stare through this fog, it suddenly lifts.

In the distance the answer becomes clear.

Through all the temper tantrums and fits,

it became clear that my place is not here.

I enjoyed reading this. The sense of whimsy makes me smile, and it flows well between my lips. The ending is also well done, as the lines tighten up and things are reined in.