Poetry for nothing and the chicks are free (that ain't working)

[lydy]

Poetry From Nothing

Anything more than a brief list of circumstances
would become a multi-colored tactile tapestry,
showing things from foreshortened corners
and with the length lost in colors newly unveiled.

As the streaming crayon dies they will leave the ground
and every new day brings colors never seen:
the colors of morning and the colors of dying.

Look, here comes the storm, the call to ascend,
and the new lights show us
what our old days can no longer capture.

Descend, here, with yesterdays treasures,
and try to weave a new line of show
for the first morning's flight

---

It would appear that when I am very, very tired, I do automatic writing in email. The piece above is notable for being sent to my mother and being at the very beginning of the email. I remember writing the rest of it. I can even grasp what it was that I was trying to say, and I see no other way to have said it, but I would never try to explain such a thing to Mom. It's not a secret or anything, it's just that I don't think she'll get much more than the gist of it. It is, presumably, fairly opaque to almost everyone. I don't know if it is illuminating to know that I was trying to explain to my mother what it was like to be in the loony bin for 3 days.

---

For Anyone who's interested, the actual automatic writing looked like this:

Anything more than a brief list of circumstances would have to become multi-colored tactile tapestry showing things from foreshortened corners and with the length lost in colors newly unveiled and as the streaming crayon dies they will experience as they leave the ground and every new day brings colors never seen: the colors of morning and the colors of dying. Look, here comes the storm, the call to ascend, and the new lights show us what our old days can no longer capture. Descend, here, with yesterdays treasures, and try to weave a new line of show for the first morning's flight.

I do find it interesting, which is why I included it. I really didn't change much at all.

---

Any critical commentary would be extremely welcome. I'm not above liking a bit of praise, but I'd druther have useful commentary to help with next time. (Yes, it's one of my dirty secrets. I write poetry. Embarrassing, but true.)

Comments

[lydy.livejournal.com]

There is something totally wrong about the first line of the second verse. Among other things, I keep on trying to read crayon as canyon. Also, crayons don't stream. Grrr. Suggestion needed.

[marykaykare.livejournal.com]

Yeah they don't but I love having crayon in there -- I don't know why. So maybe something like "as the streaming crayon colors die..." or if you want to have few syllables something like "as the streaming colors die..." Because crayons are all about the colors and colors can stream.

You showed me yours. Can I show you mine?

MKK

[lydy.livejournal.com]

No, no, streaming crayon colors works, that's what I was looking for. Thanks.

Of course you can show me yours, silly MK.

[marykaykare.livejournal.com]

Glad to be able to help.

Because I am a lazy bitch I have posted it friends locked.

MKK

[lydy.livejournal.com]

How will you ever acquire a howling public if you hide away all your work. I mean, Emily Dickenson had to die to gain any noteriety. I read your LJ, so I'll come across it fairly soon, I expect.

[lydy.livejournal.com]

Rapture

Anything more than a brief list of circumstances
would become a multi-colored tactile tapestry,
showing things from foreshortened corners
and with the length lost in colors newly unveiled.

As the streaming crayon colors die they leave the ground
and every new day brings forth colors never seen:
the colors of morning and the colors of dying,
the colors of moving in between

Look, here comes the storm, the call to ascend,
and the new lights show us
what our old days can no longer capture.

Descend, here, with yesterdays treasures,
and try to weave a new line of show
for the first morning's flight

[lydy.livejournal.com]

Still, still the title is wrong. It's not the streaming crayon colors that leave the ground, and why the hell isn't the word sky in there, and I'm going to tinker with this sucker off line, but if I'm ever happy with it and it's different, I promise to post. In the mean time, anybody see any fixes for those problems -- or others?

[papersky.livejournal.com]

You don't need the word sky. The sky is there. What leaves the ground? You need it in that line, everything else looks solid enough. Also, I don't think you were right about "colors", "crayons" is a metonym. But the rest of your revision helps.

I like the balance of it. It's definitely poetry.

What I find is that there are anchor words, there are balance words, and there is shape. The anchor words have to be there, and they have to be where they are, they can't move much. The balance words can move, but they tilt the balance about. The other words can slide and change if necessary. Having a formal shape helps me. It doesn't matter what it is. If I'm writing nine line stanzas, OK, that helps make it sharp as much as writing a real formal form. Now there in this revision you have a sonnet, an eight and a six, and look how the shape of it and the meaning come together, that's beautiful. You rock. Thank you for posting this and wanting comments on it.

[lydy.livejournal.com]

People leave the ground. It's a form of rapture.

Anchor words and balance words. That is a very useful concept.

That's a sonnet? No shit? Can't be, doesn't rhyme. And don't sonnets have a set scansion? Nevertheless, the line breaks and getting them in the right place certainly did make it come together in my head.

Thank you.

[lydy.livejournal.com]

Anything more than a brief list of circumstance
would become a multi-colored tactile tapestry,
showing things from foreshortened corners
and with the length lost in colors newly unveiled.

As the streaming crayons die, we leave the ground
and every new day brings forth colors never seen:
the colors of morning and the colors of dying,
the colors of moving in between

Look, here comes the storm, the call to ascend,
and the new lights show us
what our old days can no longer capture.

With yesterday's treasures, here descend,
and try to weave a new line of show
for the first morning's flight

And now, all of a sudden, the first quatrain is unbalanced. Sigh. *grin* Nobody ever said it was easy.