Friday, September 01, 2006

Not to Brooklyn

Every so often, in this jaded life, somebody sends you a poem that sends you yourself halfway to the moon.

Yeah, yeah, you'd seen it all, read it all.

And then, out of the blue comes originality, truth, creativity of a high order.

Sample:

THE EXIT JUST INCHES FROM HER NOSE

She’s dancing now;
After been to hell and back.
Lashes singe from sweltering journey-
She’ve travelled . The darkest tunnels-
Embedded in forbidden furnace over treacherous hills.
Beyond purple dawns of-
multi doses of chemo tangle her eternity,
that same painful path her dad travelled to the promise land
when it was time to say, no more
no more poking, or burning my internal demons
let go, I am tired
that same tunnel her brother visualizes in his taste buds.
And so it looms:
The family fear.
many dried roses hangs bat like in the basement,
So the cards and gift baskets,
Un-open. Encouraging Words like stream;
Climbing a tower to be strong as a sea,
Wings lame yet she flies.
Higher than ever ;
What fridge winter lay hibernanat.
They all ask same question.
Who can fix all those ;

Broken doll facing upward.
on abandon fields every where.
Why cant scientist save the world-
From boiling rain, and radiated beams
With band aide power to halt .
When the exit is red and cannot hide
Just inches from your nose.

The poetess wants editing; there are things she can't see while nervously buttoning and unbuttoning her buttons of words. Ye gods, have pity on me! I am a simple blacksmith, not forging in the smithy of my sould the uncreated consciousness of my race, but, rather the fully created consciousness of the self, and, I fear a blackened and fell self.

And what good all this pounding on the anvil where someone else can just touch, here and there--and there you are, all of you. This is what you have been trying to unbutton; this is what you were trying to button. You are there, whole and clearly visible. I can see you.

Or that is the sense you get while reading Ms. X's poetry.

She came to me clear, as if in a field.
"Do you do one-on-one edits?"

I did not know what to expect. I have read some good poetry. I have read bad poetry. I have published some
mediocre poetry--does it count if it's in the yearbook of your own university?

And then in comes a brace of poems from Ms. X.

Oh my God. I have never read anything like this work.

So, out with the notepad, the candle, the yellow paper.

This is good work Ms. X has sent in.

I dare not be flip or glib.

This is stuff straight from the heart, but a heart not yet touched by me.

Hippocratic oath: Do no harm!


16 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hey Fellow, you have a top-notch blog here!-

ivan said...

Oh well.
Better a spammer than a jammer.

R.J. Baker said...

Poetry is such a personal creative art. It would seem difficult or impossible to edit.

Poetry like the famed US Supreme Court Justice once said of porn, "I can't define it but I know it when I see it."

ivan said...

Thanks R. J.

I like the look of your new, NEW blog. I know the readers are just dying to commnent, but they can't as yet. BLOG UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

Yeah, poetry is difficult to edit; not my strongest suit, but here is what I have done so far on what is currently up on my blog.

EXIT seems to hold a special place for me in my personal symbols.



She’s dancing now;

Having been to hell and back.

Lashes singed from sweltering journey.

She’s travelled the darkest tunnels-

Had been embedded in forbidden furnaces carted over treacherous hills,

Beyond purple dawns of overdose.

Megadoses of chemo- tangle that whole eternity,

that same painful path her father had travelled to the promise land

when it was time to say, no more;

no more poking, or burning my internal demons.

Let go, I am tired

of that same tunnel her brother visualized, could almost taste.

And so it looms:

The family fear.

So many dried roses hanging bat-like in the basement,



So the cards and gift baskets

seem to unfold.

Utterinng now the words

As if a stream



Climbing a tower, to be as strong as ocean

Wings lame yet she flies.

Higher than ever ;

What fridgid winter lay dormant

in the stream of words

They all ask same question.

Who can fix all those


broken dolls facing upward.

on abandoned fields everywhere.

Why can't scientist save the world-

From boiling rain, and poison beams

--Just band-aids to halt it .

When the exit light is red and cannot hide

It is just inches from your nose.


















She’s dancing now;

Having been to hell and back.

Lashes singed from sweltering journey.

She’s travelled the darkest tunnels-

Had been embedded in forbidden furnaces carted over treacherous hills,

Beyond purple dawns of overdose.

Megadoses of chemo- tangle that whole eternity,

that same painful path her father had travelled to the promise land

when it was time to say, no more;

no more poking, or burning my internal demons.

Let go, I am tired

of that same tunnel her brother visualized, could almost taste.

And so it looms:

The family fear.

So many dried roses hanging bat-like in the basement,



So the cards and gift baskets

seem to unfold.

Utterinng now the words

As if a stream



Climbing a tower, to be as strong as ocean

Wings lame yet she flies.

Higher than ever ;

What fridgid winter lay dormant

in the stream of words

They all ask same question.

Who can fix all those


broken dolls facing upward.

on abandoned fields everywhere.

Why can't scientist save the world-

From boiling rain, and poison beams

--Just band-aids to halt it .

When the exit light is red and cannot hide

It is just inches from your nose.

ivan said...

Whoops!

Printed the poem double.

Damn. Too hung -over to figure out how to delete the "extra" one...held the V button down too long.
Oh well.

doubtingthomas said...

Her lips were pink
Like a rooster's dink,
And her hair
Was a henshit brown.

ivan said...

Oh you bounder!
Good think I know you.

Erik Ivan James said...

Doubtingthomas,
That is funny...laugh out loud funny! Love it.

ivan said...

Doubting Thomas:

*&%*%#*

Aaron said...

Heheheh.

I like DT's version. That's good.

Ivan, you polished it up well.

ivan said...

Thanks Aaron,
I see a lot of deletes on the ladies' blogs...Heaven forbid it should be old Tom Cat's!

But then who is going to comment in a slack week?

Yeah, thanks for appreciating my cosmetic treatment, though I still somehow managed to throw a typo into "frigid."...Guess the old eyes are going.
But Ms. X's poems still send me.

ivan said...

p.s.:

Doubting Thomas:

All the ladies have short story and poetry competitions. They issue each other laurels. (Mine seems the only blog that doesn't have genre competitions).

I used to be a psychic researcher for the National Enquirer...Went to Barry's Bay,ON, looking for vampires. They told me the woods were polluted with them.
Said a resident, "You know what a vampire is?"
"No."
"A sawed -off little ....er just like you."

Almost ended my career as a paparazzo.
Anyway, Thomas, maybe you should enter your poem in with Miss Snark or somebody. With your luck, you'd probably win.

Josie said...

Boy, that's a big responsibility she has charged you with, isn't it? Pretty good job.

Josie

ivan said...

Hi Josie,
Batteries all charged after your mini-vacation? Feeling better?

Yeah, it is a big responsibility.
I am astounded at the quality.
The lady has sent me quite a few poems.
Gotta get that old high-intensity lamp on and my editing shade atop my forehead.

doubtingthomas said...

Ivan, and all...I have fun, I have fun. I like exploring ideas and concepts. Mostly in prose form, I must admit that when most verse is placed before me, my eyes start to glaze over. Much like when Aaron starts explaining some economic theory. Not that I didn't turn out my fair share of embarrassing verse many longs ago. During the 18 to 21 years of age, I thought that the pseudo intellectual Dylan and Cohen, et al songs were good poetry. Now, viewed through older eyes, they are merely interesting ideas, explored in a curious way.

Confession is good for the soul; earlier in the year, one Katie Couric, a reporter that makes the news more than she reports the news, was taping a story in a park or some such open area when a pigeon pooped on her head. All other commenters on this story ceased commenting when I let loose with my little ditty, either in awe, shock, or maybe because most threads are dead after a day or two.

Competitions on other blogs? Blogs where proper ladies submit their scratchings for approval? Me there? Who would loose the doggerels of war among those unsuspecting ladies? Tell me, what are the URL's? Maybe I am destined to win. After all, the fair Zerb liked my comments when she was ready to spit your eye, Ivan.

Ivan the Enquirer correspondent searching for vampires in oak stake through the heart country? Reminds me of that Darren McGavin TV show of long ago. What was the name of that?

I have fun...I have fun!

ivan said...

Hey Tom.
Call me a pischer, call me a fraud, but take it easy on Aaron and his economics. To me, he's the brightest young guy in the room.

I am Woodrow-Charles, that is to say, Wood-Chuck and not Kolchak of Darren McGavin fame.

Yes, Antonia Zerbisias did almost spit in my eye, but now she has almost given up, taken time out from her blog because she writes to me that it has been almost taken over by "assholes."

Yes, I think you should submit to some of the genre ladies' competitions. Have to google Miss Snark, the Literary Agent.
Bernita has won something somewhere...believe she is getting a short story e-published on some man's blog.

Anyway, your comment has somehow livened up this space, and if it brings in other people, that's good.
Do try Miss Snark. I have never submitted to her, but she's so sarcastic she's a hoot.
Maybe you guys should hang around together. LOL