bob,
thanks for getting back to me ... and for your delightful moon metaphors. i
must admit that i often use the moon ... i am a moon-child though, always
been attracted to the moon; my internet nickname is (miss) moonie, and it is
that for a reason. :)
MY stars look tired, and they ARE yawning. *G*
where do you live, i might come by and check out what yours are doing! *G*
thanks,
michi
Hi Michi,
Yeh... murdering one's darlings is often the cruelest part of poetry. It
might be - because the moon is having to carry so much - you may only have
to amputate some of the words (what a horrid metaphor to use!) and it can
carry one phrase (even a new phrase) alongside it's presence.
I once found I became obsessed with moons (usually full ones) and owls in
poems and that obsession lasted for more than a year! I kept writing moons
into my poems - but I accepted the challenge that I could only write about
them if I didn't echo any metaphoric use I'd come across before! In one poem
I, therefore, compared it to an oil rig (!) and in another I substituted a
passenger aircraft (with it's lights on!). I kept remembering lil ol Ezra
Pound's comment "make it new!" Your trees, grass, acorns (and saxaphone!)
are, I feel, new.
I still can't accept a (small) star - or lots of small stars - yawning,
though!
Bob
>From: "michaela a. gabriel" <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: new sub: Autumn Blues // BOB
>Date: Mon, 28 Oct 2002 22:45:39 +0100
>
>hi bob,
>
>thanks for the thorough read and your observations.
>
>re: the moon - it used to be "a lump of amber / clouded with fossilised
>heartaches, splintered / bones of grief" which i then contracted, although
>i
>am still not entirely happy with these couple of lines; i am quite fond of
>the idea of "fossilised heartaches" though, but i know that sometimes one
>has to kill one's darlings. :)
>
>i know that many think of the moon as yawning, so that is too cliché. i
>obviously thought of yawning stars, their flickering being their yawning in
>the face of the chimneys' tales; it might not work for everybody though.
>
>and the title ... you are right, it is almost too ordinary for the poem.
>maybe something more suitable will still come up.
>
>thanks again,
>
>michi
>
>
>
>
>Hi Michi,
>This is a powerful poem, it's measured and controlled. It sort of
>progresses
>with a gradual revealing of loss expressed in ways I don't expect (until I
>get to the moon-rise in stanza 4, and I sort of sense "amber" "fossilised
>heartaches" and "splintered bones of grief" are too much for the moon to
>moon over. It's as if you're no longer trusting description and you're now
>telling things that can be shown (are being shown?) in the rest of the
>poem.
>I want the moon to do what everything else does in the poem - no more! I
>think it can do that!
>I think the rest of the poem is more subtle.
>I also wonder (myself) about stars yawning... I've never thought of a star
>yawning (the full moon always looks as if it's yawning and dead tired when
>it rises near here... but not the stars).
>I think I'd also be searching for a title that is less "ordinary" - a title
>that feels as powerful as the poem.
>But it's a classy powerful poem! I'm just thinking how it can get more
>distinct,even classier.
>Bob
>
>
>
> >From: "michaela a. gabriel" <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: new sub: Autumn Blues
> >Date: Sun, 27 Oct 2002 09:52:45 +0100
> >
> >i have been wrestling with my disobedient muse (or am i the disobedient
> >one? *G*) ... maybe you and your muse have any suggestions? cheers, michi
> >
> >
> >Autumn Blues
> >
> >Midnight, and the hands of my clock
> >edge deeper into the shadows.
> >Sometimes rain breaks their soliloquy,
> >but not tonight. Branches stiffen
> >in dry cold, grass blades shiver.
> >If only they knew your hands.
> >
> >They would no longer hope for
> >resurrection, content to dream
> >how your fingers squeeze
> >poetry from each yellow leaf -
> >crisp haiku, discarded syllables
> >littering hedges like acorn seed.
> >
> >I keep them for the walk-on days
> >of winter, nights between empty
> >sheets and the impossibility of music.
> >This is the dress rehearsal;
> >silence follows the slow death
> >of a livid next-door saxophone,
> >chimneys sweat, plaguing the sky
> >with insipid tales. Stars yawn
> >and flicker out, wind curls up
> >
> >in drained swimming pools
> >that pockmark suburbs like blind
> >eyes, the moon's summertime mirrors.
> >She rises regardless, a lump of amber -
> >fossilised heartaches, splintered
> >bones of grief; yet she resembles you.
> >
> >But I have learned to trace
> >your features in every chestnut's
> >clouded face, taught the wind chime
> >your voice. This book in my lap
> >can't be someone else's story,
> >when I find among its pages
> >a word I had not known before you.
> >
> >
> >mag2002
> >
> >
> >
> >------ ----- ----- -----
> >michi ~~~ http://www.geocities.com/lillith1971
> >
> >Good sex is like good bridge.
> >If you don't have a good partner,
> >you'd better have a good hand. - Mae West
>
>
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