since the "Poem Diary" idea did not produce any fellow exercisers.
The exercise = write a poem which has at least 30 lines.
I have not helped I'm sure....being somewhat minimalist in inclination...but the poems around here seem to be shorter and shorter. If it goes on like this we will end up like Samuel Beckett...writing "plays" with no words, only people moving in hoods across a chessboard.
Seth
Time for a new exercise
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bodkin
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Expatriate
In some other world I live
and living in that place give little thought
to distant space-time, place-hour delusions
most-commonly called real.
I live, I feel, through a glass unlooked-for
on dust-framed afternoons
within that simple plaster room
above a Martian restaurant
within that tangled nest of streets
behind the Practical Works
in the sometimes smell
of roasting sand-squid and I live
quite close to Literal Plaza. And I live
in clothes bought second hand
from the scarecrow woman in plain
brown shift, sight, speech and her cart
of dubious wonders who wanders-meanders
place to faded place at walking pace
throughout the rust-red city
and I relish the living,
hand-to-mouth as sometimes is,
and I reside, and sell my alien nature
to those who have the wit to ask:
when the rains failed,
when thieves waylaid your caravan
when everybody voted for the wrong man
and when the World was not
the way a world's supposed to be...
...why then, what did the Humans do?
In some other world I live
and living in that place give little thought
to distant space-time, place-hour delusions
most-commonly called real.
I live, I feel, through a glass unlooked-for
on dust-framed afternoons
within that simple plaster room
above a Martian restaurant
within that tangled nest of streets
behind the Practical Works
in the sometimes smell
of roasting sand-squid and I live
quite close to Literal Plaza. And I live
in clothes bought second hand
from the scarecrow woman in plain
brown shift, sight, speech and her cart
of dubious wonders who wanders-meanders
place to faded place at walking pace
throughout the rust-red city
and I relish the living,
hand-to-mouth as sometimes is,
and I reside, and sell my alien nature
to those who have the wit to ask:
when the rains failed,
when thieves waylaid your caravan
when everybody voted for the wrong man
and when the World was not
the way a world's supposed to be...
...why then, what did the Humans do?
http://www.ianbadcoe.uk/
Enjoyed that read, Caffoy. (Your name? Or pen-name?)
Interestingly, I couldn't place it geographically. That's not necessarily a criticism.
Perhaps "fragile as a faun" seems a little clichéd, especially when she's just been a caribou (to his wolf, an image I liked).
In fact - even if it only started as an exercise of over 30 lines - it's really nice. But the ending did sort of elude me.
Nice to read you.
Cheers
David
Interestingly, I couldn't place it geographically. That's not necessarily a criticism.
Perhaps "fragile as a faun" seems a little clichéd, especially when she's just been a caribou (to his wolf, an image I liked).
I like the way that sings.Caffoy wrote:She knew; we all knew. We all withdrew
In fact - even if it only started as an exercise of over 30 lines - it's really nice. But the ending did sort of elude me.
Nice to read you.
Cheers
David
I too like your poem caffoy. If I've understood the ending correctly, your poem is saying Einstein's wife came up with relativity? If this is what was meant or not, either way it was a really good read.
Thanks for posting.
Cheers,
Tristan
Thanks for posting.
Cheers,
Tristan