Changing Guards

[Erthona]

Changing Guards
 
I remember the pure sensual pleasure
of resting my feet on the Ottoman.
Certainty is so assuring…but then nothing is assured.
I certainly wish playing guitar
did not make my hand ache.
I'd like to play piano in a Jazz band
like I used too; but now it always makes me cry.
Why?
 
It is not as though I am incomplete,
you transmit this to me with each hacking cough:
with each sterile stare.
I complete you,
you say
and you complete me like a PB&J.
No matter how much one may detest the sandwich
it is as complete as the eternal universe.
You tell me we are one and I know it to be truth.
You can no more lie to me  than I can disbelieve you.
If we were physically light years apart.
I would still feel your hand in mine.
It is Rumi quantum entanglement .
Still I must admit to some small hesitation,
—along with veritable mental gesticulation—
when I came upon you  and Simone de Beauvoir,
sitting on the beach, on the sand:
whispering – holding hands.
I'm surprised Jean Paul was not there for a philosophical three way.
What? No-I-Will-Not. I speak English and I will not use the French.
Too hell with your trendiness.
 
You explained—as though speaking to a child—that it was only politics
(since when did politics need holding and whispering) as you elucidated
how H.D told you when she came as a muse,
in a dream two years before
to bring down that Great Ironical Empire.
Chanting without a sound (H.D. was always that way, I thought it affectation, you worshipped her): Alexander–Catherine–Nickolas–George–Disraeli–Thornton–Jennifer–Pitt;
there have been so many across time I have forgotten them all,
but how can one know ashes?
Or one ash from another.
Is this ash greater than that ash?
("the road goes on forever and the party never ends"1).
An ever growing pile of soot.
Yet my hand still aches and "my guitar gently weeps"2
—who was that? Georgy Porgy, yet that empire also fell
to financiers and media shells, or visa verse—
All Apples rot in the end.
 
Never is Genius not always un-rehearsed,
although it is often edited just short of death.
Yet, who can argue with the conclusion:
clouds of cellaphnoid rust,
prop jobs from the sky,
magic fairy dust.
 
After all my love, sanctifying love
in non-sacrificial blood you should understand more
(that religion is merely theater)
than anyone else the black side of passion,
while pretending to live
in a white state of celebration
(staring with those does' caught in the headlight eyes, startled, surprised)
for good is assured in all of these things;
has it not been proclaimed by the Duke in the forest of Arden?
 
Of course all good things must  come to an end,
yet such a phrase is only another idiom—still,
I wish my hand didn't ache when I play my guitar—
I've never had a sadomasochistic bent,
although some can only find enjoyment in making others hurt,
and then hurt themselves to atone—
or my eyes cry when I play the piano
in a Billie Holiday haunted Bar,
but in the end of the cliché,
strange fruit ripens every day
and I will eat up every one
no matter how many tears must be shed,
no matter how saline my head.
 
1 Song by Robert Earl Keen
2 A song by George Harrison
 
erthona
 
 
©2016

[CRNDLSM]

Hi there!  Interesting read, stream of conscious?  I think I'd like it more if I knew more.

Changing Guards is this regarding pageantry in formality?
 
I remember the pure sensual pleasure
of resting my feet on the Ottoman. Nice setup
Certainty is so assuring…but then nothing is assured.a longer way to say nothing is certain, but I appreciate it because of the following line
I certainly wish playing guitar
did not make my hand ache.this is what you could be doing feet on the ottoman...
I'd like to play piano in a Jazz band
like I used too; but now it always makes me cry.this is lovely
Why? Someone once told me, the guitar is a woman, thats why she gets jealous, you're holding another woman. So I see someone who played piano but maybe arthritis kicks in and music is just too hard to play, so all those loves leave with it.  Joint pain not the only pain to prevent playing.
 
It is not as though I am incomplete,I counted a few 'it is not''s and am not sure it is helpful repetition 
you transmit this to me with each hacking cough:
with each sterile stare.
I complete you,
you say
and you complete me like a PB&J. Love and hate your analogy
No matter how much one may detest the sandwich
it is as complete as the eternal universe. It's cheesy and too true
You tell me we are one and I know it to be truth.
You can no more lie to me  than I can disbelieve you.
If we were physically light years apart.here I wonder if she's alive 
I would still feel your hand in mine.
It is Rumi quantum entanglement .I looked this up but it's too complicated and I'm glad you've defined it
Still I must admit to some small hesitation,
—along with veritable mental gesticulation—
when I came upon you  and Simone de Beauvoir,
sitting on the beach, on the sand:
whispering – holding hands.
I'm surprised Jean Paul was not there for a philosophical three way. This is all hilarious, it just brings to mind France and England warring for centuries. Just shows I don't know enough literary history to get the jealousies you're bringing up
What? No-I-Will-Not. I speak English and I will not use the French.
Too hell with your trendiness.I agree that knowing French should not have trended (that's the main thing I got from war and peace)
 
You explained—as though speaking to a child—that it was only politics
(since when did politics need holding and whispering)is this metaphor? as you elucidated
how H.D told you when she came as a muse, anonymity?
in a dream two years before
to bring down that Great Ironical Empire.
Chanting without a sound (H.D. was always that way, I thought it affectation, you worshipped her): Alexander–Catherine–Nickolas–George–Disraeli–Thornton–Jennifer–Pitt;I don't like not being able to figure out who you're referring to, or why you're clumping them together unless none of them matter. At the rate you're referencing places and people I want all these to matter, 
there have been so many across time I have forgotten them all,I guess that's that forgive me
but how can one know ashes?
Or one ash from another.
Is this ash greater than that ash?
("the road goes on forever and the party never ends"1).
An ever growing pile of soot.
Yet my hand still aches and "my guitar gently weeps"2 — here im associating changing guard with British invasion, but you bring up everything, trendiness  and change in general
was that? Georgy Porgy, yet that empire also fell
to financiers and media shells, or visa verse—
All Apples rot in the end.maybe too cynical clever though
 
Never is Genius not always un-rehearsed,
although it is often edited just short of death.
Yet, who can argue with the conclusion:
clouds of cellaphnoid rust,
prop jobs from the sky,
magic fairy dust.overall I think you could leave out this whole stanza.  The first line has too many negatives regardless.  And unless you're referring to yourself as genius, it's too vague a topic to take seriously, and I feel I could argue it's a conclusion whether I actually can or not.
 
After all my love, sanctifying love are you referring to the person 'my love'
in non-sacrificial blood you should understand more
(that religion is merely theater)pageantry
than anyone else the black side of passion,
while pretending to live
in a white state of celebration
(staring with those does' caught in the headlight eyes, hyphen? Caught-in-the-headlight startled, surprised)
for good is assured in all of these things;
has it not been proclaimed by the Duke in the forest of Arden?I want to okay this whole stanza relates to Shakespeare but I don't know
 
Of course all good things must  come to an end,
yet such a phrase is only another idiom—still,
I wish my hand didn't ache when I play my guitar—
I've never had a sadomasochistic bent,
although some can only find enjoyment in making others hurt,
and then hurt themselves to atone—long way to tell us why you play the guitar
or my eyes cry when I play the piano
in a Billie Holiday haunted Bar,
but in the end of the cliché,you don't need to recognize cliche it's too self depreciating  and I like this whole poem 
strange fruit ripens every day
and I will eat up every one
no matter how many tears must be shed,
no matter how saline my head.and I like this ending, if you don't wanna lug around a piano try a keyboard they can do amazing things thanks for the read!
 
1 Song by Robert Earl Keen
2 A song by George Harrison
 
erthona
 
 
©2016

[Erthona]

CRNDLSM,

Thanks for the critique, very helpful. I will get on removing some of the  'it is not''s, thanks for pointing that out, it is things like that that I am most often blind to.  

CRNDLSM, wrote "is this metaphor?" Actually the whole poem is a metaphor, but in terms of the phrase "since when did politics need holding and whispering" it is simply rhetoric, although I am not completely sure to what you are referring.

"anonymity?" Not sure what you are asking.  H.D. was "Hilda ... Doolittle (September 10, 1886 – September 27, 1961) ... an American poet, novelist, and memoirist known for her association with the early 20th century avant-garde Imagist group of poets such as Ezra Pound and Richard Aldington. She published under the pen name of H.D."
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.D.)

I consider her one of the major modernist poets, although I am not a fan, so the use of her here is used in a somewhat derisive way.

"I want to okay this whole stanza relates to Shakespeare but I don't know" You of course can read it "as you will" , but it was meant only as an analogy.  

"All Apples rot in the end.maybe too cynical clever though"

Even Shakespeare played to the penny gallery, how could I do less

Although your other comments were valid, some I choose not to respond to as it would reduce a slight necessary ambiguity that this needs to work at several levels and some of the others I am still considering, but I certainly do appreciate the time, thought and effort you put into this critique.

Thank you again,

Best,

dale

[zorcas]

Zorca; while all feedback is acceptable; in the workshopping forum we expect either in depth feedback or line by line feedback. /admin/billy

CRNDLSM,

Thanks for the critique, very helpful. I will get on removing some of the  'it is not''s, thanks for pointing that out, it is things like that that I am most often blind to.  

CRNDLSM, wrote "is this metaphor?" Actually the whole poem is a metaphor, but in terms of the phrase "since when did politics need holding and whispering" it is simply rhetoric, although I am not completely sure to what you are referring.

"anonymity?" Not sure what you are asking.  H.D. was "Hilda ... Doolittle (September 10, 1886 – September 27, 1961) ... an American poet, novelist, and memoirist known for her association with the early 20th century avant-garde Imagist group of poets such as Ezra Pound and Richard Aldington. She published under the pen name of H.D."
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.D.)

I consider her one of the major modernist poets, although I am not a fan, so the use of her here is used in a somewhat derisive way.

"I want to okay this whole stanza relates to Shakespeare but I don't know" You of course can read it "as you will" , but it was meant only as an analogy.  

"All Apples rot in the end.maybe too cynical clever though"

Even Shakespeare played to the penny gallery, how could I do less

Although your other comments were valid, some I choose not to respond to as it would reduce a slight necessary ambiguity that this needs to work at several levels and some of the others I am still considering, but I certainly do appreciate the time, thought and effort you put into this critique.

Thank you again,

Best,

dale

sitting on the beach, on the sand: doesn't beach usually mean sand, unless, of course, you refer, not to Canne but to the stony waterside  of, say, Beaulieu Sur Mer farther south?

[Erthona]

zorcas,

Thanks for giving the poem a read. To answer your question, at least at the first level, a beach is any place where land borders a body of water, the material does not necessarily have to be sand and of course sand here is also used metaphorically.

Thanks again,

dale

[tectak]

Hi Dale,
you make life difficult with veracity verse like this. I have a Ukelele hand which needs Ibuprofen every session...and sensual pleasures are becoming external medications...so, what's NOT to like. Well, let's see.
Changing Guards
 
I remember the pure sensual pleasure What's pure about it. Is this just a filler word? It jerks the rhythm in the first line but ONLY if carried through. I like rhythm so this one time.." I remember the sensual pleasure
of my feet on the Ottoman".  The carry through? ..certainty is assuring...but then nothing is assured"  
of resting my feet on the Ottoman.
Certainty is so assuring…but then nothing is assured.
I certainly wish playing guitar
did not make my hand ache. Sympathy is one thing I am no good at unless it has a dose of empathy...this may be my reason for liking the cameo but I do think you need to avoid getting maudlin'. That last "Why?" is so unnecessary it is as though you you really do not know, but you DO know, and so the question is only there to add bathos ( and that is the correct word). Omit methinks.
I'd like to play piano in a Jazz band
like I used too; but now it always makes me cry.
Why?
 
It is not as though I am incomplete, I am undone. There is a confusion here. Examine. What does he/she transmit to you? I cannot work it out. "you transmit THIS to me" you say?  What? Confirmation of completeness? Is that the same as transmitting "you are not incomplete"? Or worse, as THOUGH you are incomplete not? Help
you transmit this to me with each hacking cough:
with each sterile stare. Whose cough? Whose stare? Look,these are easy, in fact facile, points I am making here but rambling wrongs done unto one are dangerously self-satisfying in poetry. I just KNOW you are going to tighten up any minute now and go all Erthona. I cannot wait BUT if this is a workshop then I would tell you to fly right, from the start.
I complete you,
you say
and you complete me like a PB&J. I am mightily fond of PBand J and like this line as much. As a metaphor it would make a great simile but as it is you only ask that it is a comparator. Good. Now we are off.
No matter how much one may detest the sandwich
it is as complete as the eternal universe. Eternal is a filler unless Erthona is coming out to play earlier than expected...AHA, spotted the "entanglement" word further down. I knew it.
You tell me we are one and I know it to be truth. ...or true?
You can no more lie to me  than I can disbelieve you. Sorry about the above but you avoid rhyme as much as I embrace it. Still think "true" is the better word.
If we were physically light years apart.
I would still feel your hand in mine.
It is Rumi quantum entanglement. Hi erthona...see much of Dale these days? Glad to see you. Still on form...good stuff. Pop in again sometime. Let the Leptons spin....
Still I must admit to some small hesitation, Comma after Still. Lazy days makes us both...er...lazy
—along with veritable mental gesticulation— Gawd knows what this means but I can see existentialism getting in sideways
when I came upon you  and Simone de Beauvoir, Hmmm. S de B is a strange choice and I would like to know more. Feminism being what it wasn't, then was, and now probably ain't again, I am unsure how she fits in to this contemporaneous vision. I'd have gone for Germaine Greer and bugger the hand-holding. Seriousy, though, this is a confusing collation of inward peregrinations-without-cause. I like meaning and am prepared to blame myself when in an empty room...but here, I need help and blame you. Please DO NOT get the idea that I do not like the scenario; I just do not connect it with the pedestrian start. I thought it was going to be easy...harrrrumpph. Fat chance.
sitting on the beach, on the sand:
whispering – holding hands.
I'm surprised Jean Paul was not there for a philosophical three way.
What? No-I-Will-Not. I speak English and I will not use the French.
Too hell with your trendiness.To
 
You explained—as though speaking to a child—that it was only politics
(since when did politics need holding and whispering) as you elucidated You are losing grip...more Ibuprofen. Cheap elitism of language is not becoming in a gross insult. "explained" works for me. It is in context.
how H.D told you when she came as a muse,
in a dream two years before
to bring down that Great Ironical Empire.
Chanting without a sound (H.D. was always that way, I thought it affectation, you worshipped her): Alexander–Catherine–Nickolas–George–Disraeli–Thornton–Jennifer–Pitt;
there have been so many across time I have forgotten them all,
but how can one know ashes? Caution! Quiet man ranting. Have you got shares in Google? I will not look up HD, I will not look up HD, I will not look up HD.Doolittle? Again, on a workshopping note, this is a linking stanza between the physical failings of stiffening fingers and the onset of progressive memory loss. For me, it is an important way-point. It must make the direction to take next clear or I will get lost...and I have been lost here before.  
Or one ash from another.
Is this ash greater than that ash?
("the road goes on forever and the party never ends"1).
An ever growing pile of soot.
Yet my hand still aches and "my guitar gently weeps"2
—who was that? Georgy Porgy, yet that empire also fell
to financiers and media shells, or visa verse—
All Apples rot in the end. Well, I guess the signposts have been twisted on their poles. I cannot but feel that this is a misplaced stanza. It seems somehow germane but NOT here....maybe at the end?
 
Never is Genius not always un-rehearsed, (Q)I could not fail to disagree with you less(UQ)...oh, come on. This is NOT what entanglement means and well you know it. Never not no-how. I give up.
although it is often edited just short of death.
Yet, who can argue with the conclusion:
clouds of cellaphnoid rust, WTF is cellaphnoid. I want some.
prop jobs from the sky,
magic fairy dust. Stop. Stop now. Are you goading me? . Well, I am now firmy skewered on the horns of your dilemma. If I try to wriggle off, this damned piece just penetrates further. I have stopped liking it but you started it.
 
After all my love, sanctifying love
in non-sacrificial blood you should understand more
(that religion is merely theater)
than anyone else the black side of passion,
while pretending to live
in a white state of celebration
(staring with those does' caught in the headlight eyes, startled, surprised) I am surprised that I still consider the apostrophe on does to be worthy of comment
for good is assured in all of these things;
has it not been proclaimed by the Duke in the forest of Arden?Given over to golf, these days. I am, though, uncertain as to why the Duke got a mention unless it is Austin rhyming slang for "senior"
 
Of course all good things must  come to an end,
yet such a phrase is only another idiom—still,
I wish my hand didn't ache when I play my guitar—
I've never had a sadomasochistic bent,
although some can only find enjoyment in making others hurt,
and then hurt themselves to atone—
or my eyes cry when I play the piano
in a Billie Holiday haunted Bar,
but in the end of the cliché,
strange fruit ripens every day
and I will eat up every one
no matter how many tears must be shed,
no matter how saline my head. What the hell happened? Did you go away and have a dump...a large G and T....a box of chocolates...did you immerse yoursef in a bath of NSAID gel? This is a fine finale to what I can only describe as a wotsit wrapped up in a thingy...anyway, wot Churchill said.

After my preemptive comment on entanglement I read this through to the end...several times. Onion layers DO peel off and make me weep but how I wish I had someone to peel the whole thing in to a bowl that I could just plunge my head in to. It is just to gappy...I cannot get the sense of wholeness from it. It could be very a la mode (calm down)  if it was to be classified as "modern" verse (to state the bleedin' obvious) but that would be only partly true of the piece and only IN parts of the piece....so we are left with a Curate's egg. Some judicious cutting would help with the chronologics (and if that ain't a word it should be) but you would be on your own regarding where the knife should fall...I would not presume.
Very Best,
Tectak  
 
1 Song by Robert Earl Keen
2 A song by George Harrison
 
erthona
 
 
©2016

[/b]

[Erthona]

Thanks Tom,

Always enjoy your insightful critiques. I dislike giving the whole goat away, so I will only give half. The speaker and his lady love, as well as their relationship are symbolic observers over time of the fall of empires and trying to draw a conclusion as to why this happens. At times they are the observers and at times they are the players. It traverses history (these are the high spots) from Alexander through the Ottoman Empire, the Beatles, and the latest Brad and Angelina. Of course as you noted there are other types of empires, philosophical, musical and literary, et. al..
Thanks for the punctuation catches, will correct. Will consider one less aching guitar had Would comment more, but I have to go to work.

dale