10-02-2012, 10:22 AM
hi tracey. there must have been a lot of slogging to create the poem. the head rhymes and terminal rhymes work for most of the poem, to create a Conachlonnic type of poem (i think that's what it's called 
) though some them are half or slant but that's fine.
many of the images are excellent. the train of thought has adopted a life of its own that also works well.
A slothful glutton for resting,
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns, i have seen this image many many times and it's a perfection in description.
i do think it needs a small edit, but still thoroughly enjoyed the read. thanks.
) though some them are half or slant but that's fine. (10-02-2012, 09:07 AM)Tracey Wrote: Rousing Musethere's an odd cliche in there but it doesn't seem to matter as we're driven through the thing at such a fast pace. a pace that marries the title almost perfectly
Like me, she oversleeps,
keeps to herself too long
saronged in thread-worn sheets, good image
pleats deeply flesh-etched in pale skin. and another
Sins: A slothful glutton for resting,
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns, this is also a great image
matters of life’s deaths beyond
songs in dreams and the insistent bird cheeps
(“Pleap! Pleap!) outside the blinded window.
Widow of naiveté, too long dead
(Said, to the mustachioed man of one night’s
blight-collage, through lips glued
too long, “…you…are…the…rapist…”).
Safest to “Dear Diary” in rose-colored ink,
sink what’s unfathomable in food and drink, drown
sounds of the neglected infant,
skinflints of affection in succession,
recessions of trust and fairness.
Heiress, Exemplar, of Confidence Slain.
Cranes origamied, fingers crossed,
lost pennies to fountains,
mountains of journals,
kernels, all, that led not to luck nor opus, kernels and journals work on a few levels
focus shanked by the rank and file’s
bile. At times: I smiled, muse complied,
plied rogue ideas from time to time, this and the line above feel too forced
dime store productions, messes mostly,
ghostly, unschooled, immature pap,
sapped of promise. A shame, my inability,
immobility when it was time to drive dreams home,
Gloam-time detours from original intents,
bent to the next worse thing.
Zing-a-ding-ding. When will of me I sing? i fumble in the latter half of this line
Bring it, Muse. Get. UP. Your wounds are mine,
brine soaked, scab-laden.
Maidens no more are we. Time marches,
parches parts and parcels but not all.
Fall. In. Time to rumble, pique our psyche.
###
Writing again, motivated by my participation in OctPoWriMo and some new aches and pains that remind me I'm about half way through my game. Whatever it takes, eh?
Learned this form from Leanne years ago. Love it, though I know I do it no justice. Feels like rapping for nerds. It's one form where it's a joy to get lost in the process, even if the end result is not anywhere near as tight and powerful as I fantasize it could be.
Have at it, and many thanks.
many of the images are excellent. the train of thought has adopted a life of its own that also works well. A slothful glutton for resting,
nesting beneath crochet-waffled patterns, i have seen this image many many times and it's a perfection in description.
i do think it needs a small edit, but still thoroughly enjoyed the read. thanks.