Nickname

[Philatone]

perhaps best to rest, i've nevertheless gone on with another edit. thanks to tec for giving me more to work with

v.7
As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
Pennsylvania wades across its top;
a photograph straddles the left corner
as a scrawl limps in the center.

Before we pass the intersection,
the signature becomes clear:

it does not claim the six foot owner,
or capture a deer
in a maturing wood.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head
as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window,
leaving us to ride in silence -

the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.





v. 6 reworked a number of phrases, save for the first and last stanzas

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,
his license flashes into view.

Pennsylvania wades across its top,
a photograph straddles the left corner
as a scrawl limps in the center;

before we pass the intersection,
it hits me. The signature
does not match
the six foot owner,

hand on the stick shift,
name conjuring a deer
in a maturing wood.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head
as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window,

leaving us to ride in silence -
the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




v. 5 adjusted S. 2, which further adjusted the orderings of other stanzas, though much of the information is the same


nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
And there it is
framed in leather;

not the nickname
I have come to identify
with his six foot frame,

the way a flute flutters in his hand.
On that piece of Pennsylvania plastic
sits a first name below a photograph,

and we have never been introduced.
An arm length away,
the ink curves like a contract,

closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name, spoken,
addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




V. 4 attempting to address enjambment issues/ cohesion. new line breaks.




As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
The scrawl below the photograph
on that piece of Pennsylvania plastic

curves in ink like a contract
closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name

no longer captures his six foot frame,
the way a flute flutters in his hand.
Spoken, it addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.







V. 3 cut down on many of the images

nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.

On that piece of Pennsylvania
plastic, another identity curves
in ink like a contract

left in a closed and buried
wallet. The first name
no longer captures

his six foot frame, the way
a flute flutters in his hand.
Saying it aloud

addresses no one in the car;
it only escapes
in the silence shared by driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.


V. 2
removed S. 1
added "his first" to new S. 1
penultimate stanza: switched "unscathed" to "unchained"

nickname

Perhaps his first name
could not capture how his full,
six foot five physique

could navigate the channels
of a silver plated flute.
So when Buck drives me to his concert,

my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.
Another identity curves

in ink like a contract
left in a closed
and buried wallet, forgotten.

His wrists, unchained
to the likeness
stashed in his pocket,

draw me to my arms
where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.




V. 1

At some point,
"Frank" no longer fit
his six foot frame.

Perhaps the name
could not capture his size,
the glasses, circled

around his nose, or how his breath
navigates a silver plated flute.

So when Buck
drives me to a concert,
my thoughts turn to the signature

bound to his license,
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.

[Veronique]

[quote='Philatone' pid='93677' dateline='1333411228']
At some point,
"Frank" no longer fit
his six foot frame.

Perhaps the name
could not capture his size,
the glasses, circled

around his nose, or how his breath
navigates a silver plated flute.

So when Buck
drives me to a concert,
my thoughts turn to the signature

bound to his license,
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.

**
Again I risk backflow by saying this 'feels' like a
poem. I say this for the reason some poems don't feel
like poems.

I taught poetry at the university level and I often
told a student named Sally, "Sally, this feels like
a poem!" Sally was happy and those in the class
applauded.

So I applaud this poem because it feels like a poem.
Maybe I don't 'get' the content as I would like (I'm
staving off dementia with heavy doses of Irish and
Texas Hold'em-- and writing nonesense)

But it's ok, this poem and my incomprehension.
V

[Philatone]

v,

thanks for taking the time to read, and the little anecdote! if you could guide me as to where you began getting lost, I would find that immensely helpful (is it right from the onset?). I'm going to try some things right now to see if I can make it a little clearer

[Veronique]

[quote='Philatone' pid='93699' dateline='1333425917']
v,

thanks for taking the time to read, and the little anecdote! if you could guide me as to where you began getting lost, I would find that immensely helpful (is it right from the onset?). I'm going to try some things right now to see if I can make it a little clearer
**
So, Frank is tall and has a nice voice--
and he drives this Mafia boss around town.

-- The name of the man is called Justin Flatts.
-- Oh, that's the name of the man?
-- No, that's just what the name is called. The
name really is Danny Boy.
-- Then, I ought to have said, 'That's what the
man is called."
-- No, that's quite another thing. The man is
called Buck-- but that's only what he is called.
-- Well what is he then?
-- Frank.
(TLG, ch.8.)

A question of identity. Same as in my poem
"Praesopitus."

Even at this late date, I am taken by the
subjects of poems, and how they are objecti-
fied-- without the help of anything on earth.

Delighted,
V

[billy]

Got here too late so i'll just comment on this version.

V. 3 cut down on many of the images

nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license. bound feels 'mmmm' i'm not sure but i think a better word could used

On that piece of Pennsylvania
plastic, another identity curves the enjambment makes this line feel yoderish
in ink like a contract

left in a closed and buried this line makes me stop and i'm not sure why.
wallet. The first name
no longer captures

his six foot frame, the way and here
a flute flutters in his hand.
Saying it aloud

addresses no one in the car;
it only escapes
in the silence shared by driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.

it feels disjointed the lines feel as though they want to end some place other than they do.
i had to go back to the first 2 writes and for me, you took the edit too far and lost a lot of cohesion they had between them. it could be the fault of me the reader but i'm struggling to make this one flow,

[Philatone]

v- thanks for the return, appreciate your addition and time.


billy- notes taken. i think i'm working too hard on this. i have made another edit to address flow. I want to add another stanza after the first, but then I'm going to let it sit for a while. hopefully, this can get some of the first version back

[billy]

after all your hard work, i have to say, i think i see the poem in the 1st version.
this edit now feels too far away from what i see in the 1st v.
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.
i'm not sure how to take this part but the beginning ...i can't believe i didn't see big frank straight away,
is buck his assumed name on a bent license?

i do think some of the enjambment needed work but not as much.
i feel such an idiot.

---

i really am an idoit, it's all in the title isn't it, buck's the nic.
franks isn't as suitable as it was, because this kid is now huge, he has to be a buck?

---

i really am an idoit, it's all in the title isn't it, buck's the nic.
franks isn't as suitable as it was, because this kid is now huge, he has to be a buck?

[Philatone]

again, i may be suffering from too much subtlety. I may try incorporating more with another revision before abandoning and sticking with the first. my reservation with the first one is that people will get confused as to the meaning and lose track of who I'm trying to identify, with too many names appearing in too short a space

thanks for the patience and re-reads, billy

[heslopian]

In the third stanza I think there should be a comma after "contract," seperating the sentence's clauses, as I kept picturing a contract stuffed into a wallet sleeve. Also, I'm guessing the bonds in the last verse are metaphorical, but they come across literally to me, so I keep thinking that this is some dark twist in which we realse that Buck is kidnapping people.
Other than those quibbles this is an impressive poem. The image of the wallet poking from Buck's pocket as he searches for change at a red light tells us a lot about him, which is a subtle way to paint his character. He's revealed entirely through his actions, not physical descriptions. Thanks for the read, Philatone.

[Philatone]

hey jack

thanks for the time; just just just posted an edit, which actually does have a comma (lucky touch). i'm glad that the other character could come alive to a degree without being described too heavily!

again, appreciate the words

[tectak]

v. 5 adjusted S. 2, which further adjusted the orderings of other stanzas, though much of the information is the same


nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
And there it is
framed in leather;

not the nickname
I have come to identify
with his six foot frame,

the way a flute flutters in his hand.
On that piece of Pennsylvania plastic
sits a first name below a photograph,

and we have never been introduced.
An arm length away,
the ink curves like a contract,

closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name, spoken,
addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




V. 4 attempting to address enjambment issues/ cohesion. new line breaks.




As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
The scrawl below the photograph
on that piece of Pennsylvania plastic

curves in ink like a contract
closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name

no longer captures his six foot frame,
the way a flute flutters in his hand.
Spoken, it addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.







V. 3 cut down on many of the images

nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.

On that piece of Pennsylvania
plastic, another identity curves
in ink like a contract

left in a closed and buried
wallet. The first name
no longer captures

his six foot frame, the way
a flute flutters in his hand.
Saying it aloud

addresses no one in the car;
it only escapes
in the silence shared by driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.


V. 2
removed S. 1
added "his first" to new S. 1
penultimate stanza: switched "unscathed" to "unchained"

nickname

Perhaps his first name
could not capture how his full,
six foot five physique

could navigate the channels
of a silver plated flute.
So when Buck drives me to his concert,

my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.
Another identity curves

in ink like a contract
left in a closed
and buried wallet, forgotten.

His wrists, unchained
to the likeness
stashed in his pocket,

draw me to my arms
where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.




V. 1

At some point,
"Frank" no longer fit
his six foot frame.

Perhaps the name
could not capture his size,
the glasses, circled

around his nose, or how his breath
navigates a silver plated flute.

So when Buck
drives me to a concert,
my thoughts turn to the signature

bound to his license,
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.

Like billy, I come late to this piece. A synopsis seems moot. May I lapse into rhetorical reasoning?
A feature of all of your work is the incomprehensible love affair with flaky structure. It confuses your readers a little but confuses you a lot! Could you just try, as an exercise in self discipline, to decide on poetry verse-form or prose?
Concentrate on telling the reader what you want to be clearly understood and then re-read what you have written and ask yourself a question which you must answer honestly. The question is this. "If I rewrite this piece to make it unclear would it be improved?"
Answers in a featurless, russet-hued encapsulator fabricated from fibrous lignin-free poly-filamented pressed organic fibres please.
Best,
Tectak

[rayheinrich]

.
"Could you just try, as an exercise in self discipline, to decide on poetry verse-form or prose?"

or, as Tom Stoppard spake:
[/size][/font]
"Portraying poetry and prose as opposites is illogical (as well as trite).
They are not mutually exclusive, they are not entities; they are but two
of the many attributes of writing."

[Philatone]

tec-

hey, thanks for the time and read. could you point me more specifically to the flaky structure? is it the enjambment that is bothering you?
consider this piece the exercise, and it 'trying' to aim in a verse-form direction, albeit not held by meter or rhyme because I didn't feel it appropriate for the piece.
as of now, I'm biased as the writer; i see all of the information I want there (title included), but if something feels missing, or if perhaps the sequencing seems wack, or the transitions not up to par, telling me those things would be helpful--i can't see everything.
do any of those, or other, areas feel lacking? i never enter a piece with the intention of being unclear; i can only straighten out the parts that people say are crooked

[Veronique]

hey jack

thanks for the time; just just just posted an edit, which actually does have a comma (lucky touch). i'm glad that the other character could come alive to a degree without being described too heavily!

again, appreciate the words

"meaning' is a dangerous word.
Slippery as Veronique's throat.

Let me ask this-- at what point in the
development of a poem, does the writer
'mean?'

How will the writer mean?

-- Say what you mean.
-- Ok, It's a nice cheek-piece.
-- That means you like it.
-- No, not exactly. I just said it's
a nice cheek-piece.
-- What do you mean by saying it's a
nice cheek-piece?
-- I mean, many horsemen would be proud
to have it on their horse.
-- The adjective 'nice' seems a little
weak for a cheek-piece.
-- It was made for Alexander's horse.
-- Well, if so, it was more than nice.
-- What do you mean?

Like Veronique's throat.
Maybe meaning is not so important.

So, I advise-- 'Look For The Silver Lining."

What does THAT mean, Hobbs?

Does the poet 'inject' meaning from the
outside? Infuses? Can the poet, after a month,
come back and 'shoot' meaning into his poem?

What kind of rewrite will it take to make more
mreaning, a better meaning, a more satisfactory
meaning?

meaning
meaning
meaning-meeny-minny-mo.

Is 'meaning' the final communication link?

I don't know.
V

[tectak]

.
"Could you just try, as an exercise in self discipline, to decide on poetry verse-form or prose?"

or, as Tom Stoppard spake:
[/size][/font]
"Portraying poetry and prose as opposites is illogical (as well as trite).
They are not mutually exclusive, they are not entities; they are but two
of the many attributes of writing."

.....or as Oscar Wilde might have said, shitting and shagging are not opposites, nor are they mutually exclusive....but illadvised at the same time.

---

v. 6 reworked a number of phrases, save for the first and last stanzas

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,
his license flashes into view.You deserve better from me. Here goes. This stanza SAYS that Buck was driving US (the observer is INCLUDED) to either a place called "practice" or to carry out the function of "practicing". The mid-stanza suggests, due to the comma after "practice", that "looking for money under the red light" is a side issue of no real expressed purpose. Omitting the comma tells us that you were being taken in a vehicle to someplace where you could practice looking for gas money (what is gas money. Petrol money to us brits, I suppose. That's OK) under a red light. Now, because of the lack of clarity created by the structural knot-hole caused by that comma the stanza crumbles into uncertainty. Some may say...good....it leads us on in the quest for more information. Whatever. What is the red-light? outside a whore-house looking for spilt change? Under a set of traffic lights? Why would there be money there? Help is necessary. Will I get it?

Pennsylvania wades across its top,Now I have just happily grasped the flashed view of his (Buck's) driving licence with the connection hanging loosely to the line concerning the enigmatic practice of looking for money under a red light when, holy shemolly, I am in a whole new stanza with a deliberately (by separating the stanzas) disconnected "it's". Why do this? Why split the stanzas? You do not want or need a caesura here. Flaky?
a photograph straddles the left corner
as a scrawl limps in the center; Like this very much. This is good observational writing. The "seeing eye" of the mind snapshot. Excellent.

before we pass the intersection, Though you could easily begin a new sentence here, if you had not broken up the stanza AGAIN, I believe it would stand a full stop after "center" if only to permit for the reader's thinking time (which is precisely what the writer is doing, thinking, that is) before the penny drops
it hits me. The signature
does not match
the six foot owner,

hand on the stick shift,
name conjuring a deer
in a maturing wood.Just forget about the pointless stanza chopping and read the last SENTENCE aloud. I will doit for you. The signature, and I stretch to oblige, does not match the "owner". OK. Not something I have thought of before so good for you. Tell me more. Why or how does it not match? Well, the owner is six feet tall and this is a three-feet six signature. No. That can't be it. It must be the hand on the gear shift. Yep. I guess that could be it . A really big hand, hairy, muscular, firm, solid....yep....OK I like it. The signature was weaker, foppish, flimsier than you would have thought. So we are there. Great. Now to the name itself. Buck. A male deer. Nothing tenuous about this link....at least nothing requiring a conjuring effort. Ah, I see. Not only does it hint at "deer" but it also indicates where the deer was and the condition of the environment. This is a whole new science. The reading of signatures. I know I am being facetious but the point is that the point is....well, overmade.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head
as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window,Lost on me. Got the smaller point. Say "Buck" loudly in a moving car with a partly open window and no one notices. I have been in towns where you could have shot the guy at the wheel and no one would notice.....but your point is? Well, whatever it is it stands alone as you gave it a whole stanza. Enough already on the stanza thing. I will try to extract myself from my own anal orifice and continue

leaving us to ride in silence -
the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink. The last two thingies....oh bollocks....stanzas, are less of a let down than they would have been if the stanza before had not been such a let down. Also, I do not understand them but that is a small issue which I must learn to address.




v. 5 adjusted S. 2, which further adjusted the orderings of other stanzas, though much of the information is the same


nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
And there it is
framed in leather;

not the nickname
I have come to identify
with his six foot frame,

the way a flute flutters in his hand.
On that piece of Pennsylvania plastic
sits a first name below a photograph,

and we have never been introduced.
An arm length away,
the ink curves like a contract,

closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name, spoken,
addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.




V. 4 attempting to address enjambment issues/ cohesion. new line breaks.




As Buck drives us to practice,
looking for gas money
under the red light,

his license flashes into view.
The scrawl below the photograph
on that piece of Pennsylvania plastic

curves in ink like a contract
closed and buried in a wallet.
The first name

no longer captures his six foot frame,
the way a flute flutters in his hand.
Spoken, it addresses no one in the car,

escaping the silence
we share at the crosswalk -
the driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and a passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.







V. 3 cut down on many of the images

nickname

As Buck drives us to practice,
my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.

On that piece of Pennsylvania
plastic, another identity curves
in ink like a contract

left in a closed and buried
wallet. The first name
no longer captures

his six foot frame, the way
a flute flutters in his hand.
Saying it aloud

addresses no one in the car;
it only escapes
in the silence shared by driver,

unchained to the likeness
crammed in his pocket,
and passenger,

rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.


V. 2
removed S. 1
added "his first" to new S. 1
penultimate stanza: switched "unscathed" to "unchained"

nickname

Perhaps his first name
could not capture how his full,
six foot five physique

could navigate the channels
of a silver plated flute.
So when Buck drives me to his concert,

my thoughts turn to the signature
bound to his license.
Another identity curves

in ink like a contract
left in a closed
and buried wallet, forgotten.

His wrists, unchained
to the likeness
stashed in his pocket,

draw me to my arms
where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.




V. 1

At some point,
"Frank" no longer fit
his six foot frame.

Perhaps the name
could not capture his size,
the glasses, circled

around his nose, or how his breath
navigates a silver plated flute.

So when Buck
drives me to a concert,
my thoughts turn to the signature

bound to his license,
where another identity
curves in ink like a contract

left on a table in a locked
and buried room, forgotten.

His wrists, unscathed
above a steering wheel,
draw me to my arms

where bonds rattle,
surface and sink.

Hi Phil. I only commented on the early version because this is what I would have said if I had not been pickled in malt whisky beside a steaming loch in the land of my Mothers , Scotland.

I thought I had mellowed but find I have not.
If anything, coarser through whiskies I've got.

[Bronte]

[hide]
v. 6 reworked a number of phrases, save for the first and last stanzas

As Buck drives us to practice
he looking for gas money
under the red light,
his license flashes into view.

The logic is off for me in this stanza -- he is driving looking for cash under a red light!


Pennsylvania wades across its top,
a photograph straddles the left corner
as of scrawl limps in the center;

at some stage you need to say DRIVE here
we pass the intersection,
before it hits me. The signature's
does not a match
to the six foot owner

hand on the stick shift,
name conjuring a deer
in a maturing wood.

Read aloud,
it does not even turn a head

a very straight line that needs oomph! How about No backward glance--- which leads to fearful or somesuch!!

as it escapes into the crosswalk
through a cracked window

leaving us to ride in silence -
the driver, unchained to the autograph
crammed in his pocket,

the passenger, rubbing his arms
where bonds rattle,
surface, and sink.

I take it this handcuffs? Mind you! we do have a brand of men’s underdaks called Bonds which puts an altogether new spin on the reading,

not much help at all am I ..