Building A Nest Much More Complicated

[rowens]

You cannot remember this:
I don’t expect you to remember.
All the same…
Can you remember the time
We fell in love?—
That old song…
Does it bring anything back with it,
Out of the polyphonic rhizome,
Medium-haunted about you?

Disney Baby, it wasn’t me;
Because I wasn’t the Beast for long.
Only ugly,
Till there was you:
Marian at a breakfast club;
You, Marian of my thievery.

I grew too many brown
And tender shades of grey.
…Not as ferocious, maybe,
In my social world, but,
Truly, I have none…

So give up that stagnant Frog Prince pond;
And come back to the beast that needs you.
I can’t help I’m not as ugly as I used to be,
I can’t help that beauty sadness brings.
…But I can help you, Beauty.
—I can give you a name…

Not some general descriptive:
“Beauty is as beauty does…”
No, my cancelled lady,
What’s in a name,
But everything?

I can give you my own name, o.k.?
But if I have to bring the ribbons,
Or work out an elaborate shining
Rather than the shining of my eyes;
If I have to sing the same old songs
In a new style, in a newly invented tune,
It’s going to take a while.

There's going to have to be a new sense,
A more than casual presentation,
Than you’re used to,
To digest.
—You’re going to have
To meet me halfway,
At the new equator of your mind,
If this is going to work.

You can’t understand fairy tales.
What with the cyber unconscious
Collecting digital taxes,
And your scattered faith in tragedy:
Love is a confusion of cognate pain.

“My cycles! My cycles!
My cycles and contradictions, all the same!”
I hear you cry, like a nightingale of old;
But not like the nightingale, don’t you know?
—Don’t leave me at this cerebral impasse:
Christina! How’s that? I call you out!
What do you think of that tune?

You’re not Beatrice.
You’re not Maud Gonne; but you’re no Helen of Troy.
You leave me everywhere.
As I go through the streets of this town,
Hallucinating Christina.
Muttering to myself
With lips closed.

Remember how you always said, “we’re not a people”?
As far as I’m concerned, I’m still not a people.
I don’t know about you…

It’s been an uphill fight,
And I can see myself fighting all the way
Back down to where I started;
Where you can start again.
Your cycles.

[billy]

i have to do a few more reads before commenting rowen. i like it, but it needs more reading and thought from me to know more of it. it's a poem that calls a person back, (my 2nd today; i'm a fortunate reader )

[billy]

i like the vocals and it feels as though it flows well and i like the writing but, and i don't know if it's a big or small but;
i'm struggling to understand ( i think).

as an observer, i get a feeling that there was a split and this is almost a plea for a renewal of a broken relationship. i did like the read, and i get the feeling that any failings to understand are mine

[addy]

hi rowens . I enjoyed the read, but I think the piece could be tightened up. Cut out all the ellipses, for a start, and all the asides that add little. You have lots of strong, original lines; cutting the fat will emphasize your poems strengths and put the focus squarely where it should be, improving cohesiveness.

You cannot remember this:
I don’t expect you to remember. "I don't expect you to" is fine, imo
All the same…
Can you remember the time
We fell in love?— Maybe you could cut this part out? Leave it as "All the same, Does that old song.... (etc, etc)". That's one way to go about it. i'm sure there are others
That old song…
Does it bring anything back with it,
Out of the polyphonic rhizome,
Medium-haunted about you?

Disney Baby, it wasn’t me;
Because I wasn’t the Beast for long.
Only ugly,
Till there was you:
Marian at a breakfast club;
You, Marian of my thievery.

I grew too many brown
And tender shades of grey. I like these lines . i can't articulate why, but i do
…Not as ferocious, maybe,
In my social world, but,
Truly, I have none… 'I have none' of what? I might have missed something in the reading

So give up that stagnant Frog Prince pond;
And come back to the beast that needs you.
I can’t help I’m not as ugly as I used to be,
I can’t help that beauty sadness brings. The switched grammar muddles things a bit here
…But I can help you, Beauty.
—I can give you a name…

Not some general descriptive:
“Beauty is as beauty does…”
No, my cancelled lady,
What’s in a name,
But everything?

I can give you my own name, o.k.? Don't need "OK"
But if I have to bring the ribbons,
Or work out an elaborate shining
Rather than the shining of my eyes;
If I have to sing the same old songs
In a new style, in a newly invented tune,
It’s going to take a while.

There's going to have to be a new sense,
A more than casual presentation,
Than you’re used to, I don't really like these last three lines. It's telly, but I'm not actually sure what it's saying
To digest.
—You’re going to have
To meet me halfway,
At the new equator of your mind,
If this is going to work. Does this line add anything?

You can’t understand fairy tales.
What with the cyber unconscious
Collecting digital taxes,
And your scattered faith in tragedy:
Love is a confusion of cognate pain. The tone started to shift since the previous part, but here the tone shift became a lot more stark. Not sure how this part helps the rest of the piece, to be honest.

“My cycles! My cycles!
My cycles and contradictions, all the same!”
I hear you cry, like a nightingale of old;
But not like the nightingale, don’t you know?
—Don’t leave me at this cerebral impasse:
Christina! How’s that? I call you out!
What do you think of that tune?

You’re not Beatrice.
You’re not Maud Gonne; but you’re no Helen of Troy.
You leave me everywhere.
As I go through the streets of this town,
Hallucinating Christina.
Muttering to myself
With lips closed. I like this part

Remember how you always said, “we’re not a people”?
As far as I’m concerned, I’m still not a people.
I don’t know about you…

It’s been an uphill fight,
And I can see myself fighting all the way
Back down to where I started;
Where you can start again.
Your cycles. Don't think this line strictly adds anything, but that's imo

Thanks for the read

[rowens]

Those are kind criticisms. They allow me to read through others' eyes, in a way, which is important to many things I'm working on right now.

[rowens]

I knew the title could prepare you for something that might seem complicated and jumbled. What I was trying to do here is compete with all the high speed communication technology: computers, cellphones, tvs, ipods. These things that steal people's attention, and overload them with things that simplify and over-intellectualize at the same time. How do I compete with these addictive devices, like cellphones that people pull out and start texting everybody they know everytime they have a clever or witty idea, or computer games that never end where you can be a wizard or a princess all day and night, or all these History Channel programs that make people start talking like smug physicist professors or religious scholars after a three hour marathon? I simply want to spend time with the person I love, but they have machines they carry with them everywhere that includes so many other people and other distractions, to the point that everybody's so scatterbrained and hyped up on addictions that you can feel no intimate connection. So do I have to make allusions and connections to all mediums of pop culture, science, spirituality, philosophy, drugs, etc., just to get your attention long enough to feel loved by you? Not all these other people in your phone, not all these other characters online, on tv, in songs, in books, not all these money-lenders, drug-dealers, work associates, and gossiping jerks, not all these ideas and theories and past mistakes: but me and you, singing our simple songs of love to each other when we're alone.--So, it is going for that scatterbrain effect. To answer Addy, I was thinking "I have none" in relation to a social world in which to show how ferocious a beast I can be compared to her Frog Prince and his social world. This is all what I was attempting to accomplish in this poem. Thanks for being interested enough to consider it with me.



Another thing I want to say about what I'm trying to do. The poem is the competing, rather than a description of the competition. It's in the process of processing itself every time you read it. I don't have a problem discussing background information on a poem I make when necessary. The subject matter is that of an escalating condition that I only see as becoming more prominent, and able to be taken for granted as evident, as communication becomes more technology based. Besides being a very personal poem.

[billy]

i see the poem better in the above reply rowen i even think i feel it;

I knew the title could prepare you
for something that might seem complicated and jumbled.
What I was trying to do here is compete
with all the high speed communication technology:
computers, cellphones, tvs, ipods.
These things that steal people's attention,
and overload them with things that simplify and over-intellectualize
at the same time. How do I compete with these addictive devices,
like cellphones that people pull out and start texting everybody
they know everytime they have a clever or witty idea,
or computer games that never end where you can be
a wizard or a princess all day and night,
or all these History Channel programs that make people
start talking like smug physicist professors or religious scholars..........................

okay the enjambment maybe a little off and i only put a small part up but there's a poem in your reply thats strong and solid and gets the emotion across to me about what you think more poetically that the poem itself. of course it could just be me that sees the reply as the poem

[Philatone]

hey rowens

for me, this is a piece that starts and stalls at several points. Its wording also strikes me as direct; perhaps a bit too much at times. At times, I also feel like the piece could get into more depth, though I may be missing something entirely. Specifically...

You cannot remember this:
I don’t expect you to remember.
All the same…
Can you remember the time...these opening 4 lines drag out what could be a poignant, precise opening. though it does have the contradiction/ hope of someone remembering something, I think a single line or two could show the same effect
We fell in love?—
That old song… ...need the ellipsis? "old song" feels old; can you make it new?
Does it bring anything back with it,
Out of the polyphonic rhizome,
Medium-haunted about you?

Disney Baby, it wasn’t me;
Because I wasn’t the Beast for long.
Only ugly,
Till there was you:
Marian at a breakfast club;
You, Marian of my thievery....in some ways, felt this stanza and the next could be reworked and combined. the description of the Beast would fit well together as opposed to separated

I grew too many brown
And tender shades of grey.
…Not as ferocious, maybe,
In my social world, but,
Truly, I have none…

So give up that stagnant Frog Prince pond;
And come back to the beast that needs you.
I can’t help I’m not as ugly as I used to be,...the repetitions of "ugly" and "beauty" felt a bit much to me
I can’t help that beauty sadness brings.
…But I can help you, Beauty.
—I can give you a name…

Not some general descriptive:
“Beauty is as beauty does…”
No, my cancelled lady,
What’s in a name,
But everything?...could be brought to the line above

I can give you my own name, o.k.?
But if I have to bring the ribbons,
Or work out an elaborate shining
Rather than the shining of my eyes;
If I have to sing the same old songs
In a new style, in a newly invented tune,
It’s going to take a while.

There's going to have to be a new sense,
A more than casual presentation,
Than you’re used to,
To digest.
—You’re going to have
To meet me halfway,
At the new equator of your mind,
If this is going to work....the description feels missing in this stanza

You can’t understand fairy tales.
What with the cyber unconscious
Collecting digital taxes,
And your scattered faith in tragedy:
Love is a confusion of cognate pain.

“My cycles! My cycles!
My cycles and contradictions, all the same!”
I hear you cry, like a nightingale of old;
But not like the nightingale, don’t you know?
—Don’t leave me at this cerebral impasse:
Christina! How’s that? I call you out!
What do you think of that tune?

You’re not Beatrice.
You’re not Maud Gonne; but you’re no Helen of Troy.
You leave me everywhere.
As I go through the streets of this town,
Hallucinating Christina.
Muttering to myself
With lips closed....I like the allusions...and yet, they come and go so quickly

Remember how you always said, “we’re not a people”?
As far as I’m concerned, I’m still not a people.
I don’t know about you…...lines like this make me realize how personal the poem is for the speaker...but they also make me feel disconnected. I'm unaware of the history here.

It’s been an uphill fight,
And I can see myself fighting all the way
Back down to where I started;
Where you can start again.
Your cycles.

[rowens]

If the reply is the poem as Billy says then Addy is now a literary figure, open for allusions in the literary canon.

I think this one has the feel of being more solid than a couple other ones I put on here, called "evolving" and "beyond", where I want the reader to join the process. I'm trying to be direct to someone, but the subject keeps dissolving into another then another. So it's as if I'm trying to morph myself into each cycle of someone's attention span that's running away with them, and me, and the poem. The poetic qualities break down, into quantities. And it's a painful thing for me, I'd much rather write a solid Romantic poem like Byron. So there's those tensions between what I'm trying to say to someone and what I end up saying in life. As is compacted in the poems.

The only real solid Romantic point this poem tries to make is that this person I'm speaking to is unique, and all of these allusions and comparisons are weak and fleeting.---So the critics get the idea right, but they don't get the drift; which is understandable. It is a direct tone, as Philatone says. I feel I have no ground to stand on, and I'm constructing a reality out of a desperate situation, where the speaker is losing himself and his relationship in trying to repair it. The responses by others and by me are as much part of the poem, in that they help me with other writings. Realities and identities are changing rapidly in my experience, and all of you help by giving multiple perspectives to abstract intangibles. Which is the field I'm working on. Is it worth maintaining a persona in a reality where soul is only a poetic construction deconstructed by psychology? Sometimes a poem is only a man trying to write himself.

[billy]

Sometimes a poem is only a man trying to write himself.

that is persona enough in my book. while some poetry has no persona, often it's still implied. i like the idea that the replies are a part of the poem rowen. i suppose in a way they are. maybe in such cases the persona really is the poet.