tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post8479387184694799637..comments2023-06-24T14:21:13.094+02:00Comments on AppleHouse Poetry Workshop: February RainLynne Reeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-61271407534278662482010-03-01T23:08:08.340+01:002010-03-01T23:08:08.340+01:00Thank you, Lynne. I posted your response under the...Thank you, Lynne. I posted your response under the poem on my site. You certainly approach poetry with both passion and expertise. as a teacher and a lover of poetics. Yes, I do see some inconsistency in the POV, as you have pointed it out. My title relates to Jehovah as a generic, and as an entity. Yes, the poem could be in another form, even a prose poem. This was the first time I tried this form, and I like the way it felt and flowed. Too long, somewhat disjointed, with a shifting POV? Perhaps, but thank you for you enthusiasm for the imagery and language, and thanks for your teacher's eye that unfortunately sees all, and marks all with her red pencil and her objectivity.Glenn Buttkushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10680725814199700692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-61695382776479557682010-03-01T18:08:02.374+01:002010-03-01T18:08:02.374+01:00yes, thank you, thank you for your suggestions! fu...yes, thank you, thank you for your suggestions! funny how hard it is to see what's "iffy" or "hmm" about your own poetry. so thank you for showing me :)Erin Lee Warehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05980401218792645462noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-58751033833532407002010-03-01T15:40:43.162+01:002010-03-01T15:40:43.162+01:00Thank you, Lynne, for your read and comment. It...Thank you, Lynne, for your read and comment. It's encouraging and enlightening.Lunoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-13908441161880107702010-03-01T08:26:18.529+01:002010-03-01T08:26:18.529+01:00Thanx Lynne. You encourage me, as you always have,...Thanx Lynne. You encourage me, as you always have, to fashion poetry out of personal pain. u rock.Stephennoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-37201984184952748752010-02-28T20:49:48.550+01:002010-02-28T20:49:48.550+01:00Final response to Cameron D Mathews, Mary, and Lu....Final response to Cameron D Mathews, Mary, and Lu.<br /><br />@ Cameron: I found this poem incredibly moving. The relationship between the father and son comes across as full of love and companionship. There are some beautiful moments here:<br /><br />'As the rain beat down,<br />my knees would cramp <br />between the worn summer dock.'<br /><br />While:<br />'I let the line run free'<br />and:<br />'spinning lines into the rain'<br />both work so well on the concrete and metaphorical level.<br /><br />I did feel that at times the shifts between past and present tenses were a little unclear, but I'm sure that could be easily sorted so the reader isn't held up in their reading.<br /><br />Thank you for posting this. I get such a strong sense of place and of a particular relationship. <br /><br />@ Mary Rose: I like your opening image. It suggests pain to me, the 'stitching', and then later the 'piercing' and the 'stabbing'. I think the poem might need a human presence to be really effective. Either the first person in this landscape, or memory, perhaps? But you definitely stay focused with a single emotional tone that gives power to the poem.<br /><br />@ Lu: After reading this I thought 'haiku' and 'William Carlos Williams' : ) I think the form suggested Williams: the development between stanzas, the way the question builds upon the imagery in each of the following stanzas. I like this. I like the movement from ache to weight/effort (at least that's what counting raindrops feels like to me) to the release in the final tercet. It's very satisfying.Lynne Reeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-11368620722297654192010-02-28T20:29:15.075+01:002010-02-28T20:29:15.075+01:003rd response for Martin:
Fishing in the Rain: lot...3rd response for Martin:<br /><br />Fishing in the Rain: lots of strong imagery but now and again I feel the poem could be more understated, less explained (e.g. 'Why stay?' 'It’s the silence; life’s too noisy!') and also that some of the imagery creates noise when it seems the poem is trying to create a sense of 'Sitting quietly in contemplation'. That could also be mirrored in the form too, perhaps? You might want to try cutting back to the images that reflect your intention and allowing more space, more 'air' to encourage the reader to feel the same emotion? <br /><br />The poems ends powerfully, and perhaps 'silence' leading up to this moment would be an effective dramatic choice?<br /><br />You took out five lines and posted them separately... but I'm not sure they work as a poem on their own. A striking image, but I want a poem to make me think and feel something too, not just see something in a fresh way.Lynne Reeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-87786876345054302512010-02-28T20:19:10.265+01:002010-02-28T20:19:10.265+01:002nd response to misterf and Erin:
@ misterf: ther...2nd response to misterf and Erin:<br /><br />@ misterf: there's such deceptive simplicity here. The understated, declarative sentences suggest so much. The 'he' and 'she' on the same line sets up a tension. The use of the 2nd person avoids siding with anyone in the poem. And I like the unstated parallel drawn between only getting so wet and only getting so angry. Lovely fresh images of the cat in the middle and the end ...and these, for me, relieve the tension of the human experience, help lighten the mood.<br /><br />Some people might think the poem isn't saying enough but, for me, that's it's strength. It leaves room for me to move around in it.<br /><br />@ Erin: I Like the movement between present and past and back to present, but perhaps the transitions could be lighter? Perhaps more economic? It's surprising how little we need to say to shift people between scenes. And I'd think about the penultimate verse and question if it's really needed? But I like the idea expressed in the final stanza, and the inch of glass that stands for the thin, transparent membrane between past and present, or at least that's how I read it.Lynne Reeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-18784373218711639012010-02-28T20:03:53.630+01:002010-02-28T20:03:53.630+01:00Rain was obviously inspiring : )
Okay, first resp...Rain was obviously inspiring : )<br /><br />Okay, first response to Glen and Keith.<br /><br />@ Glen: I love the energy in this, the way image builds upon image, and how the language feels very fresh. I feel as if I'm being asked to see rain for the first time. A few queries: Not sure about the title. It made me think it was going to be a persona poem,but it's not in the voice of Jehovah? Is it? I also wondered what function the 'I' plays in the poem as a whole? As, for me, the power of the poem is in the description and there's only one other return to the first person ('my constant companion') if I've read this carefully enough. I think I'd also like to see the poem in longer lines and with less 'air' (i.e. stanza breaks), just to see how it reads and feels. And finally, perhaps it could be a bit shorter? After the sexual imagery (when we reach 'compliant sky') perhaps the poem is stretching itself just a little too much? But I do still like this a lot. <br /><br />@ Keith: Rain and fairgrounds. Fabulous combination - I can almost smell it... diesel generators, hot dogs, cotton candy. Lovely. It perhaps ends a little too abruptly? Perhaps the last line closes the poem down too quickly? Maybe there's more intimacy that can be explored to hold the poem in the reader's imagination?Lynne Reeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-4833391983987092602010-02-27T03:41:36.060+01:002010-02-27T03:41:36.060+01:00Looking into the rain
This autumn,
why does my bo...Looking into the rain<br /><br />This autumn,<br />why does my body ache?<br /><br />I look out of the window<br />and count raindrops.<br /><br />Under the eaves<br />a bucket<br />overflows.Lunoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-83445274561385718532010-02-26T18:07:50.872+01:002010-02-26T18:07:50.872+01:00Fishing in the rain
drizzle
tippy-toes
across th...Fishing in the rain<br /><br />drizzle <br />tippy-toes<br />across the lake<br />like a host of Angels<br />at their first barn dance.martin cordreynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-51092281314996306702010-02-25T23:43:54.773+01:002010-02-25T23:43:54.773+01:00Rain
Long needles stitching the earth
to the sky,...Rain<br /><br />Long needles stitching the earth<br />to the sky,<br />turning the day too soon into dusk,<br />piercing the stillness with ceaseless<br />pounding.<br /><br />An eerie yellow light supplants the grey<br />loading the air with mystery.<br />The wind loosens the first Autumn leaves<br />till they drift, flutter and drown<br />the rain stabbing them mercilessly<br />into the sodden ground.Marynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-66163536264039116972010-02-24T15:28:48.469+01:002010-02-24T15:28:48.469+01:00Happy window washing, and am looking forward to yo...Happy window washing, and am looking forward to your comments on the poetics. Just adore your<br />concept for this blog, and feel<br />honored to now being a member<br />of the Applehouse Gang, or maybe<br />just a wannabe. You might pick a Movie theme for March too, what<br />with the Oscars so near. Something like John Yau's GENGHIS CHAN: PRIVATE EYE. I once wrote a long poem about McCABE & MRS. MILLER.Glenn Buttkushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10680725814199700692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-60176895652768319712010-02-23T20:16:14.060+01:002010-02-23T20:16:14.060+01:00Hello Erin - yes, working from a title is a good p...Hello Erin - yes, working from a title is a good prompt. I think I have already posted one or two like that but it's a good suggestion for the first prompt of March, next week. Thanks.<br /><br />I'll be back to comment on everyone's poems by the weekend. At the moment I have the momentous task of cleaning every window in this 4 storey house... not just your usual washing and wiping, but rubbing and scraping bits of paint off too. It's the last couple of weeks of a total renovation - am I looking forward to some DIY free time : ))Lynne Reeshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11852192697142140025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-27060272751023928202010-02-23T19:35:37.578+01:002010-02-23T19:35:37.578+01:00really quick, off the topic of rain, i thought of ...really quick, off the topic of rain, i thought of a possible writing prompt: coming up with a title FIRST, AND THEN writing the piece. what do you think?Erin Lee Warehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05980401218792645462noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-54643946060715190602010-02-23T04:38:12.524+01:002010-02-23T04:38:12.524+01:00Memorial Downpour
As the cold sweat beaded
along...Memorial Downpour<br /><br />As the cold sweat beaded <br />along my brow,<br />I could tell daddy was smiling.<br />Earthworms caved up<br />from the damp soil,<br />each exposing their slick<br />and naked bodies<br />to the precipitation coming down.<br />Dad, staring down at his son,<br />watched as I plucked the soft dirt.<br />Tucking himself under the dripping willow, <br />I laced my coffee can with bait.<br />Memorial Day was our tradition.<br />Fishing for heavy carp and slippery sunfish<br />is what made that tradition<br />a holiday to us.<br />Father and Son. <br />Hook to handshake.<br />As the rain beat down,<br />my knees would cramp <br />between the worn summer dock.<br />As my fishing line spewed <br />magenta-colored saliva<br />from the salmon eggs on my tackle below,<br />I think of Dad.<br />Each tug from below, latching<br />onto the rusty hook I've tangled above,<br />I see my father's stare above my smile.<br />Memorial Day rain beats down on our reflections,<br />as it has every year since I was seven.<br />While the familiar tug from some life beneath <br />yanked at my arms like a ghost,<br />I let the line run free.<br />I feel even now as if the rain is to blame.<br />If by pulling up my prize,<br />I might not have that again.<br />If I caught what we set out to catch,<br />would daddy be there next Memorial Day<br />to watch me spinning lines into the rain.<br />Each year,<br />whether He knows it or not,<br />I purposely cut the fish loose under the sky.<br />These Memorial downpours remind me of dad.<br />When it rains heavy onto the Bowmar lake,<br />I think of fishing with dad<br />without an umbrella and<br />remember fishing with Him<br />as if he and I <br />were meant to be drenched,<br />as if God were fishing for us.Cameron D. Mathewshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01546886971159105706noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-76518376270822622112010-02-22T22:03:18.582+01:002010-02-22T22:03:18.582+01:00Rainbands
Watching the rain stream down the windo...Rainbands<br /><br />Watching the rain stream down the windowpane,<br />I feel it in me, too—<br />a washing away.<br /><br />Beyond the gray and navy,<br />I see you as a little boy,<br />face pressed to the cool glass,<br />your eyes following the growing clouds.<br />You go to the cupboards, <br />load your small arms full of pots and pans,<br />and go outside.<br />Beneath the eaves and chutes of the roof<br />you place them—<br />your rain drums—<br />and wait for the sky to make music.<br /><br />I press my lips to the window<br />and make a cloud with my breath.<br />The edges dissolve,<br />leaving me with the grass in the front yard <br />and the leaves of the trees,<br />both greener for the raindrops covering them—<br />like prisms reflecting,<br />sparkling.<br /><br />Only an inch of glass between in and out,<br />and I don’t know where I am.<br />Or you.Erin Lee Warehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05980401218792645462noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-41549643570687683842010-02-22T21:23:47.706+01:002010-02-22T21:23:47.706+01:00Fishing in the rain
Utter madness you’d think st...Fishing in the rain <br /><br />Utter madness you’d think standing ankle deep <br />in fresh water during a thunderstorm, keeping <br />a weeping willow company. Fishing does that, <br />yet, as the clouds gather there’s an exodus <br />of humans fleeing the tyranny of rain. Why stay? <br />It’s the smell, fresh? No cleansed, like a rebirth.<br /><br />It’s the colours, now so much more cheerful <br />like giggling babies. It’s the silence; life’s too noisy!<br />Sitting quietly in contemplation is a forgotten grail.<br />Its noticing moorhens nesting, laying on their eggs,<br />Canadian geese flapping in formation, a kingfisher! <br />Its looking at water voles, dragonflies, a fox. <br /><br />It’s the tippy-toes of drizzle across the lake like a host <br />of Angels at their first barn dance, it’s the cross <br />words of lover swans sucking on angry teeth.<br />It’s the rod arching like a rainbow as line races <br />towards the safety of lilies, the stems of tall reeds;<br />to hold a Tench skywards like a golden chalice - <br /><br />to look in the eyes of a wild creature is a portal to God, <br />those lighting bolts a warning to release his creatures<br />unharmed. Finally, it’s the drawing in of nets, scales<br />shimmering, flesh rolling, mouths gasping for freedom. <br />Is it the power of life over death, or the exhilaration <br />of seeing fins swim into the bowels of the underworld?martin cordreynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-84160461165177419662010-02-20T22:06:33.541+01:002010-02-20T22:06:33.541+01:00You can only get so wet. After that it doesn't...You can only get so wet. After that it doesn't matter.<br />He comes in. She comes in.<br />Even the cat, dainty as mist on puddles, comes in.<br />You can only be so angry. After that it doesn't matter,<br />it seems. The cat offers no angles and leaves. It prefers<br />the rain.stephen fryerhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00436319241645524250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-845045771750840262010-02-20T12:07:41.557+01:002010-02-20T12:07:41.557+01:00Rain,
close companion
of Autumn fairgrounds;
back...Rain,<br />close companion <br />of Autumn fairgrounds;<br />back cloth <br />for teenage stolen kisses<br />in the unlit porch.<br />Silver-grey streaks sparkling<br />in echoes of the waltzer's garish lights<br />sending shards of colour<br />into the echoing dischords<br />of 'River deep and mountain high'.<br />Ike and Tina full crackled volume<br />ushering us between the darts and hoopla.<br />Detroit comes to town.Keith Wallishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04780087068444798682noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-61539668044270386462010-02-19T23:22:39.932+01:002010-02-19T23:22:39.932+01:00This comment has been removed by the author.Erin Lee Warehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05980401218792645462noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5409519305033642895.post-42699722319474405462010-02-19T16:37:17.047+01:002010-02-19T16:37:17.047+01:00Jehovah’s Wet Dream
I
grew up
wet in the
north
...Jehovah’s Wet Dream<br /><br />I<br />grew up <br />wet in the<br /><br />north<br />woods, halfway<br />across the globe<br /><br />from<br />Shrewsbury or<br />St. Etienne, but<br /><br />still<br />a comfort<br />zone I’m told<br /><br />for <br />those European<br />expatriates dwelling amongst<br /><br />us.<br />Rain remains<br />my constant companion,<br /><br />pummeling<br />the prairies,<br />spanking the concrete<br /><br />of <br />byways and<br />domiciles, drooling like<br /><br />dizzy<br />demigods, spattering<br />all shadows, breaking<br />them<br />up into <br />shimmering pixels before<br /><br />partially <br />banishing and<br />disconnecting them from<br /><br />the<br />feet and <br />baseline of those<br /><br />things <br />solid enough<br />to cast one;<br /><br />straight<br />down in<br />sheets, diagonally driven<br /><br />into<br />windows, windshields<br />and naked eyes<br /><br />that <br />dare to<br />face the downpour.<br /><br />God<br />spitting, cascading<br />in clumps, beading<br /><br />up <br />on waxen<br />hoods and slippery<br /><br />metal,<br />running off<br />rooftops, gushing over<br /><br />gutters,<br />passing loudly<br />through those rusty<br /><br />metal<br />pores of<br />manhole covers, rushing<br /><br />along<br />frightened curbs,<br />racing headlong toward<br /><br />divers<br />maws of<br />thirsty street drains,<br /><br />becoming<br />a hundred<br />rivulets dripping strong<br /><br />from<br />puncheon porch <br />tops, weeping passionately,<br /><br />copiously,<br />from the<br />tender undersides of<br /><br />devil-<br />black low<br />clouds, spraying like<br /><br />legions<br />of angels<br />pissing in rows;<br /><br />forcing<br />those ghost<br />riders to crack<br /><br />their <br />spectral whips<br />mocking thunder, and<br /><br />seducing<br />the wind <br />wolves to howl,<br /><br />joining<br />the morning’s<br />torrential Concert of<br /><br />Aqueous—<br />followed by<br />a golden fanning,<br /><br />opening<br />ribald like<br />a geisha’s thighs<br /><br />a <br />marvelous sun<br />break, the dervish<br /><br />dance<br />of a<br />hundred shards of<br /><br />light,<br />twisting erotically<br />into a naked<br />embrace,<br />sunlight piercing<br />water drops, bursting<br /><br />into<br />an orgasmic<br />swatch of juicy<br /><br />rainbow,<br />arching its<br />lovemaking shoulders high<br /><br />into<br />a brazen<br />display of raw<br /><br />dazzling<br />colors, the<br />full spectrum of<br /><br />stratospheric<br />ethereal sex,<br />seminally staining the<br /><br />compliant<br />sky, right<br />there for all<br /><br />to<br />see and<br />share, to marvel<br /><br />and<br />smile at,<br />to be touched<br /><br />by,<br />stroking hope<br />where only void<br /><br />resided,<br />vibrating the<br />dewy lips of<br /><br />rainy<br />mist, setting<br />up a throb,<br /><br />a<br />Gregorian moment<br />when cupids purr,<br /><br />and<br />the soaked<br />and satiated earth<br /><br />sighs.<br /><br /><br />Glenn Buttkus February 2010Glenn Buttkushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10680725814199700692noreply@blogger.com