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Thread: A Face Afloat in a Continuum of Hair

  1. #91
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    Sorella, Jee, Rachael, Robyn, Andrea, thank you all so much for coming back. I really do appreciate it.

    So, after a long weekend with family, and a close friend deciding to rupture their appendix, I am back home, and need to go to sleep. I will try and catch up two poems a day, and also get back to the fluffing first thing.

    John
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  2. #92
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    19. The Extent of the Peripheral (Landay)

    The Extent of the Peripheral

    The field of vision from my burka
    is far wider than that of your Taliban rifles.

    Your tanks have turrets that are flaccid;
    I would rather ride on the American horses.

    Western drones do not discriminate,
    they would take me to the garden as quickly as you.

    __________
    The Landay is a completely new form to me, with an interesting recent evolution. I haven't done it justice, and don't feel qualified to write them either. More information on them here
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  3. #93
    Speug is offline Likes to pretend he's Image Indifferent
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    The ghazal is really cleverly done, and the progression of moments really works.

    The shifting between the partners in the sestina is well-handled.

    I really like using maths in poems, although I don’t quite get the last line of “Hairy Equations”: Itchiness is proportional to beard length cubed, which is greater than or equal to zero? Wouldn’t it work without the last part? I’m not a mathematician, though, so I’m probably missing something. The second one really made me laugh.

    “A Little About Mother” works really well, and is very sad.

    “Drunk Observations” also made me laugh.

    The landay looks really interesting – thanks for including the link to it. Of yours, I think the last works best.

  4. #94
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    Paul, thanks for the comments.

    I'm aware I still need to catch up, but only had the bus journey for poetry today, so just squeezed this one out.
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  5. #95
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    20. There are some things I should have mentioned before we got married. (List)

    There are some things I should have mentioned before we got married.

    I generally sleep less than four hours a night.
    Sometimes, when I do sleep, my calf will cramp
    :::::like the bone is being sheathed in adamantium,
    :::::and I may kick out unexpectedly.
    I look less like Hugh Jackman than most people think.
    Don't ever try and cheer me up,
    :::::sometimes I just need to be left alone;
    :::::sometimes I just need to eat fried chicken
    :::::and listen to Rage Against the Machine.
    Regardless of what I say
    :::::it will never be your fault.
    Some people develop insomnia
    :::::in response to a stressful event. 1

    My mother doesn't bruise easily,
    :::::and I have probably inherited
    :::::her thick skin.
    I often look more like Jack Black than myself.
    Please don't repeat yourself
    :::::because I don't forget anything
    :::::and repetition frustrates me.
    There is a known hereditary component
    :::::to alcoholism. 2

    I learnt long ago that it is easier
    :::::just to accept the blame.
    Diamonds are just stones
    :::::and not as valuable as bricks;
    :::::get over it.
    Some children from violent homes
    :::::may grow up believing
    :::::violence is a normal part
    :::::of life. 3

    I never drink enough
    :::::to relax,
    :::::but forgive me if I try sometimes.
    I will always love you,
    :::::though I will often forget how to express it.

    __________
    1 - http://www.nhs.uk/Conditions/Insomnia/Pages/causes.aspx
    2 - http://www.alcoholic.org/research/is...ism-inherited/
    3 - http://agapefdnadv.org/abuseframe.html
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  6. #96
    Sorella is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    Cool! Wish I had received one of those lists on my wedding day (but I think maybe it's marriage that makes people aware of their own character traits). Very in-your-face and precise list, John.

    Sorella

  7. #97
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    No, no, we don't want a list like that, or we're liable to run out the back of the church before the ceremony. Besides, you need some surprises along the way when it's til death parted, even if said surprises risks making that come to pass. HA!

    Drunk Observations - HA HA!

    What I always like about your thread is the diversity and your willingness to try new forms. Always the right mix of the serious, as with the well-written Landay, and the fun.

    Donner
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  8. #98
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    Hi John, I made it back to your thread (are there more of us this year?) eventually with brush and a palette full of fluff.

    Pigeon: I like the longer sounds of the opening line and the chopped up last that add to the bird's momentum.

    Impala: I used to ride horses when I was even more stupid and had more years to spare than today and your poem reminded me of being carted across Hankley common at break-neck speed on a horse who saw a bin bag and thought it a leopard or maybe an alien and so legged it with me on-board. A simple poem that highlights one of those moments we all recognise beautifully.

    Drunk Observations: I love the way the drunk poems tend to be conversational. Yours of course has us all impersonating the leaning tower of pizza a meal I always fancy when drunk...


    The extent: I loved the Landay. I read an article in Poetry Magazine on them and found them enjoyable. Your closing garden makes the poem.

    your list poem? The best I've read from anyone all NaPo. It touched me.
    Resigned

  9. #99
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    Sorella, Donna, Neil, thank you for your kind comments.

    I have one to post now (it could have gone on forever, so I'm posting it now, warts and all). Will try and fluff (once baby stops crying) and write another (short) one before bed.
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  10. #100
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    My reading of 20 is that it is coming from the actual Wolverine. Is that crazy? May you are the actual Wolverine? Anyway, that reading softens some of the gruffness of it, and I love "I often look more like Jack Black than myself.".

  11. #101
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    21. Gentle Bear and the Long Day (Couplets)

    Gentle Bear and the Long Day

    Come here my child, sit on my knee,
    I will tell you the true story

    of Gentle Bear and the Long Day
    and how he wished it go away.

    So Gentle Bear woke with a stretch,
    arched his bad back, tried not to wretch

    as his tummy churned up, empty
    of last night's mashed potato tea,

    pulled on his shirt, did up his belt,
    and in the pre-dawn dark he felt

    for socks, preferably a pair,
    (though most had holes, he didn't care),

    left Mrs Bear asleep in bed,
    a tender kiss to Baby's head

    and out the door and up the street
    went Mr Bear, on tired feet.

    The bus was full of Weasel kits,
    that laughed and sniggered, stank of shit;

    an old Blood Hound who smoked a pipe
    and smelt worse still; a lonely Snipe

    with broken wings, she longed to fly,
    a little dead behind the eyes.

    The train was packed with Pigs in suits
    and highly polished leather boots.

    One rather worried looking Cow
    did try to get away somehow

    but there is nowhere you can hide
    when on the train commuter's ride.

    Bear got to work, slumped at his desk
    and knew the day would be a test,

    the paperwork bred more and more,
    like the Rabbits that lived next door

    to Gentle Bear, the little gits
    had everything on benefits,

    did bugger all to earn their way,
    still got to go on holiday.

    To top it off, Ms Chicken that
    sat opposite him was a twat

    who had an egg stuck up her arse,
    a solid lump she couldn't pass

    and so the fucking clucking chook
    did fuck all too, but made it look

    as if she was really busy.
    It made poor Bear rather pissy

    to think that he worked hard all day
    and all the credit went her way.

    And then there was that fucking Fox
    who spent all day talking bollocks

    about Vixens he never bed
    in spite of what the douchebag said.

    The sly fucker lowers his eyes
    each time the boss comes walking by

    with steely eyes, the Vulture scum,
    he picked at Bear 'til he was done.

    When lunchtime slowly came around
    the Gentle Bear went into town

    to get some air, to get some peace,
    to get a moment's sweet release.

    He was quite shocked by what he saw
    when walking past the mirror store,

    there was a Bear, looked just like him
    but with a quite unusual grin.

    Now Bear had never really thought
    about the fact he wasn't short,

    or that his frame was rather strong
    and muscular. And there's those long

    sharp teeth designed for tearing skin
    and claws made just for digging in-

    to flesh, to hold a victim still,
    or twist the neck and make the kill.

    Bear wondered, was he meant to be
    some other thing entirely?

    His eyes narrowed sharp and yellow
    and he whispered to himself, "No!"

    A paw threw out and smashed the glass,
    broke mirrors into endless shards,

    for years he'd made his own bad luck
    and didn't really give a fuck

    for superstitious bullshit crap,
    he'd found his mind and that was that.

    So Gentle Bear padded back to
    his work, with plenty left to do

    and half way up the stairs he saw
    the Vulture coming through the door.

    And so, before he had a chance,
    the Gentle Bear began to pounce

    and rolled the old and ragged bird
    into the gents and flushed the turd.

    Bear washed his paws, picked clean his teeth
    of feathers and let himself breathe,

    wiped clean the sweat from off his brow,
    there was no way back from this now.

    The Fox looked up, a big mistake,
    a little twist to quick castrate

    his small sausage and soft sweetbreads,
    then staple them onto his head.

    Ms Chicken died just from the fright,
    it was a rather funny sight,

    she laid her egg and followed through
    with an extensive pile of poo.

    So Bear had quit his job, he left
    the poor receptionist bereft,

    she was a lovely Stork, you know,
    (she thought she was a Flamingo).

    And that is why your dadda's here
    to put you down to bed my dear,

    I should be home tomorrow too,
    but if I'm not, know I love you.
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  12. #102
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    Hi John,
    Popping back to see what's been happening here.

    From my window
    is wonderful. I enjoyed it even before I checked out the pictures and noticed titles woven into the poem and realised quite how clever it was. I particularly liked "and if I had the nerve / I would push back my chair", and "I would step into Spring and her graces". I enjoyed N's desire to get out of the city into the Spring countryside and failing that get Spring to come to him in his office (Wasn't sure if "you" was Spring or N's beloved, but I imagine the former despite the change from third to second person). This is one to come back to.

    Impressive sustained rhyming in The Inevitable Poem.

    Loved Morning Prayer! Especially the octet, I'd have been happy to hear N raging against the birthing of the light the whole way through! The first four lines are my favourite.

    Lord, let the birds choke on their early worms,
    or least cut out their sharp vibrato tongues
    with sharper flints, or pepper them with thorns,
    or send a cat to pierce their boastful lungs.

    Pigeon works well, I liked the sentiment of the last line, and the fact that it's a lowly pigeon -- "drifting in circles" sets it up nicely.

    Impala made me smile. An impaled impala.

    Drunk Observations is definitely my favourite tipsy NaPo poem thusfar.

    landlays look interesting. Thanks for the link.

    This was my favourite from the list poem:
    I never drink enough
    :::::to relax,
    :::::but forgive me if I try sometimes.

    Gentle Bear and the Long Day was very funny, and possibly not appropriate as a bedtime story - though am I right in thinking that writing it was of some therapeutic value?

    So, a week left, then we get a whole week off before Sevens

    -Matt

  13. #103
    W.G.McLeod is offline Peter's surrogate underage mother
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    Drunk Observations – I don’t know that the individuals have be intoxicated to have this conversation. (At least, I think I’ve heard something like this before and don’t think alcohol was involved.)

    There are some things – I don’t know. It all sound like a perfectly normal home life to me. It's like a poor man's prenuptial - accept this and maybe we'll be OK.

  14. #104
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    Matt, W.G., thank you. I really appreciate everyone sticking through this. I'm determined to catch up, but have to entertain this weekend, and have started writing long poems (or poem type things), which is unlike me. I also appreciate the haiku in this next one are not strict to the form. Never mind.
    Last edited by JFN; 04-25-2014 at 11:04 PM.
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

  15. #105
    JFN is offline Fun and felicitous PFFA patron
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    22. Watching Erosion (Haibun)

    Watching Erosion

    I visited my mother at Easter, and I found myself studying her face, looking for hairline cracks
    and small fissures from years of gentle tides,
    and from larger waves we would rather forget.
    There were days before those storms,
    and moments of quiet between,
    when we would all sit by the bay, watch the moonrise
    painting the ripples white.

    :::::Across the harbour,
    :::::spring moon reflection --
    :::::light paints the dark.


    We once went for breakfast at Holbeck Hall Hotel,
    on the cliff top in Scarborough.
    I was six, and I struggle to recall the details,
    but I imagine us there around a long oak table.
    I draw patterns with my fingernails in years
    of layered grease, seasoned with woodsmoke from the open fire.
    My brothers and I sit along one side of the table,
    our backs to the stone wall. The large hearth opposite
    is lined with dried half-logs, waiting
    for evening to fall. Mother is to our left, sat in a tall back,
    relaxed. I find it peculiar to think of her that way;
    she is so small within the moss green leather of the chair.
    I realise my father isn't there, as if he hides behind the viewfinder,
    or is watching through the lens,
    and I share his eyes, his memory.
    I wonder why there are no sounds from the kitchen door,
    no hot aromas carried on the air. No food ever arrives, so we just wait.
    In my imagination, we just wait.

    :::::I can carve names
    :::::and truths from history;
    :::::there are no seasons.


    Three years later we all gathered around the television,
    watching white render and red tiles slipping slowly underground.
    As the walls collapsed I looked for the chair, the long oak table and the open fire disappearing
    beneath a red brick chimney, but I could not find them, they were not there.
    I know that they were never really true, anchors designed
    to hold the memory of that day.
    The news footage continued to show the earth collapsing
    underneath the breaking walls and sunken roof.
    As the Holbeck fell into the North Sea we sat in silence,
    watching the proof that the world itself is temporary.

    :::::Even imagined
    :::::objects hold memories,
    :::::both true and false.


    Another three years, and my father passed.
    As they lowered the coffin of light oak I thought of the imagined table
    fast sinking into the cold waves. No one spoke,
    no one had any words to say.
    I broke a small smile, not as a show disrespect
    but for the recollection of an imagined memory
    of a forgotten event.
    A ghost of a happier past.

    :::::The sun does not know
    :::::the darkness of night,
    :::::but she imagines.


    I visited my mother at Easter, and I found myself studying her face, looking for hairline cracks
    beneath the fresh coat of plaster.

    __________
    Holbeck Hall Hotel

    Thanks to HowardM2 for the title
    Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
    James Tate

    johnnewson.com

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