Shreds of Evidence

[Arlene]

From haiku to sonnet to this last elegy of beloved creature and love and marriage. Beautifully done.

[beeswax]

Thank you Kristalyn and Arlene for reading and encouraging me. Appreciated very much indeed. I'm Haiku-ing again.


over the wall

the garbage truck
arrives before the sun --
spring forward

little threads
of bitter green cleave
the chilly earth

nothing but parsley
grows in the old sink --
unless chives count

my neighbour discards
a soiled mattress where
she could grow flowers

seedlings fight
for space in a narrow bed
pigweed wins

just in time
to sabotage seagull plans
smash their eggs

[beeswax]

And am now behind in fluff -- also need to be away for two days. So posting two pomes today for which I hope I will receive forgiveness-- it's busy here and poetry taking a back seat.

April 21st -



My Opera Clothes
I’ve kept them all -- my opera clothes --
the strappy dress, the scarf, the bling;
tall enough in my taxi shoes
to act the queen against your king.

And round the house I’d wear old stuff,
that shirt of yours. It smelled of you.
I wish I’d kept that shirt, and oh,
I wish you hadn’t died, that too.

That place --the place you’ve gone to dream
-- would it have space to store my things?
Season tickets, the stalls, third row,
you in your tux, me, all glittering.







April 22nd -- This is a revision of one I did for an exercise elsewhere.

Through the Mill

He’s brought thick-stalked chrysanthemums.
I’d asked him to bring just a lemon
for my gin. He must have forgot.

The dog trots along the hall to bark at the door.
To hear him you’d think: He’s a vicious cur.

He thumps the hall rug with his meagre tail.
It’s a disgrace. The plasterwork -- falling
in patches reveals indecent ribs --

in my mind I wear chartreuse silk;
my house smells of roses,
and sagebrush burning in an abalone
shell.

Billy, who speaks with a stammer and
sprays spit every time he says ‘V’
is paying me a visit.
Are you up for visit? he asks.
How is Ivan? Froth bubbles
at the corners of his mouth

the bell
shrills like toothache
we all jump.

I traipse the long corridor, the dog
impeding me, foreign aid children clinging
to my dress. Chrysanthemums smell
of fly spray or cat piss. Which smells
the worst? Men are welcome

to wrestle
each other on the front room floor.

Two scrapping blue jays land on the walnut tree stump
outside my window.

[Donner]

You are forgiven, my child.

"My Opera Clothes" speaks to the need N has to preserve things that reminds her of her loved one who has died. Opera was important to this couple, so she's kept her wardrobe she used to wear to them, but regrets not thinking to hold onto something as mundane as the shirt of his she took for granted would always be there along with him - It smelled of you. / I wish I’d kept that shirt is poignant and I want that to be included in the things she lists in S3, but can't because she no longer has it.

"Through the Mill" - N reminds me of a world-weary, discouraged but ever-hopeful older on-line dater. Don't know if that's what you had in mind, but that's what came to mine. Gads, dating was bad enough in my 20's, I'd hate to have to go through all that now. Heh.

Donner

[beeswax]

Dear Donner. Thank you for forgiveness. And now to go on to commit a further series of poetic transgressions. But first – Yes. You were right on all counts and thanks for visiting, reading and commenting. And now to make up my poem debt – tomorrow I promise to make a start on my crit debt. I was away for two days. Came back by train! Today cooking and listening to radio. So two sketches for pomes.


Last Train from Glasgow Central

This train stops at Barrhead, Kilmarnock, Auchenleck,
New Cumnock, Kirkconnel, Sanquar, and
Dumfries, where it will terminate. Its two carriages
barely contain
home bound Rangers’ fans, fortissimo – fuck;
fucking; shut the fuck up. They are of an age, or older
than a singer who used to be called Prince
-- the latest in a line of celebrities
who shocked the world
by dying.
His face looks up at me
from a newspaper discarded in the aisle.
Being dead he is unaware of how close
his image is
to a Bulmer’s cider can, a greasy sandwich
wrapper, a waxed carton that used to contain
fish and chips; and the score: Rangers 1 Alloa 1.

Every recipe begins with an onion

And olive
skin, black -- Arabs. Admit it
oil is best for sautéing . Oh, the smell of
their cooking -- foreign food, it drifts in
spice. Sauté for a few minutes, cut
them off at the border, oven roast
green pepper in thin strips, cook
set on high – not a bad idea,
until the skin blisters. Add some
terrorists, the whole lot of them
I like to season a frittata with
their families too, that’s too much
rosemary, it adds an unexpected
threat, and they all want is
sweetness, If you have a grill most
houses – not a job though – they won’t
have one -- place the dish under
mining our way of life
until it’s cooked
leave them to sort it out , if they drown, well
and good to have a salad always
it’s been a white Christian country and
all those colours, we have
too much on our plate already
lunch in 15 minutes. When cooking I don’t like to
listen to the news. It makes me want to
throw up.

[Emilio]

Bees, I really took to My Opera Clothes, the twist mid S2, the surreal storage of things in S3, nicely done,

Emilio

[5th column]

Hello Bees! My opera clothes was heading in a predictable direction and then you turned on a sixpence and it turned out to be anything but predictable. Lovely work.

These last two sketches have good bones. Let them simmer for a while and see how the onions taste amid the marrow

[beeswax]

Emilio and 5th -- you are very kind. Most of my impromptu stuff is prose with line breaks - in desperation I have revised and posted one of the worst of my earlier efforts -- my kitty litter ditty. Is this a cheat?



Death of the Kitten

Mitzi laboured hard -- delivered eight.
The last one born --
the little one --
was somewhat broken. The vet said
the same thing in veterinarian words
and offered odds hardly worth
considering, but guaranteed
a whiff of gas. So I gave
her life over
the life I heard
in her rhythmic,
high-pitched
Lilliputian meows.

My first husband,
who was otherwise
a total shit,
walked with me to the car.
We didn’t talk.
We just got in,
and sobbed.
Both of us sobbed.

[Dunc]

Anne

little red rose is small sharp and elegant.

now I hear you is well done, and full of interesting inference.

Obsolescence — an effective idea to blend the decay of the machine with the wearing out of the parent, and the ending is lovely.

Overseas — a Petrarcho-Shaxperian Sonnet indeed, and a graceful and personal elegy.

Blackbirds — Them randy varmints! A pleasant stroll along the hedgerow.

Kitty Ditty — Ah, we invest pets with so much of ourselves. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls ...

Regards / Dunc

[prokopton]

Emilio and 5th -- you are very kind. Most of my impromptu stuff is prose with line breaks - in desperation I have revised and posted one of the worst of my earlier efforts -- my kitty litter ditty. Is this a cheat?



Death of the Kitten
..
Both of us sobbed.

Awwww. Bees, touching, sad. You're in, of course.

Goeff

[beeswax]

Thank you Dunc for reading and commenting. Thanks Goeff -- glad the jury was OK with my submission. I can't say much about today's. Except it's getting easier as I let go of any attempt to be intelligible.

Prologomena to any Future Metaphysic*

Tweak the sensitive parts gently. It takes
only a little extra pressure to degrade
a steady hum to the point where
the whole jing bang fuses. Imagine
a box of fireworks. You don’t want
a rocket that shoots up fast
and plummets down ten seconds later
smelling of damp smoke, nor a squib
that won’t light, or fizzles out
before a Scriabin etude’s final
note has sounded. Catherine Wheels,
on a peacock shaped wire frame,
spinning clockwise then anticlockwise
fast then slow, in a blaze
of iridescent blue and green,
could approach the target -- being
all at the one time, coy, verbose,
and almost impossible to comprehend.

*Emmanuel Kant

[beeswax]

Our Lady Eostre at Eastertide

The plinth: a weight that anchors her to earth
because we dread she’d maybe take a notion
and float away -- the baby in her arms.

The veil: She drapes herself in light, wraps
death in her old puce shawl, for winter’s done,
flesh needs sun. Nazareth. A dishy angel.

The crown: She’s queen. Hail our lady of juicy
spring -- mother of God, ruler of kitchens,
parliaments, gardens, wells; sister of man.

[Emilio]

Bees, going back over some poems,

Blackbirds - cloaca's manic tickle, this is sonic delight!
Kitty Ditty – I love the ride here, happiness of birth, sadness of death, the more sadness commissary with ex. I especially loved S2 L1-3!
Over the Wall – pigweed is so appropriate here!
seedlings fight
for space in a narrow bed
pigweed wins
Death of the Kitten – Double Kitty Ditty effort, should get a prize! The repetends give it a nicer feel, the constant disarray of thought.
Prologomena to any Future Metaphysic* - Metaphysics as science? I like the firework metaphor here, to bring this out.
Our Lady Eostre at Eastertide – I enjoyed the Spring imagery of Eostre, how she is held, how she banishes winter. This is tightly done.

Bees, three more poems! We’re almost there,

Cheers!

[cookala]

heya beeswax! I am back to pore through your thread to see what I’ve missed.

The Butterfly Effect – wow – very strong, and powerful writing. I’m a bit green!

Obsolescence – the crux comes down to this There comes a time/in the life of any garment when the fabric/perishes beyond repair. Some bits can/be reused but even there it’s hardly/worth the bother. excellent metaphor and use of symbolism, and the closing 2 lines cinch it all to produce a very sobering effect. strong writing here, I’m still green.

Overseas – wow. I dream of worms that move/from meal to meal each part dismembering. now I’m chartreuse.

Blackbirds – those line breaks in the last 3 lines are a killer counterpoint to the point, nice.

Death of the Kitten – awww, that’s so sad. I liked the ending a lot, too. Over the Wall – nice little haiku snippet of life. after reading this I a reminded to look closely at the small things, because there are wonders to be found there.

My Opera Clothes - melancholy rhymed and done right, very nice! Through the Mill – oh! what N would do for some peace! nice details and flow in this, and some great images.

Last Train from Glasgow Central – this has good bones but it feels unfinished. that, and I found the image of Prince lying forgotten on the floor with the garbage unsettling, and not to my liking, but such is life. still, it’s a sad observation.

Every recipe begins with an onion – this also needs more work, but it’s a good start and an interesting idea.

Prologomena to any Future Metaphysic – I like the fireworks metaphor here, but (yes, believe it or not) I’m not familiar with Kant so I’m not sure I’m getting this.

Our Lady Eostre at Eastertide – nice work here, and an interesting comparison of the Lady to spring. love the sonics, too. So, we are now on the downslide of napo, only 3 to go.

Gotta say I’ve enjoyed reading your thread immensely this year!

[beeswax]

Emilio and Cookala -- thank you both very much for reading so much of my output! I appreciate it very much. Today's was a prompt this morning from he that hath my heart -- a poem by Sydney Phillip with that title


My True Love Hath my Heart and I Have His*

It’s nearly May. The dogs whimper and cower
as hail drums on roof and road. It’s nearly
summer, and spring has not set in. He calls
me Tea Face. Braveheart lived in Scotland once.
Hail drummed on him, and no heat in his house.
He, who has my heart, is agreed with me
that heat is moot. To save on heat we share
a bed. No -- more than that, we share our heat,
and shared heat engenders heat. He calls me
Tea Face. He has my heart and I have his.
I would call him Braveheart but he insists
he’s just the mug who makes me tea, and serves
it in a mug. We share our heat. There never
was a bargain better driven. Braveheart.


*Sir Philip Sidney