Terrified Forays into Iambic Pentameter

Inspired by The Ode Less Traveled by Stephen Fry. For lack of a better description, it is a how-to book for writing poetry. I’ve learned about enjambments, caesuras, end-stopping and some history as well.

Structure is often seen as restrictive to creativity, blocking out artists from achieving what they truly would like to accomplish. To paraphrase from the book, complete freedom is daunting and too scary to actually create.

The ten syllables per line of iambic pentameter gives you just enough structure to depend on, but frees you to write about anything. Below are the few little lines I have written. Again, as suggested by Mr. Fry, read these out loud, feel the heartbeat of the lines, sink into the ancient structure….

Terrified Forays into Iambic Pentameter:


Never could I share in the delight,
Of music, of complex shapes of light,
When fallen from the favor of your eye.

The darkest step in which I hide my soul,
Screams in protest with every strangers’ tread.
I alone must bruise the shattering wood;
Footfalls drown out stifled cries of agony.

I cannot believe you would leave me here!
Hit on, in a bar, with piss-water beer.

Can you hang on to my keys, just for now?
My hair is a messy, frightful tangle.

You right my wrongs, most beautiful lover.

The Grey Lady haunts her mother’s tower,
A Ravenclaw, never to leave the school.

Communication

How do you communicate? Really?

Most of us have a dependency on being able to speak and be understood. We'll use gestures and facial expression to emphasize what we are saying. Body language, tone of voice, movement and vocabulary are all important aspects of communication.
For most of us.

I've been fortunate to find a job at a little toy store, which brings in a greater variety of clientele than you might think. Of course, there are babies, children, parents and grand-parents, people who can see, hear and understand (or are begining to understand) English. The most memorable ones do not.

I greeted her as usual: "Hello! Can I help you with anything?"
No response.
In my mind, I automatically thought, 'Snob.' I tried again to make sure.
"Hello?"
She noticed me, and smiled as she held up a small doll, making a pulling gesture at her mouth. 'How much?'
She was deaf.
Through my embarrasingly tiny knowledge of sign language and with the aid of pen and paper, she was able to leave with exactly what she wanted.

Another one comes to mind. A man, who had obviously come off the streets, spent a great deal of time near a display after I directed him there. He had chosen a small black dog, a labrador, and had come to the counter to pay. He never met my eyes as he paid in nickles and dimes. One by one, he dropped them on the counter, giving me exact payment. He was completely blind and able to tell the coins apart by the sound they made on the counter.

I've had a few other encounters: tourists from Asia and Europe with very different ways of communicating through personal space, people who spoke only German, an Italian uncle who I was able to speak to....and of course, babies, who will respond with a smile and gibberish which I'm sure contains the meaning of life.

My question to you is this: what is within each human being that makes it possible to exchange information despite any kind of barrier? What makes this possible?

Let me know.

Salvaged III

Inanimate

Here I am.
Do you want me to sit here?
Oil on water.
Dust on a penny.
My amber gaze pierces your lies.
As I sit on this shelf;
My stealthy vantage point.

Trees

I put my trust in trees
I know what each knot
will support my fingerhold

I know if I slip in the mud
my foot will find a root
and I will walk again

I know each branch and
bramble catches and clings
but keeps me from going too fast

I put my trust in their shadows
I will never be without
something over my head

FeverBrain
Looking through a past entry
I begin to understand my anger.
It was no more significant than
a few grains of tea
but I still
I still
decided convention was
for all but me.


I led a friend into the
wrong part of the city
we became lost
I became lost especially in
embarassment,

I hid.
Because I am sick...

Salvaged II

Train Ride
One speeding refuge from baking on cement
My train home.
A dollar thirty for a twenty-minute trip
Whiz by houses, apartments.
Distracted momentarily by a smile and a wink
He has nicotine stains and mile-long arms
Thanks, but no thanks.

Yet another midnight journey.
But tonight, I cost sixty cents more.
I don't notice her sitting next to me until she sneezes
Barely human, she is all bones and cloth.
A hundred empty seats surround me.
Why here? Why me?!

She coughs again:
"Sorry, I have a cold." Her eyes are sunken.
She asks me where I'm going.
Lions Park.
"Sunnyside," she says.

We talk. She laughs quietly, with her eyes.
Her name is Pam, but she likes ‘Pigeon' better.
She leaves at her stop. Leaves me with a gift of a birthday candle.
It takes the world to lift her up.

I hate what I do next.
I check for my wallet, the quarters in my coat pocket.
Pigeon I can trust, not her needs.

On my train rides I have met hundreds of people:
Two Haitian sisters, a Russian woman with no English.
An Englishman with lung cancer.
Men in suits with sly smiles and low hands.
Bag ladies and bums with more class than business people.
The same people with glass eyes and too many words.

The train scares me,
Track rhythms soothe me.
Every ride is a fight.

Retrieval

A crash of thoughts
and a parliament of words
come wave after wave.
My silly blue bucket cannot
hope to catch a mouthful.

Benign understandings
of malignant concepts
seem much to common
and curiously over-used

A mermaid's glove
finally reaches out
and takes my vessel

Now it is mysteriously filled
and I leave satisfied.

Along with a discarded glove...

Powerless

Who am I

to tell you about

each dewy summer evening:

watching the sun cling

to every blade of grass?

How can I

tell you about

the smell of going out:

mother's perfume and father's shaving lotion

helping to attach the clasp

of a stubborn string of pearls?

When will I

tell you about

those secret morning runs:

the wind crushing your lungs

stopping to tie a shoe

with muddy laces?

Who am I

to tell you about

each sensory field:

one fruitless motion after another

taking your paper cup to fill it

with stale water?

Souvenirs

he echo in a seashell,
I have heard,
is not the ocean caught
in the smooth curvatures of
a vacated home:
but the rhythm of
life pumping in your ear

(For Mum)

Salvaged

Here are some poems from an old blog I had. The site is shutting down, so I'm moving everything. Next, I'll be putting up more self-contained pieces that I have on there.


Lenses
Note on the poem: I was experimenting with a fictional voice and watching the sunset go down, wondering what it would be like to feel a part of oneself die with the world. There are some violent images in the poem, and I would like to remind you that this isn't me, but a character I found and wanted to help.

Discouraging sunsets yell at me
gold and green gold and green
make-believe you know me
mysterious girl in gold and green
play me like every other one
and I really want to run
trip and fall and pick the scabs
get up and scream in your face
and the words are gold and green
pinch me and I bruise
but I never seem to wake up
I slap you and you stay asleep
and the blood is green and gold
I hug my arms against the wind
And your breath down my neck
is green and gold green and gold
And now I'm falling falling
falling falling falling falling
to the bottom and I close
my eyes and the shapes
are green and gold green
and gold green and gold

Gravity
Look at the little ones hiding near the wall.
The wall, so tall
It looms over their fragile heads
It has stolen their mothers
And its stolen their beds.
Look down,
Fold your hands,
They don't want to see you laugh
They don't want to see you cry
They just want to see you.

Deus Ex Machina
Tools from God, Heaven,
Divine flashlight to illuminate the farthest corner
Counter-weights, pulleys, curtains...
The cold machines that fool you!

To become oneself, in front of others,
So real, there is an imposition of truth.
We trick you, hide behind makeup and smoke
To tell you that this is life.

And you believe us.

We want to be immortal, if only for a second.
Because, you see,
we made God's hand weeks ago.

And the tools are our own.

I Have a Window
The energy is seated beneath my collarbone,
layers of skin do nothing to protect me.
So raw.

Outside my window people sit and talk
and talk and talk.
No parties, because of class.

I have met my home today, a baby labrynth in its own right.
And I must try and become:
A sexual vegetable.

I think a zucchini will do.

And I wait.

Root Bound

"Just a stone's throw from here, actually,"
she says. "A bit north. Can't miss it."

He thanks her for the directions,

buys some liquorice cigars to pay her back.

A bit north.

It is not worth it to keep moving now, he thinks.

Besides, it is very pretty here:

paintbox sunset rooted by a green hill.

I could just stay here, he thinks.

It wouldn't be so bad.

The cigars are stale.

Leathery and bitter. He eats them anyway.

A bit north.

He looks over his right shoulder and sees it.

Just a stone's throw.

It feels warm here. Comfortable.

The people are nice, he says to himself.

Too bad about their candy.

Can't miss it.

So why is it so unreachable?

He feels his feet begin to root.

Sunset becomes dusk, but he stays there.

He counts the stars. He makes new constellations.

For tonight, this is home,

for tonight.

Tomorrow, he must lift and continue.

Leave sweetness behind to go north,

find a somewhere on his own.