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My first poem

Pagey

Pagey

Bluelight Crew
Joined
Apr 11, 2012
Messages
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I'm much more comfortable with prose, so be nice! =D

Of the purple violets dribbling down
The window
He only remembered
One.

Of the translucent tears
Coloring the cheeks
He perused the decades
He saw them all.

Of the words twice choked up
And the happiness swallowed
Of the liquid coughed down
And shrugged away quickly
Of the lead on the chest
And the fire in the ears
And the heart that pounds, and that pounds, and that pounds -

And the lights that go off
When he thinks it's all done
And the dread when the
Tears are reborn

And when it doesn't end.
And when the steps extend and extend and extend.
 
Pagey said:
I'm much more comfortable with prose, so be nice! =D

Of the purple violets dribbling down
The window
He only remembered
One.

Of the translucent tears
Coloring the cheeks
He perused the decades
He saw them all.

Of the words twice choked up
And the happiness swallowed
Of the liquid coughed down
And shrugged away quickly
Of the lead on the chest
And the fire in the ears
And the heart that pounds, and that pounds, and that pounds -

And the lights that go off
When he thinks it's all done
And the dread when the
Tears are reborn

And when it doesn't end.
And when the steps extend and extend and extend.
Click to expand...

Very physical steps from words to words; it begs to be read aloud. The "and that pounds, and that pounds" suggests a rhythmic series of refrains and breathy intonations, imitating the pulsation of the heart. The words flow and pump blood, giving the piece a unifying pace that nevertheless keeps spotlights on great mounds of jagged rock in the river, the "pounds" making lips spit and crack as monoliths within the trajectory of a steady unfelt river. And, of, and, of, the call and response of these lines give the poem a singsong "this which was like that" dichotomy- the thing on the one line, the details on the next. Periods used naturally sparsely and effectively. And when it doesn't end. Period. A striking sentence. The last line is like the p.s. after a parable where the tightness of the conclusion is repeatedly chanted into nothingness. The general structure serves as a kind of painting or photograph or film of a man, his grief and loss abstracted into images and gestures. The poem keeps the man under watch but gives him freedom to move. He is not sliced or diced, but he is tailored to a medium that seeks to paint his soul- his exchange with a series of things past- a present and living depiction of his layered emotional experience- his looped interchange, his human longing, his warm body, his tunnel vision painfully engraved. The words fall naturally down like raindrops. Echoes of Dickinson, somehow. Shades of Plath and a more endearing Hemingway, or a less bizarre Eliot.
 
^Wow, thank you for that! A pleasure to read your insight, really :)
 
yeah this is pretty awesome,
and beginners luck i dont think is possible when it comes to poetry and writing.
;)
 
I agree with Horton-Scorton, this would be awesome read aloud!

Also you have nothing to worry about, this was quite awesome....shows a really good command of language and imagery :)
 
panic in paradise said:
yeah this is pretty awesome,
and beginners luck i dont think is possible when it comes to poetry and writing.
;)
Click to expand...

yes I agree. there was no luck involved. you are a good writer, and should continue with poetry. I enjoyed the read, you use your words well. Please post more!
 
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