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Mojave01 Profile
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Paris, 1945


Revision #1


Did I mention the shy blanche of grapes
I fastened to her coat?


She gave a fountain pen on a silver lanyard.

We ate our breakfast with abattoir workers
in Les Halles, onion soup and fat strawberries;

accordion music for free.

We had bright cat eyes only for each other.
We refused to rest; the blue streets
cold as the Greenland ice cap.















Original:

Did I mention the shy blanche of green grapes
I pinned to her coat?

The fountain pen she gave with her smile?
A small, warm café in the Les Halles District,
the wagon master and Abattoir workers
embraced and bouncing to the accordion?

Sharing the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune
over a breakfast of fat strawberries;
our bright cat eyes seeing everything.
We refused to sleep;

blue streets cold as the Greenland ice sheet.


Last edited by Mojave01, Oct/20/2012, 9:38 am
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Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Mojave,

Another terrific poem. You're one of the few poets I encounter regularly who can write about these warm moments. I think you do romantic poetry successfully. When I say romantic, I'm referring to the subject matter, not to the style or era necessarily. We know that you're focusing on moments specifically, though there might other serious matters pushed off into the corner temporarily. Zak

Mojave01 wrote:

Did I mention the shy blanche of green grapes
I pinned to her coat? [A very soft, non-committal way of starting a poem.]

The fountain pen she gave with her smile?
A small, warm café in the Les Halles District,
the wagon master and Abattoir workers
embraced and bouncing to the accordion? [Because Hemingway based much of his early writing and experience in Paris, this takes me back to his prose, particularly with the good use of place names.]

Sharing the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune
over a breakfast of fat strawberries;
our bright cat eyes seeing everything.
We refused to sleep; [Even this smacks of Hemingway, though I'm certain you've got other influences, other poets driving this. I'm probably not as broadly read in the moderns as in the older poets. Whatever the influences, this is very good. We all would like to have moments like this.]

blue streets cold as the Greenland ice sheet.
[Excellent finish. Excellent simile. (Simile, right? Not metaphor.]

Oct/18/2012, 8:13 am Link to this post Send Email to Zakzzz5   Send PM to Zakzzz5
 
Mojave01 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Z---

i loved your comments because this poem is so indebted to the young hemingway---The Sun Also Rises---and you immediately focused on that connection.

ill health now makes all responses very difficult, i hope you understand.


bernie

 
Oct/19/2012, 12:31 am Link to this post Send Email to Mojave01   Send PM to Mojave01 Blog
 
Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Bernie,

No problem. Glad I was close to the intent. I hope your illness is nothing more serious than a bad cold. Zak
Oct/19/2012, 8:30 am Link to this post Send Email to Zakzzz5   Send PM to Zakzzz5
 
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Re: Paris, 1945


Z---

i'm being treated at Kaiser's liver transplant center, great care but no new liver has turned up just yet. like a poem, we keep editing.

just wanted you to know because all the medications have made every step of poetry slow and difficult.

thanks again,

bernie

Last edited by Mojave01, Oct/19/2012, 9:33 am
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Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Bernie,

It's hard to know why we get one illness or another. My own problems have come without warning. Really makes you appreciate your health, the good days, that is. I hope you get back to terra firma as soon as possible. We need you in full health on this board. Zak

quote:

Mojave01 wrote:

Z---

i'm being treated at Kaiser's liver transplant center, great care but no new liver has turned up just yet. like a poem, we keep editing.

just wanted you to know because all the medications have made every step of poetry slow and difficult.

thanks again,

bernie



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Christine98 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


What zak said re: your health and contribution to the board.

The edited version of the poem is cleaner and much improved, I think. Interesting choice of "bright cat eyes," curious and-- predatory?-- hungry?

Chris
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Katlin Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Hi Bernie,

I, too, like the revision. It is clearer, more focused and has greater emotional impact. I hadn't seen the connection to Hemingway until Zak mentioned it. FWIW, I think the revision is less Hemingway and more you.

I, too, wish you the best regarding your health. We are happy to have you posting here, so stop by the board when you can and don't worry about short posts or slow response times.
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Terreson Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


I used to say brash things. Try not to do that much anymore. Sometimes it just slips out.

Poetry is neither comment, complaint, or consolation. It is a seizure and a shiver.

By this standard, of course, most of my poetry fails. Still I think it a true assessment.

Poem is smart and elegant in its word choices.

Tere
Oct/25/2012, 7:15 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Paris, 1945


love tere's assessment of poetry - that seizure & shiver - is actually sending shivers up & down my spine!

also agree about the poem being smart & elegant - it's a gentleman poem!
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Mojave01 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Tere---
Queenfisher--


i understand that you are not so redhot for this "genre" of poem; as some who do not like westerns, or detective or science fiction.

to i am happy to escape here with no more damage than smart and elegant.

a generous reading and many thanks.

would love it if you could list one poem or two that have this quality that you admire, seizure & shiver.


the best to you both.


bernie


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Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Mojave,

I agree that the revision more closely resembles your other work. They now appear to be two separate poems, one taking us back to a magical time, Paris in the 20's, the Hemingway world, and one more closely attuned to your sensibility. They both "rock" -- in today's parlance or coinage. Zak


quote:

Mojave01 wrote:

Tere---
Queenfisher--


i understand that you are not so redhot for this "genre" of poem; as some who do not like westerns, or detective or science fiction.

to i am happy to escape here with no more damage than smart and elegant.

a generous reading and many thanks.

would love it if you could list one poem or two that have this quality that you admire, seizure & shiver.


the best to you both.


bernie





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Terreson Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Fair and straightforward question, Bernie. A bunch of poems and poets come to mind. Graves has a few seizure inducing poems. And Sexton. Baudelaire a couple. Lorca too. But I think the granddaddy of the sort still has to be Colerdidge's Christabel Part One.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173227

Tere
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Mojave01 Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Tere

perfect. got it.


and love these place names:


'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes


Lowelll welcomed this style until he helped found the Confessional Poets.





In the grandiloquent lettering on Mother’s coffin,
Lowell had been misspelled LOVEL.
The corpse
was wrapped like panettone in Italian tinfoil.

 
Sexton would become one of his students.


change of pace---folk song---The American Black Lghtning---

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skmtmRX69lg



ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords


Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride


Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man
I've fought with the law since I was seventeen
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae
For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
 
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do
They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52
He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
He said I've got no further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride




love it, love it all. best wishes.


thanks





   

Last edited by Mojave01, Oct/27/2012, 10:23 pm
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Terreson Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


Good stuff, Bernie. Thanks back at you.

Tere
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queenfisher Profile
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Re: Paris, 1945


also plath - all her poems are a seizure &
a-shiver!

i like all genre - but what is 'this genre'?
besides, i love westerns, detective, science fiction, horror etc - i'm sure many do.

its a fine poem.

Oct/31/2012, 4:58 am Link to this post Send Email to queenfisher   Send PM to queenfisher Blog
 
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Re: Paris, 1945


Q---



Confessional Poetry.

(Plath and Frank O'Hara, for example.)

here is Plath in her journal describing her first meeting with her future husband and fellow poet, Ted Hughes.



"Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me, came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes."

 

A page later in the journal comes Plath’s account of the now famous first kiss/bite, which occurred a little later at the same party. Plath’s version of it is truly riveting:


"…and I was stamping and he was stamping on the floor, and then he kissed me bang smash on the mouth and ripped my hairband off, my lovely red hairband scarf which has weathered the sun and much love, and whose like I shall never again find, and my favorite silver earrings: hah, I shall keep, he barked. And when he kissed my neck I bit him long and hard on the cheek, and when we came out of the room, blood was running down his face."



hey thanks for your comment.


bernie
Oct/31/2012, 11:36 am Link to this post Send Email to Mojave02   Send PM to Mojave02 Blog
 


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