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Terreson Profile
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Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Well, I am going to romance this notion of a single thread in which I post poetry for critique. Some of it old and some of it new. All of it looking to get clinically cut, sliced, diced, flayed, splayed, and parsed. Hammered too. I'll start with a poem that, around the turn of the century, garnered a lot of on line poetry chat room attention. But let's break this bad boy down.


Tableau Vivant

She said the design is complete,
the request comes too late,
that it is too tight to change,
happening as how any child's life weave
is long since pulled, stretched, set
in the breach of birth.

Needless to say,
I let the matter go, as
who can ever sway or coax
a fulling sister of the threads.
Instead we drank a toast,
one for the road we agreed.
But then she suggested
we slowly drain another.
Chartreuse.

Who, then, was studying whom?

The way she warmed her glass,
how her hands cupped the green, and
the scene of her there stilling all
motion in the room.
Then she who leaned in, who said,
almost imperceptibly,
"Take me home tonight."

In the morning she was gone.
I would've poached her some eggs.

And startled then, certainly taken
by the sight of what she left.
In the window, on ocean shore side,
she hung the rug of a man's life.
In the night sometime
she took apart far corner threads,
doing the Arab thing;
she imperfected the weave to leave
an open end. A chance.

Tere



Last edited by Terreson, Jan/2/2010, 2:28 am
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


My concern, and it's not entirely a poetry concern, is that this is yet more of someone analysing another love thing with a woman, and that it doesn't attempt to go beyond the immediate implications of that. Like I said, it's not a poetry concern. But I want politics as well as love and sex and appetite and topography. I want geology and warfare and love in equal measure. Otherwise we only ever have the one eye looking in and telling its story. I want all the eyes I can get in poetry.

I know all is in the small eye of the shewstone etc.

But I don't know how far you can get with this 'I and she' structure. That's a limiting thing.

But I also dig Folk Music, so what the feck...

Just my take.

Steve.

Last edited by SteveParker, Jan/1/2010, 9:08 pm
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Take taken, Steveman. And this is interesting. A LangPo poet also takes me to task for this kind of stuff and for much the same reason. Maybe you know the poet? Dmanister.

Anyway, I have never figured out if it was Clotho, Lachesis, or Atropos who bedded the poem's character. But I am certain it was one of the Moirai.

Thanks.

Tere
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


I have to show this poem. It was first drafted in 2000, maybe in 2001. I remember it was spring. But I should say the poem is a clear slam against Modern poetry and against a bunch of what currently calls itself poetry. Parse it.


Head Banger

"The demon of suspicion has come into the world...the only antidote is complete sincerity."
           Stendhal

Fox sparrow, fox sparrow
came into the clearing today.

He or she it is hard to know as
the sexes mark themselves the same.

But what a sign he showed in the heat:
he fell for his own reflection.

It was the car's sideview mirrors,
the ones succinctly stating

'objects are nearer than they seem.'
First one clear side, then the other.

All day long he worried the thing.
He pecked, he wing pounded, and in

spring I want to think fox sparrow
thought he, thought she, found a lover.

Seperately there emerges what is
squeamish, suspicious, or makes

for the more modern reckoning.
That streaked passerine, little bird,

is poet of the tribe; that he sought,
she sought, head peck in the glass.

Tere

Last edited by Terreson, Jan/2/2010, 4:49 am
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Zakzzz5 Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Terreson,

My take is different from Steve's. For me, this is simply a different type of poetry than what Steve is writing. Reminds me somewhat of Norwegian Wood, though very different in that it has the Terreson stamp. I know you have other poetic influences and those seem to be there strongly, making it NOT Norwegian Wood.

I don't think that language, clarity, simplicity has been exhausted, and I don't believe that that it will necessarily continue to move towards a fragmented poetry. Right now we're living in a phase where there are various strands moving in parallel and interweaving. My choice is to read the poem as it was intended to be read to see if it succeeds. Zak

quote:

Terreson wrote:

Well, I am going to romance this notion of a single thread in which I post poetry for critique. Some of it old and some of it new. All of it looking to get clinically cut, sliced, diced, flayed, splayed, and parsed. Hammered too. I'll start with a poem that, around the turn of the century, garnered a lot of on line poetry chat room attention. But let's break this bad boy down.


Tableau Vivant

She said the design is complete,
the request comes too late,
that it is too tight to change,
happening as how any child's life weave
is long since pulled, stretched, set
in the breach of birth. [I get some sort of metaphor for the girl, woman, relationship itself, for possibilities. The relationship and the weave, the rug, is a strong metaphor]

Needless to say,
I let the matter go, as
who can ever sway or coax
a fulling sister of the threads.
Instead we drank a toast,
one for the road we agreed.
But then she suggested
we slowly drain another.
Chartreuse. [You often exhibit a very strong feel for the mythical in the woman, in the human being. It is here too. "fulling sister" but the drinking brings it back to earth]

Who, then, was studying whom?

The way she warmed her glass,
how her hands cupped the green, and
the scene of her there stilling all
motion in the room.
Then she who leaned in, who said,
almost imperceptibly,
"Take me home tonight." [the motion, the green, echoes the Green Knight feel in the old myths, but the motion and the glass is also here and now, in every era]

In the morning she was gone.
I would've poached her some eggs.

And startled then, certainly taken
by the sight of what she left.
In the window, on ocean shore side,
she hung the rug of a man's life.
In the night sometime
she took apart far corner threads,
doing the Arab thing;
she imperfected the weave to leave
an open end. A chance. [Very chancy here. She undid a corner. Ok, she's leaving the protagonist a message. It's a stretch, but it's poetry. I guess that's what makes it poetry here. In this type of poetry, we're leaving a corner open for the romantic ending, or the mystery ending. I like this.]

Tere




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Katlin Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Tere,

I'll be back to comment on your poems, but I just wanted to respond to something Zak said:

I don't think that language, clarity, simplicity has been exhausted, and I don't believe that that it will necessarily continue to move towards a fragmented poetry. Right now we're living in a phase where there are various strands moving in parallel and interweaving. My choice is to read the poem as it was intended to be read to see if it succeeds. Zak

I second that. If this was an old fashioned revival, I'd shout out, "Amen!"
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


I love this segment of the whole:

Who, then, was studying whom?

The way she warmed her glass,
how her hands cupped the green, and
the scene of her there stilling all
motion in the room.
Then she who leaned in, who said,
almost imperceptibly,
"Take me home tonight."

In the morning she was gone.
I would've poached her some eggs.

And startled then, certainly taken
by the sight of what she left.
In the window, on ocean shore side,
she hung the rug of a man's life.
In the night sometime
she took apart far corner threads,
doing the Arab thing;
she imperfected the weave to leave
an open end. A chance.


To me, it is a poem in itself...the I would've poached her some eggs line is unexpected and so revealing and important to the poem imho...how it changes the reader's view of the N...does that make any sense at all? Hope so. : ) I'll be back.

Pat

---
"Don't you worry--I ain't evil, I'm just bad".
~Chris Smither~
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Terreson Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Good comments all. Thank you. Zakman, maybe I have said this before, but I appreciate the way you walk through a poem. I am learning from you. And thanks also, Pat. Funny thing about that poached egg line. It tends to get the reaction, but not always positive. Glad it works for you.

By the way, is anyone else enjoying the variety of takes and aesthetics showing up on the board? And the exchanges and the dialogue? I decided a long time ago that the best game in town is the one in which everyone gets to win.

Tere
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Glad you are taking it that way. I also love the whole variety of stuff that comes at me from poetry. But... Clotho etc... Does that mean poetry was just like, erm... fixed in Greece in about 900BC??? Yeah, ahem, I do know Diana (the ahem signifies no intimacy there), and yeah I bet she is on your ass for this stuff. She's generally on mine too. Thing is in some ways this is right. I dunno. I love the excellent way you do your stuff, but I want Olson and Prynne to squeeze in through your ears and start to flood out.

Sorry, man, ain't wishing unhealth upon thee, just a shift.

But this is just a thing. Not a real thing, just a thing.

Your poetry is superbly executed. I guess this must be a poetry-political thing. A thing and not a thing.

I still suggest writing poetry with no 'I' just to see how it goes. Plus Diana would like it better. Hey, and she's the Huntress etc...

Oh feck it just do what you do and kill everyone who gets in the way.

It's kind of new year, so wtf.

Lerv.

 
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Terreson Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Steveman, I am groovin on your tunes. If people like you and me and all the board's 22 other Delectable Mnts can keep those cards and letters swinging through the double hinged door then we just might get a step closer to what sweet Miles Davis talked about, running the voodoo down. Running the voodoo down. That is what poetry is about anyway, isn't it? You got to love the metaphor.

Tere
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


All of it looking to get clinically cut, sliced, diced, flayed, splayed, and parsed. Hammered too.

Oh, where did I put my Po-O-Matic? I enjoyed both poems. The last stanza of the first came as a surprise. The last three stanzas of the second are a rather damning indictment of the tribe, if I'm reading it right, and yet the tone itself is not damning.

But I don't know how far you can get with this 'I and she' structure. That's a limiting thing.

Serious question for Steve: how far can you get without it? And when did this become an either/or thing?

But I want politics as well as love and sex and appetite and topography. I want geology and warfare and love in equal measure. Otherwise we only ever have the one eye looking in and telling its story. I want all the eyes I can get in poetry.

I think most poetry readers want that too, but not necessarily always all in the same poem.
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Yeah, runnin the Voodoo down is cool. Or getting ridden by the Loa maybe... Are we running down the Loa or are we letting them take charge? Moot point. Maybe the same thing from different angles. I don't want to suggest any slave attitudes to the gods, just more of us acting like gods. Unlimited access to language after Prometheus ripped it out of their ugly sleeping mouths and brought it to Earth etc. Who doesn't hate arrogant gods in midwinter anyway?

Katlin, how far can you get? I don't know. I'm not claiming any great progress myself, but have you read Jeremy Prynne? He seems to get a heck of a long way to me. Lots of other people besides him, of course, but he's a good example.

Steve.
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Kat and Steve said:
Serious question for Steve: how far can you get without it? And when did this become an either/or thing?

But I want politics as well as love and sex and appetite and topography. I want geology and warfare and love in equal measure. Otherwise we only ever have the one eye looking in and telling its story. I want all the eyes I can get in poetry.

I think most poetry readers want that too, but not necessarily always all in the same poem.


And don't disagree with Kat and/or Steve...many of us love all kinds of poetry. I personally struggle reading some of it..langpo and the seriously forced metrical are very diffcult for me, but not all ...and I usually appreciate the effort and language in them. (Much as I am clueless...I like LangPo better than forced metrical...I simply quit reading when I realize a word that didn't quite fit was used just to fit the form. My bad. The best doing formal poetry are those whose posems you read and love....and then say (after reading crit)
"Geez, I didn't realize that was a...." : )

I will only add that I do believe that poetry/prose with an "I" is not always bad, nor do I believe a cliche is bad, nor colloquial language. I think all of them well done can enrich a poem. All things work in a poem well written.

I also believe writing with an "I" is the most personal, universal way to write, and my experience is that a poem done well in first person is far more likely to draw comment from diverse readers...not sure if that is every poet's goal, or maybe even mine, but I do admit to feeling a glow when a broad readership responds favorably to something I've written. Most poems I read on most of the boards I read these days appear be written to please their fellow board poets and critters....potential editors.

I guess what it really boils down to is to ask ourselves why we write, who we hope to touch with what we write.

Pat

---
"Don't you worry--I ain't evil, I'm just bad".
~Chris Smither~
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Katlin, how far can you get? I don't know. I'm not claiming any great progress myself, but have you read Jeremy Prynne? He seems to get a heck of a long way to me. Lots of other people besides him, of course, but he's a good example.

Steve, when I asked how far you can get, my question was really a theoretical one. No, I haven't read Prynne. Will check him out. When you say he and others have gotten "a heck of a long way," what do you mean? Toward what end? Again, serious questions. I'm genuinely curious. What is that you (personal and collective) are going after? What is it that you are discovering? What is it that appeals to you as a reader and writer in the poems you love? You mention above that "It's not a poetry concern." Can you say more about that? It would be great if you would post one of Prynne's poems in the "Poems That Work and Poems That Don't" thread:

http://www.runboard.com/bdelectablemnts.f4.t604

Or post a poem in that thread you don't like and explain why. That would be good too.

I don't actually see you and JR and Auto as writing LangPo, at least not as I understand it. It could be that LangPo cuts a wider swathe than I realize, or it could be that you guys have been influenced by LangPo but have moved beyond it or are using some of their methods to a different purpose or in a different manner.

And don't disagree with Kat and/or Steve...many of us love all kinds of poetry. I personally struggle reading some of it..langpo and the seriously forced metrical are very diffcult for me, but not all ...and I usually appreciate the effort and language in them. (Much as I am clueless...I like LangPo better than forced metrical...I simply quit reading when I realize a word that didn't quite fit was used just to fit the form. My bad. The best doing formal poetry are those whose posems you read and love....and then say (after reading crit)
"Geez, I didn't realize that was a...." : )


Pat, yep, I can identify with everything you said.

My preference for the most part is also for the universal I, but that approach does have its limitations. I get that. OTOH, I think a polyvocal technique has its limitations as well, but maybe I'm missing something really big and important. It wouln't be the first time, and it won't be the last. That's why, Steve, I welcome your participation in this discussion. As Tere likes to say, I'll be your huckleberry. Help me see what you see. I'm ready and willing and working on the able. emoticon
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I wouldn't normally go into a critique thread for someone's poetry to persue a discussion like this, but I know Tere is okay with it, welcomes it in fact. So, I'm coming back to add something I brought up in "The Balkanization of American Poetry" in Discussion 1. In an essay on Rilke, Adam Zagajewski brings up the idea of poetry readers seeking "spiritual vitamins" in the works they read:

Someone who loves C. P. Cavafy's work, for instance, will probably have to admit that, as much as he admires this poet, he has also known periods when passion for and interest in the modern Greek bard faded for a while—as if each act of reading poetry consisted in acquiring some kind of spiritual vitamins and in the process our inner voice would tell us from time to time: good, enough of this, give me a different nutrient now. So after the immense intelligence of Cavafy's historical poems the inner voice might be tempted to say: Please, give me a poet like Dylan Thomas now. Rilke is no exception to the rule; perhaps he's even one of those great poets whose grip on readers fluctuates the most. For one thing, there's almost no sense of humor in his poetry, as contrasted with his letters, which emanate a lovely understanding of the droll side of life—in the letters we hear the voice of Dottore Serafico, not a prophet. His poetry is almost always high-strung; in a way it represents the essence of poetry in the purity of its lyric song. Rilke's oeuvre, especially in his last years, is also characterized by a certain "passivity"; this is a poetry that receives, that listens to, that waits for a signal coming from the outside—as opposed, for instance, to many of W. H. Auden's later poems, where a muscular rhetoric is at work, a rhetoric that gesticulates, posits, invents, denies, and moralizes all the time. Not so Rilke, who listens to the world, watches the world, who receives.

 http://www.runboard.com/bdelectablemnts.f4.t519

It sounds to me, Steve, that perhaps you are saying that you get more spiritual vitamins (or poetic nutrients, if the word spiritual is off-putting) from works that have a wider expanse than those that don't "attempt to go beyond the immediate implications." That makes sense to me. I like the way Zagajewski acknowledges that even with poets one loves, from time to time, an inner voice will say: "good, enough of this, give me a different nutrient now."
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Katfriend, you bet I am okay with this discussion. I am particularly impressed by the thoughtfullness (as in think-fill-ness) of all involved. It is pretty clear that everyone has thought a long time about what they are here saying.

Steveman, let me get nerdy on you again. I for one see no reason to do away with the classic sorting of poetry into three types. Was it St. Thomas of Aquinas who came up with the formulation or was it Aristotle? Damned if I can remember. But it runs like this:

Lyric poetry; Narrative poetry; Dramatic poetry.

Lyric poetry constitutes the I/Thou address. It is the poet speaking directly to the reader.

Narrative poetry is the story told. What once was the epic poem would become the novel. It amounts to the creation of a world within itself and presented to the reader.

Dramatic poetry occurs when a world in itself stands by itself through dialogue or even dance, dependent upon nothing, and up on the stage. What started out as verse drama eventually found its way to Broadway.

Truth is, man, I am unclear on your objectives. But it occurs to me that maybe you are suggesting a mixing of the three types in some way. I've not yet written verse drama. Not sure I have any interest in it. But I have made both narrative and lyric poetry, which, by extension, includes a couple of novels and a bunch of short stories. If what you are after is, in fact, a mixing of the three types I say go for it. I am not. I am easy with the classic sorting system. But I have to be honest here. That or not be particularly happy with myself. Lyric poetry is always and everywhere lyric poetry. It is the direct I/Thou address. It doesn't matter if the lyric poem brings in the personal pronoun "I." The "I" in lyric poetry is always and everywhere implied. This is as true of the ancient Chinese Odes as collected and defined by Confucius as it is of the most LangPo of LangPo poetry. And so, and I don't mean this to insult you or anyone else, eschewing the personal "I" or killing off the author as has become the mantra in some circles, strikes me as disingenuous. That or maybe there is fourth sort of poetry to which I am not privy, and I don't think there is.

So this is rock bottom for me, Steveman. Lyric poetry, no matter current notions, is limited to the direct I/Thou address, no matter the persona adopted or even the mask, as Yeats put it. There is no escaping it. No escape from the author for that matter.

Tere

(i should probably add that this is how the case seems to me. what i've come to with regards to certain on going discussions concerning the poetic stance(s). i am open to correction. but having thought about it all for a considerable amount of time the correction will require positive proof to the contrary.)

Last edited by Terreson, Jan/3/2010, 6:47 pm
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Steveman says: " But... Clotho etc... Does that mean poetry was just like, erm... fixed in Greece in about 900BC???."

Thanks, Steve. You bring up a short coming in how I communicate in poetry. See, for me, the mythic is very much alive and in the here and now. On one level at least I swear that woman came home with me one night. Maybe it has to do with a time/space Native Americans call Ceremonial Time. A place where all the tenses, past, present, and future co-exist. Then again maybe I am just crazy or subject to an overly active imagination.

Tere
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Pat, I'm partly playing Devil's Advocate here, as I don't actually have any big thing against first person stuff. If I'm serious then it is in that I personally like reading stuff that uses as many of the tools of language as are currently available rather than always going with the same format. But this is more Devil's Advocate than serious, as a lot of these arguments crumble under serious scrutiny, and I'm aware of that. As Tere says, all is the I really. But, having said that, the first person is a soliloquy. Two voices bring something else in. Throwing in bits and pieces of text from wherever in a non-narrative form can make a 'multi-media' drama. It's a personal thing, yes, but I'd get bored watching movies that were all about one person and in which only one person ever spoke.

Katlin, I dunno what 'progress' is, or what it means to 'get a long way' apart from that, for instance, Prynne, who abandons most conventional narrative forms in poetry, seems to do very well without them. But then what does 'do very well' mean? In his case it means he is now widely respected as someone who has taken poetry to a new place without using LangPo. But that's pretty subjective too in some ways. But, for instance, if we look at a lot of 'traditional' poetry, we see it following structures that it got from the telling of stories. Opening, conflict, struggle, resolution... Even when there is no real resolution there can be a sort of atmospheric resolution where the poet climaxes the poem with some sort of finale. Obviously this doesn't reflect real life very accurately, as almost everything in real life is continuous and doesn't come in neat, poem-sized packages with a theatrical finale. So maybe real experience is better represented by a poem that just trails off and leaves the reader no idea if it's resolved or not.

That's one way of looking at it anyway, and both the LangPo people and the English avant garde poets (including Prynne) got into that idea. So it was a move away from what had been. That's one example. Maybe it's 'progress'. Maybe it's a sideways move. Who knows? My Devil's Advocate thing here is the projecting of relative values onto these approaches. I don't really stand by any such evaluations as I don't believe they make sense. Plus I want the freedom to write any old sentimental narrative crap I feel like without some smartass telling me I am wrong for doing so. And I regularly do. Just thought I'd see what people thought about all this stuff. I hope you don't mind me trolling gently...

Tere, yeah, myth is wildly alive for me too. I was raised on it. We had no TV when I was a kid (much to my chagrin at the time), and I was spoonfed mythology. Glad to hear you feel something similar. I don't know if it helps in any way, but I wouldn't swap it.

Steve.

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Here is another poem to parse, spit out, spit up, or barf on. First draft, I think, came in '96. I remember it was November. And I was living in a deep forest, climax forest, environment.

In Storied Nights

How wood, how water,
how heart-still stays the tender of home,
the fire and thirst for love's perfection
in body touch in calm eye of storm.
Dances of November, dancers off the ocean,
the wild weather of womantide warming with
honey of fireweed heavy on forehead,
heavy in abandon when dancing trees
come nearest in on haunted grounds of home.

Far out from the poppy glow, the glare glow
of city beneath embossed light shield,
out from and into the innocent night
where death and life mix inside the milky bowl;
in no shame for where they are, where they've
come from, where their children bear
upon them upending passion for more.

In the palm, in the hand, in the spiraling,
the mother round mystic of the universe
where there is no stop to river and flow,
no check, no erratic rock to halt
the cosmic habit of deeptime's fractal fold.

Just so the forest calls in like stalls
the names of those who hear or who
cannot hear except in waking dreams.
In white femur bone of deer on fertile floor,
in windless breeze rising up sparse leaves,
or in tawny wildcat gone winter gray
who occupies midnight corners of the day,
looking in on things he sees out of
green eyes looking out from things inside.

Clarity when comes of perfect space can
have return, when spatial texture of fleshy
sculptures hold in high hand dreamer, thinker, or
perfect lover; there when Wild Beauty in Calm
leads on, leads on.
She who lives out through the human fracture.

Terreson
Jan/3/2010, 11:44 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
deepwaters Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


If I may go back to the "she and I" structure that was under discussion a few posts ago....

I don't know if I have anything significant to add, but it reminds me of having had to read loads and loads of romantic poems by Hafez, Rumi, and Khayam growing up. Now, one thing that Farsi does is that the pronouns are genderless, so the he/she, and even occasionally it, are not distinguished. So, we were always fed this line that the love in these collections is about the love of God, and the lover is God, and the wine-drinking in all these poems is a metaphor for being high on the love of God. (cough cough)

Frankly, who knows what the heck the poet is thinking when he/she writes? We each draw our own conclusions, which is what art is supposed to do (IMHO) - to allow you to be inspired, to be moved, to be touched in any way that is relevant to *you*. The point of my rambling is that if the poem can move and touch and inspire and motivate and provoke and evoke thoughts, it shouldn't matter it it is "she and I" or "God and I" or "death and I" or "growth and you." Most of Tere's poems accomplish those objectives for me.

Or am I misunderstanding the issue that was under discussion?




Last edited by deepwaters, Jan/6/2010, 1:36 pm
Jan/5/2010, 2:24 am Link to this post Send Email to deepwaters   Send PM to deepwaters
 
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


deepwaters says: "Or am I misunderstanding the issue that was under discussion?"

Not so far as I am concerned, Shabfriend. You just cut through a whole lot of layers (I want to call it scar tissue) of verbiage. I am going back through all the poets in my head. Perhaps there are too many? The case for you is how it seems to me when it comes to poetry. Everying else amounts to local, environmental bias and protective coloring. Or maybe I am misunderstanding.

Don't I remember from Lily's days you are a linguist?

Tere
Jan/5/2010, 7:32 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Tere, you remember correctly, though I am a psycho one by training (i.e., a psycholinguist), and one who has not worked on linguistics for a year now.
Jan/6/2010, 1:51 pm Link to this post Send Email to deepwaters   Send PM to deepwaters
 
Katlin Profile
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


"I, you, he, she, we,
In the gardenof mystical lovers,
these are not true distinctions."

Rumi, trans. by Barks emoticon

P.S. I just happened on these lines while I was looking for something else and thought I'd throw them into the mix.

Last edited by Katlin, Jan/6/2010, 7:04 pm
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Kat and Shab remind me of something Goethe said in a poem.

Though most men suffer dumbly, yet a god
Gave me a tongue to utter all my pain.

Took me awhile to figure out the resonance in what he was saying. He wasn't talking about personal pain, not exclusively. He was talking about, and talking to, every man's, every woman's pain. I've known the truth of this once or twice when I've overheard someone reciting a poem of mine with feeling, making the I/Thou address theirs. No longer mine.

Tere
Jan/7/2010, 4:24 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Seven days since my last posted poem. Let me go for another. I was reminded today that in the Pacific Northwest winter, for Native Americans, got called the sacred season. In their communal plank houses families would keep, each with its own fire, and they would stay out of the cold and the rain. The village story teller or shaman would tell the village lore, the stories concerning creation and such. It was the time of the year devoted to telling the lore. Thus the name Sacred Season. My poem draws on this.


In Season Song

In sacred season song
to moon sail wearing amber comb
when closer cloud cannot cover
quartzstone light through shale of night,
when hoarse wind hum raises on roof
and white water wears away
slaty shore's edge worn away while
wondering how ever to come so close,
with still only hope and only hope
knowing never has the closer touch
come other than the dream;

when love's gone south or turned back
under or asleep, when fingers
have part before sediment rock
while cold cheek to mineral speaks,
pressing print in captive cut of shape
with skeletal form for horsetail gone
and girlish eyes see fissure lies;

while marrow of moon tones tide and
leather legging rubs the ladder
leading star spine in curl around
to plankhouse on western face where
face southwestern tilts the shore,
through long night's let on gray back dawn
and sallow sun rasp in raven throat
and rose red hips hanging bearded, busted
bursting on white fingers of frost,
dry thorn dreams in soft shoots of summer,
deep root remembers young wisdom when
wisdom had love for sister circle's kin;

and plankhouse still standing, still dazed,
still shaken, still the pliant cedar
split or woven through dreamhouse for
quests unbundled through unguard doors,
and raven first the mother's son with
burdens crossed in winterworld love
for sacred season song
never unletting longing in heart,
nor smooths the feathery soul, nor
stilling centuries' keep in-sown from
first light let on forest floor;

through river pass fall and hawk hunt snag
when talons tie the last life strand
and prey of eye mercy speaks
itself asleep
blessed then those having retreat
who life sleep,
while blessed more the daughter dream when
wide waking in daughter dream when
always waking to daughter dream then
and sons whose vision give the guide.

Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Jan/11/2010, 1:57 am
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


What She Knows and Never Says

She's still not forgiven the crows
for the morning called cruel and cold,
the icy morning when mob of them
bore down on burnish the brown the
long tail of sharp shinned hawk.
We could hear them closing in until
the din of so many echoed in cottage,
until they had hunting hawk hemmed between
cottage deck and bulkhead because
tide was rising, lapping high the pilings.

She was first out the door
and seeing how hawk was dazed while
pushed below by crows' beak and wings,
holding there the horus son submerged,
and still the mob wheeling around her
as she poked bolder crow with long gaff;
and finally the flock of them widening to
make complaint in nearest alder trees,
while burnish the brown the long tail of
sharp shinned hunted hawk, dazed and drenched,
half-flew onto deck, then up to gabled roof
of silver gray the cedar shakes, to
finally ascend overhang limb.

Later I tried to tell her how black birds
have for togethering, even haranguing
larger red tails and wide wing fishhawks and eagles,
telling too of a suburban scene once seen
when burnish the brown the long tail of
sharp shinned hunting hawk came to swoop
into berrybush sagging with sparrows,
carrying out in clutch little one fellow.

But winnow words could do no good when
cousin crows crossed her morning sense;
or so it then seemed but now unsure, as
still the bottom look in her eyes of
hidden the meaning in sharp meeting when
her down is under where I cannot climb.

Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Jan/31/2010, 12:21 am
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Just a Thing

There is a warbler in the green,
hard to know the name
in the body of the green,
the little yellow warbler
as surprising as
the female flower
when she's swollen, standing
holding open
in late dewlight and spring.
The warbler through the window
near to where I kneel,
calling back behind
to the working girl who's home;

just a little seen thing
a smaller passerine
fluttering, feeding, nearer to
the heart stop.
Mascara eyes, the flashing
whiteness in the wings,
then gone inside
the living wall of green,
coming back behind, out beside
along the willow stems and limbs
of where we want to be,
gone further between
the tremble of trees.

Terreson
Jan/31/2010, 12:45 am Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Terreson poetry (bitter root and sweet)


Tere,

"fulling sister of the threads"

"still the bottom look in her eyes of
hidden the meaning in sharp meeting when
her down is under where I cannot climb"

As if the language evolved in the country which is the poem itself and I'm traveling through this foreign, yet oddly familiar terrain. Hope that makes a little sense. "fluttering, feeding, nearer to/the heart stop." Like that poem, Tere.

Chris
Jan/31/2010, 10:31 am Link to this post Send Email to ChrisD1   Send PM to ChrisD1
 
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Welcome home, Chrisfriend. It makes sense. I was thinking last night, early this morning actually, man, I got a lot of bird incited poems. What's up with that? Thanks for reading.

Tere
Jan/31/2010, 2:02 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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I keep coming back to Just A Thing. It is just such a lovely thing. Thanks for the read.
-s
Feb/1/2010, 4:24 pm Link to this post Send Email to deepwaters   Send PM to deepwaters
 


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