Today, they are wriggling 
in their translucent strands,  
those unborn summer singers 
strung in the stream 
like lost ellipses, 
struggling to wake.  Some will 
be baked in the sun 
while their damp bed dries 
and the edges harden, 
crack and curl, crisp
while drought drops the level.

Hey man, that's actually really good. I enjoyed reading it; I like the flow.

-- ChristopherCrismanCox - 15 Feb 2010

I second that. Thanks for sharing.

-- JessicaCohen - 18 Feb 2010

Thanks for taking a look guys - got anything of your own? I know there are bound to be at least a few more folks out there with some creative spark, ya shouldn't be shy. Are we really as risk-averse as Eben says? (I'd like to think no) Take a risk, let someone see a different side of ya!

I finished another poem recently. Take a look.

A Plastic Bag Was

A plastic bag was
buffeted, blown, and
inextricably enveloped 
in the clear; 

that white shining soared, 
awash in the air, empty 
of anything's absence.

It rose, riffling in the cold 
current, carried high 
its shadow, drifting 
small on a red-brick wall.

Inundated in sky it slit
that building-bounded blue, 
slid and spun, engulfed
in eddies and enticing.

It will flex, bend, swell 
with the wind's rising 
- rolling hollows heave,
engorged in the waxing 
flow that fails - then,

lolling and pellucid,
edify in its ebbing
and end.  Embraced,
entangled in angled limbs, 
worn ragged by the bark 
of backlit branches.

Alright, got a new one. This is what you call complete, but unpolished. The entire thought is formed, and down, but the specifics are lacking, and the desired effect is impeded. I see this happen with lots of writing, not just poetry, and it translates into arguments (like my first version of the first paper). It's possible to have a whole thought, but lack the polish, the specificity, that makes it convey what you're after. While the idea may be a good one, it's a given that the flaws in language can and will be used by opponents to imply meanings, while not intended, which can seriously detract from the argument's overall effectiveness.

Enough rambling, here's something to read.

Star Fruit

The night is still 
now, quiet, dripping,
damp lamplights long 
ago gone bright -

bloomed, flickered 
open like the evening's 
morning glory, throwing 
flashes of pale pink;

an angle's trumpet, 
brugmansia's orange
opening gave way, now 
white, heavy and held 
high, spilling over into 
the darkness.  The black 

tarmac is slick, saturated 
shining branches sway slightly  
overhead; twigs droop,
drops hanging clear and 

pendant at their ends 
as if budding, as if 
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches

the star fruits swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky.

I like this, especially the line about the lamplights gone bright.

One thought: angle's trumpet: was angel meant here?

-- DevinMcDougall - 17 Apr 2010

Thanks for taking a look! Yes, angel was most definitely what was meant (nice job on the close read). See what I said about lacking polish? Also a terrific example of why it's nice to have someone proofread your work, because I sure read angle as angel every time.

-- MichaelHilton - 20 Apr 2010

Alright, so here's a second version, same poem after comments and critiques have been taken into account. Is the change stronger?

Star Fruit

The night is still,
now, quiet, now 
dripping, damp lamplights 
long ago gone bright -

bloomed, flickered 
open like an evening
angel's trumpet,
a midnight morning glory -
 
now white, heavy and 
held high, spilling into 
the darkness, blanketing.  

The black tarmac underfoot 
is slick, saturated, now
branches sway overhead; 
twigs droop, drops, 
hanging clear, shine

pendant at their ends 
as if budding, as if 
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches

the star fruit swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky.

Well I'll be damned, got another one. Eben said something today regarding disassociation, and I think the speaker in this is nothing if not disassociated. And, yes, that is a nod to Thomas Wolfe in the title! (Also, had to go with the wiki formatting on this one due to the lack of italics in the other mode. It stretches out the poems, and irks the hell out of me, but I suppose it's alright to fit with the trend in this one.)

Conversation With My Angel

I’ve said this

so many times before

I should write this down

before I no longer know

where to begin, I’ve said this

so many times before

I no longer

know what I’m saying,

if these words have any

I know I no longer love

you, I love who

you were, no longer

are, and don’t know

you at all, know you

hardly, maybe,

you, who you

are or were

to me at least

what that meant

Ok, so, back! As it turns out if you forget your password and leave the piece of paper it's written down on in NYC while you're away (helping out convicted criminals - but that's a different story) it's awfully hard to update your ill-read thread. In any case, I got a little writing done this summer. The weather was warm, so maybe that influenced my decision to play in around in shorts. Got two about plums, not sure which I like best so they're both included. The entire set is pretty repetitive, but it was done as an exercise so that's kinda the point. Also included in this update is a poem I started fiddling with...almost a year ago? Easy to tell which one that is. In any case, y'all enjoy! (Anyone still reading this, that is)

Breezy

That is not 
a warm wind 

sighing in your ear; 
it is Summer

coming on.



How to Eat a Peach

Put teeth to wet skin,
bite; lightly

until the juice
dribbles

down your chin.



Berry Picking 

Sample.  Savor
them slowly: taut

between fingers,
rolling

tender on your tongue.


 
Strawberry

After picking
they will be 

stained her lips 
red - the tips 

of your fingers.



Plum (one)

Behind that bitter 
exterior, firm flesh 

rushes sweet, tickles 
at the corners

of your mouth



Plum (two)
 
After its end
lingers: the taste

(skin's tart twang)
in the corners 

of your mouth.



Lemonade 

That last sip 
lingers 

(saccharine, tart)
like the print

of your lips.



[Untitled]

At four a.m. I followed
the water fumbling 
through the cracks

in the sidewalk slabs, 
beneath the swaying 
lights, reflected,
 
green-yellow-red 
rolling down 
the uptown avenue,

the damp asphalt,
a black-tar river running 
through the night. 

In the gutter there was,
ribboning on its way, 
a silver-backed snake 

threading down 
from the high ground, 
away from the morningside ridge 

to the steps
of Shelburne Hall. 
Where I found

inside, realized, I 
did not recognize 
the sound of rain, 

sat in the stairwell 
and etched 
its echo in my mind.

That's right, two updates in two days. Figured I'd share with you folks some edits I've made to poems written last semester (why should the new ideas have all the fun?). I hope I can keep this up and serve as an example that you too, dear reader, can be a [mediocre] law student at an [elite] institution without giving up the pieces of yourself you promised not to leave behind. Onward with the edits!

A Plastic Bag Was

A plastic bag was
buffeted, blown, and
inextricably enveloped 
in the clear; 

that white shining soared, 
awash in the air, empty 
of anything's absence.

It rose, riffling in the cold 
current, carried high 
its shadow, drifting 
small on a red-brick wall.



Supplication 

The leaves have come 
and gone again 
and still 
the bags remain 

as I first found them 
entangled in angled limbs, 
hanging limp, 
like cloth for mending,

like a prayer, 
but pellucid, listless 
until the breeze blows.
And then, 

how they strain 
at their bonds, 
such strange ships 

tugging at their moorings,  
longing to become
steeped in sky, inundated,

to flex, bend, and swell
with the wind's rising.
I have seen them

engulfed, 
in eddies,
enticing;
I have seen them

worn ragged 
on the bark 
of backlit branches;
I have seen them

edifying in their end.

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