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tree secrets |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods 
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I step over dirt grooved into black which could pass for infinity in the waning evening. Cooling, I shiver, push my hands into my pockets, push under the doorway that used to be yours. Blue sprayed on the walls: a friendly obscenity, sans a name No hallways, just thresholds holding rooms together. I stalk the gutted den, feeling the wood grind against shards stuck to the soles of my shoes. Peer out a broken window to the cement deck collecting bits of paper, wet dirt on the air from the canal, beer bottles, and footprints … then climb through. Tightroping the edge of the dock, moss concaves to my step as I cast eyes and longing over the draining water. Cherry reflections of the sunset carve out gold and nostalgia (for a place I just now know) between the reeds and rusted rings of the pool. I am beckoned across the grass in the backyard – which soaks my socks through my sneakers – to an umbrella of tree twisting past my understanding of ancient. My finger on a nail holding half a wooden step, I lose my focus in the unbounded blur of leaves; feel as if I’ve sunk into my childhood and watched the town burn down. You staple memories to spaces, and I nod and visualize... Daydream of being a tenant then, of meeting you here, stealing to the back room (that we must guess at behind the padlock) to you and your music -- trying to beguile with a sense of humor and youth. Circle toe in the dust, maybe? Supposing I kissed you, might I have made it in? What if I climbed the tree and you followed into the arms of my wish-want-fantasist-melancholy to the cover of black branches and small glossy leaves, above the needs of people who haven’t the luxury of dangling their shoes over the edge of fifteen feet and counting, and leaning back to hold the stars in their eyes; who walk around an old house they owned, stabbing hands into their pockets imagining the walls without holes, the floors without trash, the seduction of barefoot steps from the living room to the pond instead of glass underfoot?  [This message has been edited by Elizabeth Cor (edited 05-31-2001).] |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Be mean? lol...methinks you get enough abuse! I loved this beth, your love of nature and eye for detail create an interesting contrast here...keep checking those back burners for more gourmet poetry!  |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
I very much enjoyed this walk through your thoughts...thank you. |
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Yu Lan Senior Member
since 2000-04-13
Posts 1462New Zealand |
Oh.. Breathes. Ok, I'm ok now.. Wow, Elizabeth, I love this.. this is like.. wel, it's like those 'memories' are my own now.. this is so.. I don't know.. but I can't be mean, that's all the abuse i can give you there..  beautiful.“One word can be magical. Imagine then, the effect of several words, together..” |
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brian madden Member Elite
since 2000-05-06
Posts 4374ireland |
beautiful poem. enjoyed the read. "difference between love and comfortis that comfort's more reliable and true |
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Dopey Dope
Moderator
Member Patricius
since 2000-08-30
Posts 11132San Juan, Puerto Rico |
I really like the part about stapled memories on spaces. I thought that really stood out. Well for me it did. Well done here!  I was born myself, raised myself, and will continue to be myself. The world will just have to adjust. |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
Aww, thanks guys. My muse has been very, very sleepy lately... but I've always had a soft spot for this little verse, plain as she is... glad you enjoyed. |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap |
Elizabeth: I have read this about 5 times now and I finally felt compelled to reply ... there must be a lesson in there somewhere ... LOL No hallways, just thresholds holding rooms together Very clever diction here ... kept it simple but original – I like. Tightroping the edge of the dock, moss concaves to my step as I cast eyes and longing over the draining water YES!! I see this ... but where was the water draining? Is this the canal or the pool? *confused*I lose my focus in the unbounded blur of leaves; feel as if I've sunk into my childhood and watched the town burn down. Like, wow. That last line hit me like a brick to the gut ... A neat little piece of life you have here, Ms Cor. Linda ... what if the Hokey Pokey really IS what it's all about ...? |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
And NOW the individual responses: Miss K, how appropriate that you get here first... thank you, pretty crafter, your attention overvalues me… I feel a bit sheepish and negligent  ... and if you can't find a way to sling mud through poetry, feel free to slap me around a little. Sighs and hugs, sweetie.Martie, I've always enjoyed my walks through yours... Thank you! Yu Lan, I'm not sure whether I should offer my gratitude or an oxygen tank (perhaps a paper bag?). Smirks and smiles and grateful regards. Dopey/Javier/Puerto Rican Sex God, ~grins~ I liked that one too... you know how you can write a poem and look back on it and one line pops out at you and you think, "MAN! I am so glad I came up with that one!" Yep. One of those. Brian, your replies are always so very appreciated. Thank you, sir. *gasp* Praise from Linda??? Darling do you have a brain tumor, did the Bakersfield *ahem* fumes finally get to you??? *blinks* Has Chris used his lobotomizing capabilities over ICQ? ... no? Just checking  ... *shaking head* I admit -- I'm surprised: acclaim from you is a high honor, my dear, I didn't think this poem would catch it. I’m flattered. (But thank Athena this wasn’t posted in the CountlessHorizons BBs, god knows what the freaks in there would do to it). p.s. It was the pond.Thanks all. Good night.  [This message has been edited by Elizabeth Cor (edited 06-08-2001).] |
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Severn Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704 |
Don't fall over - it's me. I've been delving around in here and couldn't resist commenting on this simply because well..I just like it so much. Yes, it is an almost translucent poem. Now that might not make sense to anyone but me, but there you go. Believe me it's a compliment. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to rip it apart you know. Heh. Seriously, your writing reminds me of some of mine sometimes. Not in an exact way - but in pieces, and lines...and the matter of fact quality. (But I used to be very vague lol.) I step over dirt grooved into black which could pass for infinity **Are you a stickler for punctuation? (Like obssessive me heh) If so this needs to be: I step over dirt grooved into black, which... in the waning evening. Cooling, I shiver, push my hands into my pockets, ** I wonder - is the shiver necessary here? But then if you removed it you'd be presented with the dilemna of keeping the repetition of 'push' in the format you have it, yes? You could just have "Cooling I,/push etc" But that might seem like literary arrogance. Shrug, just a thought. push under the doorway that used to be yours. Blue sprayed on the walls: a friendly obscenity, sans a name No hallways, **What are you doing with a capital N and no fullstop? just thresholds holding rooms together. I stalk the gutted den, ** Nice, nice...powerful even. feeling the wood grind against shards stuck to the soles of my shoes. ** Don't know about the alliteration here. Forced just a tad? Peer out a broken window to the cement deck collecting bits of paper, ** It's technique like this, which personifies the environment, that adds strength to your work. Brings it all closer to the reader. I like. wet dirt on the air from the canal, beer bottles, and footprints … then climb through. ** Odd place for an ellipses. Tightroping the edge of the dock, moss concaves to my step ** lovely. as I cast eyes and longing over the draining water. ** Agree with Linda on this point even though I know now what it was. Cherry reflections of the sunset carve out gold and nostalgia (for a place I just now know) between the reeds and rusted rings of the pool. I am beckoned across the grass in the backyard – which soaks my socks through my sneakers – to an umbrella of tree twisting past my understanding of ancient. *** Ooooooooooooooooooohhh. what's that they say. IWIHWT. My finger on a nail holding half a wooden step, I lose my focus in the unbounded blur of leaves; feel as if I’ve sunk into my childhood and watched the town burn down. ** ACK. What is it with people and semi-colons! There needs to be a semi-colon law. Use it right or die. Sheesh lol. You staple memories to spaces, and I nod and visualize... Daydream of being a tenant then, of meeting you here, stealing to the back room (that we must guess at behind the padlock) to you and your music -- trying to beguile with a sense of humor and youth. ** Ho hum...kinda passive..but nice enough. Circle toe in the dust, maybe? Supposing I kissed you, might I have made it in? What if I climbed the tree and you followed into the arms of my wish-want-fantasist-melancholy ** Much better lol. Great last line but of course you knew that when you wrote it. to the cover of black branches and small glossy leaves, above the needs of people who haven’t the luxury of dangling their shoes over the edge of fifteen feet and counting, and leaning back ** liking liking liking a LOT. to hold the stars in their eyes; *** bah. Cliche. I don't think the poem needs that line, honestly. who walk around an old house they owned, ** they're walking currently around a house they used to own? How? stabbing hands into their pockets imagining the walls without holes, the floors without trash, the seduction of barefoot steps from the living room to the pond instead of glass underfoot? ** This is kind of violent. Is it supposed to reflect hidden emotional violence? I like it anyway. Well, there you go. Rubbishy ramblings from K. But, Beth, I like this - it has that quality you know. The one all writers try to find (well, the serious ones lol).  KIt is to do with tree-ferns: mamuka, pongo, wheki. Shelter under here is so easily understood. From 'Hope', by Dinah Hawkins [This message has been edited by Severn (edited 06-09-2001).] |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
Note about the poem: this is sort of the short-short-short-short version of the inner dialogue I was having while we were exploring a house that my guide had once owned. The last stanza, while not clear in any sense really, began by reflecting on the past, and making speculations. What if I had showed up in their life when the house was occupied and in much, much better condition? Would we have melded? Would we have hated each other? Would I have gotten ‘in’ to them and vice versa? This begins to change as the stanza continues… instead of flat subjective conjecture, I begin to compare the two people we were with the two people we are (THIS is how the people I am considering in the poem use to own the place; it is the me from the past (in this imaginary situation) comparing my present self to.. er.. me. I TOLD you it wouldn’t make sense). Erg. This is weird. See, I’ve been suffering from this obstruction the preceding four months... not a lack of muse, but something akin to fatigue whenever I would attempt to compose my ideas/feelings/ tedious drivel. Still, I forced myself to at least try to write. Obviously, I couldn't seem to conjure up anything redeeming -- the above verse being the most recent unsuccessful attempt. I was so sick of not only the loss of my ability to write selfishly, but the loss of conveyance and its connected fulfillment that I dug out this sad, sad attempt at poetry (produced weeks and weeks ago) and posted it in the little haven of Passions. It's gotten a response that I consider amazing considering the content. After a long silence (in the poetry field), I publish a rambling written in 30 seconds flat, no edit, and it receives ALL this attention... gees. Add to that Linda and Kamla showing up? *shaking head* Unbelievable. Kamla? THANK YOU for the gutting; this one needed it desperately LOL. And GOD the semicolon thing... one of my pet peeves as well? Saw that it had been wedged into the middle of a sentence as though someone had simply thrown it at the poem to let it land where it may... almost retched. Heh. Sincerely, I greatly appreciate your taking the time to mince. *deep breath* *release* *sleepy, gratified smile* If anything, posting this has certainly been worth my while for many reasons, most of them latent. Thank you all, again and again… I will now retreat back into hiding. [This message has been edited by Elizabeth Cor (edited 06-09-2001).] |
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Severn Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704 |
(critiquing poetry is an EXCELLENT way of avoiding study...I'm sorry Beth, I used you. Or your poetry heh.) K |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
That's ok K... she likes the abuse. You know what I think about this, Bethany dear.  C  |
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Acies
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 2000-06-07
Posts 7665Twilight Zone |
Always a treat to read you. Though it gives me brain cramps all the time  Nothing to worry, it can be fixed with repetitious reading of your piece. Beautiful read hi Sweets, Lizzy, Ina, Erin, Erica, Minna, Kit, Kamie, Javi, Jenn, Sharon, Nan, Cawlee, Cherish, Ashley, Sara, Justine, Leah, Jess, Kimmie, Maree, Mic |
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Sven
since 1999-11-23
Posts 14937East Lansing, MI USA |
I did get the idea that this was a dialogue of some sort, but I didn't know with who. . . if it was someone inside of you, or someone that was walking with you. . . no matter, I like it either way. . . it's full of that spiritual quality that I like to see. . . something that's not easy to do. . . but you do it wonderfully. . . I like the fact that it just flows. . . very little or no punctuation. . . I've never been one to use too much of it ( ), but it works here, it lets the reader just place it where he wants to, gives him an idea that this is more than just something that's off the top of your head, that it's a conversation with something that we usually don't converse with. . . you know???it's an exploration into the spirit. . . --------------------------------------------------------------- To the world, you may only be one person. But to one person, you may be the world. |
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