Wyvern Posted March 11, 2004 Report Posted March 11, 2004 3/10/04 A little black boy, slamming his worn Reeboks onto iron Subway grids every time he marches over one on the pavement. Is he signalling a proud plumber morse code, or wearing out his shoes in the hopes of avoiding the next sneaker shooting? A small tumbleweed of grayish hair rests quietly at the top of the professors loosely buttoned shirt as a girl in the first row eagerly raises her hand to ask about the open sexuality of Whitman's Leaves of Grass. It's only been two stanzas, and I've already cheated. That last image was not today's, it was a different week, midterm review class, March something... fifth? The scene lingered, so I thought I'd share it. See the Chick-Fil-A chef. See the Chick-Fil-A chef serve. See the outfit that the Chick-Fil-A chef wears: a classic white chef smock which contrasts with the hue of her skin. Still, not as dark as other chefs who, flocked like cattle, also serve at meal stations. See the supervisor, his white skin gleaming with pride, as he oversees the cafeteria-plantation. The teacher's stuttered slurs finally break the silence as students are invited to leave fifteen minutes early for break, but hesitation looms as the disappointment in his tone screams "Why can't you just read the material for once?!"
Appy Posted March 11, 2004 Report Posted March 11, 2004 initial reaction: Lovely Catchy, honest but/and thought-provoking... Lovely Thanks
Wyvern Posted March 13, 2004 Author Report Posted March 13, 2004 3/12/04 A panoramic visual from my line of sight, facing a crooked laptop screen: 0 degrees: a small clock, nestled beside a music speaker, its glow-in-the-dark hour arrow aligned with a luminous minute pole. Both facing the 1 mark, turning from the Swiss Army logo of 12 O clock, though by the time this is written they've split into a mock triangle, the hour hand desperatly reaching to connect with the interval markers that the minute pole always seems to touch. On the outskirts of 8 and 9 rests a black alarm stick which ruffles 8s head with its yellow tip. It stretches alone, motionless, though in 17 minutes the minute pole will accompany it there and break the time triangle it once attempted to form. 20 degrees: a piece of a stereo at eye level, labeled "Deck 1," subtitled "playback," right beside the smokey, mascara red tapedeck. A needlessly transparent unit which, for all it's colorful pomposity, has yet to ever touch a demo tape. A few degrees to the left stands a line of identical holes. Thin and barely visible, they spew heat like vomit every time a note is read off of a compact disc. Above the holes rests a tiny piece of styrofoam, hopelessly stranded on an Ocean of metalic silver. The first six lines of that segment were written at 1 AM 3/11/04, though that could be the 12th depending on the way you seperate dates. 45 degrees: a remote control lies in a pool of dust next to a music speaker. Rarely touched, only fiddled with once, it has never felt the comfort of a set of double As. Beside it is the knob of a lamp, which radiates light like a UFO that has landed and signals to other saucers through small, circular discs surrounding it's cockpit. The lamp head bulges with three layers of fat underneath the saucer knob, until the mouth containing it's bulb opens wide, and gives insects an auditoriam for their last moments on Earth. 90 degrees: one half of a door framed at the end of a short hall, the other half blocked by a parallel wardrobe that sits close enough to touch. At the foot of the wooden structure lies one half of a trash bag, the blues and reds of the boxes within it cobwebbed by the cold gray of it's surface. Far above the bag lie the points of two Melody Record bags curiously curving down towards the waste and risking a sky dive. Well, it looks like I lied again. I promised a panorama, but only described objects.
Yuki Kokoro Posted March 13, 2004 Report Posted March 13, 2004 First piece: The first stanza was powerful and such a strong contrast between the two possibilities was thought-provoking. I really liked the conversational explanation in the third stanza as well. The lines about the "Chick-Fil-A chef" read very oddly, but slowing down and taking the time to imagine them being said aloud helped. These lines surprised me: "See the supervisor, his white skin gleaming with pride/ as he oversees the cafeteria-plantation" it's intriguing to be given a scene then hearing a take on it I never would have thought of. My favorite was definitely the last stanza though. "Hesitation looms as the disappointment in his tone screams 'Why can't you just read the material for once?!'" This is something my English teacher is going through as well, all the seniors are excited about our upcoming graduation and reading is being put by the wayside. Very nice job describing the aura created by that feeling. Second piece: This whole description seems so lonely. So many lines like:: "desperately reaching," "has yet to ever touch a demo tape," "hopelessly stranded," "rarely touched, only fiddled with once," and, "cold gray of it's surface". Right down to "Well, it looks like I lied again" this whole poem seems... at least melancholy, but I think the tone is more sad. A tiny piece of styrofoam, hopelessly stranded on an Ocean of metallic silver and A needlessly transparent unit which, for all it's colorful pomposity, has yet to ever touch a demo tape were my favorite visuals. This was interesting. More of a dialogue/description than a poem, especially with the reference to when the lines were written. It was almost a shock to be pulled out of the description so suddenly like that, you did such a good job bringing the reader into the room. Nice job overall with both of these, it was cool to see some pieces so stylistically different. *yawns and wanders off to bed as her brain fries*
Wyvern Posted March 15, 2004 Author Report Posted March 15, 2004 3/14/04 Yesterday, on the train to Silver Spring, I met one of those communicative oddities. Former art history/sociology major, with deep-rimmed glasses, short hair, and probably thirty years to endlessly chat about. I first caught her exchanging sentences with an old man three seats behind her, seperate by three feet, two unfamiliar yet intimate strangers. After the man fell silent, a young black woman boarded and sat next to her, sparking another curious discourse. She spoke on discrimination, and the social justifications for hatred, as if she had previously worn the skin of her victim. She then told jokes about dead nuns while I sat in a seat opposite from her, and blankly stared at passing scenary. I tried not to tear my eyes from the grafittied walls and passing lots, but then left observations for interactions. "So you're a sociology major?" "Former art history/sociology, I teach at Catholic school." "I'm writing these poems called 'Observations' and am interested about how you can be so openly social." "Well, my mother is Irish." "I mean, I'm pretty reserved myself, so-" "Well, that's natural. What's your nationality?" "I'm from Calif-" "No, I mean like your parents." "Well, my mother is Russian." I can't do the conversation justice here, but I will tell you these lines: the former sociology major turned to me with her deep rimmed glasses and Catholic beliefs and calmly explained to me that "Russians are more reserved." --- An uplifting gospel from a church lit like fireflies is drowned by the abrasive flatulence of a cargo horn's low echo.
Vigil StarGazer Posted March 15, 2004 Report Posted March 15, 2004 * You see a Squirrel perching on Wyvern's shoulder wearing his cap backward and his his jeans hang loose. The furry thing spat on his paws as Wyvern (wearing gold chains and shades) continue his rapping. Besides wyvern's feet laid a sign that says "Will Rap for Geld" *
Wyvern Posted March 26, 2004 Author Report Posted March 26, 2004 some month/ some day/ some year Today, you turned on your computer and decided to visit the Mighty Pen website where this thread of "poetry" and responses happens to be located. Did the tiny Quill image next to the title pique your curiousity, or was this entry reached in a random browse? How does it feel to be observed? And why shouldn't you be as important as the noises that choirs and sneakers make, as the ceaseless tongues of metro strangers and outfits of campus chefs? You are just as central, more central still. You, the purpose behind all poetry, the meaning behind the typing of every word. Omnipresent, you watch, and occasionally "speak" through writing, distant and powerful, repressively supportive. Let me briefly pause here and use this part of the poem to thank people for their comments. Every response expands upon the poem itself with observations of observations. You, the meaning behind the typing of every word. You, the meaning behind everything.
The Portrait of Zool Posted March 26, 2004 Report Posted March 26, 2004 The rubber chicken has no name.
Peredhil Posted March 26, 2004 Report Posted March 26, 2004 Nods as he listens to the sound of one geld with interest. You have a knack of encapsulating the "feel" of the scenes with broad strokes of your pen.
Wyvern Posted March 28, 2004 Author Report Posted March 28, 2004 3/25-28/04 "You're worser than the white man!" screams the hobbling bundle of rags, aiming his rant up the sunlit street towards a silent man, walking steadily, slowly, quietly wishing he were deaf, his dark brown hand cradling a clinking yellow bag of change in a confused mixture of casual comfort and nervous anxiety. A leather jacket carried in his other hand seems to tremble as the rants grow louder, until finally he grimaces and tosses the jacket with all of his might, towards his verbal abuser, who, ignoring the gesture, hoarsely yells over angered spittle and distant sirens: "Worser than the white man! You- I bought every one of them clothes on your back!" Borders Books basement - CD section, a man with a loose head of bald spots, a weary complexion and a leather jacket asks, no, pleads to a cheerful woman at the information counter for a disc to get his daughter, hoping for a moment of insight, more than just a potential gift. "Something non-vulgar, non-offensive, innocent." he repeats, squawking like a parrot choking on a piece of it's cracker. "... that she'll like" is added as an afterthought as the woman smiles and nods and directs him towards the Cheetah Girl albums in the Disney section. Listening to her suggestions, the man lets out a brief guffaw... the only means of expressing his hidden disappointment at knowing more about his daughter than he ever cared to admit. Leafing through an "A" research project containing sixteen articles, the teacher turns to the last student handing one in and asks "How many articles?" "Eight." he replies flatly, bundling the pages together, and organizing them neatly. The teacher is silent for a moment, then is about to speak up when the student firmly plants the pages on her desk. "Hey!" he says. "I did eight articles." and with that, he proudly walks away.
Wyvern Posted May 22, 2004 Author Report Posted May 22, 2004 5/22/04 "The Worse Lines of This Collection as of 5/22/04" A short poem by Evan Litwack, presented in a series of adjective trifecta. "The scene lingered, so I thought I'd share it." Arrogant, cocky, vain. "Far above the bag lie the points of two Melody Record bags curiously curving down towards the waste and risking a sky dive." Meaningless, empty, blank. "I tried not to tear my eyes from the grafittied walls and passing lots, but then left observations for interactions." Self-centered, pompous, void. "You, the purpose behind all poetry, the meaning behind the typing of every word." Generic, cliched, broad. "You- I bought every one of them clothes on your back!" Purposeless, hollow, vague. None stoop to the lows of "Diamond," or wallow in the shallowness of "Intentions," so there are worse still. Unless, of course, this poem is the worse; a stranglehold, a noose of inspiration, tightly knit through self-depreciation.
Wyvern Posted June 19, 2004 Author Report Posted June 19, 2004 8/17-21/03 Initials carved into twilight shorelines wash away with heightened tides as girlish echoes are lost to roars of waves and purple canvases of sky. Photographs depict a blur, a darkened mirage of time. Can memories overcome the lie? - How many hornets does it take to get to the center of a can of Mountain Dew? Only one, providing you have a flat surface, a hint of bravery, and a minute or two to kill. There's a certain sadistic pleasure in hearing those buzzes slowly fizz to a standstill as a bug finds its final resting place amongst the sources of its greed. - Silent eyes speak California earthquakes of concern as they vaguely focus on a hazy strip of Sunset Boulevard. Teriyaki sits One thumb under, index up Chopsticks in motion. - Captain's Log: communication successful. Outhouse was reached with only minor static, as the walkie-talky switched hands and Darth Vader breaths, while that echo of a flushing toilet showed us all that 'the force' is strong with our ally. - "Haha, that's quite a choice for a verb ending in 'I-N-G.' Can't share it here, unless you want this to go 'Scarlet.' Maybe some synonym, something less vulgar, more univeral..." ... loving?
Ayshela Posted June 19, 2004 Report Posted June 19, 2004 How many hornets does it take to get to the center of a can of Mountain Dew? peals of laughter, mid-flashback to old commercialbrilliant, Wyv, absolutely brilliant! i found myself snickering madly through most of this set, but stopped dead at Silent eyes speak California earthquakes of concern this.. wow. that's a very vocal silence, to speak such upheavals of emotion. stunningly *right*.
Yuki Kokoro Posted June 28, 2004 Report Posted June 28, 2004 I've missed a lot, and I think I'll celebrate my return by leaving comments on the "Observations" that struck me as the most interesting. My apologies for being so late in getting these to you. You've developed quite the talent for capturing complex emotions with concrete descriptions. It really is amazing how much feeling 3/14/04 brings out when the impressions of the speaker (or describer?) are not mentioned. The reader gets to witness this event second-hand and have their own reaction to it. Since this is such a loaded conversation, my personal reaction was very strong. It's an interesting style, the reader’s response is lead by the narrative, but the details are so like witnessing the conversation the feelings can't help but be personal. I liked this one a lot. The third observation for 3/25-28/04 was another one I really liked. The child's attitude just makes me smile. I actually feel proud of him, that he stands up and takes credit for what he did accomplish rather than listening to the teacher tell him what he didn't. It's a refreshing attitude, though it could be trouble over an extended period of time. 5/22/04 made me laugh, it reminds me of myself trying to start writing a poem. I really liked the last two lines: "a stranglehold, a noose of inspiration/ tightly knit through self-depreciation." Not only the meaning, but that rhyme just sounds cool. The last poem of your last post made me think as well. That word and it's synonyms are all so loaded with connotations. As I read the last line my impression flashed from ironic to sad and back to ironic so quickly I had to go back to figure out what the middle feeling was. Not sure what to say about this one other than I enjoyed it and you know how to pick interesting Observations. Keep it up!
Wyvern Posted August 27, 2004 Author Report Posted August 27, 2004 8/26ish/04 A sweaty, black T-shirt acquired from a hip hop performer who read childrens books on stage, and paraded his cock to whore attention. His moniker is reflected upon mirrors and computer screens once the monitor has gone blank: "Dopestyle 1231." The one thousand, two hundred and thirty-first rapper to not be able to count to four. She rambles on about the Olympics, Women's Beach Volleyball - Misty May and what's-her-name. She shouts about how she became exhausted simply watching the American team play on television while vacationing at the beach. She notes that Misty said something after winning a medal about how the vibrant crowds gave her energy. She sprinkles her phrases with cheap champagne and scewers hints of denial with hateful tones and sharpened corkscrew glances. She constantly repeats the names of those listening or those pretending to listen, clinging to "uh-huhs." She inevitably participates in an Olympic exercise since she makes sure that the meager spotlight she sees is always specifically focussed on her. 8/27ish/04 "Q & A" What kind of poem starts with a question? A questionable poem.
Wyvern Posted September 1, 2004 Author Report Posted September 1, 2004 8/31/04 An old man with a white beard remarks how beautiful the designs of the lines on the machine that monitored his pulse looked while his friends celebrate the fifth anniversary of his last heart transplant. He pays no attention, glued to his cell phone like the middle aged man behind him, like the young woman in front of him concentrating on a dial tone, like the couple sitting together, seperated by a million miles in speech in a metro car that rings with the bustling commotion of private conversations. Ethernet cards can be like elderly relatives outdated, but felt when they pass away. Or are they more like cases of puppy love? Sedating your thoughts through a mirrored display of emotion that eventually ventures above reality's own disarray. The headphone rings nestled in her pink hair cause her arms to move and her head to sway. Like an X-rated fantasy, excellent ecstasy music causes her body to play. This entry was written in a public setting over jeers of drunken freshmen outdoors providing an arrythmic background for editting.
Wyvern Posted September 13, 2004 Author Report Posted September 13, 2004 9/7 viewed from 12/04 A man fiddles with a small metalic circle of knobs, numbers, and modern designs. Innocent in appearence, a numeric gap between 88.9 and 89.9 on the machines monitor sends him into fits. He pleads to the people surrounding him using excuses of manic depression and anxiety in the hopes of somehow correcting the problem; he is unable to operate a machine that he himself owns. So helpless, like the boy with the red cord connected to the back of his neck, gaping blankly while standing too close to the electric metro railing. The window reflects her right bra strap. Hazily suggestive, its flower designs glimmer like blooming Foxgloves miraged by heat. The strap carefully follows eyesight, centerstage, its wildflowers outlined by the silver of cloud linings, visible only by the position of her arm as it stretches to rest on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her. An old man hides his face in the funny pages as a group of young black women seat themselves in the area in front of him. Short by one seat, they dismiss the open space beside him, and instead opt for a seat behind him, jeering and exchanging jokes about the thought of sitting next to him as he desperatly attempts to bury their humor in The Boondocks.
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