Comments for Yeah. I do a little writing . . .

Comment on Abating by mother2rah

mother2rah — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 18:14:24 +0000

always – hope and miracles – always

Comment on Swimming through Stone by lostone69

lostone69 — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:11:18 +0000

I wish I was a wonder with words and could tell you how much this poem has opened my eyes. Thank you for giving me more of an understanding how you are feeling and you’re struggling. Please just don’t give up on yourself ever, you are the only one that can fight the current, no matter how many people try to give you a life vest.

Comment on Swimming through Stone by mother2rah

mother2rah — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 17:36:47 +0000

powerful

Comment on Runs-with-Sticks (for Sevannah) by Andrew

Andrew — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 01:54:27 +0000

I like this, it’s interesting the way that you extend it. And add some realism.

Comment on Runs-with-Sticks (for Sevannah) by Jon Sanders

Jon Sanders — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 17:10:40 +0000

Good stuff!

Comment on Poet’s Angst by bitterhermit

bitterhermit — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 17:45:22 +0000

That Old un-Forgotten Song

A barely remembered tune, that haunting
memory of bygones gone by halts me
in my tracks: have I trodden here with thee?
To whom do I refer to as thee? Straining
the archaic pronoun—distancing
what might encroach on conscious memory,
recall to mind’s forefront some other me
I used to be. Who was he? How daunting
a task to remember what my heart shunned—
more recalling why. So I sit here stunned,
humming an un-forgotten song: my self
drowned in whiskey and time; down from the shelf
I pull our old hymnal and hum unsung
lyrics tear-eyed and stinging where they stung.

29 August 2009
David M Pitchford

Comment on Poet’s Angst by mother2rah

mother2rah — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 14:22:58 +0000

Poems Unheard

Lyrics from some not forgotten song plays
inside my head on walks alone at dusk.
I avoid traveling that path – our past;
the walk to the park pain-filled even now.

I rationalize away the need, use
the dog’s fatigue as an excuse to stay
close to home – ignoring my desire
to retrace steps crumbled into the dust.

The ache in my chest will be examined
by machinery and technology;
the doctor will diagnose the problem,
prescribe more pills or suggest surgery.

I’ll give in, knowing time will heal this and
whispers will remain soft poems unheard.

Siobhan
08-25-09

Comment on Poet’s Angst by bitterhermit

bitterhermit — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 13:49:07 +0000

When All Else Ceases

There are no whispers in the dark; the phone
remains silent in its cradle. The dark
presents its prison of loss. Walks in the park
are melancholy exercises alone;
night a mothridden nostalgia loadstone
that pulls me toward the wagon’s edge, its stark
reality unanswered void. No spark
can star skies closed in cloud as the trains moan
their blues to unheeding ears, crooners reft
of audience—heard yet unheeded? Time
makes liars of us all, and life proves out
Solomon’s admonitions. Meaning left
us cold, sensibilities alone, rhyme
slipped into oblivion. Perhaps doubt . . .

25 August 2009
David M Pitchford

Comment on A nod to Nietzsche by bitterhermit

bitterhermit — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 20:22:26 +0000

Bahram: who are you that I should feel so blessed to have a moment of your thought or consideration? Who are you that I should take your opinion into consideration? I mean this as a serious question, not as a challenge. In my culture, it is considered rude to tell people how they should feel. If you mean it in kindness, then thank you.
I don’t subscribe to your opinion on Nietzsche, but aside from that I don’t see how that determines this as a ‘terrible poem’. It is not altogether reasonable to assume that the poet and the narrative voice are one – that the narrative voice is the opinion or experience of the poet directly. Also, this poem is a sonnet. Originally it was written as an unrhymed sonnet. I’ve now framed it into a Petrarchan sonnet. The sonnet rejects Confessionalism and is not the place for what you seem to expect in a poem – the Zen moment or the ‘pure experience’.
The metaphor is rather strained, but it is not a bad metaphor. In fact, I think it is rather clever. Especially how it works with the poem in a rhetorical sense. If the reader doesn’t comprehend it, that in itself does not make the metaphor a failure. As the metaphor works to rhetorically stretch the volta, it is the appropriate metaphor for this context.
Sincerely,
David

Comment on A nod to Nietzsche by bitterhermit

bitterhermit — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 20:03:37 +0000

Nodding to Nietzsche
They say that god is love: then, Nietzsche, yes,
god is dead. Its bloated corpse is my heart—
mind memory-ravaged, life torn apart
by stinking maggots as they consume no less
than all: sins unforgiven though I confess
all fault—mea culpa—life, all and part
corrupt, iniquity in me an art
of unbelieved words, verses void and vimless

slain beside their dead god, angels dancing
no longer on the pen’s head, but rutting
in human frailty—this slippery slope
of failed faith. Yet death feeds life—romancing
apotheosis, Death stops his strutting:
As maggots become flies, so love’s death births hope.

David M Pitchford
28 July 2009 (revised from 21 July)