In Dark Places (rev 1) //Rik
Rik
Cold in the ice - sparkles on needles
shaken as chips skip from the trunk,
resin-scent curls moulting: a death
of seasons. That axe is treasured.
Old wood slots within the steel that lops
root from bole, warming the hands
that swirl it in arcs through air
as brittle as decorations.
Good will requires flames, a heap
of amber tongues licking goose meat
turned in lines over the stony pit.
We are in dark places, my love.
We can sit knee to hip and wait
beneath our stencilled angels -
but he won't come. He has no trust
in scratch-mark wings or cold hearths.
Still, I treasure these bricks, know:
our darkness has warmth, a comfort
of arms and dry cloth for the wrapping.
This new god of ours, he has a glitter
in his sled and a red coat to sleep on -
Will you dream in his beard tonight?
I bought you a present, wrapped
in scraps as torn as pockets. It is
- a bribe, I suppose, a new axe -
its shiny shape caught my eyes
like decorations dangled from boughs.
You can keep it by the door, if you like,
or hung on the wall where our fire burned
before I bricked it away, for safety.
(revision 1, Dec 07)
Rik, knee deep.
--
http://www.rikweb.co.uk/poems
Pop in for a browse: you know you're more than welcome ...
Dennis M. Hammes
The three lines about Santa are easier to read full of what was meant
(prolly easier to write, too) because they are surrounded by a
lifetime of ads and movies using Santa.
The scenario you relate around and about the fire is not, so it
reaches (in spots) for what the bits mean, sitting there in front of
the fire on the middles of their lines.
S1L5, I still wanna read "slots" as a verb after a half-dozen
attempts at anything else, because of the distribution.
The mood is great; I do wish I could figure out just what it's doing.
Maybe the voice does, too; it so wraps its grammar around its eye
teeth a couple of times, it can't see what it's saying...
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
Gresham's Law is not worth a Continental.
http://scrawlmark.org
Rik
> The three lines about Santa are easier to read full of what was meant
> (prolly easier to write, too) because they are surrounded by a lifetime
> of ads and movies using Santa.
> The scenario you relate around and about the fire is not, so it
> reaches (in spots) for what the bits mean, sitting there in front of the
> fire on the middles of their lines.
>
S4 still not working - like you say, it's too obvious and leads in a
direction that might not be so productive for the reader, or me. I think
I want something more /feral/ there, to match the geese.
> S1L5, I still wanna read "slots" as a verb after a half-dozen attempts
> at anything else, because of the distribution.
>
'slots' was intended as a verb. I was trying to be tricksy there.
> The mood is great; I do wish I could figure out just what it's doing.
> Maybe the voice does, too; it so wraps its grammar around its eye
> teeth a couple of times, it can't see what it's saying...
>
I want the poem to be a good bit of nonsense: sad nonsense, if you like,
saudade nonsense - but nonsense nonetheless.
Course, what I want and what the reader gets don't need to be backed up
by a vendor's guarantee ...
Rik, knee deep.
Dennis M. Hammes
Naaah, it is what it is, and I think from what you mention that it's
pretty close to what you wanted. The lotsa not-quite-specifiable
mood part works (so did "slots").
If you don't want the reader to identify the scenario or the
universe of the actions, it's only difficult, not impossible, to
specify the feelings therein. Those you've included are not vague so
much as they're somewhat delicate and prolly won't stand a lot of
analysis from either of us. Kinda like life with a woman in front of
a fireplace generally.
Rik
<snip>
> Naaah, it is what it is, and I think from what you mention that it's
> pretty close to what you wanted. The lotsa not-quite-specifiable mood
> part works (so did "slots").
> If you don't want the reader to identify the scenario or the universe
> of the actions, it's only difficult, not impossible, to specify the
> feelings therein. Those you've included are not vague so much as
> they're somewhat delicate and prolly won't stand a lot of analysis from
> either of us. Kinda like life with a woman in front of a fireplace
> generally.
>
Just for that, you get a revised version:
*In* *Dark* *Places*
Cold in the ice - sparkles on needles
shaken as chips skip from the trunk,
resin-scent curls moulting: a death
of seasons. That axe is treasured.
Old wood slots within the steel that lops
root from bole, warming the hands
that swirl it in arcs through air
as brittle as decorations.
Good will requires flames, a heap
of amber tongues licking goose meat
turned in lines over the stony pit.
We are in dark places, my love.
We can sit knee to hip and wait
beneath our stencilled angels -
but he won't come. He has no trust
in scratch-mark wings or cold hearths.
Still, I treasure these bricks, know:
our darkness has warmth, a comfort
of arms and dry cloth for the wrapping.
A stew needs more than one bean
to thicken the broth. We could plant it,
climb high and sleep in his beard tonight
I bought you a present, wrapped
in scraps as torn as pockets. It is
- a bribe, I suppose, a new axe -
its shiny shape caught my eyes
like decorations dangled from boughs.
You can keep it by the door, if you like,
or hung on the wall where our fire burned
before I bricked it away, for safety.
(rev 2 or 3, can't remember, Dec 07)
Rik, knee deep.
Dennis M. Hammes
Wow. Hardy should have found this voice, this daring not to beg.
What about "shiny"? It is the shape that caught, a shape that /does/
something -- other than shine.