7 poems - 7 days - Day 7 REDUX

Remember when I wrote poems? That was fun.

Well my pal Meghan H. (a published poet I'll have you know) was kind enough to go over a few of my bon mots and give me some feedback. She did this a long time ago and I am finally getting to it now. I feel the tying of loose ends is part of my growing up process that today also included finding a dentist!

BUT enough of me being smug about my teeth. Here's a second attempt with a new title. Original here. No promises on when others might get another look.

---Illiterate---

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another damnable attack

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I had was a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry and

rife with white bread sandwiches

There were stories there

and they trace back the same

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

No shorthand for history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Science can't help

with its stories told from a lab

book of hard truths and fact

A space clean, fluoresced and sharp

whose lights shine too self

confident and important

Words that might be explaining the universe

but fucked if I understand.

So I stare at the brightly lit and obvious

An opiate's stories

chanting electric prayer into the living

room

Burn and hide to dim the light

and the obvious becomes less and more

an archetype.

What I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 7

If you're going to cheat, you might as well cheat right at the end.

That's what I've always been raised to believe.

Cheating at the end, when done properly, only happens when doing it guarantees a win. No sense in cheating and then losing.

I still haven't sorted out sleep and after waking then errands it was already the middle of the afternoon. Instead of coming home to write I instead spent a chunk of what afternoon remained talking with LAWYER and one of his lawyer friends on the bench outside Ella's. I tried briefly to write a poem about the experience but quickly gave up. The first line was 2 lawyers sit on a bench and the rest was going to be puns and insinuations about terms like motion, bench, brief, firm, etc.

In fact now that I've revealed all that I'm sure you can all sort out the poem for yourself.

I even tried to incorporate the game of streetcar tag in, but...too groggy. Stupid sleeping patterns.

Last night I was at Bad Dog Theatre for a show and decided walking home (they're on the Danforth) was a good idea. It was. It took about 2 hours with all my detours, but it was a great walk. I found an exposed subway tunnel just east of Castle Frank station that arcs gracefully across one of the Don's offshoot valleys. I'm sure lots of others have noticed it over the years but it was my first time. Fantastic! I hope no one thought my leaning over the bridge, inspecting it, was a sign of darker plans.

I suppose if I had just gone straight to bed after getting home things might have worked out better today. But they didn't okay!!! So instead of a brand new poem, written today, you get the last poem I wrote before the week that was began. That's the thing about poets, even when the rules are self-imposed we just need our freedom and individuality.

So I am breaking the rules of my own...thing.

Are you excited? The following was written as a result of reading a lot of Leonard Cohen's stuff in a short amount of time.

Story (title subject to change)

Growing up not Catholic

is the biggest tragedy of my life

I'm not Jewish either

another of fate's damnable attacks

Lacking the benefits of a Classical education

all I have is a periodic United Church

bereft of pageantry

and razzle dazzle

There were stories there

and they trace back the same, I'm sure

but I forget, if I ever listened.

So now I write poetry and can't find the archetype

the creation myth

or patchwork of wonder

No raven or turtle to guide me

or build upon

No shorthand of history

King David's just some king

so are Henry and George and Louis and

Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck.

Drab truths of science don't make poems

of universal truth

Their lights shine too self; confident and important

A lab is clean, fluoresced and sharp

and its stories likewise

without

shifting edges to bend and hug

close when cold without meaning.

Hide the world behind incense

chanting drugs or prayer and

find the truth because

it's all you'll remember

The broad strokes

A story on the edge of shadows

behind swirling light, in smoky space.

All I have is pro wrestling

and last I checked

the Pope's not holding the belt.

----

So there. Thanks for reading, and keep reading...I might post my short story Fire Drill on here in the near future. I had submitted it to this but received a nice form letter earlier today explaining that I hadn't made the cut. Probably better that I fail (for the time being), but I still wish I had known about the extension before rushing to submit on New Year's Eve.

Alas, alas it's in the past.

See I'm a poet.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 6

I should start off by welcoming my readers from around the world!

Guten Tag my dear German reader.

привет to my friend in Russia.

Anyong to my 4 (yes 4!) Republic of Korea Koreans. (I would have used your alphabet but don't have the font package, friends.)

Hey to the 5 Americans.

The 2 of you who reside in other, &*ndjher*!!!!

Bonjour to Canadians. I'm not numbering you because I think a lot of you might be me.

"But Camel Attack!, you're not the United Nations. What's up?" you might be saying.

Explanation: when I finish a post, I use a link shortener before pasting the shortened URL in Facebook and Twitter messages. The link shortener gives me statistics on who has clicked on said link, and what geographic area they (or at least their servers) are located in. The past week I have had a steady increase in the number of people clicking on the link, but mostly from Canada and the US. Until yesterday, when the 'cousins' arrived.

I investigated and found another Twitter account, with 2500 plus followers had tweeted my post, mentioning the blog name and a random line from the post, rather than a straight-up retweet. Based on the account's posts I don't think it's a bot, but who knows. I'll just be grateful for the extra (periodic) readers rather than wondering too much.

Also, I am now an international sensation. Hey South America, Australia and Africa, who's going to be the last populated continent to get with the hottest thing going (ie me)?

Preamble over. It's poetry from here on out and today a villanelle.

Like a sonnet, the villanelle has all sorts of fun structures to consider.

A'aA'' abA' abA'' abA' abA'' abA'A''

That means the same rhyme is used a lot, and where the letters are upper case it means the exact line is repeated verbatim.

Here's a nifty little Dylan Thomas number to give you an idea.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

----

And now you've read that bit of lovely, it's time to be disappointed! Like with the sonnet I feel my content really suffers because of the structure. Instead of writing a poem by looking for the right words I find myself writing to fit the structure. The structure gives me a sense that finishing itself is an accomplishment regardless of the lameness of imagery that is used. Now, I assume if I stuck with it I might improve, and writing a really good villanelle or sonnet would undoubtedly leave me with satisfaction oozing from my ears so I'm sure I'll come back to them at some point.

They'll be there when I want to challenge myself, searching for a magical collusion of meaning, words, rhyme and structure.

Blunt

Hold the creative maelstrom close,

Beneath an ever-aching pride,

To guard from providential blows.

Don't walk where everyone else goes,

Stand fast against strange pipers pied,

Hold the creative Maelstrom close.

Better to take advice from crows,

Or when the world seems trued and tried

To guard from providential blows.

Just another one amongst Joes?

A speck to be chopped up and fried?

Hold the creative maelstrom close.

Don't, though, miss your own show of shows.

Creative's a peach, ten miles wide

To guard from providential blows.

No one knows a thing, even those

voted to office must elide.

Hold the creative maelstrom close

To guard from providential blows.

----

Immediate comparisons: Thomas does a way better job of making each stanza a unit, as opposed to my choppy, three sentence structure. Working towards larger, cohesive thoughts is definitely a goal. Also, apparently the meter is not a big deal as long as it's consistent so maybe I will experiment with a few once I have learned what they are exactly.

Heh, and finding words that rhyme - rather than trying to shoehorn in close, pretending it's cloze - might be a good idea too.

One more to go! I've had a game of streetcar tag on my mind all week but it hasn't yet made an appearance. Maybe tomorrow's the day?

And finally, if you're reading this in some RSS feed make sure you go over to the blog proper. My poems read better in orange on grey.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 5

First things first people. Fancy done good! The man took a poetry course last term and after some concerted rummaging was able to extract Poetic Designs (more here) from wherever it was hiding in his room.

And those cookies? Those are some cookies I baked. Peanut butter for those not allergic.

I'm sure some of you are thinking That's a mighty purdy photo you have there. I agree and if you want to print off the photo, blow it up poster size perhaps, you'll be happy to know clicking on the photo will reveal its true proportions. With a file size that large there'll be no stopping your graphic pursuits. Also, I think Fascinator (new roomy has a nickname now - it's a hat thing) was more than pleased to witness this photo shoot. It's always good to see a true professional at work.

Bah, poetry. I'm not totally convinced by yesterday's sonnet. Like I said, it might be an okay first try but I feel like a lot of it was a might choppy. I'm hoping the lent book will lay some solid meter on me. Let me know what the deal is.

Also, there's a reason people like to write sonnets about big notions like love. If you're writing a structured poem, having a topic that can draw from all sorts of places within the language can only make said poem easier. Discussing the business of essay writing on university campuses, however, leaves the vocabulary at hand a bit more limiting. Then to try explain a business scam wherein individual wealth is achieved while minimal labour is expended and all this is further tied to contemporary notions of capitalism and investment that both pervade and possibly cripple our economy and society...well, writing that sonnet can be tough.

Today was meant to be a villanelle. I did not, however write a villanelle. That might come tomorrow.

One of the reasons I wanted to do this poetry exercise was to add some structure to my life. Given my current employment situation I wanted to make sure I wasn't losing days to mindless pursuits. So far, on the structure front, it's a great big failure. Sure I'm doing a poem everyday, but I'm also lying in bed, awake until 4 in the morning. I'm not lying there writing poetry, I'm just lying there letting my brain spin down and that takes a while.

Last night I eventually decided to turn on some TV instead of waiting for sleep and watched some infomercials. That's where today's work comes from! Sometimes if you just open your ears, the world writes poems for you. Sort of, I mean it's from more than one commercial.

Waking Dreams

I can't hear you John. My obliques are screaming too loud

is a strange thing to shout in a room full of people.

I'm not pregnant folks, I'm juicing!

should clear up all that confusion.

That's the great thing about the Flavorwave Mr. T

is a closing line no matter where it falls in the conversation.

My digital emulsification system uses

centrifugal friction to heat foods naturally.

easy payments of is the new morpheme

4 and $29.95 nothing but a couple of affixes.

x ePo y = x x y ∴ ePo = x

and we all know the x stands for multiplication.

If I decimate these chunks of solid concrete

does the unprecedented 100 year warranty still apply?

Jack Lallane is threatening to divulge celebrity juicing tips

and has a lifetime motor guarantee we need to take seriously.

It sounds like a miracle, but it's science.

-----

Self commentary: I like this one.

7 days - 7 poems - Day 4

Before I even begin, how about that blue? The one on the left. Has it changed recently? I dunno. It's been so long since I've bought 2% (and I didn't buy this, just found it in the fridge) but when I saw it the blue felt darker and richer than I remember it. I need to get some 1% and homo milk. I'm pretty sure 1% is stripy and homo is a nice red. Oh! And maybe some chocolate brown too. I need to get them, not to drink or anything, just for a photo shoot.

If I have any extra "milk" money (HAHAHAHA!) lying around, that's what I'll do.

But you are here for the poetry, right?

A thought on yesterday's haiku. Here's a brief one I wrote today:

Spring in the air,

on the ground my feet

fly.

It has something to do with nature! But I am still not clear on a lot of what's going on. By dropping the more strict 5-7-5 structure are there any really big defining characteristics that separate an English haiku from a three line bit of free verse about nature? I don't know. And I guess it doesn't really matter. If I want a structured haiku about nature that I want to call a haiku, I can do that. If I have a less structured poem about a plastic hat I found on a bus and I want to call it a haiku, well I guess I can do that too. Until poetocracy emerges as a form of government I should be reasonably safe.

On the bus of dis-

contented fury

the plastic hat screams.

Haiku! See...no one has touched me.

Okay. Today we have a sonnet.

The model I followed was the Shakespearean one, which has a rhyming structure that is meant to go: a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g.

So far so good.

It is also, however, meant to include an iambic pentameter. Now, for the uninitiated, as I kinda was until yesterday, this is an unemphasized syllable followed by an emphasized one, then that unit is repeated five times per line. Ten syllables with an undulating cadence, one (me) might say.

I'm still not totally clear on what that means though. I read the example Shakespearean sonnet provided and when I listen intently for those emphases as I read, everything sounds kind of batty. And when I look for them in my poem, well then stuff really starts falling off walls. But I am fairly close to ten syllables per line, so I have that (to my understanding a little variance from ten isn't the end of the world).

One last thing before the big show; there is a reason people like free verse. It is soooooo much easier. Not that it is easy, mind you, but without structure to concern you it's basically all about the words.

Working on the haiku et al. yesterday was fun. Making lines work based on the light and easy structure of 5-7-5, or whatever, is basically a word puzzle. Once you get your meaning across in the allowable pattern you feel clever. Today's work, while having similar puzzling moments, added more difficultly through the increased complexity of rhyming and structure. And now that I am wondering whether or not my pentameter succeeded, the notion of sonnet writing (or being a sonneteer!) seems a much more daunting proposition.

Free verse is great and provides some fabulous poetry, but much props are to be given to the structured poets of yore (and today).

In the meantime, I won't be too hard on myself over iambic anything until someone who really knows their poetry can tell me what it's meant to look and sound like. Maybe (MAYBE!) I got it perfect on my first try?

The essay writing business

My dear tattered sheet of paper and tape

Cling fast upon your cold, grey campus pole.

Offer essays of ease, experts who shape

Words onto paper and then honour roll.

I'm not in school and don't need 'ssistance,

Instead there's a thought of skulduggerous work:

The assignment 'rrives, a thesis on France

I don't know Gaul, therefore search out some jerk.

Play person off person, shift papers 'round,

It's all 'bout shuffling the trail out of sight,

Write not a thing, while your bosses, astound!

And remember to pay less cash than you swipe.

A nice tidy plan to make some money.

Drops in the bucket, what's one more Ponzi?

-----

Okay! I guess that's okay for a first try. The first quatrain is the best I feel. The example on Wikipedia also seems to have each quatrain as a more thorough whole without distinct sentences, so that might have helped make for a smoother read.

The need for dual rhyming in each quatrain makes the writing experience interesting. You write the first line constrained only by what overall message the poem is meant to have, then the second, third and fourth lines are a bit up in the air. You have to consider rhyming possibilities for all three lines simultaneously as well as the message arc. It's all about jotting and crossing out (at least it was for me).

Sonnet, out!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 3

So I figured why not get the haiku stuff out of the way today. I might have saved them for an emergency later in the week, but what's poetry about if not living on the edge?

Below I have some haiku and various forms of waka. Waka just means 'Japanese poetry'. I'll label the different forms and if anyone is interested the above links can give more details.

I wrote all these in the laundromat just now and by the end all my thoughts were being divided into syllable compartments. That has now stopped.

Also, although I vaguely recalled nature needs some role in a proper haiku I assumed the 5-7-5 pattern was pretty standard and mandatory. It is not. Just like so much else in poetry there has been a lot of changes in the past few decades. Syllables, structure, etc. Read about it to your heart's content here.

I didn't realize that though, so I've followed the 5-7-5 form and whatever other structures seemed standard. Also, I've said whatever the heck I want below. Nature be damned!

Although...I might take advantage of that loophole, research haiku more closely and come back later in the week with some gang-buster, nature stuff.

Haiku

I wanted to use

'articulated lorry'

in a haiku. Done!

---

Tanka ('short poem')

I could have gotten

away with one of these poems

for today, but that

seems to go against, if not

the letter, then the spirit.

---

Chōka ('long poem')

The danger with these

forms of poetry is that

the syllable game

takes precedence and I miss

opportunities

for creative bull-kaka.

(Note the lack of swears here mum.)

---

Sedōka ('whirling head poem')

In space, no one can

hear you scream. In Hawaii,

the word aloha means both

hello and goodbye.

The former from a poster.

The latter from Inessa.

---

Katauta ('poem fragment')

You think this is half

a sedōka? Speak to the

Japanese man with the sword.

---

Bussokusekika (something to do with the silhouette of the Buddha's feet)

I want to find the

best five syllable first line,

secret it away,

then reveal its existence

once I am Prime Minister.

That'll surprise everyone.

---

And more haiku...

Hey you! Sean Chambers.

This is me declaring a

haiku war. Go time!

If a t-shirt makes

friends with jeans in the dryer

it stays wet longer.

(p.s. - I'm going to post two more poems in a bonus post, but I'm saying this here in case people only visit this page and don't go to the main blog)

7 days - 7 poems - Day 2

Do I need to preface these? This poem rhymes!

Preface complete.

------

Flying by Train

It's just another train ride

From point A to point B

People sit. Look straight ahead

'Til a child's glee

Breaks the staid and silent glide

And reworks space as she

Finds the conversation

'Tween mom and dad too dull

What with a pole of shiny silver

To draw attention from the crawl

It holds her nose and bright brown eyes

In its smooth, curved face

But as the train bursts from the tunnel

She senses another place

Light pouring through the sudden window

says, Struggle from your chair!

To see the girding black steel and rivets

That hold us in the air

Deep into the valley

She stares with amused intent

Considering the gap

Don River and train have rent

The squealing silver worm we ride

A dual-environment creature

Not just below but high above

The Flying Subway Show's main feature

Upon travelling Viaduct

From one end to another

Re-entering a dark soil hole

Ends the mood of hover

And with the ink the window stops

A mirror now instead

But from the cherub, now seen as two

Nary a sense of dread

Ignoring for the moment

The world's changed disguise

She chooses instead to smile

Into her own all-knowing eyes

-----

Tell me your thoughts (I like all kinds). Also, feel free to throw out requests or suggestions. This can be a subject (tomorrow's ideas include a game of streetcar tag and...a three line cop out) or a style of poetry. Challenge me, but also make sure you explain the style's structure or point me towards something that can. Keen!

7 days - 7 poems - Day 1

This was a stupid idea. I'm tired and just want to go to bed. Blah.

Anyway.

I had this great idea the other day, or last night while lying in bed and contemplating my inability to wake up pre 10am (see, I miss work for some things). My great idea is to write a poem every day this week. I guess I'm starting right now.

I could push it back to tomorrow but that defeats the purpose of doing one every day. And although this will emerge after midnight on Sunday (ie it is now Monday) it still counts as Sunday's poem. And for those who like rules...I can't use something I started writing before today but any ideas or lines I have from today on are good for the week.

I hope and WANT any and all who read this to comment on it. This exercise is tripartite (it has three parts)

1 - get me writing

2 - get me publishing (to whatever degree) so I'm not so wishy washy about getting things perfect and precious before they appear

3 - improve my writing.

For the third part I need constructive criticism. So tell me what you think, in any venue you feel comfortable (comments email, phone, face etc.). And for those who feel they know nothing about poetry, me neither! Except I know I like some things and I think some other things are dumb. Focus on that and you can't go wrong.

This first poem is about what we see in this blurry, cell-phone taken, picture.

Looks like blood to me!

------

Dear Pigeon

Dear pigeon,

It's been cold the last few days

and left to your own devices

you flew indoors and underground

and down

and down

to tunnel town.

Good plan.

Poor execution.

Now you're just a smear.

or

You were a criminal,

from society less genteel than mine.

Convicted by a jury of his peers

he will fly west

into the east-

bound

to Kennedy and deserved damnation.

Good execution, or

at least a success.

Now you're just a smear.

but

Dear pigeons,

How do you decide

which crimes

deserve a train's reward?

Which blurs of grey

are wiped away?

We pigeons convene here today

tasked with a sacred duty.

Capital punishment is tough.

or

Do you just let the cold decide

who lives and who died?