The Time We Became Real

[waxwing]

The Time We Became Real

You are a masquerade.
I am a doll, suspended by silly string.
Please do not step on my hair
or dismember me.
If you invite me to your dance,
I will refuse.

So, should I shower before we go?
Last night a spiral cloud gulped down the town,
sending black rain to replace our lives.
Light from wet pavement flickers in eyes
resembling multi-colored marbles.
Must be the streetlamp passing on into sleep.
Rapid Eye Movement, ghetto-style.

Shut the television off.
I want to see again.
Remember when we played
on the property line?
Baby snakes sneaked through cracks,
pointing triangle heads and tongues
between foundational rocks.
But this was not the end of an era.

Playtime ended with our imaginary dad.
He had skill. He made walls beautiful.
I stood staring at his upper thigh,
my arm heavy with a rock
laced like fabric of queen ant
and dead moss.

It's time to grieve the loss
of playing with reptiles,
hierarchical insects.
Walls inside us grew tall,
shutting down factories,
our waterproof, airtight lids
like lashes spellbound by
pink eyes, sleep, and sun.
Stomachs pumped out sadness,
waiting for salt to show them
they had done their job.
But salt no longer cleansed
or constituted tears.

Concentrate on the urgent messages
running across the bottom of your screen.
Beep, beep, beep, followed by jazz licks.
This is the way it should be
(Live from New York).
I am the present that teaches you how to
touch, feed, and rock
but not feel
(It's Saturday night).

Stay in character,
careful to not depart
from your comedic act.
Who was the man who said,
"The past isn't dead?"
I've passed the initial death of memory,
the one that concurred with tiny bugs
falling like hail to rocks that would not give.
Perhaps it's time we became real.
You a symbol of truth,
me a talking doll.

[indie]

Wow, that is very beautiful, waxwing. . . I especially liked these lines:

"Last night a spiral cloud gulped down the town,
sending black rain to replace our lives.
Light from wet pavement flickers in eyes."

Have you submitted any of your work to anthologies or lit mags? If not, you really should.

[Geoff]

Yes, almost mesmeric in places.

However there are bits I dont really follow.

"Beep, beep, beep, followed by jazz licks. "

Is that jazz as in the pre-music meaning? if so the connotation is quite different!

-Geoff

[misutii]

i found your work enchanting and whenever you're in the mood please don't hesitate to share more

[nBT]

hate to rip it apart
cuz i like.


still im ripping
the metaphores are a tiny bit forced
making this a too colourfull poem to my taste
you also seem to stick to a fixed verse lenght
nothing wrong with consistency but dont 'fill' it (see beginning of crit)

if you want to kick my ass for it, im here.

[waxwing]

I appreciate the criticism, nBT. Don't worry. I probably won't kick your ass. If you could help me out a bit more, though? Which metaphors struck you as forced? Thanks.

[Hamro]

Who was the man who said,
"The past isn't dead?"
I've passed the initial death of memory,
the one that concurred with tiny bugs
falling like hail to rocks that would not give.
Perhaps it's time we became real.

wow. beatiful. it makes me think about the big picture. where ive been and where i will be

[nBT]

I appreciate the criticism, nBT. Don't worry. I probably won't kick your ass. If you could help me out a bit more, though? Which metaphors struck you as forced? Thanks.

you seem to have constructed it. wich you did. the trick imo is to hide the construction. or differntly said build bridges from one idea to another.


Shut the television off.
I want to see again.
Remember when we played
on the property line?
thats 2 ideas. i cannot relate them realatice to the general rythm in the poem. 1st verse (vs 2nd verse) its an intro but might also fit on another place. maybe at the end? hmm maybe leave it? (since its a wierd start, unless you wanted that. thinking for the S people here)
im just sorting ideas in here. it lacks a flow. it has a general direction (me, youth, grown up responsibilities, kid agian). but its kinda stuttering.

to me a creative act is a 'flow' or 'out of a flow' you ride a wave, everything that you catch on that wave belongs there. (Ne). only leaves for sorting and spell checking. cuz once you stranded on the beach its a mess. :)

but i very appreciate the effort taken to write it down. i wish i had that motivation lots of times.

[waxwing]

nBT,

Thanks for your constructive criticism. I do agree that it lacks flow in many places. I'm not sure if I feel that it was constructed, though, because I wrote it during some down time at work the other night. It just sort of came out this way. I agree, though, with your idea of a poem flowing naturally. Well put.

That said, I sometimes have a problem conveying a connection between two ideas that are very connected in my mind, but perhaps not so obviously related. Take your example:

"Shut the television off. / I want to see again. / Remember when we played on the property line?"

In my mind, these are connected, definitely tangentially, but still connected. "Seeing" would indirectly have to do with the time we "played on the property line." Shutting the television off would in small part represent beginning to see again like those times....It wasn't something I thought through and then wrote down. It was sort of like a trigger response. Kind of like memories...the way they come to mind, sometimes out of nowhere, sometimes for very obvious reasons, sometimes in flashbacks, sometimes in little snapshots. (Television off ---> playing on property line ---->concepts of reality ---> playing with ideas, memories, dealing with them as they pop up. and so on)

Anyway, as I feel motivated to do some revision, I'll run it by you again. I never feel like I've finished anything, so I very much appreciate your comments. It's like a kick in the ass (the motivating kind).

-v