#poem problems

[therabbitcatcher]

They took my girl and made her something she was not. I remember when her hands were glass in mine, small and smooth. She was always the sun to me, but on that beach, she became moonlight, silver and clear. I could not bear it. But I knew she was long gone, even some summers ago, when she glanced away as I called her name.

“Clytemnestra’s Sorrow”, by Louisa Jane, 2017. 

[anothersillyfanblog]

What’s this? 

Me writing another poem with a strict syllable scheme EVEN THOUGH I know those are fuckin difficult ahhhhhhhhh

[therabbitcatcher]

my poet friend, upon reading a poem of mine that I'm sort of proud of: hmm, I like this but I don't really understand it, can you expand/explain some stuff?

the same friend, after reading a poem about Ted goddamn Hughes that I wrote as a one-off, not really taking it seriously: I LOVE THIS POEM PLS EXPAND IT

[mizzieunicorn]

First step is done. I wrote the poem. And the second step? Well, I've gotta hand it to you; I didn't get that far yet.

A very stupid person (me)

[therabbitcatcher]

I saw her, a doe-- no, still a girl then, but beautiful, a maiden in the midst of men, saffron skirt, dark hair, and a curved mouth like her father’s. A princess. A sacrifice. I remember--Artemis wanted her in the end, as all gods want mortals, the way a cat wants cream. Or a mouse. Desperate and cruel. She looked like a bright flame when she held her head in her hands, weeping. And when she changed her mind, I remember that too, because she kissed me then, tender. Doomed. When she arrived at the altar, she was magnificent, glory in her eyes like the moon, mad reflector, caught in her glance. I shuddered. She raised her head, her soft neck bare. A knife, a cry, a gush of blood-- A doe. Artemis took Iphigenia and left a doe. What remarkable things gods do when we all think we see.

Achilles Recounts the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, by Louisa Jane. 

[awritersteacup]

Does anyone know the feeling when you post a poem which isnt even good? but you post it anyway knowing that its crawling to get out of your system? Hoping when the words are out you’ll feel better? 

[therabbitcatcher]

I can imagine my mother pregnant: her belly full with me as she climbs the ladder, picks cherries. Her hands are nimble, and my grandmother watches, laughing. It's July, the sun burns, reflects off the fruit, little potent bombs waiting to burst. Still she reaches, grabs, puts in her bucket, the silence of her work punctuated only by sweat and scoffs. My father sits nearby as well, snickering. She'll tell me later that this is why I was born choking, umbilical cord wrapped around my paper neck, that it was the raised arms above her head that did it, all those sultry years ago.

Cherry-made, by Louisa Jane. This is a poem I wrote recently, and I’m still kinda fooling around with the line breaks and stanza length.

[therabbitcatcher]

She comes, looking like a shined-up kettle, an exuberant display of flowers. Not with others, but alone, for the first time, and she glows. The women hiss and spit at her. Hate covered with hate, layers of clay and sand making the soil of the beach what it is. Her ocean is not theirs to cross. It will be the same waters, but different ripples in the waves. When she returns, she will be magnificent, as she always was. Do not think she is innocent of this knowledge. Still she goes, no deadly glory awaiting her return. But the bitter taste of smoke is still in the air. She clenches her fist when Menelaus takes her other hand. Her fingernails pierce her skin.

“Enter Helen”, a poem by yours truly. I wrote this sober and edited it while a bit tipsy, which is the exact opposite of Hemingway’s famous writing advice. 

(I never liked Hemingway anyway.)