Quandary

Quandary

There you are, in thigh-high leather.
Object or symbol? I want to ask,
but you leave me no time
or balance. Plus, you seem
to have bounced
all the oxygen out of the room again.

Even the air obeys.
Is it wrong to plead helplessness?
I know, I know: one should be
strong. And upright.
In the next room the good citizens
are speaking of narrow gates,

and shady neighbors.
I can hear them through your walls,
voices trickling in, a small
scout party at first,
relaying my position for the artillery.
Then the whole damned army

charges through, preceded
by a burst of air cover,
rendering me dazed,
and slightly embarrased.
Now I don’t know who
to pledge allegiance to.

Or even what salute to use.
The one you’re so familiar with?
You know, it would help, I think,
if you would put the oxygen back.
Then of course I’d lose the chance
to fall bewildered at your feet.

.

That Anita is quite something, ain’t she?

The things she can do with a feather duster…

It ain’t the feathers, it’s the handle you have to worry about. :stuck_out_tongue:

Nice piece, rainey. Isn’t it funny how we think we have our composure, that we’re bulletproof, and all of a sudden…

I’m mostly impressed by the timing and tempo of this poem, how it enhances the concept. It takes into consideration the breathing of reading. Very effective.

I’m not big on poems, but this one strangely stirs in me a desire to write my own.

A question for Rainey: do you consider poems to me mainly a private enjoyment, even after sharing them? Is it like a Bob Dylan joke on people trying to understand suggested meaning?

She already warned you about the violence, something about not being a fighter, now you have her to contend with.

…tickle tickle? Wait, is there such a thing as armor-piercing feathers?

Sandy,

No, she doesn’t like rough stuff directed toward her. But under that sweet veneer is a volcano more than capable of… Hold still. OK Anita, he’s all yours. (I can’t bear to watch) :violence-axechase:

I’m sorry rainey. Some days he’s the equivalent of a bad hair day. Today is one of those days. :unamused:

Thanks, nano.

Yes, you should definitely write your own. By all means. I’m not big on poetry either. Seriously. I’ve made a little bit of a study of modern poetry over the past couple years – sort of as a way to become a better student of the game and I come across a lot of stuff I just don’t care for at all (including a good bit of my own after I’ve circled back to it months after I’ve written it). I’ve decided it’s much better to write it than read it.

Well, I think good poetry is all about “suggested” meaning. Otherwise it’s prose. The problem with a lot of what I’ve been reading lately is that it doesn’t even suggest. But if you can put a few words together that make somebody react because of what those words suggest – even if it’s not necessarily the intended suggestion – then you’ve succeeded I think.

This one’s a good example. Sangrain read it and imagined Anita with a feather duster. Tent read it and imagined the handle. Which was the intended meaning? I’ll never tell… :wink:

Sangrain and JT,
Is there anything I could possibly interject here which would not be misconstrued by the two of you as further encouragement? No need to answer.

Even so, I feel strangely compelled to offer up this threat: If your sordid interpretation of Rainey’s beautiful poetry succeeds in sending him back into semi-retirement, I will have to hunt you down and hurt you both.

And no, I do NOT mean the feathery, hurts-so-good kind of hurt. :auto-ambulance:

You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I am this close to grounding the both of you for the rest of the summer. Now yank those minds back out of the gutter, mind your manners, and figure out how you’re going to make it up to Rainey.

I’m thinking writing “I will not turn poetry into smut” 100 times on the blackboard would be a good place to start.

Okay then, let’s get writing you two. Maybe we can still catch Rainey before that ship sails.

Oh sure, Rainey manages to yet again get off scott-free.

Dangerous.

Speaking of getting off…
How exactly am I going to live the following statements down?

Do you know how hard I’ve worked at convincing Tentative you weren’t the violent type? I can almost feel somebody rubbing it in my face a mile away.

But you’re right, Anita, I think it’s about time Tentative cleaned up his act. You heard her, Tentative, I think she’s serious this time.

If I didn’t see it myself, I wouldn’t believe tentative could turn a kind and gentle human being like Anita into what we just witnessed.

Miguel is probably shedding a soft tear right now.

Oh, and I’ll not turn poetry into smut a hundred times. I’ll try to shoot for less.

Well, apparently that’s the only way I can get your full attention. It’s not easy dragging you away from your shooting gallery you know.

Besides, the man himself would tell me that trying to reform the likes of you is merely tilting at windmills.

Wait a minute, I’m just a messenger. Aren’t there rules against shooting messengers? I think I’m this close to pleading helplessness.

I don’'t recall a time you didn’t have my full attention. Um, moving on…

I have to say, Quixote keeps good company.

At no time did I take a shot at rainey’s poem. I’ll admit that there was some side-tracking, but look who started it and who it was directed at. :unamused: I can’t be responsible for controlling sandy, you know how he is.

So rainey, how does the rope work go? I would think by now maybe a nice monkey fist heaving line? Have you managed a splice without having to do it over three times yet? :smiley: How many ditty bags have you finished? I don’t mean to change the subject, but this is important stuff. It’s part of keeping the poetry flowing… :wink:

Hey Rainey,

I liked the first verse, and the last, but can’t help feeling you got a little embarrassed and waffled through the middle three.

I mean the first verse’s object is in “thigh-high leather” - okay, that’s vague, it could be a leather sofa - but I’ll assume it’s a woman/man. Then suddenly - poof - we segue to ‘air’.

Don’t start a career in writng for porn movies is all I can say. :laughing:

See, Nano? The reactions. That’s what it’s all about. The poem itself has now become secondary. Hell, I don’t even remember what I intended it to mean anymore. Something about a feather duster and a monkey fist. Some guy named Miguel is having a bad hair day and writing smut a hundred times whilst tilting at windmills. It is porn and waffles. It’s a dessert topping and a floor wax. It’s poetry, dammit. That’s what it is.

Dangerous.

Here’s my quandry.

I’ve written fiction. People always comment on my writing style but never about the actual story. Which is fine. My stories suck. I should be a poet. But I always think if it won’t make money, or be understood by many people, well, then, I’d rather play video games. This means that I’m not a real artist. If I were a plumber, I’d take the highest paying job without question. But with style you have to act like you don’t want the notoriety. Art is the only business that makes the creator feel bad for wanting $.

Question: I don’t like other poets. Or, I get nothing from reading other poems. Save, maybe rainey. If I have to ask should I be a poet, should I be a poet? Do I need to hide my poems in the attic, then die, for these poems to be found worthwhile? I’m a hermit like Emily D, so I guess I’m halfway there, right?

I don’t know, nano, you’re probably in the same boat as whoever worked on Viaje del Parnaso.

Don’t know what to tell ya.

Why do I have a feeling you already have answers to some of the questions you pose? Maybe it’s just me.

Yeah, I’ve just got mixed up confusion.

I don’t know about making money with it or being understood. All I know is I write poetry because it’s fun to put words together in interesting ways. I can’t imagine another reason to write it. If you like doing that, write poetry