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The woods house (Free verse) by zodiac Winter came, driving the mice back in
The woods house. They set traps â
And he dreamed every night after that heâd be awakened
By the killing armâs flat snap,
Impossibly loud in the dark, until he awoke.
They caught the first one while they were
Screwing. He heard, and
Reached for the light. It was a bad near miss. Fur,
Blood, stickpin eyes â and alive, burdened
Top-heavy with the trap. They got smokes
And walked unclothed around the house with things
To spring the traps. He was shaken
Each time, and tried not to show how he jumped when the springs
Went. Then he put the hurt mouse in a sack and,
Swinging it against the porch, broke
Its spine. That bugged her, but her mood
Changed thinking how scared heâd been, and she laughed her
Old laugh later, untouching in the big bed. They screwed
Sometime before dawn. They forgot rent, and the month after
Forgot again on purpose; May came;
When it thawed the mice went out and aired
Themselves on the porch. It was spring,
And his feeling that neither of them were quite there,
In a house thatâd vanished out of reckoning,
Was always the same.
All that summer and fall they wandered
In the circling hills â the strange freedom of the forsaken,
She called it, summer-lovely and fonder of
Obscurity than he, who held his shaken
Self to earth by repeating like a mantra
I love her, oh at least I love her â
Though if youâd asked, it would have taken
Him a full minute to remember her name.
Up the ladder:
Overdose
Down the ladder:
Over and Gone (Other Way Around)
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 7.642857
Posted: January 13, 2004 10:57 PM PST; Last modified: January 14, 2004 7:37 AM PSTWeighted score: 6.9320836 Overall Rank: 189 The following users have marked this poem on their favorites list:
Comments:
Brilliance. How excellent to see it. After so long in the swamp, finally a bit of art.
'It was a bad near miss' and from then on the poem takes hold of me, lovers trying to save a small life together, naked. their hearts just as frail, and their present life snared together. I love this poem. You have a harsh, poignant talent. My favorite.
What in christ's name is a "harsh, poignant talent"?
HARSH: Ungentle, severe, austere.
POIGNANT: Affecting or moving the emotions. TALENT: A special natural ability. Everyone should know what it means, it''s perfectly clear. The boy has a natural ability for telling stories, in an ungentle austere manner, that affect the emotions of the audience. For me, life itself is a harsh poignant matter, so I'm attracted to such a portrayal of it.
No, look, you old crone. I didn't ask for the meanings of the individual words. I asked what a "harsh, poignant talent" is, which you've failed to explain. You claim that a "harsh, poignant talent" is a talent for writing harsh, poignant stories. This is buncombe. The only way it could be right is if "X, Y talent" meant "a talent for writing X, Y stories", which it does not. Affix your shrivel'd eyes upon this proove: 1. Let P have an X, Y talent if and only if P has a talent for writing X, Y stories. 1. Let P have a talent for writing fictional, 2000-word stories. 2. Therefore P has a fictional, 2000-word talent. 3. This is buncombe. 4. Q.E.D. Or shall we take your principle further, and say that a man has a brown, German talent because he has a talent for making brown, German films? That you have a nasal, grating talent because you have a talent for producing that sort of sound?
From now on, I do not wish to hear you use the phrase "harsh, poignant" except when referring to "Ace Bandido Red" brand hot sauce.
Thanks so much for the compliment. I spent all night finishing a manuscript that had to be postmarked today, and by the time I got to bed (7 this morning) I felt awful about it. If I win, I'll put "harsh, poetic talent" on the cover. Thanks.
Best of luck to you. I haven't got the kind of nerve it takes to display my soul for such judgements. Good for you, may your efforts be rewarded.
smokin' good. I don't think you need breaks at all. Look up poetandknowit and compare. Unless you are he.
A cracking good volley mate.
yes i read this and gave it a ten. I don't think of this as choppy at all. It's not so much an actual rythm I speak of , but more the why the words go together. Which in this poem is flawless. take the last stanza:
You have summer and fall which naturally flow together and all at the beginning of the line which ties into fall(all/fall). They wandered in the circling hills(wander/circling). the strange freedom of the forsaken. You see the words go well together- wandering circling strange freedom- freddom forsaken strange. it's hard to point out, but the words flow into each other and as the eye moves along the words echo back to the previous words. At the end you say 'I love her' twice, then in the last line you you say he cannot even remember 'her name'. It makes a difference, like a prayer or an incantation, it's not just the meaning of the words that matter but the sound of the voice in speaking them, the lull or crash of the vowels and the consonants. Like certain chords evoke certain feelings. It's so hard to express. It can't be forced. It only works when inspiration takes hold. There are tools, meter, rhyme, assonance, etc., but in the end it's inspiration that allows the artist to create. There's a word that's on the tip of my tongue, you know when actors get on stage and make it up aas they go along. Starts witht the letter 'I', I can't remember. Sometimes my poemes come, and then I have to go back and replace words or phrases with the appropriate ones. For example once I wrote 'He grew annoyingly afraid' but it was really suppose to be 'unknowingly afraid'. I think MEXICO has some great emotion in it, but it's not spellbinding like this one.
wow, just wow
i feel like a humble ass clown in comparison my one teeny tiny note would be that i enjoyed the breaks that spanned the stanzas and wished that all the stanzas did that going back and forth was only slightly jarring i think in general though, your breaks are great and really adds to the feel 393 view(s)
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Like the ending, probably the poems best line.