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  1. Yesterday
  2. Tinker

    Daily Poem Challenge

    Prompt April 23 Write on any subject framed by the invented verse form, Con-Verse
  3. Tinker

    The Box

    Thanks Joel, Bob is starting to pull out of it and they have him up and walking but that darn fever keeps rearing its ugly head. He takes one step forward and two steps back. But he is much improved over this time last week. Thanks for the support Badge. It has been a long haul but we'll come out OK. With Bob in rehab, I have had sort of a break. Catching up on sleep, work and whatever. I visit him a couple of times a day but I have uninterrupted time to myself for the first time in months. No one needing help in the middle of the night. I slept in this morning and it was heaven. ~~Tink
  4. badger11

    Blueberries

    True Tink. Truth be told I use the microwave, and have been known to burn a pan on a cooker, and my blueberry harvest was less than ten berries! all the best badge
  5. badger11

    The Box

    Sad to read this Tink. Take care my friend. badge
  6. JoelJosol

    Cold Bed

    Despite the promise to make me comfy in this cold bed, the first time I laid down in it I asked please put me into deep sleep, so deep even if death stole me from lawyers who could not bring me back, only my body would convulse against the error of a machine mis-configured, or against a surgeon who mis-heard or mis-read or whatever else he missed, but not my wakeful thoughts strapped in it- to record the tensed voices, to actively compute the pain, to calculate how many minutes more are left, to feel the dread of the last breath until it is gone. I prefer to go into a deep sleep in this cold bed. I already have a blanket. Just pull it up to my head when done.
  7. JoelJosol

    Pablo's music

    I thought you captured the spirit of an autistic child, his self-contained world, and their special talent. Just as Judi wrote it was beautiful the poem built its cohesiveness through the butterfly imagery and the music box in the end.
  8. JoelJosol

    The Escapist

    Memories, remembrance, flash of life, all converged in death. I found your piece a collage of snapshots of images and thoughts that death provokes in us who are left behind.
  9. JoelJosol

    The Box

    The tone of the piece reflects how you handled the crisis, Judi. It is positive signalled by the "blink" and the pace of the unraveling of the poem. I hope that your husband will do fine with all the help he can get plus prayers.
  10. JoelJosol

    The Shaking

    Hi Tony, thanks for the read. I have the time again to visit while recuperating from a cataract surgical procedure.
  11. Tinker

    Time to Write a Poem

    April 21 Uncle John's PalaceOur visitsto Uncle John'swere my introductionto country life.And we always leftwith fresh eggs.He has beengone awhile now.Today we finished building a tiny housewith a penned yardand new chicks are growing.Soon there will be fresh eggsgathered at dawnfrom brooding bins Plymouth Rocks, CaliforniaWhites, Leghornsand Indian Rivers.My cousinsare coming for lunchand in Uncle John's memorywe will christen our project "Uncle John's Palace". ~~Judi Van Gorder
  12. Tinker

    The Box

    Thanks, My husband is finally is out of there. He had surgery 2 weeks ago and was supposed to be in the hospital 2 days then home. Finally yesterday he is out of the hospital and in an acute rehabilitation facility. He got an infection they couldn't find or control. He is still not out of the woods but making progress. He probably won't come home for 20 days. I hope your wife is doing better. "Getting old isn't for sissys" somebody said something like that. ~~Tink
  13. Last week
  14. YarnSpinner

    The Box

    Tinker: You have described it perfectly. In the past 3 years she "The Box" (Angel) dance by my wife's bedside many...many times. YarnSpinner
  15. For the longest time I have wanted to read a specific poem from which, to date, I have only been able to read a few verses. The first two verses of the poem are included in a book I have about meter. Though I have searched online, I have not been able to find the poem reproduced in its entirety anywhere. I am super excited to report that yesterday I had occasion to re-visit an institution from which I have been estranged for decades: the public library. I obtained a library card and borrowed three books. The books are, of course, from the poetry section, and one of them is a collection which includes the poem I have wanted to read. The collection is called Touch (The University of Chicago Press, Chicago/Faber and Faber Limited, London, 1967) by Thom Gunn , and the poem I have been looking for is called "Pierce Street." My latest publication here at Poetry Magnum Opus is an aubade called "Vintages." It begins Brown sunlight creeps through slats, around/edges and tans her naked shoulder ... I am considering the possibility that I was influenced, subconsciously, by the first lines of "Pierce Street" where Gunn writes, ... Long threads of sunlight slant/Past curtains, blind, and slat ... " I would not deny or try to hide influence from anyone. To the contrary, I have wanted to share "Pierce Street" in PMO's A Poem I Read Today forum for several years, and now that I have the complete poem available to me, I can even use it as an example to expound upon this matter of influence. For the sake of example, take the words and image in the lines cited above from Gunn's "Pierce Street" and compare/contrast them with the requisite words and image in tonyv's "Vintages." Both are talking about window dressings, about daylight making its way into a room. There are two words in common: "sunlight" and "slat(s)." But I will posit that that is where the similarities end. "Vintages" is an aubade, whereas "Pierce Street" is something else. I found it uncanny that in a part of "Pierce Street" which I had not read when I wrote "Vintages," Gunn wrote, Out of night now the flesh-tint starts to dawn. When composing "Vintages" I searched for a while for a word or expression to convey "flesh-tint" and settled on "tans her naked shoulder." I wonder had I read all of "Pierce Street" before I wrote "Vintages" would I have subconsciously pilfered "flesh-tint"? Probably not. I considered "tints" on my own and chose "tans." I am drawn to the works of poets from several eras, one of which includes Edgar Bowers and Thom Gunn. Both were students of Stanford University's Yvor Winters. It is their writing, their style which attracts me. To some degree it is the subject matter of their poems, but mostly it is their use of contemporary language in metrical verse. From other schools I admire Larkin and the loveliness of Tuckerman. I have other sources of inspiration from fine art to music, but theirs is the writing to which I aspire. Wikipedia has an interesting, though I suspect elementary, article on plagiarism. There is even a section on "self-plagiarism" which could be an issue if one has assigned the rights to his own work to someone else. So far, I have only showcased my work here at Poetry Magnum Opus, not elsewhere. That said, I will rip off my own work as much as I please and with impunity. Now, you all have your own recognizable styles. Who are your influences and to what degree do you emulate them? Disclose. Don't hold back.
  16. For the longest time I have wanted to read a specific poem from which, to date, I have only been able to read a few verses. The first two verses of the poem are included in a book I have about meter. Though I have searched online, I have not been able to find the poem reproduced in its entirety anywhere. I am super excited to report that yesterday I had occasion to re-visit an institution from which I have been estranged for decades: the public library. I obtained a library card and borrowed three books. The books are, of course, from the poetry section, and one of them is a collection which includes the poem I have wanted to read. The collection is called Touch (The University of Chicago Press, Chicago/Faber and Faber Limited, London, 1967) by Thom Gunn , and the poem I have been looking for is called "Pierce Street." My latest publication here at Poetry Magnum Opus is an aubade called "Vintages." It begins Brown sunlight creeps through slats, around/edges and tans her naked shoulder ... I am considering the possibility that I was influenced, subconsciously, by the first lines of "Pierce Street" where Gunn writes, ... Long threads of sunlight slant/Past curtains, blind, and slat ... " I would not deny or try to hide influence from anyone. To the contrary, I have wanted to share "Pierce Street" in PMO's A Poem I Read Today forum for several years, and now that I have the complete poem available to me, I can even use it as an example to expound upon this matter of influence. For the sake of example, take the words and image in the lines cited above from Gunn's "Pierce Street" and compare/contrast them with the requisite words and image in tonyv's "Vintages." Both are talking about window dressings, about daylight making its way into a room. There are two words in common: "sunlight" and "slat(s)." But I will posit that that is where the similarities end. "Vintages" is an aubade, whereas "Pierce Street" is something else. I found it uncanny that in a part of "Pierce Street" which I had not read when I wrote "Vintages," Gunn wrote, Out of night now the flesh-tint starts to dawn. When composing "Vintages" I searched for a while for a word or expression to convey "flesh-tint" and settled on "tans her naked shoulder." I wonder had I read all of "Pierce Street" before I wrote "Vintages" would I have subconsciously pilfered "flesh-tint"? Probably not. I considered "tints" on my own and chose "tans." I am drawn to the works of poets from several eras, one of which includes Edgar Bowers and Thom Gunn. Both were students of Stanford University's Yvor Winters. It is their writing, their style which attracts me. To some degree it is the subject matter of their poems, but mostly it is their use of contemporary language in metrical verse. From other schools I admire Larkin and the loveliness of Tuckerman. I have other sources of inspiration from fine art to music, but theirs is the writing to which I aspire. Wikipedia has an interesting, though I suspect elementary, article on plagiarism. There is even a section on "self-plagiarism" which could be an issue if one has assigned the rights to his own work to someone else. So far, I have only showcased my work here at Poetry Magnum Opus, not elsewhere. That said, I will rip off my own work as much as I please and with impunity. Now, you all have your own recognizable styles. Who are your influences and to what degree do you emulate them? Disclose. Don't hold back. View full record
  17. Tinker

    Blueberries

    Yum, the first stanza is a poem in its self. The second demonstrates an evolution without judgement. I'm guilty of cutting corners from the very basics that I learned from my mother and grandmother but certain things you just have to go back to the basics. The microwave is a God send though in this busy world when time is an issue. ~~Tink
  18. badger11

    Blueberries

    Granddad made a creamy porridge. We liked the way it bubbled, plopped - how the flames tickled round the pan. He picked berries from allotments. 'Little blue planets,' he said. 'See how they leak and sag'. He stirred in a spoonful of honey. Mum buys frozen. Leaves the berries overnight in tupperware to 'breathe.' Our microwave heats the porridge in two minutes. It hums like bees. She did pot a blueberry bush, gathered a teaspoon of fruit. It died in Christmas frost.
  19. Tinker

    Time to Write a Poem

    April 19 Than Bauk #5 frustration foolsus and pools fearall rules are gone ~~jvg April 20 West Wind Across the bay watch the swaying palms play in time with the West wind determined to rescind the calm ~~jvg Than Bauk with climbing rhyme
  20. dr_con

    The Escapist

    Thank You All, here's the extended full version I'm reading at my dad's memorial this weekend.
  21. Tinker

    Haiku Train - catch it - free tickets

    #28 birth of "Soccer Mom" puts miles on odometer folding chairs in trunk ~~jvg
  22. Tinker

    Pablo's music

    You had me at the title. This was really interesting. The imagery weaving butterflies through out was intriguing . Loved this poem. I wonder about this line "The wind outside "to seemed" come and go". Did you mean "seemed to"? ~~Tink
  23. Tinker

    The Box

    The Box She blinked at him as if to say "all is OK". His numbers 120 over 81 lit up in red on her chest. Standing vigilant she continues to guard ready to ping if IV drip stops or his vitals change causing nurses to scurry. One called her "the box" as she was led in a dance around the hospital room. I think "Angel" fits her better. ~~Judi Van Gorder Exercise in personification.
  24. Tinker

    Time to Write a Poem

    April 17 Cream Stuffed DonutsIt's an infection that laid him lowbut he's fought back, way to goBeing prodded and pokedis his job someone jokedPain is his constant friendtrying hard for his knee to bendWeakened by age and wearHe wants all to know he's still there.Trapped in a hospital bedserved toast of bland wheat breadA cream filled donut his only requestI can't withhold, he needs some rest. ~~ Judi Van Gorder April 18 posted at Member Poetry The Box
  25. Tinker

    Time to Write a Poem

    April 16 Deadline Taxes dreaded taxes. Accounting receipts justification Mind boggling numbers I pay then I pay more. Never enough. Frustrated ~~jvg Terrible but this is all I have for today.
  26. Earlier
  27. eclipse

    Pablo's music

    Nine year old Pablo was fixated by the drumming rain outside the attic window, he was autistic, a condition his mother struggled with, Pablo had hidden her anti-depressants behind the glass case of butterflies. The wind outside to seemed come and go like a rocking chair, Pablo had taught himself to play guitar, he heard music in the wind and the rain and could see musical notation in the clouds, but Pablo kept his music a secret. Pablo noticed his mother staring at the clouds, they contained fire when he saw them reflected in her eyes, he also observed the twitching of butterfly wings in the glass case. One summer evening Pablo's mother slipped inside the attic unnoticed, she was enchanted by her son's rain enraptured eyes and the music he was playing. The butterflies had vanished, Pablo had brought them back to life allowing them to leave through the window. The trees in Pablo's garden kept their leaves through autumn and winter. Between the borders of dreams and sleep Pablo heard notes no one else could hear as he dreamed about the confluence of two rivers of light where the wind's hands bled from collecting butterflies exhausted from attempting to reach the moon, the blood reacted to the light, Pablo could see himself emerging from the womb, butterflies connected like an umbilical cord, he could see the moon shaving off it's beard of fire in his mother's eyes, she purged her grief in it's flames as they fell, her husband died before Pablo was born. Five butterflies returned, they were pressed against the attic window, his mothers last vision of her husband was of of him clutching a music box, Pablo began to wonder if this was the source of his music. Pablo's father sang to him in a dream, the butterflies gathered to move and sway like a rope in search of a bell.
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