The Writers Block

Four Seasons

I am not feeling well today, (Revision #1)
white as civil war bandages
and Kathleen gone another week.

A garbage sledge makes way
over the turtle-slow Hudson.
Winter comes from a distance.
Rain the length of 5th Avenue.

The telephone rings for someone else.
The cleaner arrives and leaves.
A sickle moon stares benignly the way
I have stared out windows of a sanatorium.

What does the city offer at my age?
Alimony payments, a desultory taxi ride
to The Four Seasons talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver.











I am not feeling well today, (original)
white as civil war bandages
and Kathleen gone another week.

Winter comes slowly from a distance.

The Hudson brown as beans.
Rain blown the length of 5th Avenue.

The telephone rings for someone else.
The cleaner arrives and leaves.
A sickle moon stares benignly the way
I have stared out windows of a sanatorium.

What does the city offer at my age?
Alimony payments, a desultory taxi ride
to The Four Seasons talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver.

Hi Bernie

Poignant and meaningful. Great imagery throughout. The last stanza sounds like Eliot, has that "feel" of decadence and ennuie that he was so good at portraying. The closed car, the lack of expectancy that anything good will happen, the endless monologue.

I like this poem. Very fine work, Bernie.

All the best

Chris

Count me in. Couple of small niglets-

After "white as civil war bandages" I think "brown as beans" too taxing for such a short work. Might wish for something other than another color re: the beans, if you need to keep them.

Grounding your poem to a specific season; winter, limits it a tad in my opinion.

When one looks up and sees a "sickle moon", one generally doesn't equate anything optical such as staring unless it is much closer to a full moon, though I like sickle and I like staring...

Much here to find should one care tolook for it. Our humble narrator reveals just enough-like a skilled belly dancer would. Love the Nigerian taxi driver, nice slice of NY city life.

Don't wuite make the connection of the title unless the narrator is pondering a butterfly tattoo on his chest?

Poem succeeds on many levels, very uncomplicated but also very powerful.

Fix itup a bit or not, but do lick a stamp bernie...


I am not feeling well today,
white as civil war bandages
and Kathleen gone another week.

Winter comes slowly from a distance.

The Hudson brown as beans.
Rain blown the length of 5th Avenue.

The telephone rings for someone else.
The cleaner arrives and leaves.
A sickle moon stares benignly the way
I have stared out windows of a sanatorium.

What does the city offer at my age?
Alimony payments, a desultory taxi ride
to The Four Seasons talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver.

Christopher---

appreciated the speedy response, your comments always mean the world to my poems.


Kenneth---

good point about the brown bean river,


made a mod, also, the seasonality of the poem. last year, a major eastern magazine declined a winter poem of mine---they were preparing a spring issue.

the butterfly is now more apparent.


many thanks for your vote on this one,



bernie

Bernie, on your revision:

--I do not know why civil war as part of the modifier for the white bandages.

--I am glad to see le papillon get in the picture, but I do not see where it rests over a river. The same as with modifier before, I wonder why double and why another creature to modify and yet no mention of 'river' for a reader who may not know the Hudson.

--How distant is winter from autumn? And the rain appears after winter leading me to think it rains in the winter in NY--does it?

--Suddenly, the telephone rings for someone else. There is a turn I do not yet explain. Who else is there and where?

--The cleaner; Windex? And it/he/she arrives and leaves and does nothing?

--I have stared out windows of a sanatorium. Great line! I wish it were exploited somehow.

--What does the city have to offer? As it is, it seems the narrator asks what the city may have to offer when the city is the narrator's age. I may be wrong. Then, what does the city have to do with alimony payments, and what do these have to do with the poem? Loose thoughts, most of the poem, but I am not getting into it. I imagine The Four Seasons is a hotel, but I do not know this--is it famous? Or is it a restaurant?

--talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver. Another great line!
I do not think a taxi ride with a destination could be said to be desultory, but I could be wrong.

And this is how I read a poem when my destination is to offer critique: first, the whole poem, usually more than once, then what pops up like turtle against butterfly and questions of why this or that modifier. Finally, line by line, which is what you see--the result of the last read.

I wish I could say it is a great poem, but I do not make a lot of sense of it as it is now. I do get a feeling from it, which is spelled out in the beginning, as the narrator does not feel well and seems lost without Kathleen. Then, I sense of the futility of life, of meaninglessness, as the poem meanders. If this is correct, why not enhance the feeling and focus on that more clearly?

As a reader, to get a feeling is a pretty good thing--better than a pretty painting, I'd say.

pen

Pen---

your approach is like mine (plz don't be insulted...LOL).

the use of Civil War is puzzling...even to me.

i justify it only because of the eclectic eye of the narrator---his ironic POV.
but not sarcastic, i hope. alone, for a week or so, he restlessly looks around his city and the surface details of his life.

a mixture of resignation and resistance.

the Hudson---without the use of river. there is also no identification of this city as New York---as Manhattan. the reader is treated as an insider, the narrator speaking to a fellow Manhattan resident. no patronizing.


the city...what does the great city of historical opportunity mean for an older man? what is reflected back, once so many opportunities have played out, good or bad? the narrator adds up the score card. i came to new york as a young man, i will never forget (or repeat) the great excitement i felt --- the sense of almost unlimited potential. europe, eight hours away. a train ride to Lisbon where Casablanca was only 45 minutes by air....films in a dozen languages. books. authors speaking, science lectures (plate techtonics / Quantum Mechanics), feminism. anti viet nam war marches. a fist fight in the street over Israel's six day war---i wanted replacement supplies sent immediately. what excitement.

wall street. cheap carnegie hall seats. the village with unbelievable live folk music, the modern jazz quartet, poetry readings. broadway and off broadway plays. the appolo on 125th street. a wild kitty we found huddled under a car in the middle of winter---it was years before he learned to trust us.


the narrator assumes a few things, odd weather (what city does not have odd weather). it is not winter, but winter is approaching. the name of a restaurant (a mild, ironic pun), his (not ours) belief that his taxi ride is desultory.

the last line is critical---but i don't know why. what it shows about the narrator, his life, yes, his willingness to tell the facts regardless of injury---the nigerian cab driver, new york, the last hovering butterfly---the approach of winter, even the turtle-slow river.


broken hearted, but not broken this narrator guy.

everything you mention --- i cannot defend. at least, the poem is short. did you give me credit for that? LOL.


deeply appreciate your review of the poem.


bernie



`

Bernie,

Did I steal your approach? I am flattered, actually, for I know not what I do.

I miss the irony--difficult after the initial stanza stating the narrator does not feel well. I can see how the ride may have felt long due to that fact, though. I do not sense the restlessness and it may be I lack the ability to put myself in the narrator's shoes--my shortsightedness, it seems. I miss this, too,

a mixture of resignation and resistance.

Fully aware of the wonders of NYC--I dare say the capital of the world in all it has to offer. Is the Village still up and running with little Greek restaurants, and people dressed funny? I remember a gay couple--one of them was a perfect Captain Hooke.

Glad to know you have nothing against kittens personally, lol. Does the Italian Pavillion still exist? And was it called Playboy, where the bunnies served? Distracting to feel as if one were peeping into a 3D Squire Magazine at pinching distance--was it called that?

the last line is critical---but i don't know why. I do not know why, either, except that NYC is continental and cab drivers love to talk. The thing is, in the poem, he is mute, really, lol.

The following is most significant about your comment, and the river, a metaphor for life, too faraway hinted, and I cannot help wondering what happens if you start the poem with the last stanza, but it seems you are happy with it as it is. Good for you!

Great pictures painted in my mind, though it saddens me to think of myself as someone who lacks empathy enough to get the flavor you portray and then explained.

Is there a law against commenting on comments? I hope not.

I am going back to NYC right now, thanks to you.

pen

Pen---

terrific. to visit ny, oh my.


and the carlyle---kathleen also loves ny---we both lived there at the same time but never met only much later. We splurged big time new year's eve and caught bobby short's dinner performance---Cafe Carlye is a small, intimate room. we were both dazzled.

bobby short---a manhattan legend until his death not long after that triumphant evening. we were able to shake hands and stammer our appreciation, a few months later he passed away.

here, one of bobby's popular ads for a perfume widely seen on TV during their day:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5juK-UrgJG0&NR=1


here singing with juliet prowse:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRD7mt_9 ... re=related




you gave the poem a thoughtful read. i ask nothing more. ennui, not just for the old, the young too grow bored with familiar surroundings, routines and a failure of new opportunities.

add ill health, as in the case of the narrator, you have clues. his temporarily away companion. the weather outside.

do you know ashbery's poem that briefly describes maybe 30 rivers? the opening six lines:

Into the Dusk-Charged Air




might want to check a little frederick seidel --premiere ny poet---oh so strong his aesthetic---his major write-up in the ny times. he is the model for my narrator---he says:



oh, i wish that was my line.

and here, playful:




and here, showing teeth:




Billy Collins:

“it doesn’t even seem like name-dropping. He (Frederick Seidel) does what every exciting poet must do: avoid writing what everyone thinks of as ‘poetry."


Lines from Final Solution:

I had given up violin and left St. Louis,
I had given up being Jewish,
To be at Harvard just another
Greek nose in street clothes in Harvard Yard.



Laureate of the Louche
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/12/magaz ... del-t.html


hey about another pom?


bernie

Bernie,

What a delightful response! I do not remember Bobby Short, but, though it took a while, I vaguely recalled Prowse. Thanks for the videos, too.

I am more than familiar with ennui and I am not young, whatever that means, just lucky, a sort of work horse, if that might be a term to use to say that I am blessed with good health and a generally positive attitude. Weather does not seem to affect my mood in physical life, but it does inspire writing, so maybe it does affect me in some hidden way.

Ashbery does not only name the riverss, but how he defines them is significant, as in the first lines you quote here, silent, moves along towards the sea.. welling descent..
Into the Dusk-Charged Air very metaphoric.




oh, i wish that was my line. (I like this remark of yours)!
nd here, shaowing teeth:



On the above, what can I say? lol


hey about another pom? I did write another poem but it was too juvenile and I decided not to post it. I do not know if it can be revised or just replaced.

I enjoyed your sharing. I am stuck in Minneta Ave., The Village, NYC and wonder how much it may have changed.

pen

hey pen---


you writ a nu pom rite hear---






here's a line, i'm searching for the rest of the poem:

when we kiss
I’m not completely out of danger



swell talking.


bernie

Mr. X-Ray Vision,

I just covered my face with my hands and looked, again, through my fingers.

The poem is yours--not quite found, not quite finished. The ending looks good and holds surprise--I may use 'entirely' but it is up to you and you sign it.

I would lie if I said I did not like it. Uncanny. It is also far better than what I have written. I will post my teenage silliness so all may laugh with me.

pen

Sorry, I think I misunderstood. In any case, you may enjoy this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ofaoLKPz7c

Pen---


one of my three or four most favorite arias.

in the first act, butterfly observes from above pinkerton's procession to her little home.

she turns to the audience,

"How tall and manly, he is..."

alas, when i checked it was not in the original libretto. the local production i saw added that phrase, "...tall and manly..."


but i think it captures the shy but maturing interest of butterfly.

rent, if you have not yet seen, the wonderful, wonderful French thriller called Diva.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hsmoo97CVA&NR=1

Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez sing La Wally


a bewitched and innocent young postman gets caught up in a crime.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PDM-i7pzeI




thanks for the butterfly. so much nicer than mine.


did you see the diving bell and the butterfly movie?



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G69Zh7YIg8c


bernie

Bernie,

Thank you for the links, and who has not been young and enchanted caught up in some 'crime.' Your Papillon, a blueprint for your next poem--the poet, a bee, a butterfly, stops, flies, goes, comes back, rests, and goes on, his seeds paving a road. Autumn, winter, rain, a phone call to someone else, fate playing a trick, smoke going the other way, a sickle moon, a sanatorium, around and around, each of us in his own carousel, revolving door, back to ourselves, looking mirrors in others' eyes/words.

Glad you liked the aria/cartoon.

Links.

pen

I have not commented so far on this one, my most pressing thought was 'He (Mojave) likes New york.

I now understand how mentioning a place can be evocative, I immediatly though of the big American city that we often see on TV and film when I read 5th Avenue.

I am still thinking about this one.

Ieuan

Ieuan---


yes, a sense of place can help the poet begin and develop a poem. bones, so to speak upon which to mount images, or a progressive narrative.

the reader too, begins with a more solid understanding.

i do seem drawn to new york---four poems about india. my most recent poem features a visit to Venice. i have written about the short airfield at corfu, greece. rain in peru. a japanese chamber maid listening to music, and the sound of rain through earphones as she works. a drunk american journalist in paris. an american couple on a low cost cruise ship---the carelss lifeguard snags a thumb inside the waistband of a teenager...LOL.

but yes, new york.

you are in dylan thomas country. he always gave me a rich sense of locale, people, weather, and relationships.

yes, beginning with a location can trigger thought, especially if we travel that location with our eyes open, listening, and absorbing.


thanks for your comment.



mojave

Hi Bernie,

It's interesting to reflect about the subject of this piece. What to make of a poem that has a popular French bistro on the title that the narrator ends up avoiding in preference to another out of town eatery, not quite in the same league? I like it none the same. In one of your comments below, you mention Ashberry. In that tradition, I take this as a piece that avoids the dramatic moment and dishes out an experience of the experience!

I concur with many of the suggests by Penumbra, e.g. white as civil war bandages ... concocted, unreal and even pretentious...(must lose).

In S4 the poem poses a question: What does the city offer at my age? and then attempts an answer: Alimony payments... I am not sure that works. I would like you to consider starting with S4 and juxtaposing the 'experiential' musings to that....so that what the reader gets at the end is a more composite view rather than the finality as we currently have.

What does the city offer at my age?
Alimony payments, a desultory taxi ride
to The Four Seasons talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver.

I am not feeling well today,
white as [civil war bandages] (tylenol)
and Kathleen gone another week.

Autumn's [last butterfly] {too poetic} (last leaves)
hover[s] over the turtle-slow Hudson.
Winter comes from a distance.
Rain blown the length of 5th Avenue.

The telephone rings for someone else.
The cleaner arrives and leaves.
A sickle moon stares benignly the way
I have stared out windows of a sanatorium.

Enjoyed, as always. Regards. Sachi

Sachi---


i'll change the title---i had forgotten what it was.

but the bandages--civil war --- so extreme, so bold. i want to keep. it's the way this guy talks, it's new york. the just slightly over the top casual banter of butchers talking with a customer who has trouble making up their mind, the leg of lamb or the short ribs...Mrs. Thompson, can we expect a city council decision sometime this week?



cops.

so you figured a guy carrying a wallet that fat might have a heart attack, right?

men telling women to get lost. women telling men to get lost.

Honey, let's face it, he's just not that in to you."

And i said, $9.95 a pound! Look, why don't you just take a gun and shoot me!

The Mets raising prices again---what do they think, we're all rockefeller's here?

to tell the truth, he didn't look good. white as civil war bandages---


i also liked the unstated connection between the civil war and the nigerian cab driver---new york had major draft riots during the civil war period and now a nigerian chats up a customer 140 years later.

funny, a heavy bite of reality. but no real attempt to ruin someones life, no desire kill the spirit. only a language of street poetry. that is why cy street, with his IBPC first and second place wins, urges me to listen more to people in the street, to hear what they actually say to each other, including signs.

so the doctor, he's not even there, it's the nurse.


civil war bandages. over the top, but soooo new york.

another way i know its right, i ask myself what else can i compare to white?

white as japanese snow.

bleached white sun.

sanitarium white.


but no white linked to a common object---it has to be someting wild.

my thought there.


and yes, them butterflies are gone.

A garbage sledge makes way
over the turtle-slow Hudson.
Winter comes from a distance.
Rain blown the length of 5th Avenue.


new yorkers notice everything, quickly. just like mumbai, i think.

i understand your comment, but i want to keep the bandages.


will consider how to implement the close changes you mentioned.



thanks again.


bernie

Hi, Bernie,

Lyrical second stanza that starts with garbage! How great is that!

I like Sachi's suggestion to start with it (S2) and follow with what is now the first stanza, which transitions smoothly into the third stanza.

Au revoir, papillon--gauze wings fly over the Hudson.

pen

Four Seasons

(Revison #2)

A garbage sledge makes way
over the turtle-slow Hudson.
Winter comes from a distance.
Rain the length of 5th Avenue.

I am not feeling well today,
white as civil war bandages
and Kathleen gone another week.

The telephone rings for someone else.
The cleaner arrives and leaves.
A sickle moon stares benignly the way
I have stared out windows of a sanatorium.

What does the city offer at my age?
Alimony payments, a desultory taxi ride
to The Four Seasons talked to death
by the Nigerian cab driver.