Speaking In My Mind

[Bernie01]

Or, as I say, you and me.

Bouquet wine on the white table.
The wind unpacks the restaurant
closed in winter months,
wind ripples the awning like a flag
in a drying clutch of morning air.

or, as I say, you and me.

Distant radio in the dining room,
voices thin as a woman’s perfume,
faces in colorless photographs,
pictures printed in paper books
titled the now and then,

or, as I say, you and me.

The museum of what was
and what is no more,
the gallery of distilled spirits
where my stout chest pokes into
a creeping night across Boulevards,

or, as I say, you and me.

My left handed fondling, airless passage
in the unmarked city of turned out parks
and dismissed schools, the nudge
of an occasional whistle
like a woman calling something secret.

You can imagine how clean the moon
appears after rain in an inkblot of sky,
a violent break in the dry weather
like a wreath as we remember
and trundle in pages of our own book,

the unprinted story elbowing forward
as I talk inside my own mind,
as the doors close on the ambient past
and we remember how young we were
or as I say you and me.

[SivaRamanathan]

Bernie
The spacing of

or, as I say, you and me.

is most appropriate.

S

[FranktheFrank]

I cannot quite get into this poem Bernie, sorry.

[SivaRamanathan]

Frank

Deleted comment.

Siva

[FranktheFrank]

Siva

These things happen, cross communication.

Bernie is one of my favourite poets too.

Bernie, I did not do you poem justice let's see if I cna give a decent critique.

[SivaRamanathan]

Hi Frank

No insults. I knew this would happen.You can delete my comment. I can delete my comment. I thought we are all friends.I am your closest follower of your edits. I was just out for some fun.See it has landed up with me writing a poem.
Frank, take it easy. I made a foolish comment of Bernie's poem,like how the cashew comes out of the fruit--nudging its pointed end.So to cover up for that I said I get the poem.
I Know it is not your style, Let us shake hands. Now off to delete my foolish comment.

Siva

[FranktheFrank]

Or, as I say, you and me. [not keen on this refrain]

Bouquet wine on the white table.
The wind unpacks the restaurant
closed in winter months,
wind ripples the awning like a flag
in a drying French lake, [metaphors galore ]

or, as I say, you and me.

Distant radio in the dining room,
voices thin as a woman’s perfume,
faces in colorless photographs,
pictures printed in paper books
titled the now and then, [jury is out on this stanza]

or, as I say, you and me.

The museum of what was
and what is no more,
the gallery of distilled spirits
where my stout chest pokes into
a creeping night across Boulevards,

or, as I say, you and me.

My left handed fondling, airless passage
in the unmarked city of turned out parks
and dismissed schools, the nudge
of an occasional whistle
like a woman calling something secret.

You can imagine how clean the moon
appears after rain in an inkblot of sky,
a violent break in the dry weather
like a wreath as we remember
and trundle in pages of our own book,

the unprinted story elbowing forward
as I talk inside my own mind,
as the doors close on the ambient past
and we remember how young we were
or as I say you and me.

The problem I have is making a concrete whole
I see flashes of clever metaphors, but no connect.
Yes, it may be because I am stupid, but compare the brilliance
of a dysfunctional railway station in Birmingham, UK
and the rain blocked gutters, and the BOAC bag
and the other damned clever stuff and flashes of brilliance.

Have I the right to demand more, demand more brilliant poems
as if you can churn them out like a street organ's monkey.
It's just that after reading your stuff, and basking in it, this one
seems insipid, clever, and I wish I could see it but I cannot lie.

It's not a bad poem, I may be too critical, grumpy and not
doing what most do, tell you that you have lovely new clothes.

And Siva, I wanted to tell you so much how brilliant your funeral poem
was, I was so looking at critiquing that and you took it off.

Apologies are not needed, we forget and move on. Thank you.

[Bernie01]

Siva and Frank...

hey, a gut feeling is what i value very much.


maybe this much for the whole poem:



You can imagine how clean the moon
appears after rain in an inkblot of sky,
a violent break in the dry weather
like a wreath as we remember
and trundle in pages of our own book,

the unprinted story elbowing forward
in flip flops as I talk inside my own mind,
the doors close on my poorly attended past,
and we remember how young we were
or as I say you and me.

thanks to you both.




by the way, a Forum poetry friend, Sara Sloat, garnered a Pushcart nomination:



Gacela of Ash


I have almost finished combing the white through my hair.

Pearl-spangled about the neck, smoke rising—
daily the flesh lessens to ash density.

Almost this ivory, I lay my light down.

A fierce dust, blonde becomes ash;
the wish is ash, spread.

I have almost finished sweeping
together these twigs snapped from nowhere, almost

finished mending
the moon’s burnt clothing.



Sarah Sloat
Copyright © 2013

Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey and now lives in Germany, where she works in news. Sarah’s poems have appeared in Bateau, Juked, and Court Green. Her chapbook Inksuite is available from Dancing Girl Press, and another, Homebodies, was published last year by Hyacinth Girl Press.







bernie

[FranktheFrank]

Something similar from : Mark Vagenaar, Voodoo of Ash, University of Wisconsin 2012 p. 46-47 poem: Gacela of the Bright Omen. Things in common: gacela, moon, ash.

[BobBradshaw]

The whole poem is luscious, and charming, and filled with wonderful lines. The sheen and rhythm and world you have created is worth revisiting many times. I love it. Best...

[FranktheFrank]

I thought this excellent,

well written, something I cannot do:

'You can imagine how clean the moon
appears after rain in an inkblot of sky,
a violent break in the dry weather
like a wreath as we remember
and trundle in pages of our own book,

the unprinted story elbowing forward
in flip flops as I talk inside my own mind,
the doors close on my poorly attended past,
and we remember how young we were
or as I say you and me.'

I could not get into the original version for whatever reason
that doesn't mean I could not get it, big difference could not get into,
could not enjoy properly.

The problem with workshopping is that we may get it entirely wrong
but that doesn't mean we are malicious, it just means we did our best
and possibly failed to explain properly what we mean.


I have the highest regard for Bernie's work and I know he wants
straight from the shoulder feedback.

[SivaRamanathan]

B

I like the pared down version too.But the original poem is performance poetry.

S

[Bernie01]

Bob---

gosh.


Riva---

and don't think a broken leg could keep me from noticing your wonderful success here:


Pleased to let you know that my poem,'Cremation is not merely setting fire',has been shortlisted for the Birdport Poetry Prize for the year 2016.


Dear Sivakami
BRIDPORT PRIZE 2016
Congratulations! Whilst you have not won one of the top thirteen prizes in the Bridport Prize competition, I am writing to let you know that your poem:
Cremation is not merely setting fire
was shortlisted. We had over 5,400 poetry entries this year, and 200 were shortlisted.
Details of the winners and Patience Agbabi's report will be posted on our website from 17 October after 6pm. The shortlists will be available too at
https://www.bridportprize.org.uk/content/shortlists




Frank---

i always enjoy and feel informed from your voice....please never hesitate to comment about one of my poms.


bernie