Transit Point
Transit Point
Revised
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
My florid penis
grown plump as African bananas.
Her arms sweet as paid nights
with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
My first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I totter water strewn boulevards.
Street traffic drifts forward,
washed out rain, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations;
Light infected with melancholia.
When my silent film began
it was about a woman, her hips pushed
out like rich cheques for the poor.
Now, I'm too hung-over to remember
the rhyme-scheme of a villanelle.
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
My florid penis
grown plump as African bananas.
Her feet sweet as paid nights
with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
My first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I walk what's left of the yellow dog,
the street traffic drifts forward,
bread colored rain, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations;
Light infected with melancholia.
When this poem began I knew
its purpose. Lines, for a woman,
her hips pushed out like rich checks
for the poor. Now, I'm too hung-over
to remember the rhyme-scheme
of a villanelle.
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
My florid penis
grown plump as African bananas.
Her arms sweet as paid nights
with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
My first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I totter water strewn boulevards.
Street traffic drifts forward,
washed out rain, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations;
Light infected with melancholia.
When my silent film began
it was about a woman, her hips pushed
out like rich cheques for the poor.
Now, I'm too hung-over to remember
the rhyme-scheme of a villanelle.
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
My florid penis
grown plump as African bananas.
Her feet sweet as paid nights
with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
My first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I walk what's left of the yellow dog,
the street traffic drifts forward,
bread colored rain, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations;
Light infected with melancholia.
When this poem began I knew
its purpose. Lines, for a woman,
her hips pushed out like rich checks
for the poor. Now, I'm too hung-over
to remember the rhyme-scheme
of a villanelle.
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- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Transit Point
Good to see you working this poem again. There are so many things to like about it....but let me start with a few quibbles or questions....
I don't think 'feet' work with that great description of 'sweet as paid nights with a geisha'....suggest 'laugh' instead? Something besides feet.
What is the 'yellow dog'? Is that the narrator?
Why bread colored rain? I love the description of rain 'white as Bombay gin'....
Now everything else I like or love. The geisha line, the Bombay gin, the machine speaking blank verse, the hangover at the end....
Good writing, as always
I don't think 'feet' work with that great description of 'sweet as paid nights with a geisha'....suggest 'laugh' instead? Something besides feet.
What is the 'yellow dog'? Is that the narrator?
Why bread colored rain? I love the description of rain 'white as Bombay gin'....
Now everything else I like or love. The geisha line, the Bombay gin, the machine speaking blank verse, the hangover at the end....
Good writing, as always
Re: Transit Point
V2
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
Her arms
sweet as paid hours with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
my first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I walk the yellow dog, street traffic
drifts forward, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations.
Light infected with melancholia.
When this poem began I knew
its purpose. Lines, for a woman,
her hips pushed out like rich cheques
for the poor. Now, I'm too hung-over
to remember the rhyme-scheme
of a villanelle.
I think about last night and the autistic
quality to our love making.
Her arms
sweet as paid hours with a geisha.
Rain all morning, white as Bombay gin,
my first call of the day, her answering
machine speaks blank verse.
I walk the yellow dog, street traffic
drifts forward, taxi fumes blue
as Christmas decorations.
Light infected with melancholia.
When this poem began I knew
its purpose. Lines, for a woman,
her hips pushed out like rich cheques
for the poor. Now, I'm too hung-over
to remember the rhyme-scheme
of a villanelle.
-
- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Transit Point
I like this much better...a good, solid poem...very enjoyable
-
- Posts: 1988
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Transit Point
A study in decadence
autistic
paid geisha
gin
yellow dog
a taxi fumes blue
infected
meloncholia
hung over
Maybe the British spelling for check i.e. cheques.
This poet (N) is in a mess.
autistic
paid geisha
gin
yellow dog
a taxi fumes blue
infected
meloncholia
hung over
Maybe the British spelling for check i.e. cheques.
This poet (N) is in a mess.
Re: Transit Point
Bob---
thanks.
Frank---
but do you feel the narrators turmoil...as we do with Prufrock. do we see what he sees?
prefer american checks.
thanks.
Frank---
but do you feel the narrators turmoil...as we do with Prufrock. do we see what he sees?
prefer american checks.
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- Posts: 1988
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Transit Point
The only problem using check is that it can mean to hold up,
whereas the British spelling, which is the correct way IMP, is quite clear
a promissory note to pay money.
whereas the British spelling, which is the correct way IMP, is quite clear
a promissory note to pay money.
Re: Transit Point
ok, Frank.
a villanelle---though french, is mostly written in English I understand.
thanks.
bernie
a villanelle---though french, is mostly written in English I understand.
thanks.
bernie
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- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Transit Point
I like this version, especially what you have done with the water strewn streets stanza... although I don’t understand why the rain is wheat colored.
-
- Posts: 1988
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: Transit Point
I feel the turmoil
I recognise it
seen it in others
a long time since I've come near to absolute despair
but I recognise it.
Prufrock a long poem, very nice.
I recognise it
seen it in others
a long time since I've come near to absolute despair
but I recognise it.
Prufrock a long poem, very nice.
Re: Transit Point
Bob---
alas....washed out rain.....now.
thanks
bernie
alas....washed out rain.....now.
thanks
bernie
Re: Transit Point
Frank---
that's it....the gospel according to le bernie.
thanks for letting me know. this narrator is negotiating despair and losing.
Bob---
wheat colored rain...an attempt to say colorless or white rain. so, a bernie rule....just say what you mean...not poetic speak...wheat colored rain sends me to poetry jail for what i hope will be a suspended sentence and only community service....so, colorless rain.
thanks for dropping back.
bernie
that's it....the gospel according to le bernie.
thanks for letting me know. this narrator is negotiating despair and losing.
Bob---
wheat colored rain...an attempt to say colorless or white rain. so, a bernie rule....just say what you mean...not poetic speak...wheat colored rain sends me to poetry jail for what i hope will be a suspended sentence and only community service....so, colorless rain.
thanks for dropping back.
bernie
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- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Transit Point
A suspended sentence is granted, and you’re already doing great community work