Erasure Poem: Faded Lustre

Anna Montgomery, illustrious host of tonight’s Meeting the Bar at dVerse, prompts us to try our hand at an erasure poem, a type of found poem using an existing text. This is a very fun exercise—why don’t you join in?

The artist did not immediately reply, being startled by the apparition of a young child of strength that was tumbling about on the carpet,--a little personage who had come mysteriously out of the infinite, but with something so sturdy and real in his composition that he seemed moulded out of the densest substance which earth could supply. This hopeful infant crawled towards the new-comer, and setting himself on end, as Robert Danforth expressed the posture, stared at Owen with a look of such sagacious observation that the mother could not help exchanging a proud glance with her husband. But the artist was disturbed by the child's look, as imagining a resemblance between it and Peter Hovenden's habitual expression. He could have fancied that the old watchmaker was compressed into this baby shape, and looking out of those baby eyes, and repeating, as he now did, the malicious question: "The beautiful, Owen! How comes on the beautiful? Have you succeeded in creating the beautiful?"
"I have succeeded," replied the artist, with a momentary light of triumph in his eyes and a smile of sunshine, yet steeped in such depth of thought that it was almost sadness. "Yes, my friends, it is the truth. I have succeeded."
"Indeed!" cried Annie, a look of maiden mirthfulness peeping out of her face again. "And is it lawful, now, to inquire what the secret is?"
"Surely; it is to disclose it that I have come," answered Owen Warland. "You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess the secret! For, Annie,--if by that name I may still address the friend of my boyish years,--Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I have wrought this spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, this mystery of beauty. It comes late, indeed; but it is as we go onward in life, when objects begin to lose their freshness of hue and our souls their delicacy of perception, that the spirit of beauty is most needed. If,--forgive me, Annie,--if you know how--to value this gift, it can never come too late."
He produced, as he spoke, what seemed a jewel box. It was carved richly out of ebony by his own hand, and inlaid with a fanciful tracery of pearl, representing a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, which, elsewhere, had become a winged spirit, and was flying heavenward; while the boy, or youth, had found such efficacy in his strong desire that he ascended from earth to cloud, and from cloud to celestial atmosphere, to win the beautiful. This case of ebony the artist opened, and bade Annie place her fingers on its edge. She did so, but almost screamed as a butterfly fluttered forth, and, alighting on her finger's tip, sat waving the ample magnificence of its purple and gold-speckled wings, as if in prelude to a flight. It is impossible to express by words the glory, the splendor, the delicate gorgeousness which were softened into the beauty of this object. Nature's ideal butterfly was here realized in all its perfection; not in the pattern of such faded insects as flit among earthly flowers, but of those which hover across the meads of paradise for child-angels and the spirits of departed infants to disport themselves with. The rich down was visible upon its wings; the lustre of its eyes seemed instinct with spirit.

Faded Lustre

The artist 

startled

with something so real

moulded this hopeful

momentary light 

yet steeped

in such depth of sadness

produced by his own hand

as if

to express by words

the pattern of faded

lustre

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This is from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story “The Artist of the Beautiful.” I just read this yesterday so it was fresh in my mind—not particularly creative with the design here, but such as it is. I pretty much left it as I found it, without punctuation. The only change—I de-capitalized the “T” in “this” (line 3). I thought hard about replacing “lustre” with the word “paradise,” and still think it might be better. I stuck with lustre for now since I used the word “light” in line 4. Seems to be more consistent, but either word feels right.

First Love

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words clench, faint, prod. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight.

First Love

That Florida summer, the year

you moved in next door, we’d crawl

under the barbed wire fence

to meet each morning

in the hayfield,

prodded by some power

neither of us understood.

With clenched hands we’d

clumsily kiss, and in the faint

daylight return our

separate ways. Summer passed,

and now I can’t even remember

your name.

Pennies

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words vision, motion, peaceful. Also submitted to dVerse OpenLinkNight, day late and a penny short.

Pennies

We put pennies

on the track and waited

for the 2:00 train

to come blowing by,

curious to see

Lincoln’s face pressed

into peaceful copper

oblivion. Scoot, the

neighborhood know-it-all,

had told us that 

if some federal agent

happened to be spying

on us we could be

arrested for defacing

government property

and he hoped we’d all

be happy spending

a hundred years behind

bars. Or, with convincing

proof he explained

that even a penny

could disrupt the train’s

smooth motion, cause

it to jump rail

and dump its freight

from here to Royal Street.

Still we put

our pennies down,

ducked low behind

the shrubs and waited,

encouraged by Scoot’s vision

of cars and coal

piled in our backyards.

Blake-ish Poems

(original artwork by yours truly)

Instructional Poems for Young and Old 

(with a Practical Moral to Close Each Piece) 

Little Mouse so proudly sat

on kitchen table, plump and fat.

Mrs. Mouse, as mothers do,

said, “I should be so very blue

if Mr. Cat should find you there

and eat you, bone, skin, and hair.”

Little Mouse, against her fears

let her words go out his ears.

A pounce. A crunch. And then a fart:

Sometimes staying ain’t so smart.

*****

Mr. Cat asked, “Mrs. Mouse,

would you come into my house?”

Mrs. Mouse said, “Mr. Cat,

I am fine just where I’m at.”

“But look and see—it is quite nice.

A perfect place to raise some mice.

It’s warm and dry; you’ll live in style,

not like in your old woodpile.”

“All the same, I think I’ll pass”:

Sometimes staying saves your ass.

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A word about this set of poems. I actually wrote and posted them a few months ago, but since they were not linked to any online poetry groups they had maybe a dozen readers. So while they are not spankin' brand new, they are gently used and I feel justified in reposting. I think they fit what Victoria Slotto, host of tonight's Meeting At the Bar over at dVerse, is looking for. Or one can sincerely hope so.

Now, as for the literary influence, I definitely had William Blake in mind when I wrote them, specifically Blake's Songs of Innocence and of Experience. I've spent a lot of time with Blake, and he has undoubtedly worked an influence on my own stuff. There are superficial similarities between these poems and Blake's, such as the title. And the original artwork. (For those not familiar, Blake is as well-known for his striking "illuminations" as he is for his poems. I have my doubts whether my drawing will enjoy the same appeal.) Couched within the sometimes (seemingly) simplistic poems contained in Songs, especially those in the Innocence section, Blake deals with some deeper issues of human existence. I like the way he views things from more than one perspective, and it is this aspect of Blake I was most trying to mimic. I also admit to poking fun at the moralistic poems geared toward children that were popular at the time.

All that aside, I've written what my oldest daughter calls "sad" poems the last few weeks, so it was time for some fun. But look closely--there may be a deeper message somewhere in there after all!

Unrecoverable

Karin Gustafson, hosting the latest prompt over at dVerse, offers us the chance to write about war, peace, and like topics. I just pulled an all-night shift, so I can't tell how jumbled up this is, but I'm sending it along anyway. 

Unrecoverable

As the dew falls, easing down

on the new-mown meadow

like a gentle morning kiss,

she wanders over the wet

grass and weeps. Her son is

not coming home. His body, toughened

by boot camp and sent to the desert,

is blown into red fragments by

some other mother’s boy,

unrecoverable, like a

memory erased.

The government men who

brought her the news told her she

should be proud, but on this morning,

crossing the pathless field

where her boy played away

his childhood, she cannot

escape her loss. Her mind travels

across miles, thinking of

all he must have suffered—

and she wonders just now if

across some scorched dune another

mother wanders and weeps

her loss. She knows she

should return to the house;

her work awaits. The dew lifts,

and she walks on

without leaving a trace.

Breathless

A great time is starting tonight over at dVerse, where Raivenne has challenged us to write a poem in Than Bauk form. Never tried this before, but it was good to stretch out a bit--I enjoy playing around with words and sounds. Hope I came close to adhering to the formal rules. (For some reason, this one turned out far darker than I intended.)

Breathless

I should have gone

when day dawned, you

withdrawn inside

yourself. You’d sighed,

a gulf wide, sheer

divide between

us. Still between

sheets, crime scene, blue-

light sheen, breathless.

The Witness

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words compromise, decision, forward. Also submitted, howbeit late (as usual), to the OpenLinkNight over at dVerse. 

The Witness

She bends forward, low

over etched granite,

her small shoulders making

a sorrowful tremor

in the field of solid stone.

I did not mean to spy

on her private grief,

as her tears mingled

with the morning mist,

but I could not

turn away, I could

not turn away.

Did she beg

for a compromise, a

“Take me instead,”

while full knowing

the final decision

had already been made?

or was she here only

to make late amends

for past regrets? I did

not ask, but like the

stone bore silent witness

to life and death.

Mosquito

At tonight's dVerse prompt, poetess and host Anna Montgomery asks us to try a poem that blends high and low art. It sounded fun so I gave it a good try--hope you can join in.

Mosquito

This worrisome mosquito,

                                                         grim demon

haunting the marshes, marauding round the heath

and the desolate fens,

restlessly buzzing

and biting, will not take

a hint

for my flesh is food

indeed, and my blood

is drink indeed

and she is hungry

for blood, the very wealth

of my life, so that her

own life might be sustained.

Some god or saint

may gladly give all,

may bow the head

for the life of the world

but I’m not ok with that.

So I swat and smack,

intent to kill, but she

evades and lands

once more.

                        This time, I let

her poke her proboscis

in deep, let her eat

her fill and swell up

big.

Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row

as ever you can; fill your dam’ bellies

‘till dey bust—and den die.

With one hit I end

her meal, and am left with

my own blood on my hand.

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Not sure if I’m on the right track. The subject, biting mosquitoes, seems pretty “low art” to me. The italicized portions are quotes from what might be considered “high art” sources. The first is from Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf; the next two are from the Gospel of St. John; the last is from Melville’s Moby Dick.