Defying Diagnosis

"Feckless tarantelle"--nice.

The word is really tarantella, but I took out a poetic license. It's since been revoked for using onomatopoeia in an alliteration zone.

That prism through which I view life has been touched by fire, more than once, but any resulting flaw has only added clarity to the images I interpret...

...or something like that.

Did it make you unable to perceive pants? Just asking.

The whole thing rips at my heart, Sarah, but this line almost tore it out:

You toss your broken rainbows

Beautiful work. Thanks again, for contributing to the group and for the pleasure of reading your work.

Turning slowly through the days
You toss your broken rainbows
Bits and pieces, shreds of light
Colors fanned like cards, they fly
Riotous of hue
To light on floor, on walls and windowsill.

Just beautiful - and I have just such a crystal in the bedroom window, where I love to watch the "broken rainbows". Nicely done, M'am.

I have one too; it went through The Fire*. I thought it would still be a prism, but it was never the same.

* My house burned down a month before my son was born. All those baby clothes! {;~(

I don't have such a poetic mind.. but when I read this, I thought of my stained glass window hanging.

This is a jewel, literally. Beautiful and evocative. I really felt this.

Sarah, it's an interesting piece of writing. I enjoyed it.

The last time I read poetry this evocative was when Ivy was here. Nice work, Sarah -- the images are brilliant.

And Ivy is....?

Ivy isn't Ivy any more.

What Dannielle said.

I'm back to address the analogy. I've had several shattered prisms toss their broken rainbows across my floor and my life. While sad for me, there is something extremely beautiful about watching them illuminate nothing but my life and their existence. On the other hand, it was sad to see so many walk past them, as if their being broken made them useless.

I came to the shattered prism metaphor after trying to get to know my homeless friend. It turned out that his mind was shattered, in that it no longer had a center, (as far as I could tell) He was a very appealing man, everyone liked him, but impossible to know in the ordinary sense.

It's a perfect metaphor, Sarah. Honestly, I think this is one of the most beautiful things I've read anywhere - possibly because I know that broken person so well, but I don't think that's the only reason. I think this is great writing. (I'm just a wannabe poet, so I never try to give the impression that I can critique poetry for anything more than how it moves me.)

Elizabeth Bishop was a poet. I'm just a wannabe poet, too.

That must make me a wannabe wannabe then, because I wannabe as good as you are.

Thanks.

But you are a poet, whether your poetry in life meets your ideal words or merely mirrors imperfectly their light. Just as your friend does indeed illuminate a great deal, even if so scattered in expression that it is difficult to piece together into cogency.

True, but I want to be a good poet. That takes talent, skill and a lot of work. I'm only just beginning to walk down this road.

None of the "fancy" talk from me. I like it, good thanks- jus' to show my ignorance. ::)

What's so strange about me is though so ignorant and lacking in writing skills, I still like short, quality, must have been living around my father and brother, mother all writers and very skillfull at it ::)

Never came my way, though and I don't mine it never will.

"True, but I want to be a good poet. That takes talent, skill and a lot of work. I'm only just beginning to walk down this road. "

The poem is lovely, and I am equally captivated by your artistic determination.

In most cases, "poetry" on Gather means random words thrown together so that the guise of free verse might conceal the lack of thought, insight, craftsmanship, or meaningfulness.

Thanks to everyone for your kind comments. I don't think of myself as a poet - not when I read Elizabeth Bishop or Robert Lowell or Mary Oliver (insert name of favorite poet here). At best, I'm a good doggerelist - I can, on occasion, pull off a mean parody. The rest is student work...

When I read most of the poetry on Gather, my first thought is "Do these people read poetry?" I think not, at least, not published poets, great poets. There is often virtually no understanding of what makes a poem a poem. Writing poetry is great fun, and I'm glad people enjoy it, but it's much more fun when it's a puzzle, parts which take time and effort to fit together. It's not prose with funny line lengths...

Then Sarah, you must avoid, at all costs, the Gather Group created to showcase the worst of the worst. It exists; a sort of Guantanamo for the verst amongst us -- or at least the stuff we could hunt down and subdue.

"It's not prose with funny line lengths... "

Precisely!

:-)

I agree with all of the comments here. Sarah, your mind is amazing. That was obvious to me the moment I first read your work.

But enough about you... let's get back to me! I noticed that I didn't make your list of great poets... have you read my variations on upside-down teeter-tottering?!

I have, and I wait with bated breath for the next variation.

you must avoid, at all costs, the Gather Group created to showcase the worst of the worst. Sob. You're warning her away from my poetry, Dannielle? I'm crushed.

What is good poetry?

Uh, how long have you got? And, having taken only two English classes in college, I may not be the person to explain it. At minimum it should have a brightness of language, cadence, and an idea or experience to express.

And that's all I'm saying on the subject cause I know a loaded question when I hear one...

I just read my comment from the 25th... when I read it now it sounds really "snarky" when I was just making a stupid attempt at humor. Please forgive me. I really sincerely meant what I said about your gifts. Your writing is wonderful, poignant, brave and always strikes a chord with me.

Though it may sound odd to say this, it always makes me a little sad when I read things written by creative and insightful minds like yours. Not because of anything that may sad in a particular poem or essay, but due to the experiences I've had with others who have similar gifts. It always seems that those gifts are hard-won... a talent for expression that stems from some experiences that involved struggle... oppression, repression, depression, etc.

Beyond those factors, being perceptive usually equates to being sensitive...sensitive to things that others are seemingly oblivious to (or they simply choose to ignore them.) This is a blessing wrapped in a curse, because try as they might, they can't easily let go of things that may be painful.

I'm sure there are other ways to derive such insights, but I've only known this in people who have experienced more than their share of pain. Some of those are people that I met here on Gather, some "long gone", and other who still make an appearance from time to time. I always cling to a kernel of hope that they'll be strong enough to come back and "stay a spell." (And I hope that they'll do the same for me should I "go away" for a time.)

So, Sarah, please stay a spell. I don't pretend to know your situation, and I realize people come and go for lots of reasons, but there are a few people here on Gather, including you and the dear Ms. Sandy K (muchos grassy-ass Sandy), whom I would dearly miss. Just sayin...

Doggerelist? You say that like it's a bad thing.

Formidable.

Actually, Mark, it's mooch-ass grassy-ass. Doesn't that make more sense? (I mean the agreement in gender and number between the adjective and the noun, of course.)

We get a lot of that at my house, Aniko. And the response is usually, " De nachos."

I'm not a big fan of nachos, but they're better than nada if you need something cheesy.

;-) Good job, Aniko.

And Como frijoles? to the lot of you. (How you bean?) I've been off ice-storming my way through 12 days of electrodeprivation...

Aniko, I need to take a refresher course! Danged Spanglish!

I know someone, Sarah, who perfectly fits this snapshot.
I'd like to share your poem with him, but it's so emotional, I fear it could send him over the proverbial edge... again.

Ouch. That's a hard one. I'm not even sure if the subject of my poem is still alive - it's a miracle if he is. I actually wrote an entire chapbook called Defying Diagnosis about him.. One day I should see about getting it published. It's pretty dark, but so was his life.