Thread: Breeding

Breeding

Hair-threads sketch triangles in my tub—
baby points with barbed ends.
And they’ll get you every time.
Stirring with a water blanket,
make them concentric shapes.
Perfect, layered mirrors.
I’ll spoon out every sector
to dip my fingers in.
Molding. My babies.

The skin, growing with a velvet gloss,
weaving through the pelts, in muscular blueprints.
Burned into place. No creases.
Lay the children in vertical rows,
Immaculate lines. Walk between the walls.
All the faces to sift through.
Don’t touch them. They’re just so brittle.

Mix more expressions. Not so much ice.
Bubbles breaking the blanket.
These faces are perfect.
Put them with the rest.

Doll collection—pieces I can see.
All my babies look the same. All my babies look like me.
There’s magma in my veins, suckling through every part.
Cavities all over my chest. Concentric.
All the fluid to my tub. Another replica.
The lines rotate and gather in a ring.
Moving makes breaking.

They’ll take you.
Hair ropes, hair roads.
Silk on your skin that’s frayed at the end.
Tread the pieces, breathe metaphorical fog.
Dissolving path—the same place.
Always where it hurts. Idiopathic.

And I’m still mixing in my tub,
all these children that I love.

Angel, one outstanding poem! Fraught with otherworldy imagery. I can't quote them all or we'll have one long list. I was captured in the beginning stanza. The imagery superb and you did not disappoint throughout.

Stirring with a water blanket

Beautiful but I'm at a loss as to what your children represent.

Lay the children in vertical rows,
Immaculate lines.

The beautiful and then the disturbing. I wonder how you got from here to there.

The skin, growing with a velvet gloss,

Silk on your skin that’s frayed at the end.

Great alliterations

Bubbles breaking the blanket

Here, haunting.

Cavities all over my chest. Concentric.

Another beauty.

They’ll take you.
Hair ropes, hair roads

Your use of words are lovingly handled. More!

Thank you so much! I always appreciate your thoughts. I suppose I should do a bit of explaining here.

This poem is a very personal one to me, very close to my heart. This poem is actually about writing (or "creating"). The "children" here represent my work, my poetry, etc. And they're faces are all the same. I only started writing to cope with my life, and so I've found that no matter what I do my work is always about the same things, with the same tone. And it's like I'm trapped, constantly rewriting my story or anything to feel better. And it never changes. Metaphors are my strength, but what's underneath it all is always the same. (In tone, or in general idea).

And that's hard for me to admit, actually. I love writing, and I've finally (after a LOT of growing) have found that I actually like my own work. And I can come up with creative ways of saying things, and like I said, all my crazy metaphors. But I just can't stop writing about all the things that hurt me. And I really hate that. Makes me feel like I'm not actually that creative.

I correct you. Metaphors are your strength and brilliance.

Metaphors are my strength

My poems are my children as well. Sometimes a long painful labor. I missed the clue, now so obvious.

Lay the children in vertical rows,
Immaculate lines.

I rarely stray from tone which is usually probing, haunting. Though without abandoning my "voice" I've learned to stretch. Right now I think it's very good that you're going your route. Getting "What you know" out. A writer should always write what they know otherwise their work is dishonest and most likely poor. But if you have great compassion you can right about others plights. Some form of identification involved. This is what I call "Writing about the Human Condition." I had written a poem about date rape. While this particular crime had never happened to me I was able to draw on my sexual abuse experience as a young child and make some kind of transfer, creating a poem of my own.

I would recommend that you look into Syliva Plath and Anne Sexton who write Confessionally as I mostly do varying a bit from my staid topic. I narrow down to different "parts" of my life. For some reason my Competition poem has been the only exception, threating my title as "Mistress of Gloom!" (I don't know what came over me!) All this relating to the following:

I've found that no matter what I do my work is always about the same things, with the same tone. And it's like I'm trapped, constantly rewriting my story or anything to feel better. And it never changes.

Here's a link to the masterful poetry of Anne Sexton. I think you will find her most engaging. She was an untrained poet who wound up reading her work at Harvard. Reminding you, she was a Confessional poet. First, Wiki on Confessional poetry. Then many examples of her extraordinary work.

Wiki on "Confessional Poetry"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessional_poetry

Poems by Anne Sexton
http://www.poemhunter.com/anne-sexton/

But I just can't stop writing about all the things that hurt me. And I really hate that. Makes me feel like I'm not actually that creative.

Don't hate that. It's true. What you know. Never stray from that and OMG you are gifted with abundant talent. Make this your mantra! Laurie

Angel, you certainly have a way with words, and seem to always blend them into such a smooth and viscous concoction - and into such haunting and near-macabre visions.

I hope you don't mind me saying that this one gave me the creeps - truly - little hairs on my arm went to quaking, around the line "All my babies look the same. All my babies look like me." It was like a profound revelation to the writer - I had no idea what your veiled meaning was (and I was sure that there was one), but the imagery and the tone was altogether 'yikes' - doll babies with those open blind eyes and perpetual smiles can have that effect, especially when you show them lined up in a half-light fog, with talk of hairs and skin and veins and what not mixed in the bathtub - I can't say a delicious blend, but quite intriguing!

Your considerable talent shines here - you will only get better and better - I have found myself that often pain and hurt are easier to write about than sunshine and gladness for some reason - I think I read once that Sting said basically the same thing, that he really struggled to write happy songs, but songs about pain and sadness came easy to him.

---todd

Todd, thank you for your comments. I do so appreciate it. I like that it's creepy. And you found my favorite line. (All my babies look the same. All my babies look like me.) I always get attached to one line that I know I won't change, despite whatever criticism I receive. This time, that one was it, so I'm glad that it had an impact, even if it was a creepy one. This piece was really sort of a confrontation of myself as a writer. Writing it was an interesting experience. I can only hope to continue to grow. I know I've already grown a considerable amount. I look back at my old stuff, and I'm like... Yuck! I sucked! But I was 16 or so at the time, so understandable suckage there. But I'm only 20 now. So I'm grateful for decreased amount of suckage.

Laurie, thank you for your post. Actually made me feel a bit better. Going to check out those links. Appreciate it very much.

Once I read your explanation and then re-read the poem, it all became clear to me. That is always the danger in a very personal poem, at least I've found it to be so. It is so clear to us, yet to others it takes on a completely different meaning. Very nicely done, Angel.

Ay, Angel, larger font please. I strained with my glasses, forgive this blind whiner. I read this the other day and immediately thought you were talking about writing, then the image of Andrea Yates (drowned her five kids) popped into my head, and I freaked out, so then I thought it might actually be something more sinister. But then, I have the nasty habit of taking things too literally. Okay, too many fine lines to cite, so I'll just take the lazy way out and copy, I'm finding I like the lazy way, it's easier and keeps my mind more focused. Here goes:

Hair-threads sketch triangles in my tub— (great attention grabber)
baby points with barbed ends. (brilliant)
And they’ll get you every time. (lol, sorry, can't help it)
Stirring with a water blanket,
make them concentric shapes. (great image)
Perfect, layered mirrors. (perfect description of your style)
I’ll spoon out every sector
to dip my fingers in.
Molding. My babies. (another great image)

The skin, growing with a velvet gloss,
weaving through the pelts, in muscular blueprints. (building Frankenstein, love it)
Burned into place. No creases.
Lay the children in vertical rows, (why vertical? I would think horizontal, am I missing something?)
Immaculate lines. Walk between the walls.
All the faces to sift through.
Don’t touch them. They’re just so brittle. (love this sentiment)

Mix more expressions. Not so much ice. (superb)
Bubbles breaking the blanket. (even more superb, love this)
These faces are perfect.
Put them with the rest. (way to describe finished pieces)

Doll collection—pieces I can see.
All my babies look the same. All my babies look like me. (absolutely LOVE this)
There’s magma in my veins, suckling through every part. (great image)
Cavities all over my chest. Concentric. (again, great)
All the fluid to my tub. Another replica.
The lines rotate and gather in a ring.
Moving makes breaking.

They’ll take you.
Hair ropes, hair roads.
Silk on your skin that’s frayed at the end. (love these three)
Tread the pieces, breathe metaphorical fog. (this is to DIE for)
Dissolving path—the same place.
Always where it hurts. Idiopathic. (all too true)

And I’m still mixing in my tub,
all these children that I love. (great end)

I can't say how much I love this piece, Angel, it's sheer bliss. Usually pieces about writing fall flat, not this one, but then you seem to transform everything you touch into gold, but it's always blackened about the edges, which I love. As for writing about the same thing over and over, many of us do it. As long as you keep coming up with different ways to say it, it's a wonderful form of therapy. I am a firm believer if you bleed it on paper enough times, the hurt will eventually pale, or you'll bleed out, lol. Either way, it won't hurt anymore.

Best,
Lisa

Thank so very much for your words, Lisa. You are too kind. The vertical line thing was meant to be "backwards" (we'll call it). Horizontal is expected, since this is poetry. But I don't like to do what is expected. So vertical is not really a literal thing, but still gives the reader an image to think about.

Oh, so sorry about the font size! I can never get it the way I want it. I just have a thing for Times New Roman, though. And it looked too big when I increased the size. But perhaps that's just on my computer. It looks different on different computers, I've noticed.