Thread: The Violet Vespa

Being a poet is like changing clothes every day, ya know? I feel varied these days. Thoughts on this variation are most greatly appreciated.

Thanks friends.

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The Violet Vespa
(After Allen Ginsberg)

It's almost like prose and could definitely be rewritten to fit that. I found your line breaks worked very well, and your uncomplicated use of language with the many observations drew me in easily. Forgive me for not dissecting structures or specific word uses, it was a little long for me to do that, but upon my first two reads I didn't fall upon anything obvious to change...

What I got from the piece was like an experience. It was like a learning process; finding god could be it, or just as well the realization of our humble beings being merely parts of an endless and ever-going world. As I got from your sentiment, such an experience brings peace to the soul and mind, and personally I could really relate to it. Taking a walk at night to settle ones thoughts, feeling the world around you, putting it into contexts like arts, is something I've done many times before.
The title and ending stanza I think I enjoyed the most. You see someone suffering from what comes off as ignorance, but without schadenfreude you are smiling. To me that's really an expression of being in connection with the world.
Maybe I'd omit the final "That is all I know". Seemed a little too pretentious somehow...

So overall I found it a pleasant, insightful and well written work.

" The old, cloaked rustic (night
is not a Thespian. He is a bearded, babbling, poet)." well if that is not the spittin' image of ginsberg! now you went and picked one of my all-time favorates. this is exceptional. i want to read this a few more times, and i'll be back.

ok
"to feel the sting of the jagged-edged street" - there are so many great lines in this, too many to quote, but this one really caught me. i don't have any nits to offer, there were a few places where the word felt off, but that is pretty minor, considering the style of this, those kind of flaws add to the character of the poem. these kind of poems are organic, so i don't think you need to worry about that... just my opinion.

i love the observations, the images, and the spirit of this, i think you did ginsberg justice. great job on this, really enjoyed it.

wood

Dear SG--This is an intriguing piece.I loved the line that referenced alabaster snow--brilliant! Just a few nits---in the opening line you used the word"doddered" --That sounds like an old man---why not "ambled "...Then you used the word "dangled"in the 3rd stanza...that -for me sounds strange...But this was fascinating to read. I felt a real connection to this unique piece. Thank you. Peace...Jul

Thank you all for the kind words. Martin - this is the second time you have figured me out. Should I be happy or afraid? Haha

Not sure why this was moved to prose poetry... seeing as how it's not prose. Ah well.

A nit or two...

Originally Posted by Squalid Glass

The Violet Vespa
(After Allen Ginsberg)


I doddered down the lane tonight
behind my house and toward the tracks
where the train crunched silences that should have existed. Love this line.
Beyond the train was the motorway
streaming down invisible lanes,
dotted with bullet-paced orbs
lit like neon OPEN signs.

I walked in socks
to feel the sting of the jagged-edged street
molding to the arch of my feet. It felt
natural – God-fearing. His sky would gyrate - ought to be a dash in there
slowly
like a record being fondled by a thumb.
I felt like I was inside a soccer ball,
tumbling after kick,
watching the checkers roll. The stars
seemed part of their own sphere –
they specked and speckled like glitter on a child’s face
or static in the dark – hopping from fabric to fabric on a shirt. This line is too awkward and feel forced. I like this stanza much better ending with "a child's face."

I had no qualms of about death – I *believe* the correct word here is "about"; not sure though.
tall shadows below the street lamp
did not give me pause. I tried to think of art. - I try to think of art too... but I never manage it.

Trees' hangings dangled overhead, - Just a suggestion. You could probably come up with something better though.
leaning to and fro. The tall ones looked like missiles –
shrouded in dark camouflage,
each pointed at its own star. Their limbs spewed
into my path. Below,
houses squatted deep into the dirt. I could peer over a fence
if I wished – into the backyard –
and spy on dusted rocking-ponies
and lawn chairs with snapped support-wire.

I stopped and shuttered and caught my breath. - Did you mean "shuddered"?
If I lingered long my door would shut. They’d lock the place
and draw the shades, and I without a key! If the train had passed
the sounds would set – cricket hiccups and the long,
pale-sounding breath of night. The old, cloaked rustic (night
is not a Thespian - he is a bearded, babbling, poet).

I don’t feel separate now – I feel a belonging –
a belonging to us. The worry of being different flies at night –
not like a bird or a plane,
but like a dream that softly dissolves as the eyes return to light.

In the alleyway,
things were no longer broken. Each lamp
that fizzed and hummed, growing bright then losing strength,
seemed now to be awoken. The wind that before
seemed only brought with the train
now felt more like a breath
flowing like a river. Whether God was there with me,
finally after many years,
I cannot say. But I felt him. I feel Him now
in the alabaster snow which I litter with oddly-shaped raisins.
I feel Him sentimentally. I feel Him in observation. I feel Him
in Whitman and Ginsberg and Poe.

I trotted back home
sometime after midnight. A man sat just beyond a window.
He was fat. His hair was macaroni and cheese.
He sat in front of a square box
and gazed at it like a mother at her newborn.
A Vespa sat still in his driveway,
tinted violet under the night sky. I imagined him riding it –
imagined him falling down. The thought made me smile.
I did not feel embarrassed. I did not feel ashamed.
I kept walking – didn’t look back. That This is all I know.

SG, this is my absolute favorite thing you've done since I joined these boards. I'm not super familiar with Ginsberg's work so I can't comment on that aspect of it... but you've created something very, very, special here. Well done, sir.

Ohh! Thanks for the critique! Some excellent suggestions. And you caught some spelling mistakes! I'm so embarrassed.

And for Ginsberg - read A Supermarket in California. That's what inspired this.