OK, so I decided, once again, that I should probably try to get some of my stuff published. Why not? I asked myself. Other than the usual answers - rejection, self destruction, they're crap - I couldn't come up with a good one. Everybody gets rejected. Self destruction isn't that big of a thing when you really don't like yourself. And, as for them being crap, that didn't stop William Carlos Williams from getting his stuff published.

That being said, I decided that I should probably have people smarter than me actually read them, and give said people a chance to throw all their insults at me in an appropriate place. So, here I'm posting my crap, er, craft. Let me know which ones y'all like, which ones y'all don't, and which temple I should plant a bullet in as punisment for trying to do something I am not capable of.

I

A spring must move its cold water so that
The trees may drink. They drink so they can grow
And give their shade. Under their shade, a doe
Does tend her foal. This is the wheel of fate.
I she the spring, and I the old shade tree?
What then, I ask, is the water that gives
Me life? Would it be love, that makes me live?
But I love her, ‘tis not she who loves me…
Thus I, the tree, give love, which is the drink,
That gives her, the tree, life. Yet there is more,
A doe and foal do stand, as said before,
As facets to her beauty, I should think.
But ‘tis her beauty upon which I feed…
Bah! To understand love, there is no need.

II

She is the one that I shall never have
To hold and kiss as my beloved wife.
Today a path carved through my heart she hath
Created. I would give her a good life
If she would love me as I must love her
In order to stake my heart and soul
On the notion that, as I whish things were,
They could be! Glorious dreams, sent to fools
Such as myself, bring pain unmatched on Earth.
Could hell rival this pain; I am unsure
This doth limit the poet’s worldly worth.
For love there is no known balm or cure.
Words, my blessed toys, doth give no relief
To a harmed heart. So words are best left brief.

III

The beatings of drums echo through the halls,
Their rhythmic pulse disrupt our sacred peace –
And shake the foundation of the old walls.
Savages worshipping the kill of beasts
Make less a sound! Silence them? If we could!
We know not that which does induce the sound –
Thus our sanity burns like driest wood
When pressed to flame. My knees are on the ground
In somber prayer, I shall remain here
Until I find a love to calm my heart.
My wretched heart doth beat when she is near –
This love for her causes the sound to start,
I believe, for it comes from in my chest.
Soon, I pray, my heart shall find some rest.

IV

Solace is gone; a crow disturbed my sleep.
My gaze turns to the shadows of my cell,
And sees her form – my love, my mistress pale.
What lovely company I choose to keep.
To earn her love, there is no price too steep.
Until she knows, I’ll live within this jail,
Suffering the heat of my lustful hell.
She should find that my heart is not so cheap
As to try to cheat her of happiness,
By God’s own wounds! A Knightly Oath I have
Sworn to uphold. I am no filthy knave
Who would leave her scorned, forlorn, and loveless.
I shall not tell her, why risk all the pain
Of her meeting my love with pure disdain.

V

Sweet death I welcome thee unto my life
For mine heart is shattered upon the stone
Of reality, and all of its strife.
Love such as this one has most fully grown,
Become an intolerable burden
Upon my wretched heart, which is so true.
I hold no desire to walk this land
Without my love I have nothing to do.
There is no purpose to my existence.
For my endless love hath heard no reply
From no one whom with I would join the dance.
So I wait for my soul to begin to fly
To the heaven in which I do belong
Where I can entertain with my great son.

VI

A desperate soul alone upon the world,
There are none for him to be with at night.
So he wanders the streets despite the cold.
The fog of doubt doth keep him out of sight.
He’s a stranger to the realm where he walks,
His eternal course of solitude’s kept.
Tis love for him alone the stranger stalks
Though he knows for him no tears are wept.
Is he truly alone on his great trek
Or do we all follow him; our leader
One among many? A single speck
Of dust upon a field of cold black dirt?
Only one detached from the world can know
Where in the world it is that we all go.

VII

Passions burn deep into my soul of hate.
Love, I thought, could not dwell within my heart.
To die alone; such is my promised fate!
Yet, here I stand at the door, and I start
To ask myself if she may be the one
Who gives my soul the breath it needs.
Perhaps, with love, my heart can fly and run
Upon the earth I cursed as poisonous weeds.
I have no hope, and no hope has been borne
To me. So in the darkness I shall sit
And wait. I am now so tired and worn
Down to naught, tortured is my spirit.
Could I, one far off day, get up to stand
As to carve a path of love through the land?

VIII

A vicious plague is the love that I hold
For those to whom my life I would so give.
It’s fatal grip can sap away my soul
And take away the reason that I live.
It is a siren that I can’t deny.
My sorrowful gaze looks upon her face
And as I am alone, tears fill my eyes.
The poet is thus put in his own place!
Desperate lies of love do fill the air
To sort through them and find one genuine
You’ll learn that none are to be found in there.
I live for the feelings of love and hate,
My oath, blood writ, decrees my fate.

IX

I long to be with the beauty that is
The woman for whom I would gladly die.
Yet there is another for her to kiss
And love, and so my life must pass on by.
For another love I desire to start
But yet the sight of the first doth bring guilt
To my poor, withered, traitorous, black heart
Which for her much love has already filled.
It seems to me that I have forsaken
All hope and illusion that my heart brings.
With these great evils and all of their kin
Mine heart will be a great and wondrous thing!
But what good is a heart without passion,
Can my mind alone these writings fashion?

X

Every man must fall to the warrior’s bane,
It cripples us, and we can do nothing
To stop its bloody onslaught and the pain
That in my terror it doth always ring!
We can only pray that our time shan’t come
And bring with it the one thing that I fear –
For I fear nothing but this requiem
That plays within my heart up to mine ear.
Woman! Foul sex, she doth plague mine own dreams
With no remorse upon her bitter face.
She can (and will!) be my end, it was seen.
None can revoke it in destiny’s place.
Perhaps one day, we can withstand the attacks
Brought to us by her, and a soul she lacks.

XI

To it, I am bound to be enslaved,
Never to see the light of freedom’s day.
Even the strongest of men are misled
By their hearts. We are the easiest prey
For the beastly incarnation that is love!
Once captured, we are bent to her will.
Permanent is the bondage that she doth
Ensnare us with. Could this that I do feel
Be true to me? Could I be better off
With a wife, or are her tricks starting to
Work on my mind? Her voice whispers so soft
My thoughts escape my head except for the few…
My scribbled words are writ to warn the young
To avoid the mistakes that I’ve begun.

XII

Night doth fall rapidly upon the land,
Which represents my earthly love,
Spreading darkness with its large hate-filled hands
Which extends from the heart I hold above
My life. ‘Tis in this darkness that I must thrive
Alone forever more. “Is there no balm
In Giliad” to sooth my lonesome life?
Or girl for whom I shall write this sad psalm?
There is naught! I enjoy this knowledge
For my soul is safe from the rhetoric
Which comes from a woman’s love (or bondage)!
The thought of woman doth make my heart sick!
For we are too young to partake the food
From the Tree of Life, its pow’r doth elude.

XIII

It seems to me that I am now bitter.
My heart, I noticed, has grown cold as well.
They don’t know why I fell to this winter,
And never saw that I have seen my hell.
What joys have I yet to experience?
None! I know this for there are few on earth.
Love is cruel, so I stand in defiance.
Hate is most foul, merriment is worse.
Cold and bitter I shall last until death
Takes me to the hell that I do deserve.
No impotent fools to disturb my wealth
Of pain. I’ve suffered and destroyed my nerve.
I have fallen in love, and felt the burn
Of giving love when none comes in return.

XIV

Love doth destroy all to which it doth reach!
Ever the wisest of men shall fall to
Its hell-spawned power! Yet I still do preach
Of pride and honor, which I hold so true.
Born of love, I shall die by hate for me.
One shall murder my body in my sleep
Just to remove my branch from the great Tree
Of Life, but tis only my soul I keep.
I have no desire to be a slave
To passions born of irrational thought!
So I shall stand as the last lonely knave
For I let not love’s terror on me wrought!
Give way as I am logic’s savior for
Mankind hath fallen to the last love lorn!

XV

In a world without knowledge we do live
No logic does exist here anymore.
Into the abyss, sanity did give
And so-called freedom declared the last war.
Passions control the minds of all its spawn –
Unhindered sex created them. Our loss
Of religion! My loving God is gone,
Forbidden for through morals he is boss.
“Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord our God All –
Mighty” NO MORE! Worship only yourself!
You are god! There are no ‘sins!’ Thus the fall
Into hell has begun. We blame our self!
To the liberals I shall not concede
Perhaps I lead way for those who believe.

XVI

I despise the face of her whom I love
For she doth love me not, despite the acts
Meant to strike the heart and soul above
With feelings tender and true as the fact
She doth love one whom I do not respect.
But her cares mean more than my own feelings.
When I see her, out I wish mine eyes pecked!
A raging fury over comes my being.
Jealousy causes me to hate the time
I get with her because I long to be
The one in her loving and pure light-lime
Though I cant, so her I’d rather not see.
My love is pure and as of yet undaunt-
Able, though things may change when they are taught.

Bardic Sonnets

Invocation of the Muse – Hubris

Who’s life stories melt into the shadows
As the Bardic sun rises o’er the land?
‘tis not the knights, nor kings – the royal band
Sins their epic tails for their nightly shows.
Be it the romance that is told not oft
Enough? Nay, of love we have heard too much!
Tales of woe have become the playwright’s crutch…
Shall I bore the with songs so feather-soft?
Of kings, love, knights, nor tragedy shall I
Speak of tonight. The Bard’s tale I shall tell,
And his life and the world in which he dwells
Shall be the topic of my song. Deny
Me not, my muse, I need your help in this!
Please quide my very words, dear Hubris!

I

What is a bard when he is without muse?
He has no reason to write out his words.
The truths they give, the world doth always loose,
As the forgotten pages nest the birds.
Thus what is a muse without her own bard
To give life to the words she inspired.
Compared to his, her task is just as hard
Her’s is to be everything desired.
Separate, the bard and muse are mundane
Mortals who must concede to live and die.
Forever bound, at least their works remain!
Their loving eyes become stars in the sky.
Should you, my love, decide to take your place,
We shall bask forever in bardic grace.

II

Here the writer must sit until the end;
His well of prose is down unto the dregs.
The rain must come, fill the well with sanguine
Fury, and loose the flood. The writer begs
To be bathed in the drink of the muse
And blessed with the gift of the humors.
With no joy in his heart, he knows abuse
Alone. Imbue me with the spirits four
So I will thirst no more! Raise the goblet
To my cracked lips and let me taste the pure
Liquor! Honey’s taste the drink must have, yet
One drink is ne’er enough. Once quaffed, you yearn
To drink again. But it departs so quick,
And leaves those who drank pale and sick.

Sonnets of Change

I

As I watch the night give off to day,
The morning dew falls first, a dawning chill
Rises, and ended has the dance of fey –
Lunar Spirits! Apollo did so kill
With ease. The hour is lost, the magic gone.
And we wake up to work the mundane fields.
What did we before the sun cam along?
The huntress returns, ‘tis her bow she wields
Against her foe. From one she made a stag,
But now a fatal blow she will inflict
At dusk, will conquer, ‘round the earth she’ll drag
Him, once more alive to join the conflict.
She lives at night, but in the morn she dies.
In the evening the huntress comes alive.

II

Helios! Purge the darkness from the skies
Let no shadow survive your loving gaze!
Only you can dispel your sister’s lies,
So we may be free from her veiling haze.
All hail the beams of light that come at dawn
And push back the demons that come at night.
“Let there be light” and darkness then was gone,
Daily the Lord performs this sacred rite.
We know darkness shrouds the soul of all men,
And for our sins to darkness we shall go.
But the sun rises in the morn and then
The Darkness is banished where wind won’t blow.
Come forth, rider of the bright chariot
To warm the earth as you ride right by it.

III

Tonight the prophesies of the old days
Have yet to be fulfilled. The Child conceived
Is in the womb, and in a stable stays
The mother and father, and they believed
Their son was meant to be the King of Men.
On this night all of earth shall sing his praise!
Angels trumpeted that his work begins
To teach the works and words that outlive days.
Not a normal birth, the Christ Child is born,
His father not of man, but is Our Lord
And he shall live until the shroud is torn!
From his mouth comes the great Spirit’s Sword.
To Egypt flee, Herod doth want his death,
Given the chance, he’d steal our savior’s breath.




IV

Not for some silver coins did Our Lord die,
But for the sins entrenched within us all.
I held the nail, as clouds darkened the sky
And hoisted up the cross, so it can’t fall.
He called to God, and no response did come.
A wine soaked sponge was raised to his dry lips.
I turned my back; my damning sin was done.
The wine I drank, I did in gulps not sips.
In the Temple I stood and prayed for Him,
Our Savior who was of a Virgin Born,
Now dying. I would not kill Him again!
Before my eyes, the sacred shroud was torn.
No, Our Lord died not for silver pieces
From hell and sin, he died to release us.

I've had a quick look through, but because I'm at work, no chance to read in detail as yet.

I'll be happy to give you feedback, but be honest with me before I do.

Do you want the feedback emailed for privacy?

How detailed a critique do you want?

Do you want a serious level of critique, a reasonably thoroughy and serious level of critique, a board level of critique, a friendly level of critique?

(First impression: some nice work)

If I can't stand to be criticized in public yet, I deserve to just curl up in a ball and die. Seriously, I've been insulted in nearly every forum (TV, once; radio, multiple times; in person, by teachers, by peers, by strangers, and by friends) imaginable. Anything can be said in public.

Publishers don't give a friendly level of critique. I want the level of critique that comes from somebody who already hates me and has a disposition to say "I hope he chokes and dies on the next word that comes from his mouth". In debate, I would run my case with the class as an audience and say "Here's my plan. Here's the shotgun. Shoot as many holes in it as you can."

When you really have no self esteem; you expect everybody to hate it. I won't be dissapointed.

When your a rogue, you know that you can't trust anybody. If somebody worships your stuff, you can be assured that they just want to get your back to them so that they can plant the dagger there.

Sorry, I haven't had time to read these thoroughly yet... I'll get to it at some point this week.

No problem. I'm not scheduled to die until 2006, no need to worry. (Stupid fortune tellers...)

Not a sonnet, but here's the villanelle that I wrote recently.

Alone, looking over the edge, I stand.
Eyes piercing deep into the shadows
Right now, at least, I am on dry land.

I try, lord help me I try, to steady my hand
But what rests ahead no soul knows.
Alone, looking over the edge, I stand.

My heart snaps like a dry rubber band
As through her hair the north wind blows
Right now, at least, I am on dry land.

How much more of this can I withstand?
Anticipation forces my breath like a blacksmith's bellows
Alone, looking over the edge, I stand.

The Shadow-Waters intrude upon the sand
Out in insanity I can see her seductive pose
Alone. Looking over the edge I stand.

Soon these numbered days shall be grand!
I have but to jum! No longer testing life nor love with my toes
Right now, for now, I am on dry land.
Alone, jumping over the edge, I AM!

To answer some questions that are likely to arise, no it is not about anybody. Yes, I understand that it's not exactly a true villanelle. No I don't care. Yes, I am being a jerk about it.

Ok, so I've decided to try the rubai rhyme scheme...

Rubaiyat of the Desert Walker

A heart of stone once beat inside of me,
Calloused to the hope of my being free
To love. It was hardened by the torrent
Of hate that immersed me into the sea.

Away from society I have turned
Never to look back but to lessons learned
Of hope, and love, they are dangerous things
That left me dejected, and wholly spurned.

It is a sandy path that I must walk.
To keep sane, to myself I always talk
Of useless concepts. The sun wears me down
Waiting for my death is that hungry hawk.

No oasis before me I have found
And in this desert, I have looked around.
Death would end my unholy sufferings,
But then, in my life, only pain abounds.

In my dreams I see her fiendish smile
To understand my aches it takes awhile.
An oasis, she fills my heart with life
Then has me the defendant in trial.

I want to keep that smile on her sweet face,
And hold her close in my secure embrace.
So now I stand confused, where can I turn?
There is no haven for me in this place.

She does not, I fear, share my hopes, my dreams
While I reinforce them, she rips their seams
Until there is nothing but tattered string.
Others have done this to my self-esteem…

I have a chance, so say the cookie-seers
But my words of love fall on her deaf ears.
She gives me a hug and we both bed down
Before I can kiss her, she disappears.

She is not real; she is but a shadow
I should have known this from the wispy glow
That surrounds her smooth and porcelain skin.
What is to become of me? I don’t know.

Okay... finally I have a chance to read these in a little detail...

Jades, that you have a talent for words is undeniable. You create some very beautiful imagery, and the emotional depth is striking. But you don't want to hear just what's nice about your poetry... So I'm going to be ruthless.

Regarding the form:

You use sonnet form well, in the sense of using the right number of units per line, the right rhyme schemes (the Shakespearean sonnet rather than the Italian sonnet form - more of rhymes below), and you allow the final couplet to create a strong sense of the epigrammatic. I'm not sure you are really allowing a break in sense between the eighth and ninth lines, but that's less important for Shakespearean sonnets. You've certainly followed the three sets of quatrains in the first twelve lines...

However, you've broken with tradition in Sonnet I, where your rhyme scheme, for some reason, is a-b-b-a, c-d-d-c, e-f-f-e, g-g instead of a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g. You've done something similar in Sonnet IV. Did you intend to create strict sonnets, or were you allowing yourself some form freedom? It's fine to break with the traditional forms, or stretch them a little, of course... but this is something that is sure to be picked up by potential publishers. They would perhaps wish to know that you realise you're breaking with traditional form, rather than breaking the rules inadvertently.

Far more dubious is your habit of using partial rhymes. The sonnet is such a graceful and established form that it almost cries out for full rhymes rather than "is" and "kiss", or "hold" and "soul". I know, I know - you're going to say Emily Dickinson did it... but her poetry is deliberately free, it eschews the classic forms for the most part, and if she wrote in sonnet form, I haven't seen it.

That's not to say you can't create a sonnet which deliberately utilises partial rhymes, jagged stops, etc., but then the subject matter and the use of sounds must be a single force creating a particular result - and that is not what you're doing. It would have to be a deliberate grotesquerie, and that would be hugely effective! But like all grotesqueries, it must be sufficiently divorced from the expected that its strange face shocks, alarms... surprises.

What you seem to want to create is the traditional love sonnet and grand sacred sonnets. I'd stick to full rhymes for those...

The meter - okay, a problem. I don't think you are consistently or even very often concentrating on ensuring that each line is an iambic pentameter. The stress of the words often falls on a syllable that forces the line into a stuttering meter. It happens so frequently that I feel you've just decided it doesn't matter...

The use of words - you're juxtaposing modern terminology with Elizabethan terminology. It creates a sense of hiatus rather than of consistency. I'd say... choose your style and stick to it. Mixing vocabulary styles in poetry is workable for a particular type of poem that seeks deliberately to create a sense of isolation, confusion, jaggedness, and even psychosis. And it has to be done very cleverly and deliberately. In poetry, because you're limited to the number of words you can use, a limitation imposed by the metrical insistence of your poem, the number of stanzas, the poetry form you choose... well, you cannot afford to pluck a word at random without thinking EXACTLY why you want THAT word rather than another. It must fit in with your metrical scheme. It must fit in with your rhyme scheme. It must fit your meaning, even down to the nuances and any sub-text. It should also sound right - add something to the musical quality of the poem.

I do not have the feeling that you've really considered your poems in that light yet. I think you are gifted, and have the potential to achieve a high standard in poetic writing, but you're letting your quickness of intellect rush your poetry before it's polished. Sometimes the imagery is very apposite, almost Petrarchan - I like that. The reader senses sincerity in what you write. And sometimes I think you instinctively do the right thing, as for instance in...



Apart from the "It's" actually intended to be "Its", this is a good example of what to do. The meter is right, the use of sounds is right... Hear how the repeated use of "ip" and "ap" create a real sense of the tight grip? And the repeated use of "s"-beginning words, in "sap" and "soul", creates a sense of despair. "S" can do this - it can also convey sensuousness in the right environment. It is a sigh and a sweetness, either concept leading to further explications in what follows and what's before it. "Fatal" is also a nice short word, with a bit of spitting out in its abrupt sound.

I've been unsparing. I haven't pulled my punches. If you find it useful, let me know. If you think it's unwarranted and too much, again - tell me so. I never give this sort of feedback unless it's requested and I know the writer can handle it. My only aim is to give whatever help lies in my power to let you know how a publisher of poetry would examine your work, with my wish only to help you develop your talent. My qualifications? I do professional proofing and editing on an ad hoc basis; I have had poetry published (not much - it's a tough field, and it pays appallingly badly)... But my feedback is probably not representative of every publisher's requirement. Poetry is a very personal thing, and you'd have every right to tell me you didn't want to stick rigorously to the classic sonnet form...

Well, my departure from Shakespearean Sonnet form is intentional, the three rhyme-schemes common are Shakespearean (a-b-a-b-c-d-c-d-e-f-e-f-g-g), Petrarchan (a-b-b-a-c-d-d-c-e-f-f-e-g-g) and Spenserian (a-b-b-a-c-d-d-c-e-f-e-f-g-g). I usually point it out when I send stuff to publishers.

Slant rhyme... my screwy accent removes all difference in slant and standard rhyme. And, no, I wouldn't say that Emily Dickenson did it. I enjoyed her poetry, but not enough to purposefully emulate it. My errors, for that is what they are, is purely because of my ineptitude to pronounce words correctly.

Meter... once again I'm going to blame my accent. I really don't stress any syllables when I speak, unless I've been directed to (such as names). Its rather annoying.

I do appreciate the advice, all English and Creative Writing instructors seem to miss such things, mostly due to our damned accents, we just don't notice it. (Really, I had one teacher complain that Shakespeare used too much slant rhyme!) I will work on it.

Hmm, just an extra note: I don't know where you read or heard that Petrarchan / Italian sonnets were a-b-b-a-c-d-d-c-e-f-f-e-g-g...

They're actually a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e, c-d-e. They lack the epigrammatic g-g of the Shapearean sonnet or the Spenserian sonnet. There is a very dramatic break of meaning intended between the octave and the sestet - it's one of the pivotal and defining rules of the Italian sonnet. The first eight lines are intended to follow the rules very strictly, but there's a traditional alternative for the last six lines - c-d-c, d-c-d. The poet has got to be absolutely certain that he maintains a senes of two tercets rather than 3 groups of 2 for these six lines.

The Spenserian form is also different to that which you've quoted: it's a-b-a-b, b-c-b-c, c-d-c-d, e-e. I think this is a difficult form to use in English - it really limits the final words you can use with all those interlocking rhymes.

What accent have you, Jades? You mentioned that it might be affecting the way in which you conceive your rhymes and even your rhythms, and now I can't help speculating about the accent!

Damn chicano creative writing teachers... I trusted him when I decided which forms were which. Dale Johnson was his name, but the fact that he went by Juaquin Zhiwatinejo should have tipped me off.

(Though I go by Jades Ditoyr and my name is %!**#)@ %!((*%^...)

My accent is a unique blend of Minnesota and East Texas, attempted to stamp out by speaking with marbles in my mouth. The German teacher at my highschool swore that I was German because of my accent, while the French teacher swore the same thing about French.

My way of speaking is just... off. I wouldn't be surprised if, after speaking to a group, everybody thinks that I am from the same region as they are. (The gift of Tongues in a very screwy manner!) Meanwhile, I hear no difference between slant rhyme and straight rhyme, nor stressed and unstressed syllables.