~ S o m e t i m e s ~
Sometimes,
I feel like
it’s all I can do
to
h o l d
i t
a l
l
t o
g
e
t
h
e
r
.
.
.
~Richard
Poetic evolution
I don’t normally keep the drafts of my writing. Writing in a digital document means that usually I simply revise the text as I go along, re-reading and rewriting until I am happy with it. This has its disadvantages as once the original writing is gone then it cannot easily be recalled for reconsideration, or at least I cannot do that, but also the advantage that I don’t cling onto ideas or phrases that I discard. However, several months back I wrote the poem, More Dementor than Black Dog and I did keep the initial three drafts of my work.
I would be interested to hear how other writers draft and redraft, in advance of any editing by a reviewer, especially in the digital age.
Draft #1
More like a Dementor than a Black Dog
Winston wrote of his Black Dog
How it would creep up on him
If he wasn’t busy creating; painting, writing, or laying bricks.
I think of a large lumbering Labrador but perhaps it was more,
To him perhaps akin to the Black Dog of folklore.
J.K gets much closer.
Her metaphor, more tragic
An encompassing weight that drops unannounced
In its cloak it clings like it needs to be fed
Music can work charms, although you have to choose wisely
For Dementors can feed on this too
And cause a spiral of despair.
Time to take Winnie’s advice
And get out the camera…
Draft #2
More like a Dementor than a Black Dog
Winnie’s black dog
would creep up on him
on moments of stillness.
No lumbering Labrador
but a silent lupine,
like the Black Dog of old lore
Cerebral creations:
painting, writing,
or laying bricks
would keep the beast at bay
when he sensed it nearby
J.K gets much closer.
A fearful vision,
of a hollow cloak
settling quietly
like a lead weight on your shoulders,
clinging, with a need to be fed
Music can work charms,
but choose your spell wisely
for Dementors can feed on this too
and cause a spiral of despair.
Time to take Winnie’s advice
And take out a pen…
Draft #3
More Dementor than a Black Dog
Winnie’s black dog
crept upon him
during moments of stillness.
No lumbering Labrador,
this stealthy lupine,
like the Black Dog of old lore
Cerebral defense:
painting, writing,
or laying bricks
would keep the beast at bay
at least for a time.
J.K gets much closer.
An apparition,
a billowing cloak
that settles quietly
becomes lead weight on your shoulders,
clinging, with a cry to be fed.
Music works for a spell
but choose your charms wisely.
For Dementors may feed on these too
to cause a spiral of despair.
Time to take Winnie’s advice
And take out a pen…
Cube World
How many more smiling faces can I stand?
It feels like I am but one more good reply from cracking
Empty how are yous and automatic responses
meant to make us feel like we are actually conversing,
even though we don’t say anything.
So few people want to really listen you wonder why they bother to ask!
Not dialogue as that requires two people to socialize.
Many don’t slow in their rush to their daily sanctuary:
a prefabricated box,
bedecked with charms and ephemera from an outside life;
a pretend personal space,
a nest in which to hide away.
How ironic it’s called a cube,
even though the fourth side is composed of a shirt back, not a wall.
~Richard
Democracy inaction
Prompted by this article in the Evening Standard
One:
I didn’t think my vote would count
He mumbled the day afterwards
All I wanted was to make a point
And give Cameron a bloody nose
Now I look at the map
And see four countries where there was one
I don’t know what’s going to happen
I wish we could have a second chance
Two:
I didn’t think my vote would count
He mumbled the day afterwards
I thought it was in the bag
So I went to the pub instead
Now I look at the map
And see four countries where there was one
I don’t know what’s going to happen
I wish we could have a second chance
~Richard
I am Iron Man
~ I am Iron Man ~
On the Seventh Day
I descend to my subterranean sanctuary
And, encircled by mysterious machinery
In my windowless room
I become Iron Man
Starting with the yoke
I smooth out the material.
I check the front and back for marks
And move onto the arms
That will encase my torso.
As I press ahead
Ensuring my garb is in top condition
I try not to think of the week ahead
Finally, my task is over
And I place the five shirts onto hangers for my closet
~Richard
Sleepwalking
I was fortunate to be in New York City for a day and had time to visit the High Line for the first time. This old elevated railway line ceased to be used in 1980 but was saved and converted into a 1.45 mile walk over the last 15 years or so. It first opened to the public in 2009 and includes planting and art installations as well as great views of the city. It is well worth the effort to see when visiting Manhattan.
Like many of the other visitors on this bright, but windy day I was particularly struck by Tony Matelli’s amazingly realistic painted bronze sculpture, “Sleepwalker.” Initially I thought it was a performance artist but quickly realized that there was no way he could have maintained that pose in the strong gusts of wind, and without goosebumps! It is a very interesting piece and got me a-thinkin’…
~ Sleepwalker ~
Immobile he stands
With arms outstretched
Reaching for something
Unseen
What triggered his moment
Now frozen in time?
One thing is clear,
We all need a door.
Even those who sleepwalk
In daylight…
~Richard
Poppy
~ Poppy ~
Poppy is no Angel,
for every 20 minutes*
a Lover succumbs
to her overpowering charms.
Rendered Breathless forever
as they dream of other places;
some chose an Escape from reality,
while for others it was a mistake.
Either way, Finality.
For them, and seventy others
the new Dawn tomorrow
will rise unseen.
Other Eyes will be moist
as they look on and ask, Why?
Why did Poppy do this to my child,
my lover, my friend?
Why did She lead them so far
down the road to Despair
and what did she offer
that Ensnared them so?
*source: http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/mm6450a3.htm
Surface Thoughts
More fleeting than white horses
that rush in the foam,
these sparkling diamonds
dance lightly on wavelets;
a brief but dazzling reflection
of our home star,
their fluttering white brightness
skates untroubled across rippling surface,
paths shaped by ephemeral winds.
Like transient thoughts
they twinkle
when exposed.
No two moments the same.
~Richard
self help
~ self help ~
a surprise gift on my desk today:
a small paperback
with positive color and pointing arrows,
packed full of promises
of perfecting my personality;
meant to mold it
into another corporate citizen
who will nod and smile unquestioningly
at perfunctory platitudes
that stoke the share price,
and distract us from the realization
that we ourselves are but stock
in a world of cowering complicity,
from which I willingly help myself.
More Dementor than Black Dog
Winnie’s black dog
crept upon him
during moments of stillness.
No lumbering Labrador;
this stealthy lupine,
like the Black Dog of old lore,
would hide in his shadows.
An artful defense
of paint, prose or construction
would keep the beast at bay,
at least for a time.
J.K gets much closer.
Her apparition:
a billowing cloak
that settles quietly,
leaden on your shoulders,
and clings, with a quiet cry to be fed.
Music works for a spell
but choose charms wisely.
For Dementors can consume these too
and cause a spiral of despair.
I heed Winnie’s advice
And take out a pen…
©Richard Reeve, 2016
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