Steven's Poetry/Writing: May 2005 Archives

This time, a 2005/2002 time warp.

The Space Between

More times than not,
the space between
dominates all.
You cannot be
closer if there
is no distance
to begin with.

Living spaces
never/always
filled. The space where
I wait for you.

Because there are
open spaces,
interior
places made for
fillling. And with
You the pattern
is completed
as no other.

Frozen instants
when nothing is
and one second
flashes over
into the next.
Those strained spaces
flash on and off
with passing time
so fast no one
else can see them.

I say say you
love me in a
space between soup
and meat between
myself and cool
sheets. I say show
me as space turns
on and off. I'm
sure you can't fill
the space between.

So I'm surprised
again as you
never fail to
fill the empty
spaces your lips
against mine, our
bodies bending
the space between.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

And the original--actually the third revision circa 2002

The Space Between

I.
More often than not,
the space between
dominates. You cannot be
closer if there
is no distance
to begin.

More simply:
the space between seconds
makes time flow evenly.
Measure it down to
size unimaginable

finally
there is a break
when one second spills
over into the next.

More importantly:
the breathing
spaces, the living

space
never/always filled,
the space where
I wait

for you. Because some
spaces
interior

places were made to be
filled. You complete
the pattern as
no other.
II.

The frozen instants
when nothing is
and one second flashes
over into another.
Those strained spaces
flash on and off
with passing time
so fast no one can see.

I say
say you love me
in the space between
the soup and meat
between myself
and the cool sheets.
I say show me
as space turns on
and off. I'm sure
you can't

fill the space
between us.

So I'm surprised
again and again
as you never fail to
fill the empty spaces
your lips against mine,
our bodies bending
the space between.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

In this case, I didn't formalize the structure as much. There is no rhyme scheme--deliberately, but the line length is dictated syllabically. The plus side of this is that it forces language control and energizes the lines naturally. In the "free verse version" there were all sorts of spacing tricks and line break tricks to beef up what is really pretty lame in terms of line breaks. In addition, there is an odd sort of relativity element that intrudes and nearly takes over the middle of the poem. By forcing the lines into strict syllable counts, I also force the directness of thought. What happens is that the first part of the poem takes on a "Song of Solomon" like love poem quality in which the speaker appears to address God. It only becomes clear in the last stanza that he addresses God through the person most immediately with him. There's still work to be done--but I thought you'd like to see what goes on in a poetry workshop--how things are shaped, cobbled together, taken apart and restructured. In actuality, I had to go back to a version of this poem composed in 1984 to get to the new version. That is why versioning is so important, and why the computer at once does us a service and a disservice. Too often we leave no paper record of all the versions and this is bad because it is sometimes an early or intermediate version that more directly inspires the finished product. Anyway--here's one more example of how to build a poem--and this, as always is awaiting polish.

First, the new version:

And Like Shadows, Flow Away

Meet me on the plain of glass, fly to me
there where we name us the summit of all.
Come to me across the water, I see
you chasing reflections until you fall
in love with a shadow twin. Together
we will bind reflection, shackle shadows
until we, lords of the world though we may
be, fold up and like shadows flow away.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

And the version circa 2002:

And Like Shadows, Flow Away

Meet me on a plain
of glass.
Fly to me there
where
we are the only monuments.
Come to me
across the water
chasing your reflection
until you fall
in love
with a shadow
twin. Together
we will bind
our reflections,
shackle
the shadows that chase
us. And flow away.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

I like the free verse version. It means differently than the more structured version. But I like the meaning imposed by structure. It forces one's hand--you need to make some decisions--for good or for ill. In this case, perhaps to the detriment of the original. But each now makes a statement and the statements are distinctly different.

What surprised me
is that you were
surprised at all.
I thought you knew
what men thought. And
then when it (you'll
pardon the pun)
arose in our
discussion and
you said, "It can't
be that way with
all men." It was
my turn to be
suprised and say,
"I thought you knew."
You shook your head
and said, "I don't,
I won't believe it."
What was left for
me to do but
shrug and reply,
"As you wish. . . but
it is better
for you to know
the way things are."
And smiling you
said, "Not if that's
not the way they
are." And you laughed
invincible
in certainty.
But watching you
then, demure smile,
shoulders faintly
moving, I'd say,
nay testify
to its iron clad
certainty. If
not all men then
at least me, at
least now. And now
it is my turn
to be surprised.
This time by me.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

The poem probably could do with a little background. As with fiction, it isn't really about the poet, but it was spawned from an experience in a Bible Study class that I hope to relate in more detail in another post. The lines are a strict four-syllable count to attempt to capture the breathlessness with which certain sudden knowledge sometimes leaves us. The nature of that knowledge should be clear enough in the context of the poem, but if not, then perhaps that is for the better--leaving it to the reader to construct the pretext.

Anyway, poems like this are fun to write and can be very effective in limited doses. I think of Jacques Prévert.

Déjeuner du matin

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.

My poor translation:

Breakfast

He put the coffee
in the cup
He put milk
in the cup of coffee
He put sugar
in the cafe au lait
With a small spoon
he stirred
He drank the cafe au lait
and he replaced the cup
without speaking to me
He lit
a cigarette
He made rings
with the smoke
He put the ashes
into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put
his hat on his head
He put on
his raincoat
because it was raining
And he left
Under the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And me I put
my head in my hands
and I cried.

There's an effectiveness in these short lines, than longer more descriptive lines would undermine. But it's a trick one shouldn't pull too often.

Florida Easter Song

I live in the land of the lizard king,
brown anole, and green tree frog.
Orchids here catch the sun
on back porches
and light
the night
as bright torches
with the scent of honey.
On the lake, what looks like a log
moves by itself--gator ripples that ring
out into the moonlight. That shriek--frogs sing
to find mates. Soon the night is done,
And Our Lord's victory is won
as all things rise on daylight's gaudy wings.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

This is a sonnet with a progressively decreasing syllable count and a rhyme scheme of abcdeedcbaacca. I'm not completely satisfied with it because it seems to me the end is too rushed--probably too big a topic to fit into this compressed version of the sonnet. Nevertheless, I am particularly pleased with the sound-pun in the last line where "gaudy" suggests "Godly." I provide these insights because I am often interested in how others think about their writing and what they are doing. It may give you perspective on intent, it may not. Hope you enjoy the poem. And now for something completely different.

Song of Creation

You have heard, but have you listened? The tale
of the stork clatters out against the dark
purple of the evening, and this noise marks
the start of the tale. You listen but fail
to make sense of the story. The pond and
the wood are too distant, too alien--
the words cannot make sense. You see God's hand
in the lowering night, and wonder when
the Word He sends can be heard and heeded
by you, by those around you. You don't know
why the heron and wren know what's needed,
and men are so reluctant and so slow
to understand--the evening and the night
the stars, the moon-- all God's created things
Rejoice with a great glad noise, without shame,
Man alone pines, mourns, walks as though he's lame,
Til one Man returns to teach him to sing.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

A poem is too short to allow anything to go to waste, even the title. I'm of the opinion that poems are better for titles, but the title should not give away anything already present in the poem. It should, if possible, provide a light to see the poem somewhat differently than one might without the title. All of that seems perhaps a little pretentious and it is mere poetic theory, but as poetry is compressed speech, I think it best to make the most of the least.

I have heard His Word as spoken early
in the day. I have followed in His Way
as He says stay, wait awhile with me. See!
I am God indeed, the very seed from
which springs life, all earthly things that sing His
blessed name, that same name that seals open
lips with His seal and the real song that brought
forth all that is is heard. His name is made
holy when all creation, fallen and
redeemed intones as one, at once a lone
and plural voice, calling to all--Rejoice!

© 2005, Steven Riddle

Please forgive me, work pressures and other requirements force me to brevity, and thus I share what I most treasure. I have a number of these in "production." And I have a great deal more to say about a number of other items. But I fear I shall not get to them.

As an average male
of standard height and weight
(and age) you shoud know the
regulations surrounding
personal space. Of course as
an American, these are
roomier by far than
say your every day run-
of-the-mill Italian,
absolute luxury
compared to the knee room
of your standard Japanese.

The perimeter defined
as sister-like woman
you would not hit on--norm.
Standard measures require
adjustment for woman
you would date (not measured)
but approximately
two-thirds the distance. Then
there's wife, fiancée, or
woman who is surely wife
material- one-half to
one-third.

As known by clear
instinct, the space expands
rapidly when setting
a boundary defined
by contact with any
other male (one and one
half to three-minimum
four times for cases of
unusual dress or
body odor). All rates are
subject to change without
notice due to unknown
or combination factors.

Some exceptions occur
for nonregulation
persons, relationships
or conditions. As these
are oddly variable
only experience will
attune you to requirements.
Expect anomalies.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

Possibly the first of a series. I'll wait and see how the Lord leads.

Although you can't see him
you know by the itching
underneath your skin that
He is there. Patiently
or not so waiting for
you to come around. And
so long as you deny
it, He'll be there waiting.
And you will know no end
of itching until you
stop and call on Him to
let you in. And he will.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

where you were
you are not
now begins
time and our
minutes are
muted only
the space you
once filled speaks
in ways you
never did

your warmth is
absence your
whisper cold
your eyes my
comfort blue

© 2005, Steven Riddle

after William Carlos Williams

So much depends
on a

Great God Savior
who graced

by death ascends
to joy

among all his
people.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

or

so much ascends
with a

Great God Savior
who rose

from the dead to
bring joy

to his people
on earth

© 2005, Steven Riddle

Which goes to show you the tremendous art and difficulty of Williams's little game. I love "Red Wheelbarrow" as a slight imagist game, but that is how it should be regarded--delightful for what it is--a trifle. In this case, I think we can dispence with all of those specious arguments about Williams'a poem. In this case, it is very easy to argue that so much does depend on ....

For Samuel

He hands me another rock, his brown eyes
wide and says, "Daddy, what kind of rock is
this?" And living where we do the answer is
nearly always the same, "That's a limestone
sweetheart." And I expect him to drop it
and say, "Again?" Instead he slips it so
carefully into the pocket of his
jeans, you would have thought I'd said, "A ruby"
when he'd asked.

But searching the ground, he stoops
again to pull a raw white treasure from
the earth. I rejoice that the same answer
is always new to him. Limestone, white rock
does not stop him from looking as he walks
picking now a pebble, now a stone, all
his, in a whole new world made just for him.

© 2005, Steven Riddle

You were sent to a city of ashes
a people more dead than alive.
I said, "You show them my mercy."
You said, "Lord, will I survive?"

You ran from my mission of mercy,
I sent you a storm and a fish,
three days and three nights in darkness,
before you said, "Lord, as you wish."

Nineveh, city of ashes,
you wandered from east to the west,
in three days journey across it,
you spoke and you did all your best.

Nineveh heard your preaching,
he summoned his councilors near,
he said, "All people in sackcloth,
that the Lord's anger visit not here."

At repentence my anger abated,
I spared the city its doom,
but you saw my mercy as weakness,
and now you sit here in gloom.

A bean tree for shade I gave you,
The bean tree I withered as well,
Now you sit here in anger,
saying, "Lord just send me to hell."

My mercy, dear prophet, is boundless,
would you think I'd leave them to fall?
Should I not pity that city
where people know nothing at all?

© 2005, Steven Riddle

words wasted
to make lines work--doomed
to failure

words wasted
to fill lines--reduced
to white noise

to fill lines
words wasted--flaccid
poetry

Too many
words to make the count
poems flabby

add words--force
lines--chaos--can't get
your wordsworth

© 2005, Steven Riddle

I was talking about how the Japanese compose haiku and how in some cases the lines consist of a single word and its identifier particles. I had read it suggested that the syllabification for an English form that presented the same challenges would be 3-5-3--reducing 17 syllables to 11. Above is the transformation that occurs when it is tried on the admittedly poor hiaku of the previous version.