Your Best Work

I think the one that stands out for my work was a turning point for me from bad poetry to (still getting) better. I had gotten away from poetry for a while and I came back to it sort of lost, wanting to write but uninspired and unsure of the voice I had. I couldn't find it. And then one day my old (true) voice sort of re-emerged but with much better tools and execution than it had before.
One of the things that stood out for me was the completeness of the metaphor and how it carried the meaning, which is something I do often now, and it was something I hadn't done too successfully before then. And I recall that you had mentioned on reading this one that the syntax and style was greatly improved from previous work. I also made better word choices, the verbs especially seemed to carry significantly more weight than I had allowed them to before. It changed the way I wrote from then on. After it, I have written what I consider good work, definitely better for me anyway, but I don't consider what I've written since to be better than this one, and they certainly aren't even close to performing as the catalyst this one did.
And that poem was this one:

Rose Garden
Drawn in by petals
velvet, delicate, spun
atop a prickled stem.
By the garden
I'm invited,
then accused
of touching protected beauty
vision outshines regret
of wanting
to pluck this rose.
Blood stains fingers
guilty.

Hidden in a thicket
I am unexposed.
'Til my pain rings out.
Scarlet's, in silence,
reveals me;
blames me.
My volume gives me away
I am taunted
by what I can feel
but cannot hold.

hey...wat is his forum about????

I wrote more poetry in my misspent youth than I do now but this poem is the one that I've always thought is among my best if not the very best.

Sometimes

Sunlight dappled the steady hands
holding the knife that sliced
sure and sharp through the scales
and skins, emptying the entrails
of the fish clean and neat; a
painless, sure slice that cut
both deep and true with ease.

Sometimes life is like that.

-- Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy


It was published a few little places in the 80's and in my chapbook.

Well, my best for certain come when I force some patience. I am not, by nature, a patient person. It's very difficult for me. That makes poetry an even more valuable exercise for my thoughts. Since it's short, or relatively compared to my prose, I can readily see the benefits of taking the time and learning to savor the effort. Because effort spent on something you love is a joy more than it is a task.

So, the best of mine are when I insist on some self-discipline.

William Haskins said:

i suspect that most, if not all, poets have a poem that stands out in their mind as their best work to date.

assuming this is the case, what would you say are the unique elements or characteristics that separate that particular work in your mind from the others?

is it a departure from your normal style, is it the weight of the theme, or is it just an example of better execution (in other words, you just nailed it)?

Click to expand...

For me, William, it's a little bit of all of those. The poem I consider my best work was the first sonnet I ever wrote (this year)--I was so green, I didn't even know it was a sonnet when I wrote it. I'd read a John Donne poem using this particular sonnet rhyme pattern, and simply followed the pattern in coming up with my poem. I later discovered it was called a Petrarchan sonnet.

The poem was a departure from my previous styles--but it's also my favorite in that it was one of those poems that just nailed it in terms of theme and execution. It also is one of deep personal significance to me, in that I identify with it so strongly. I've made it the first poem in my poetry/devotional book (book as yet unpublished, though the poem will be next year). It's a little disconcerting to have a favorite sometimes, because it becomes the new bar--the standard by which you measure all subsequent attempts. So in that sense I find myself much more critical of my work because of it. But I guess that's a good thing, as long as I don't get too frustrated with my writing process.

SHE LOVETH MUCH
(Luke 7)

I crept into the room where they reclined;
Alone I stood as all began to eat.
My weeping eyes were fixed upon His feet,
And kneeling as the men with Jesus dined,
My hair with tears of gratitude entwined
Those feet o’er which I poured my perfume sweet.
With such a gift my worship was complete.
Yet as I rose the Pharisee opined,
“If Jesus were a prophet, He would know
The depths of sin in one who dared to touch,
And He from her would all acquaintance cease.”
My Savior’s answer caused fresh tears to flow:
“She loveth much who’s been forgiven much—
Your faith has healed you, daughter, go in peace.”

The following poem is a favorite of mine as I think I achieved what I wanted to, which was to write about a generation, not just one man. As Kevin said earlier.... the truth is so elusive and I hope I've captured some of it here.



A BIRD FROM THE FIFTIES

They drank in formation,
The birds from the fifties,

Their days, grounded,
Their nights, in flight.

I was a fledgling,
Perched on the stairs,
Captured by their
Whooping and cooing.

Funny, the one I remember,
The delicate lark long silent.

Skinny, blue-eyed,
Leo O'Neil,
With his thin-lipped smile,

Wide and off-kilter,
Like ten past noon.

And when he sang,
Head cocked,
Eyes closed,
Beak to sky,

Wings settled,
Ice cubes paused.

I'll take you home again, Kathleen
Across the ocean wild and wide

And the cuckoo chirping
At dinner,
Before nesting
Into coffee
And creme de menthe.

Leo pecking at his plate,
Swilling and spilling
His scotch
As he sang,

Oh! I will take you back, Kathleen
To where your heart will feel no pain

And as cigarette smoke curled into vapor,
The embered years disappeared,

Until one night,
Sober, he staggered in,

Clutching the branches
Of an offspring.

How fine the mist,
How thin the air,

I was there,
And heard it, too,

The haunting tones of a nightingale,

And when the fields are fresh and green
I'll take you home again

Filling their chests,
And draining their glasses.
__________________

William Haskins said:

can you share with us what separates this from your other work, in your view?

Click to expand...

It's compact, the language is clean and blunt yet evokes - or so I hope - a specific image. Some of my other poetry tends toward the flowery and alliteration but this one is more straighforward with a hard hitting last line.

It's emotional without being sentimental, I guess, sums it up too.

Hello, William. I love your work. I don't comment on your stuff too much because I'm still a bit of a neophyte with poetry.

I think this is very good. It upset someone here regarding context when I first posted it. If this happens again, I'll have it removed from the boards entirely.




water kissed
the moss covered
stones smooth
and patient

omniscience

rotted wood
bobbing lifeless
caused water winks
to bubble up

murky laughter

tiny feet
struggled ensnared
lost innocence
I was supposed

to watch her






Mike

KTC said:

I was just visiting the Artella site to check in on submitting to the latest Poetic Idol contest and I stumbled across my 2nd place win from a couple contests back. I had forgotten which poem took that prize? I hadn't realized this one was ever published anywhere. It was the one I was talking about when I called it what I thought was my best work? Go figure? (It's called Madelaine Ave) :

http://www.artellawordsandart.com/poeticidol4-06.html

Click to expand...

I remember it being one of the first I'd read by you that made me have to read everything else you posted from then on. It is a wonderful poem. I can understand why you think it's your best.
I do have a soft spot for Wild White though (your first place win at Artella) because I remember the day you wrote it.).

My best poem, so far, is Carpinteria in Winter.

For one, it was the culmination of a semester's worth of collegiate poetry, a class taken 20 years after I'd first started writing poetry as a punk kid.

Things that stand out when I look at the poem:

Pacing. Stanzas run 5 lines, 4 lines, 5, 5, 4. So the poem itself is slowing down and dying even as it shows the loss of love as the death of a fire.

Imagery. The line ending with "shutter the stars" is beautiful, and anyone who's watched fog roll in on the coast knows exactly what this looks like.

Theme. The entire poem shows a relationship ending, from its pacing to its language, to the physical elements to the emotional phrasing.

When I write poetry today, I try to make each piece at least as worthy as this one. I hope that someday I find a new favorite that is just as far beyond this piece as it was to all my previous works.





Carpinteria in Winter

The fire’s out.
Aways, down the beach,
over the dune that we used to lie on,
the waves slap the shore;
beat on it like futile condemnation.

I’m shivering from the cold
that crept in as the last log
collapsed and gave up
and the fog rolled in to shutter the stars.

Still, in the pit,
proudly dying,
the orange embers of this great
consuming fire
linger.

Hoping, as the life pours out
of them like marbled lava
that something – anything –
will come
summon the flames again.

But it’s late. And I’m tired.
And you went to bed ages ago.
I pour the water,
and watch love sputter and die.

Great thread -- thank you, William. It makes me realise that I'm not completely happy with anything I've written yet, and things I thought were great months ago are not aging well. They need more work. It's a good lesson to learn.

But the reason for that is what I read on, or because of, this forum -- the other poems, the crits, the published poetry -- that makes me see what poetry can be, and what mine isn't yet.

I think the new year is going to involve a lot more revision, because I'm starting to feel like I can do it.

Having said all that, the poems that satisfy me best have been those I've laboured over, to make them tight and complete. The loose ends and digressions become more annoying to read with the passage of time.

Often, but not always, the poems I'm proudest of are those with structure. Perhaps that's because structure forces me to close off ideas, not just make things rhyme.

KTC said:

I was just visiting the Artella site to check in on submitting to the latest Poetic Idol contest and I stumbled across my 2nd place win from a couple contests back. I had forgotten which poem took that prize? I hadn't realized this one was ever published anywhere. It was the one I was talking about when I called it what I thought was my best work? Go figure? (It's called Madelaine Ave) :

http://www.artellawordsandart.com/poeticidol4-06.html

Click to expand...

Kevin, I loved this. It's one of those poems where I feel that if I just read it enough times, I might just learn how to write free-verse poetry. Wonderful!

Execution of vision. The clarity of what's in my head can sometimes be striking. However, it's the execution of that idea from thought to means of distribution; and the veracity with which it is executed, that always means a better work to me.

Just the right words. Just the right time. Just the right audience. Just the right meaning. All those things matter. But to execute them all at once; that's magic.

jt

I can only think of one or two that come close to being poems I'm even proud of. (My personal favorites are actually kind of weak poetically) But with the ones I feel could stand through time, 'nailing them' is pretty much what I did. It was actually my pre-work that helped with one. I brainstormed words that went with the mood I was trying to set and then picked through for the choice morsels. I had a lot of fun, even though it had a serious theme.
I do have several that are almost there. like PIAH, I think with reworking and a more disciplined approach I can up the caliber of my work.
I'm in an absorbing stage right now. I'm soaking in poetry of all sorts and focuing on crit'ing and analysing and observing. I don't know if it's a good thing or not, because I have become extremely hard on my own writing and am becoming pen-timid.

Here is my favorite-Ooh I am soo excited!!!

KTC said:

Thanks so much for the lovely compliment, Pat!

Click to expand...

You're welcome!

Frankly I have no compass when it comes to evaluating my own work, but I have a special place in my heart for:

Harry's Blue Rock Blues from http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showpost.php?p=647793&postcount=1

most of the ones I've read that I wrote long ago make me cringe, severely.

Yeah, I found a big metaphorical bucket of poetry in an old folder the other day, posted a few pieces of it in the chapbook, but they didn't get any response, which means they suck.

This one was really bad as a whole, but there was just a bit of it I liked, and kept that, hoping it would stand on its own.

I think I have written better poems than this, but it's my favorite:

Getting Bent (or: A Sydney song)

Steel true,
still hard enough to be straight,
still thinking of England.

This lie
of this land
is an angle iron.

'Till in the end
we're broken, man
or bent.


It said what I wanted and didn't take too long getting there.

veinglory said:

I think I have written better poems than this, but it's my favorite:

Getting Bent (or: A Sydney song)

Steel true,
still hard enough to be straight,
still thinking of England.

This lie
of this land
is an angle iron.

'Till in the end
we're broken, man
or bent.


It said what I wanted and didn't take too long getting there.

Click to expand...

That rocks.