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But here it is, in this lovely little piece of work.

*small bow*

well meeeeee tooooooo!!!

heheh

:)
g

There’s some terrific stuff in here.

If ever there were something to write on the chalkboard and visit, as you might visit a long-running chess match, this might be it.

I’m copying and pasting before you make any changes.

great poetry!
Charlotte

As I read this, I can see (in my head) short film running.

A whole story. Brilliant!

(and how long has this idea been rattling around?)

Agh! And now a title change.

Title changed!

The mystery is unfolding… but it is time for me to get ready to go to the dance…

(and, possibly, infuriatingly)

This is one of those pieces that leaves me thinking, “I wonder what he is talking about?”

seeds of love
germinate within

sprout, flower
then push out
through the heart
and beyond

into another’s soul
renewing them
growing, blossoming again
then thrive

a single petal fades
first to die
falling, floating gently
to the ground…

Again

- Gary Adler

Right, off to dig out my guitar and stick a finger in my ear….!

These lyrics - because I think they just might be - are pushing me to think back to Fairport, The Tull et al.

I do so hope that this is not insulting.

Wait on, the juke-box selection motor in my head whirls on. Wait, wait, there’ll be a click, and then the play. The perfect song, we’ll cheer. Hooray!

Don’t be late.

Great line. Er, lines.

Love the ending too.
Outstanding!

striking! thank you, Stone

As parents, it is we who create Santa and we who perpetuate the myth. And the killing of these myths as children grow is the start of the painful process of letting go.

The parent and child who are happy in retaining the foolishness and the delight, who are happy to believe in the myths, they are the ones who never have to say goodbye to each other.

Sure it’s symbolic. It is now, even if it wasn’t when it fell out of your pen. :o)

You never actually stopped, dear. :o)

After your comment, I have changed my opinion. I now take “I Killed Santa” to be the story of a regretful father who does indeed kill Santa.

An accident.

The father did not mean to kill him; still, St. Nick is now dead.

This poem must have been taken from real life. My feeling about it now is that it is more intimate. It is about the poet himself…an expression of his life, what he cannot say any other way.

(Sorry to have rambled. For the record, I am not trying to be right about poetry. I just find it interesting to interpret poems. Most of the time I am far off the mark. But I don’t think it matters. You can still enjoy a poem even if you have no idea what it is about. I really like Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy,” but I’ve yet to investigate its backstory. Still, I like the style, the strange symmetry and rhyme scheme; I like everything about the poem. I don’t get the “exact” meaning though. I attempt interpretations in much the same way a person will talk about a movie he really liked. What was it about? That’s all.)

If we take it as symbolism, then we must wonder what Santa represents; the most obvious answer is “childhood,” since ultimately the poem ends on a note of contemplation of what it means to cry “like/a child.”

A word about this poem’s format seems in order. This one is atypical for Stonepoem; it seems more stream-of-conscious, less crafted. These are first impressions.

The pace of the poem flows brisker than usual. Notice the two and three word lines? It might read ever faster, like a stretched-out sentence, but Stonepoem employs some punction “tricks” (i.e., the dash, lines 10 & 19). He slows the pace and suddenly we are at its conclusion, the crying child.

Again, if the poem is symbolic, then the child and Santa are about betrayal and loss, and perhaps about regret (from the speaker’s point of view). However, in this post-Pulp Fiction world, it seems so blatant to come right out and say “I killed Santa,” as if conjuring the murder of Santa is cause for celebration on its own; and so I must award style points just for being twisted.

Wizened or wisened? One is wise and one is weary I suppose. Perhaps they are one and the same. Darn those made-up words!

As for the rest of the poem, your interpretation is astute, illuminating and clear. It’s not the poem it should have been though. These are not the words of an imagined ‘old hand’ thinking poetically (as I’d intended), they are the words of a confused poet failing to speak outside his own very European mindset.

I envy the Gauchos and cowboys, but don’t have the cultural ammo to represent them or do them justice. That’s the core of it.

Still, it’s written now and that’s that.

The T.V. and the satellite are devices that represent progress, just as the gauchos and their drifting plains represent the past; the plains are a container for the “long gone herd of ways that were.” The trains and “tin men” are more symbols of progress; they rush around, making vain efforts to recover these ways of the past, but are unable to do so. The only solution, then, is for the people of the nation to halt the progress together — to “not switch on” their T.V.s. The choice is ours, according to the poet.

You have way, a way with words, powering and powered by wondering.

Don’t speak, don’t speak at all…

I’m very glad you did.

TIDE -WASH
Up the laughing stream
We raced down the sun.
Who there thought such fun
Would end? We held our steam.

But the pulse that never
Gave sign fell through the sand;
Depleted now we stand
Exposed more than ever.

Be good,
wishing well,
Charlotte

Hello said the climatologist to the stone
Did you know Leonardo?

Well yes the stone replied,
His block was chipped off me.

You don’t mean da Vinci

Why of course, it was only yesterday
I remember as if it was tomorrow
in your time frame anyway, i.e.
ahead of me not behind you,
if I understand your question.

By the way, what is your concern
with Leonardo, I mean, do you believe
what you read in the here and now?

Am I talking to a stone, you sound
contemporary, like right now, how?
Stones can’t speak, they only listen,
What was it I said, say it again! Wow
I said that, how now of me. Allow
me to continue. I have such a good
story to tell and you are the first to
ask about what I cannot tell you.

It is secrets that I have to show
You study climate, weather records
I am one of those, but I have never
heard or seen one of yours before.

Once in a while some fool with a pick
will hammer on me for a bit. That
Leonardo fellow you asked about—
He was one of those narcissistic bores
who wanted to make everything in
his own image, even when kings
gave him money for his work. He
didn’t know a thing about what
a stone might think. Nor did he care.

That is what I want to know
what he really meant by what he left
unsaid, as it were, by not saying it
he keeps curious minds from knowing
what it was he did not question. He
was an iconoclast and never said
a peep about misjudgements or so
we understand from back handed
comments we submit to inspection.

Better left unknown. Let me speak
which I cannot do, but you will.
Together we can tell a story only
the dead could confirm or spill
embarrassing details to expose us.
I am become your title, Until
the Stones Reclaim Their Pieces.

But I asked about Leonardo
what has that to do with the end
rhymes of overkill, fulfill and instill?

Be still impetuous child, speak
so I can do what I will, listen.
Until you know poetry, old
stones are but rocks in your path.
Begin. I know the way, but you
must voice the secrets to be told.

Where do I look, what do I read?
My mind is not in touch with

Touch, senses do not matter, the
eyes fool you into thinking see
Knowing is nothingness, hearing
is nothing less than being d on key.

LET ME ESCAPE
Let me escape,
Be free, (wind for my tree and water for my flower),
Live self for self,
And drown the gods in me,
Or crush their vipers heads beneath my foot.
No space, no space, you say,
But you’ll not keep me in
Although your cage is strong.
My strength shall sap your own;
I’ll cut through your dark cloud
To see the sun myself,
Pale and decayed, an ugly growth.

Early Poems.

Charlotte

It’s a shame that in the time that I read your work on SU, I was too angry (as a result of forces that induced my breakdown) to really appreciate it.

But rediscovering it is a joy. Thank-you.

From D. H. Lawrence (English, 1885-1930)
New heaven and earth ll:

I was so weary of the world,
I was so sick of it,
everything was tainted with myself,
skies, trees, flowers, birds, water,
people, houses, streets, vehicles, machines,
nations, armies, war, peacetalking,
work, recreation, governing, anarchy,
it was all tainted with myself, I knew it all to start with
because it was all myself.

When I gathered flowers, I knew it was myself, plucking my
own flowering.
When I went in a train, I knew it was myself travelling by
my own invention.
When I heard the canon of the war, I listened with my
own ears to my own destruction.
When I saw the torn dead, I knew it was my own torn dead
body.
It was all me, I had done it all in my own flesh.

Keep up the good work,
Charlotte

What can I say without being too gushing?

Frankly, it doesn’t come any better.

I’m so impressed, I can’t begin to say.

“Now resting here” ~ what a wonderful, complete, tantalising last line.

Brava, Stone. *applauds*

It’s lovely, Stone. And you just know that I mean what I say.

I’m mildly curious that it bothers me not at all to consider what the poem “might be about” - I just delight in the shape and sound and swell of the words. And where’s the harm in that?

Thank you :o)

It’s always been about
The music and
The rhythm of the words.

Writers block today
A brick wall has crossed my path
I write on the stone

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Beautiful pure little poem of a circle coming round.

It spoke to me.

Pick a voice
the 1
you wanna hear
the voice
talking your voice
back to you

Never be so lonely.

*shrugs* What you drinking?

Yes. I have thoughts.

I think the poet is very far from dead. Very far from it.

What now?

Greets,

Marieke

Which is cool, I am really kinda good at them.

(inky)

The phrase “every word you read is a degree of openess” shouts at me. I want to ask it questions…..