Snapshots: Dan's Poetry Page

What is this Device Called, if it is one at all?

2010-11-15T01:27:00.001-06:00

I wrote a poem inspired by a relationship I was uncertain of. In the poem, I connected a few metaphores; with a twist:

"...not even the beautiful stars seem to help.
They shine and they twinkle,
but they're as cold, and as sharp
as the edge of this road,
And that knife in your hand
is your heart on the lamb..."
This is the metaphorical device I'm wondering about. This connection I made with the "edge" of the road being cold and sharp like the knife... in actuality the knife is a metaphore, but the edge of the road is actual.
Also, the "Is your heart on the lamb" is as much a question as it is a fear.

The poem starts out: "Walking this lonely highway again"

I'm saying the knife is the girls reluctance to be anyone's.
"on the lamb" is what prison escapees are... they are running from captivity.
The poem continues:

"or is your heart dwawn closer to a past;
hoping for a day that may never come,
but keeping me just in case."

Tell me your thoughts. Leave a comment.

Beethoven Symphony No. 5, 3rd mvt--Arturo Toscanini/NBC Symp

2010-11-01T22:46:00.000-05:00

This is so good that I wasirrestably compelled to post it here... so good! Bravo!

19th Century "Breakup" Poem

2010-10-16T00:41:00.000-05:00

Krissy Dunn Johnson discusses a 19th century "breakup" poem, one of the more unusual documents in the museum's archives. The poem was sent by a women named Fannie to a Mr. L. Holcombe during the Civil War.

Anchor of Sentiment

2010-09-03T14:29:00.000-05:00

By Daniel Taverne

1.
Mildred met Tommy on a warm, cloudless August morning when she was supposed to be pulling weeds from her mother’s garden.

Instead of pulling weeds though, she, comfortably nestled within the tall corn stalks, was sitting on a rock in the center of the garden putting pen to paper, working on a poem.

The big rock, a fixture in her consciousness now, had been there as far back as she could remember, and it seemed to grow out of the center of the garden like a giant potato.

It was a big garden; at least an acre, and almost perfectly square. Strangely, although she looked, no other rocks even half its size could be found anywhere near her father’s farm.

The year was 1940, and eighteen year old Tommy Branson, hauling hay to the local feed and seed for his dad had a blowout. He ka-thumped to a dusty stop on Fairchild road, directly in front of old man White’s vegetable garden.

Out of the truck and looking at the disabled tire, the tall, red haired, lanky, boyish man suddenly Realized the spare was ten miles away leaning against the barn, so he helplessly kicked at a nearby dirt clump, solving nothing.

He knew he should have put the spare in the truck like his father said, but since the newly licensed driver was in a hurry to get behind the wheel of the truck, he didn’t bother with that insignificant, little detail.

Setting out for help across Mr. White’s field, Tommy carefully began stepping over, or between rows of radishes, cucumbers, beans, carrots, tomatoes, beans and corn.

Gradually picking up speed, he could hear his father’s admonishing voice saying, “See what happens when you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing?” He picked up the pace even more, and before long he was running.

Half way across the garden, Tommy’s foot caught on a downed corn stalk and he too went down. With a grunt, his head painfully connected with something very hard. A few moments later he discovered what it was. He also met Mildred.
2.
Eleven year old Emily Branson threw her body weight against the large rounded rock, but it didn’t budge.

Smiling, observing Emily’s experiment, her grandmother Mildred said, “It’s a giant paper weight. It keeps the garden from blowing away.”

Amused by the thought of an entire garden flying through the air, Emily nodded her head and laughed as unseen fingers flipped much of her long blonde hair into her face. “I think my hair needs a paper weight too! She exclaimed.

Sliding her delicate hands over its smooth surface, she regarded the rock as if memorizing its every detail.

It was at least half as tall as her, and when hugging it, her arms barely held half its circumference.

“That rock is very special, you know?” Mildred asked.

“How could a plain old rock be special?”

“Well, I was sitting right there when I met your grampa. I should say, when ‘he’ met me. He came out of nowhere, fell, and hit his head right there!” She exclaimed; pointing. Mildred filled Emily in on that long ago day’s events, then abruptly changed her tone.

Growing somber, she stated flatly, “before he left for the war, we’d come out to the garden, sit on that rock and we’d talk for hours.” Mildred looked up into the blue sky; exhaling somberly. Then shaking her head, she repeated, “We’d talk for hours.”

“After he…” She took another loud breath. “…died, I found I have always felt closer to him when I was out here.”

“Look, see those marks right there?” She pointed at some faint scratches on the side facing away from Emily.

“These?” Emily asked; running her fingers across faint patterns of vertical slashes.

“Your grampa made those scratches when he wasn’t much older than you are. With his pocket knife, he scratched one mark for every evening we spent out here talking.

While Mildred’s attention was diverted toward the sound of a truck turning off of Fairchild road, Emily quietly counted the scratches. “Wow! There are a lot of scratches here.”

“Ninety-six of them.” Mildred said without looking back.

She then turned around pointing. “See that flat spot right there on top?” Mildred asked. “That’s where your mom set her dolls down to play house while I tended the garden. She used to make her dolls dance there too, saying the rock was Broadway.”

“Couldn’t we live here?” Emily asked.

“No. I’m afraid not. I needed the money to make sure we’d be okay in the city.”

“I miss Mom.” Emily stated.

“I know.” Mildred reassured. “That’s why I’m having this rock moved to our garden in the city. It’s going to be the paper weight that holds our new garden down. And, I want you to have it. I want you to know our family history and to be able to share it with your family one day.”

Mildred motioned for the driver to pull close to where she was standing. The driver complied, and 30 minutes later, with the help of the trucks other two passengers, the rock was loaded up and carried away.

Mildred stood there staring down at the disturbed soil where the rock had been and recounting the emotions she’d experienced here in the center of this garden, sobbed.

“What’s this?” Emily asked.

She knelt, cleared some dirt away from a round protrusion, and soon after grabbing a stick, using it to assist in the dig, She had unearthed a large glass jar.

Looking inside, she discovered a folded piece of paper. Dated August 18, 1950, and in her daughter’s hand, Mildred read the note aloud:

“This poem is about a rock:

The sun is shining down
I will not frown;
And the warm breeze carrying butterflies along
are my daddy’s whispers, a loving song.

Momma says that I belong and shows me evidence
of days long gone.
Scratches in the side, and a look in her eye;
Rather than a paper weight, it’s an Anchor of Sentiment
Keeping loving memories within reach.

Imagery Discussion - Part 2

2010-08-23T01:15:00.000-05:00

Imagery is grreat because imagery is what people remember.

By linking the images together, you can creat a mood, a feeling.

Imagery gives color to words.

A cloud for instance, can be a puffy cotton ball slowly easing away in the western sky. Or a cloud can be a dark angry God tossing lighting bolts at the ground like crooked glowing speers.

Do you see how imagery paints a picture?

If you’d like to bounce some images off me, for my opinion, leave a comment or sign my guestbook.

Thanks.

Realization of Realization

2010-08-23T01:05:00.000-05:00

.By Daniel Taverne
.
Beautiful birds
bound in a box
that's oval in shape
they fight to get out.

If you stood there Miss,
by their nest,
would you end their struggle
by killing them?

If you answered this question,
realization of life,
before it is seen
has not been neglected.

Essay by Daniel Taverne

2010-08-23T00:53:00.000-05:00

Walking Away

Contrary to my beliefs, the world is telling my family and I what to feel, what to wear, what to say, what to eat, where to go, and what to do! And because of this, my children are driving me crazy!

After preparing a home cooked meal, they’re always hollering at the dinner table, “Yuck! I don’t eat that?” Then, an hour later they have the nerve to whine, “I’m hungry, but there’s nothing here to eat!” Also, while getting ready for school, they disapprovingly whine stuff like, “These pants you bought me suck and I need new shoes to go with my hoody!” Even more unsettling, my older daughter is 3 months pregnant and talking about getting an abortion. Rather than deal with these issues, I’m going to walk away!

Walking away will make it easier for me to ignore her and her boyfriend drinking beer and smoking joints in her room tonight, and as long as she doesn’t come out of there hollering she’s hungry, my walk will continue.

I’ve got worries outside my home as well! For one, I’ve got a weird neighbor who appears to be one of those NRA nuts, and he’s always carrying a shotgun or rifle to his truck to go hunting. This is another problem I’m just going to walk away from. I mean, where is he really going? And will the news that he or his kid shooting up unsuspecting targets interrupt my walk? It’s surely happened before. Remember Columbine?

Something else bugging me is when visiting someone I expect to get treated as a guest, and offered refreshments and food and conversation. I’ll not receive these though from my oncologist if I make tomorrows visit. Instead I’ll get a needle in the ass and a bill for two hundred dollars. Fortunately, I’ll be a no-show because I’ll be walking.

Lately, I’ve been frightened by news stories telling me North Korea has nukes and that Iran is about to have them too. So when I come across these stories, I either ignore them and keep walking strait, or I turn and walk the other way. You see, the walking gets my mind off situations I can’t change.

Compounding my need to walk, my liberty seems to have been purchased and blurred by the blood, sweat and sacrifice of an unwanted God that I can’t seem to ignore. This God has interrupted every other walk I had ever taken; prodding me like a bully, willing me to bite, and I do. Time and time again, I bite.

Maybe this time I’ll be able to tune out that bully and walk away for good. If I can tune out that God, this walk will be easy. It’ll help make all my values fade, so I’ll not feel responsible for fixing problems, since while walking, they won’t matter anyway. Sadly, the more I think about these issues, the more I realize I’m tired of this town, this state, this country and this life. So I’m walking away.

I’m walking away, and all I’m bringing with me are muted, smothered, squelched and covered up conflicts the result of which, unabated, only serve to tear me up inside. Fortunately, walking reduces my problems to nothing more than whimpers, and I’ll be too busy walking to acknowledge such small sounds.

Will flies gather? Of course they will. I know they’ll join me, and when they do, it’ll be perfectly fine. By then, I’ll be clapping and laughing right along with everyone else since my accommodating nose will finally be unable to detect the dung that we’re walking in.

Another problem, when walking, I’ll no longer have to worry about whether or not our government is as crooked as the day is long, and I won’t be around to care about tomorrow’s illegal search of my neighbor’s home.

Oh I love being able to walk away so much I often make my three year old walk away with me. Even more often than that, I impatiently sit her down and prod her to walk in one direction, so I can go in the other room and walk someplace else. Some people say this is unhealthy for children. I say, if you’re not too busy walking away yourself, prove it!

© Daniel Taverne Jan 2009

"Reference: Poem "Bull Dung and Flies" 1999 Daniel Taverne.

Love Poem Challange: Say I Love you Without Saying, "I Love You"

2010-04-15T00:15:00.000-05:00

Here is an example:

Golden Strands

Golden Strands cascade from my hands;
gently dancing,
Like a mountain waterfall;
Splashing.

Oh I could live
the rest of my years
running my fingers
through your sof golden curls.

---------------------

Have you ever tried expressing your love for someone without using those words? Give it a try.

Use the comment linkand post your contribution. I'll post all reasonable poems here on this site.

Thanks for stopping bye.

Daniel Taverne
Snapshots of Life Poetry

How to write a Certain Kind of Poem - VIDEO

2010-04-12T01:19:00.000-05:00

Writing a poem in iambic pentameter requires writing five metrical feet in a specific rhythm. Write a poem in iambic pentameter with tips from a produced playwright in this free video on writing.

Expert: Laura Turner

Bio: Laura Turner received her B.A. in English from the University of the South in Sewanee, Tenn., graduating magna cum laude with honors. Her plays have been seen and heard from Alaska to Tennessee.

Filmmaker: Todd Green

Word Discussion Topic: Imagery

2010-04-08T14:52:00.000-05:00

Why are some things easier to remember than others. Why are sequences of numbers difficult, yet stories are easier. Let me suggest that stories are image driven, while numbers in and of them selves don't tell any story, save patterns.

When I was in college, yes I "was" in college I bought a 'memory' book from the bookstore. That book, and the techniques taught me a lot about imagery. Imagery provides a way for a poets audience to internalize a writing and provoke some sort of response. It doesn't matter so muc, in my opinion, if the poet gets the desired response as much as long as one is provoked.

Another benefit of imagery is its way of letting the readers know who we are, where we've been and helps to steer the reader in a thought or emotion.

Imagery warms words, giving them color and substance that they may not otherwise hold.

What is a tree for example. Is it a solid, rooted thickly relic of time? Or is it a dry twig stuck in a barron field of clover?

It's all up to the poet.

Add Your comment to the discussion, and thanks for visiting.

Missing Mother Nature (POEM) by Daniel Taverne

2010-03-25T12:57:00.000-05:00

I want to go outside

Where the natural wind blows
To sit beneath a shading maple to
Talk to mother nature.

I’m afraid she won’t be listening
As I haven’t done in so long,
She may not recognize my voice,
And I probably won’t remember hers.

I Love the Breeze (POEM)

2010-03-25T12:48:00.001-05:00

By Daniel Taverne

I Love the Breeze

Storms of passionate embraces
Lead through misty mornings
And open windows revealed
By billowing curtains
Invite the sweetness of mothers breath
And a kiss from God himself.

Half Crazy Smile POEM

2010-03-25T12:42:00.000-05:00

By Daniel Taverne

Half Crazy Smile

The encasement of my chassis
is about to explode
as my appendages force me on.

Faster, faster or possibly still
ceasing in an instant.

Untill then, my rage will rage on
as I grit my teeth
in a half crazy smile.

"If" by Rudyard Kipling (poetry reading) Video

2010-03-22T01:00:00.000-05:00

Great Poem here: Amazing. Enjoy.

Word Work: Usage of Words in Poetry

2010-03-22T00:43:00.001-05:00

The word I want to discuss today is 'bell'.

This is a word used a lot:

1. Death is implied, as in "the bell tolls for thee"
2. Youth, beauty, social admiration, as in a "southern Bell".

Why these meanings? How can a single word imply such opposing images?

Well, a bell is made for the purpose of making a noise. They come in differing sizes, shapes, colors, the sounds of which may have different meanings.

In the military, in special schools, if a soldier rigs out it means he "Drops on Request" (Quits).

Ringing bells can indicate happy situations, weddings, dinner, the start of a horse race, as well as the beginning and the end of a boxing match.

What if we wrote the line, "the bells voices drifted across the misty courtyard like phantoms'
Are we talking about bells that ring, or bells that talk? Think about the voices of the bells. Are they constant? Are they weak, stearn, happy, concerned or what?

What are we trying to say with the line?

My poem, "Half Crazy Smile" There are no "Bells" in it, but the words have connotations:

The encasement of my Chassis
Is about to explode
As my appendages force me on.

I'm trying to use a voice of "Rage". I used the word "explode" and "Force" Also, listen to the rythem of the syllables.

The words mean things by themselves, but assembled in particular ways the meanings take on differant tones.

In the "Bell" line above, we cant know what is meant by the word "bell" till we consider the other words surrounding it.

As used, we might think of ''soft', 'meek' voices of women talking.

This is a quickly written post that I did not spell check. I know It isn't totally coharent, but that's okay.. I don't think you mind a whole lot.
Well, I'm glad to get your comments. If you can make additions to this subject, please feel free in the comments and I'll post your thoughts here.

What Makes a Poem Good?

2010-03-15T15:16:00.002-05:00

By A Ouachita Parish Poet, Daniel Taverne

Well, as you might already know, all good poems rhyme. That's right, rhyme. No, not in the sense most people think of when considering the word, but in a more abstract way.

Maybe I'm full of it, but I think good poems should honestly mirror or react to the writer's observations, situations, feelings, thoughts, events, relationships. That's why I named this blog "Snapshots..." When I write, I attempt to put forth my own observations of life.

I realize some of my work is juvenile in the sense that the subject matter is simple and pointless, but those are some of my own observations. To me those poems are the ones that matter to me the most.

For instance, I wrote a poem that talkes about "Leaf Shadow's Dancing". I was comparing my reality with that of the leaves of a tree swaying in the breeze on a sunny day. I likened the tree as being a stethoscope to the earth, that the leaves were dancing to subterrainian music that I couldn't hear.

Another simple poem addressed my understanding that I have to do many things I don't want to do. I used the act of cutting a tree down as a metaphore for this reality.

So you see, although good poems don't always have rhyimg words, they do seem to have the commonality of showing us our lives do rhyme with each other's.

It is a shame that many of us, myself included, guage our poems' "goodness" on whether or not others like them. That said, we writers should get away from that measure, and be confident with our insight; concerned with impressing only ourselves.

Tell me what you think about this subject. Leave a comment. Your thoughts are valued, and I'll post all relevant comments with your name.

Lets Co-write a Poem

2010-03-08T21:49:00.000-06:00

Let's write a poem together. You use the comment section to write your portion. I'll then post your part along with my part here on the main page post. It'll be fun, and hopefully a learning experience.

Leave me some subject suggestions and I'll choose from them which one we will use.

Cheers!

Dan Taverne

School Girl's Heartbreak Poem

2010-03-04T01:45:00.000-06:00

Girl reads her poem about her feelinss of abandonment. Note the quiet, rapid reading. Is this indicating her repressed desire to avoid those feelings?

We can barely hear some of the words. Maybe she's avoiding exposing her true feelings? What do you think?

Video: U.S. Poet Laureate (2004-2006) Poetry Reading

2010-01-09T23:12:00.000-06:00

Very good!!!

Afraid of Alone

2010-01-08T20:27:00.000-06:00

Walking this lonely highway again
I sense the truth is bent,
Like a dangerouse curve without a warning sign looming ahead.

And this frigid wind, slicing so deep and so cold
can't compare to my fear that seems to unfold
when you're gone and I feel that I walk alone.

Not even the beautiful stars seem to help.
They shine and they twinkle,
but they're as cold and sharp as the edge of this road
and that knife in your hand is your heart on the lamb.

Or is your heart drawn closer to a past?
Are you hoping for a day that may never come; keeping me just in case?

TV Talk Shows = Bull Dung and Flies

2005-06-10T09:02:00.000-05:00

Why do the flies gather,
what is their interest in the smelly dung heap?
The bull hasn’t even walked away yet
but the flies are already there.

A woman was proud of all her many divorces,
A man was proud of all the children he fathered
with many different women.
And the flies were gathered around,
laughing and clapping.

You may say, “There is no morality involved with flies
crawling and flying about a dung heap.“
In this respect I’m frightened at the idea
of what is accepted, teaching our young
by means of mass media.

And flies always gather when something decays,
traditional morals and values these days
and self-righteous hosts
who carry viruses to our youth
are elevated and revered
as wise and intelligent,
though they’re pompous and vain,
so like flies they promote
a speedy decay.

And the flies are crawling about;
laughing and clapping making moral decay
look good in some way.
That I can’t understand.

So I ask you again,
why do the flies gather? What is their interest
in the smelly dung heap?

If not for justifying their own meaningless existence by enjoying and reveling in the sin of
others,
then maybe a feeling of jealousy and envy
of seeing how sensational they want their own idle lives to be.

Oh how pitiful are these flies
when the air that they breath
could be much cleaner and fresher

far away from the bulls dung heap.

I Try

2005-06-10T08:59:00.000-05:00

I try,
but no matter…
I kick that old dog
but he does not become
young again.
He doesn’t want to fetch
the stick anymore.
He refuses to roll over and
play dead.
He will not do it for real either…
But I will not let him just
lie there like he wants,
I can’t.
I get tired of looking at him like that,
and yes,
To get him moving again I’ve tried kicking him.
I’ve tied a rope around his neck and pulled,
I even got behind and pushed.
but he insist on laying there.
what does he do?
He eats occasionally. I
only know this because of the
shit piles on the study floor.
He occasionally chews up a good shoe and
the Sunday paper. No,
He doesn’t fetch it either
I have to fetch it.
Then when I’m not looking,
He chews up all my pens.

When I Was

2005-06-10T08:57:00.000-05:00

A wadded sock in the mouth of the Earth…
As I step out into the cool
Still air…
Where is the echo of the neighbors
Arguing?
Or the sounds of the other neighbors
Laughing?
Where are the dogs who normally
Bark at people passing by,
and the crickes
That normally say goodnight?
Where are my own thoughts?
Where am I?
I heard of me, and almost remember him.
A dim reflection of yesterday
When I was…

By Dawn

2005-06-10T08:55:00.000-05:00

By dawn they should be singing
But lately they’ve been silent.
And the wind should bring a welcome
Coolness through the
Kitchen window, but the wind doesn’t come in.
Even the sun, which normally bright
And warm, ceases to
Cast my long westward shadow.
So I laugh at them and go on to work
Anyway.

Where Do We Cling?

2005-06-10T08:39:00.000-05:00

They cling to the screen door
At night by the front porch light
Wanting to go in to litter
themselves on His living room carpet.

Where do we cling?

We prefer evenings struggling to
Cling to the slick metal of the
Street lamp post at the end of the driveway…
Only looking at the screen door,
contemplating…
Should we cling here, or waste our time
flying towards the screen door like the others.
Not knowing,
Eventually, we fatigue in our toiling,
Trying not to fall, we begin to slip
Then at about midnight, just before our weariness overcomes us
we decide to fly for that screen door
And we fly with all our might.
But our clinging has worn us down
That lamp post at the end of the driveway
Has left us exhausted.
And we collapse just feet from
Our warm soft resting destination.
On our backs, just before we get
stepped on, we look up.
We see those who spent their entire lives
Clinging to the screen door
Slipping into the house onto the carpet
As the door is occasionally opened by Him.