sunday oatmealy tedium
i am conjuring a spiritchild
a little pewter boy sprawled
with shutup books on the floor
his head is lazy in his left hand
elbowbone on a terracotta carpet
his right hand fingers woollyfibers
twisting them ones by ones by ones
into pellets, i-ams, of wet beachsands
turns his manatee self inside outside surfs
plays under chartreuse waving palmtreed spangles
tossing a wholenote tangerine high into coconut breezes
daysun no gray can steal
All thoughts and suggestions are welcome.
Comments
1 - 42 of 42
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umm
I would try capilization, and word choice. -
Delicious imagery
Conjured up a running line to slide down the word carved slope and deposit us together in the unstealable sun.
. Rewarded 4
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Yours is the first of many comments, JG, to notice the format of this bit of imagined surrealism. Sincerely appreciated; many thanks!
Later...
Lad
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good
I wonder how one can feel bored .There's so much to do.Watching the young one ? Is it your innerself and a reminscing about the good ol days ?Nothin like a wet beach sand.Being carefree in one's childhood is the ultimate and whats left are memories .I love to go back into time and You have made me do it again.
. Rewarded 6
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Hi, blazingleo, and thanks for such an attentive and thoughtful reading of this surreal little poem on boredom. Yes, you caught it right: the child in it is my "innerself" daydreaming about a carefree and boredomless time on a lovely beach - my favorite beach-place: Key West. Your comment hit the escape from boredom just right.
I've been off the site for several days due to a comp virus, now fixed, I hope. I'll be checking into your page asap.
Later...
Lad
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Hmmmmm...this is intriguing, Lad. It feels, to me, rather than tells. I don't think I know exactly what you're talking about, and yet I do in a sense. I have a very strong and lasting image of a man in a chair eating oatmeal watching a younger relative "play" (inasmuch as such lazy action can be considered "play") on the floor. Maybe you and a nephew? I don't know. More firm for me is my grandfather and myself in the same situation. The TV's on in the background, tuned into the History channel and a biography (maybe the Rosenburgs? Maybe Marilyn Monroe? Maybe Stalin or Betty Grable or JFK?), and I'm not paying much attention except to catch fragments which become, for me, like the ocean images here for your "spiritchild." Maybe this is simply about a "you" that you can't embrace on this "mealy" Sunday, or maybe it's just about daydreams. What I do know is that somedays I can't pull myself up out of boredom and apathy and...emotion, and so instead I sit on my floor and play with the rug and imagine somewhere else. It's sort of refreshing for me to see this image in your work, even if maybe you are just thinking about doing so. Damn but that all things are connected! Lovely stuff, Ladolino.
Ti voglio bene, sai?
Nenni. Rewarded 8
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Sono bene, cara. And real thanks for such an intuitive read on this imagined escape from boredom. You caught its somewhat obscure feeling just right, Nienna. Like you, on boring days (far more creative than we sometimes think, I think) my mind flies around from floor to beach, from humdrum to ocean waves...and freedom - and no gray boredom can steal it, at least for a while.
Nice to hear from you, dolcessima maestra. Back at ya as soon as possible.
Lad
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jerked me awake!
i'm a web content writer and i've been so busy i haven't written anything in months...maybe, years...so, i've been out of circulation here in sharepoetry for some time...
now, that i'm beginning to visit the site again, i only do it after i'm done with work, which is very, very late...
so, i was so sleepy when i decided to read this poem...after the "spiritchild", wham! i was jerked awake! in a good way! you have made me see such an interesting and poetic aspect to being bored that somehow getting bored sometimes seems not bad at all...
i am rarely bored because i have so many projects to comply and a number of deadlines to meet...but, after i read your poem...i want to get bored...and see where it takes me...
this is really refreshing, lad...thanks for sharing this with us...
. Rewarded 8
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Hi, leigh heart, and many thanks for such a kind and generous response to this poem of imagining oneself out of boredom. I'm glad no end that it perked up your busy day. You're so right: sometimes boredom can be a road to creativity.
It sounds like your days are horrifically busy, so I'm impressed and honored that you took the time to enjoy and comment on this little poem.
I'll be checking into your page asap!
Later...
Lad
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Doing me no favors...
Lad, as a champion procrastinator and one who is often just plain lazy, I probably did not need to read this. Having "boredom" presented so artistically and creatively will only make it that much more tempting! I was actually very unfamiliar with wordsplicing until I read this but now I am very intrigued. I do not think I am ready to try it myself just yet, but it definitely has my attention. I really enjoyed how it was used here and I am left with the impression that you've learned how to use it effectively. It appears to have that TNT quality to me -- quite powerful when used correctly, but offering tragic results if used without care or caution. It seems like the spliced words would need to be carefully placed. Also, using the manatee? Absolutely perfect. I get the sense I could sit here the rest of the night and not come up with a better picture to portray such lazy, lolling moments of boredom. Another really enjoyable, very well crafted piece. I have accepted so much helpful and supportive advice from you on my many poems, there is always that feeling that I should be suggesting SOME change or improvement on your submissions but nothing comes to me. I am just left, once again, deeply impressed by your writing. Thanks, as always, for sharing the art.
. Rewarded 8
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Mark, what a generous comment on this bit of surrealist and wordspliced boredom. Your thoughts on it are so kind that I'm a little embarrased, but I'll take it all! I really glad you got into this one so fully - it came out of a dry period, so I wasn't sure about it, wondered if it was forced, out of poetic desperation. But your comment gave me some needed validation in spades. Thanks for that.
Dry periods usually don't bother me; I see them as a time to take a creative break. But every now and then, as I'm sure you know too, something rises up and needs to be written. And in this one, dry turned into wet and lovely surf on a beach. Like the poem's manatee, it pleased me no end that you could loll around in my imagination. And also, thanks for the compliment; very much appreciated, my friend.
Later...
Lad
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Do mine eyes deceive me? Is there wordsplicing to be had in this poem? Daysun - gorgeous; it's more obvious than not mixing stripes and polka dots, but who's ever written it like that? Beachsands, palmtreed, elbowbone. Well you know how I feel about wordsplicing.
Otherwise I enjoy manatee self - descriptive in multiple ways, makes me think of a warm, happy, overweight person. Not that that has to be the case. An idle mind may be the devil's plaything, but it's often a poet's playground. Wouldn't it be great to be this kind of productive bored all the time?. Rewarded 8
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SS, your eyes are those of a manatee, seeing clearly under roiling water and splendiferous palms, rolling and splashing within wordsplicing and vowelspicing, relishing this little playground of sandy boredom, or better - in light of your thought - inertia.
The poetic muse, along with any writing muse at all, has been dry lately for me, but I see it as a refreshment, a chance to take a break and fuel up, hopefully not with gas but with some wordtones.
Thanks, much appreciated read and knowing comment.
Later...certo...
Lad
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Wonderful
Lots to like in this well-written poem. Great imagery of a lazy sunday. I can recall those childhood days when I just lazed around all day.
Thanks for this Lad.
Your friend,
Rich. Rewarded 4
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Great comment, Rich. You caught the idea and the feeling of boredom on a Sunday, not always a bad thing, especially when it lends itself to some surrealistic daydreaming about a sunny beach. Many thanks for the read and kind comment! And I thank you also for the compliment you sent me in a message. I guess I just plain dig poetry and love to talk about it and encourage it when I see it go well, as yours does. And when others' poems do go well, I learn from them.
Your poetic pal,
Lad
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Very thoughtful
I never understood blank verse until now. Your poem is so full of rich images, playful words, similies and metaphors and steam-of-conscienceness word flow. I think I finally understand what perplexing blank verse is all about now. Thank you for helping me to understand. Awesome poem! Blank verse is much harder to write than simple rhyming poems, and Boredom is a gem!
. Rewarded 8
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Hi, ladyjane, and a million thanks for such an honest and encouraging comment on this odd poem about a boring Sunday afternoon - with its daydreaming about being on a sunny beach.
And I believe you're right that doing free and blank verse is just as much a joyous difficulty as doing more traditional poetry.
I'm really glad this highly imagined poem worked for you!
Later...
Lad
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Bored, bored...
...out of your mind. And the only thing that can get you out of that state is that mind of yours! Take Dr. Seuss`s advice and use your imagination. It is amazing that no matter what our external circumstances, we find ourselves trapped or bored and changing the external circumstances will not change us. But something magical does happen when we change within and see opportunities instead of obstacles. Suddenly we find ourselves in well, not a perfect external world but better than status quo anyway…
Good read Lad
Bill
. Rewarded 8
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Bill, I can always count on you to see right into a poem's spirit, just as you did here. Surroundings may produce boredom, but the spirit can free us to a place of refreshment. In the poem, I'm reminiscing on Key West from my living room, the favorite place for my spiritchild to roam.
Thanks for such a perceptive read, Bill.
Later...
Lad
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Incredible..
when you take into consideration the lazy train of thought you placed in the mind of this boy. It seems most have missed that, or I am accounting for something that is not really there =] Either way, this is a wonderful piece. As always, your wordplay progresses with no bounds, Lad. Euphoric images for me, scattered about as though he cannot concentrate, for in that moment, nothing is more important than simple things, such as the fibers of a carpet, because we must remember that without those fibers, well the floor would just be damn uncomfortable! Great work, Lad. Enjoyed quite a bit =]
Friend and fan,
Renji. Rewarded 8
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Renji, your comment about "the lazy train of thought...placed in the mind of this boy" is absolutely right on. Thanks for that. And your other comment, that "nothing is more important than simple things", is also what I hoped readers would see in this poem of imagining oneself out of boredom, turning those carpet fibers into beachsands and palm trees.
The poem is imagining myself, bored on a Sunday afternoon, being spirited away to one of my favorite places, the beaches of Key West. I haven't been back there for about six years now, but will soon again.
Always good to hear from you, my friend.
Later...
Lad
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oops, almost forgot
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my goodness
you are very good
I rarely ever see someone who can put so much imagery in their writing, while I was reading I was seeing the poem happening right before me.
sounds like a wonderful lazy sunday.. Rewarded 4
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I enjoyed your kind comment, BK. You saw directly into the poem's boring, lazy sunday, and into its imaginary freedom on a sunny beach - my favorite escape from humdrum.
Thanks for the read!
Later...
Lad
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Such vivid sights and sounds, out of boredom...
Impressive.
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Thanks for the read and kind comment, Exo, on this little surrealist ditty, trying to pull myself up and out of a boring Sunday and into a sunny beach.
You're new to me on the site, so I'll be checking out your page asap to return the favor. Again, thanks!
Later...
Lad
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powerful imagery, but a little scattered. this reminds me of my childhood for some reason. "His head is lazy in his left hand" in particular carries strong imagery, emotion, and symbolism. there is definitely a feeling of hopeless imagination, a clear sign of boredom. the way this poem seems to bounce around is like a crazy trip. just make sure there's something to clearly remember when you "come down"
pardon the druggie banter.
. Rewarded 8
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Hi, Mr b, good to hear from you, and I'm glad this surrealist piece of bored imagination appealed to you. It's an experiment with imagist/symbolist-style poetry, such as Rimabaud's and
Baudelaire's, fun to play around with. And, you're right: it's intentionally "scattered" in structure and theme, just as my boredom and imagination often is. Then it does "come down" with a hope that this "spiritchild" - me - won't get stolen away by the fog of boredom again...fat chance, right?
Thanks for the read and comment.
Later...
Lad
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WELL...
FOR me the beginning was good, the middle was confusing as all hell, and the last line was great. So other than that I don't know what to say lol. K ya lost me, I thought we were talking about somebody observing a child playing on the ground. sticking everything in his/her mouth. Overall I enjoyed it alot. It ran in my head as a short movie instead of a poem. Obviously you did a good job on the imagarey here. Congrats on that mate. hope to talk to ya again soon...
TTYL
MM
. Rewarded 8
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Thanks as always, Marcus, for your faithful reading of my sometimes weird stuff; I'm glad you liked the rich imagery in it. It's an experiment with what's called "imagist poetry" - lots of colorful images thrown together to try to add up to a feeling, not so much to the intellectual mind. So, the meaning is in the feeling.
What I was after here is me, sitting in a very boring (oatmeal) Sunday afternoon, then imagining me as a bored child on the carpet, trying to conjure up those carpet fibers into bits of sand on a beach where he could freely play and splash and toss a toy into the tropical air - and his (and my own) boredom could be relieved by imagination, by freedom, like the tangerine/sun/toy that no boring fog could steal away from him.
But you're right on: it's not an easy poem to pick out any literal meaning from it. It's an attempt at summing up an emotional feeling. So, I sure thank you for doing your best to get into it.
If you have the time and will, you might want to come back and read celestialpie's comment on the poem; she pretty much felt what I hoped a reader would feel from the poem.
Hey, good to hear from you, my friend!
Later...
Lad
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Parenting 'lad' within Lad, Lad?
This poem reminds me of a Shakespearean line ' When the age is in, the wit is out' - It's not so with poets, is it Lad? The older we become, the younger we are - at heart and mind, aren't we? Nurturing the muse that is still a child within is so beautiful. I loved this poem for its rich imagery and it potrays poets' nature beautifully.
Take cares, Lad.
Love
-Kiddy
. Rewarded 8
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Kiddy, my dearest reader, you are a wonder. I knew that this poem wouldn't appeal to the literal reader, but might make some emotional sense to the purely poetic reader - and that's exactly what you did, making my day! Your comment tells me that you intuitively felt that "nurturing" of our little child within, trying to free himself from boredome with his imagination. THANKS a whole bunch for seeing that.
Later...as always,
Lad
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I really didn't get it lol...but ti doesnt matter...I enjoyed it so much....the adventerous language...bold, easy to picture imagery,....
Yet still in the end I came back not feeling complete from the read, from feeling confused as to the subject...
some poems just are liek that I guess, lol
Great writing as always Lad
Cindy
. Rewarded 6
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Cindy, luv, many thanks for taking a shot at this poem. No wonder you had a tough time with its literal meaning, because there is none! It's all imagery, imagination, seeing myself on a boring afternoon as a boy, also bored, but his imagination takes him far away out of boredom to a sandy beach where he can play and splash around, and "no fog" of boredom can "steal" him away.
And you're right again when you say that some poems aren't meant for literal meaning; they just "mean" in the feelings they bring up. Your comment there is a really good one.
As always, delicious one, you are a faithful reader and your honesty is precious.
Later...
Lad
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vivid portrait Lad...
of a kid on the living room rug, but through description of his movements and attitude you've placed him tropical. The last four lines really bring out your surrealist, Cummings bent. "Palmtreed spangles" and "tangerine whole note" are priceless. Everything about it is so relaxed. Good one, MJ. Rewarded 6
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Thanks for the read, Rich, and for an intuitive comment on this imagist experiment. Besides reading Merwin more and more these days, I've been delving into Beaudelaire, whose works I've not liked in the past, but second looks are intruiging me - trying to get strong and somewhat disconnected images to adhere, in sum, to a feeling, an emotional insight. Glad you liked it.
Later.
Lad
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Hey, Lad. I am intrigued by this departure from your usual tone and style.
You hooked me with the opening line- "Sunday oatmeal evening." There's so many layers in plain mush-- it speaks of the extremes of childhood and old age. Oatmeal is bland but nourishing and easy to digest, utterly unremarkable, inoffensive, and a staple dish. It hints at nothing exciting to come either-- day after day of fiber and regularity. Pitch-perfect setting for the mood of the piece.
Then the "spiritchild"-- Lad letting his inner-child out to sigh and pout and wile away the end-of-weekend? I have the advantage of knowing you, and I know you to be eternally young at heart, and only too well I can imagine you actually splitting in two-- mature Lad and little Lad regarding each other solemnly between segments of "Sixty Minutes," realizing, once again, how things come full circle-- how Sundays were torturous to the young because it meant returning to school, and how Sundays become torturous again because it means the start of another week.
"a little pewter boy"-- another loaded image. On the surface, I imagine a little boy bookend coming to life, stepping from his place on a brass pedestal, standing up Dickens to waltz, improbably, into our midst, a child-literature occurrence, Indian in the Cupboard, perhaps, or The Castle in the Attic. And of course, that boy is you, his innocence cast in soft metal-- pliable as the poet knows memory can be. Pewter is also a popular material for children's fantasy figurines.
"shutup books on the floor"-- the child is given books to shut him up-- as mama always said, "Go find something to do or I'll FIND you something to do." This reading has a feeling of routine to it-- Sunday evening are specifically prescribed for reading, which carries over into adult habit.
"terracotta carpet"-- interesting contrast in colors and textures-- terracotta and pewter. Terracotta is almost bronze, so silver and bronze hint at medals, but terracotta, of course, is pottery. The image is also oddly Victorian-- again, I am reminded of children's literature, Alice in Wonderland or the Velveteen Rabbit, children in pinafores weaving daisy-chains, fine chess sets (which might also be pewter!) English gardens, petit fours.
"fingers woollyfibers"-- the first real Ladism-- at least, the Lad that we have come to know so well here, reassuring me and yet leaving me to wonder.
"pellets, iambs, of wet beachsands/turning round his manatee self inside outside"- pure Lad again-- the sounds of the words are uniquely your kind of alliterative, your kind of enjambment, but the juxtaposition of images is somebody else. IS it Lewis Carroll you're channeling here? And the manatee is practically the walrus! Goo goo g'joob! Of cabbages and kings!
"waves under chartreuse waving palmtreed spangles"-- an interestingly modern Lewis Carroll? And this line, to me, is the purest fusion of Lad and Lewis Carroll, "palmtreed" being one of those blurred adjec-noun-adverbs thingies that you do so well.
"tossing a tangerine whole note up to a coconut breeze/
a sun no fog can steal"-- The only line in the poem, in my opinion, that is completely your voice. The pewter Lad has transported himself from the orange-colored carpet to a beach in orange tones, with orange-colored fruits. For so many of us, this simple act of imagining ourselves elsewhere is what made us poets to begin with.
And "a sun no fog can steal" is that irrepressible hope we all have. If we don't have to be in gray Sundays, well then, what's stopping us from dreaming tropical fruits and warm-sanded sunsets? Also, those six staccato syllables is the only completely adult voice, mature Lad looking back at what he has done over the years, from childhood to now, recognizing the power of his gifts.
I might be way off. But I liked it, and I agree with John-- you seldom miss when you step outside yourself. I have told you before how I admire your daring, your willingness to experiment with style.
Luv,
Lauren
. Rewarded 8
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Not at all "way off", Lauren-sweet-and-savory-chica-linda-in-the-sky, but exactly and precisely right on the mark with this imagist experiment. I wanted it to add up not to any literal "meaning" but to an emotional-intuitive one, and sure enough, you felt it all - the bored poet conjuring up himself as a child of tedium, fingering carpet fibers into beachsands and playing in the water, tossing that tangerine/sun/beachball at random into tropical air - and then the poet's sober hope that no fog dare steal that freed child away.
What can I say as to how you dove into this one with intuitively, emotionally insightful, feminine antennae? No, I hadn't any Carroll in my mind as I layed it out, but who knows if he wasn't lurking in the id, conjuring up childlike images? If you're not a therapist, Lauren, you ought to be: a probing and truthfinding therapist for the poetically obsessed, even possibly deranged!
In the poem, I also wanted to contrast that "i am" (bored) in the second line with "iambs" later on; then tried punning again with the final line's "sun" with "son" - a bit of easy word-flipping, but fun to play with, as was the whole poem.
As I mentioned to John, I can't seem to settle down into a consistently authorial style, and I'm beginning to like the game, while, as you kindly noted, still trying to keep any identifying voice intact, even when spiriting up someone else, like my bored child. And you caught all of that, too.
I've been reading Merwin again and the crackpots Rimbaud and Beaudelaire, and their lush images are finding a home, something new to play with.
Later, Luv of my site...
Lad
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hey lad
boredom is really an underated topic 90 percent of life is boring but if it werent for it we couldn't get the 10 percent exicting part. its what we do in those moments of twisting carpet fibers that we mull over and process...a fine tribute to the moments we gloss over but are the "fiber" of our being.
dave. Rewarded 6
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dave, thanks for an insightful reading of this purely imagist experiment - damn, I like to play around with all kinds of poetic styles, hoping to keep some identifying voice intact. I'm glad you liked this weird one. And you're right, I think - boredom, along with ego(!), is often a great inventive source for poetry. And you even picked up on "fiber" of our being - thanks for that, too.
Later...
Lad
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James Joyce lived just down the road from me....
Ay-oop Lad, tha't gettin' a' carried away ba t'poetic mow-ment 'ere ah reckon! Can't say I totally 'got' all of it, who or what the pewter boy was or what he represented (your muse maybe?) but I loved how you played and revelled with words, like 'woolyfibers' and 'ones by ones by ones', 'inside outside' etc. - it felt almost Joycean. Always nice to see you spread your poetic wings. You seldom miss when you take a chance I notice. As always, great work. >W<. Rewarded 8
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Ha!, me morning's minion, you got it right to the max: "gettin' a' carried away ba t'poetic mow-ment..." Sometimes, in my fearsome boredom, I'll try throwing all kinds of images in the mix, see what happens - and in this one it came out that any "meaning" is not in the mind but in the emotions altogether: conjuring up myself as a bored child, twisting carpet fibers into imagined pellets of beachsand, splashing around like a manatee in the water, and tossing a ball/tangerine/sun into tropical air - and "no fog" of boredom can steal that freedom away.
I can't seem (nor want) to settle down to a consistent style, John; my feelings are too random for that, and sometimes the results can mystify a reader. But you, you got to the emotional heart of this one - no literal "meanings" in it, but all its images, I hope, add up to an emotional feeling, another kind of meaning, as you know well.
Thanks for such a generous read, my friend, especially putting me into the same sentence as the last century's most excellent imagist, Joyce, and he lived not a stone's throw from where you do - jaysus, no wonder you can't stop your fine writing, you Celtic songster, you...!
Later...
Lad
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