Iron Pen 5: Iron Pen Piranha Eel's Poems (please read, critique, and vote)

[Valka D'Ur]

Because of the limitations of the polling feature here, the Poetry Challenge competitors will each have their own thread. Readers are asked to vote in BOTH threads (please see the link to the other thread), once per poem, for a total of six votes per writer using the usual A-F scale in which A means you think it's really excellent and F means you think it needs a great deal of improvement.

(To read, critique, and vote for Iron Pen Berryman's poems, please follow this link.)

To recap, the writers were asked to create six poems from a list of 10 options. The ten options were:

1. Haiku
2. Limerick
3. Cinquain
4. Tanka
5. Sonnet (Shakespearean style)
6. Short verse (12-20 lines), rhymed
7. Long verse (21-60 lines), rhymed
8. Short verse (12-20 lines), free verse
9. Long verse (21-60 lines), free verse
10. Writer's choice


The rules for choosing the poems were:

1. Either a haiku or a limerick
2. Either a cinquain or a tanka
3. Sonnet
4. One short poem (rhymed or free verse)
5. One long poem (rhymed or free verse)
6. Writer's choice of any of the 10 on the list

The readers are asked to read, critique, and score these six poems for each writer. It's crucial that votes be cast for both, to ensure that the scoring is fair.

~~~~~~~~~~

And now I am pleased to present the poems by Iron Pen Piranha Eel:

1. Short Poem (Unrhymed)

There is a dam between us.
behind it are words left unsaid.
neither of us can break it,
so instead we part our separate ways.

Sometimes,
in the poisonous fog of silence
I wonder.
when did love not become enough?

Ever since you came back from war
your eyes have been drawn to the stars
and we’re falling apart.
When did I stop being home?


2. Haiku

Wear your disbelief
like armor, wield your caustic
words like they’re weapons.

It won’t save you.

Before destiny,
you are an infant, naked
and shaking a stick.


3. Author's Choice

The war is over, my children tell me.
Let’s watch the parade to celebrate our victory.
Not now, not ever, I cry.
Not until every speck dust goes goodbye.
Before I can give them brooms to finish the war, my children flee.


4. Cinquain

Hell
is the
quiet moments of
despair hiding in daily
life


5. Sonnet

I am an artist, perhaps you know me?
My colors are ashen gray and blood red.
I am an artist, surely you know me?
My price- not even a hair on your head.

I work on portraits of men, rich and poor
Women too, babies if duty demands.
My brushes are famine, plague and claymore
My canvas is the body of humans.

I am an artist, and you will know me.
My magnum opuses, they are grim.
I’m highly despised but mandatory;
My works cause some to sing (funeral) hymns.

I am looking for a new master piece.
Would you like to rest in eternal peace?


6. Long Poem (Rhymed)

In a city so inconsequential no one knows it name
not even its residents, there is a sad sad lane
where hope comes to die.
Hastily drawn penises scrawled on the wall, flowers try
to grow through cracks in concrete
but choked by weeds. The walls are replete
with campaign posters, from a time when the political parties cared,
crumbling into ruin. The windows have not fared
much better. Some riddled with bullet holes,
others shattered completely, shards of glass gathered in pot holes.
All full of stories of violence, intimidation and fear.
Of course, there will be no investigations, the police don’t even come here.
When human trash leaves the lane, the cops ride them down,
valiant knights on trusty black and white steeds to protect the town.
When the skirmish ends, sometimes the cops throw them in jail,
and sometimes, a corpse, pale
and cold is returned to the mother.
She weeps, but in the end, he’s just another
tragedy from the lane, and there’s already too many to count.
Drugs, gangs, disease, the police, as ways to die, they’re all tantamount.
Who cares
though, who cares?
To others, they’re scum who’re born in the gutter and crawl to the streets
gun in hand, knife in teeth.

 

[Buster's Uncle]

I'd venture that this round of Iron Pen is up against a couple of problems that don't reflect on the participating authors - we've all trained ourselves to read plain prose; the eye tends to bounce right off poetry and wants to skip the way they do for the non-math inclined among us when confronted with an equation in a science article - and frankly, poetry is also a bit difficult to talk about (beyond "it's nice" or "it's not"), and a fair-minded commentator has 12 works to analyze this time around.

I'll try to break this down into talking about 2 poems a day for each participant to make it manageable - and hope the voting deadline will be extended by at least a week to give everyone more time to work up to courage...

I'm not going to worry about form - those classes were a long time ago and I always wrote free verse, myself...

1. Short Poem (Unrhymed)

There is a dam between us.
behind it are words left unsaid.
neither of us can break it,
so instead we part our separate ways.

Sometimes,
in the poisonous fog of silence
I wonder.
when did love not become enough?

Ever since you came back from war
your eyes have been drawn to the stars
and we’re falling apart.
When did I stop being home?

None of us are mind-readers and words aren't always adequate to bridge the gap - if there are words. The author seems to tell of a distance found in the relationship with a returned soldier; if the soldier part isn't universal, the rest is. B

2. Haiku

Wear your disbelief
like armor, wield your caustic
words like they’re weapons.

It won’t save you.

Before destiny,
you are an infant, naked
and shaking a stick.

This could be on the same theme as the previous - or not. Someone has copped a 'tude, carried bad-mouthing too far. -But an attitude and a facility for harsh words does nothing to stave off death and fate. B

 

[JohannaK]

1. Short Poem (Unrhymed)

There is a dam between us.
behind it are words left unsaid.
neither of us can break it,
so instead we part our separate ways.

Sometimes,
in the poisonous fog of silence
I wonder.
when did love not become enough?

Ever since you came back from war
your eyes have been drawn to the stars
and we’re falling apart.
When did I stop being home?

Off to a good start. Not convinced by the last line of the first stanza. I like how the second one punctuates a sense of isolation by putting the focus on "Sometimes" "I wonder". There is a sense of being explicit I would do differently, but I don't really think it detracts. B

2. Haiku

Wear your disbelief
like armor, wield your caustic
words like they’re weapons.

It won’t save you.

Before destiny,
you are an infant, naked
and shaking a stick.

I love the second one, strongly dislike the fact that there are two of them. This is a use of the haikuform, no doubt, but it forms a poem which is patently not a haiku. Since I like the second one so, so much I give it a C.

3. Author's Choice

The war is over, my children tell me.
Let’s watch the parade to celebrate our victory.
Not now, not ever, I cry.
Not until every speck dust goes goodbye.
Before I can give them brooms to finish the war, my children flee.

Again, it is okay in general. It is interesting how there is a certain thematic unity so far, with poems orbiting in the periphery of war. The four line feels a bit off, and the poem in general fails to make a remarkable impression. I feel strongly about the sentiment of normalcy over the circumstances, but the poem fails to make a stronger showing of it. C, might have given it a B after re-reading.

4. Cinquain

Hell
is the
quiet moments of
despair hiding in daily
life

F. This isn't a cinquain in any possible way. 1-2-3-4-1, either syllables or stresses, that's what a cinquain is supposed to be. This one has 1-1-2-3-1 stresses and 1-2-4-7-1 syllables. Completely demented. The theme is okay, but the form is grossly ignored. The point of this exercise being to adapt oneself to the different forms, it can only be a round fail. F

5. Sonnet

I am an artist, perhaps you know me?
My colors are ashen gray and blood red.
I am an artist, surely you know me?
My price- not even a hair on your head.

I work on portraits of men, rich and poor
Women too, babies if duty demands.
My brushes are famine, plague and claymore
My canvas is the body of humans.

I am an artist, and you will know me.
My magnum opuses, they are grim.
I’m highly despised but mandatory;
My works cause some to sing (funeral) hymns.

I am looking for a new master piece.
Would you like to rest in eternal peace?

Again, thematically it is ok, but the form is constantly off. demands/humans doesn't rhyme, the second line of the third stanza has 9 syllables (and the third line could easily be interpreted as having 9 as well). The stress rhythm is also often wonky, notably in the second to last line, which goes ^ _ ^ _ _ _ ^ ^_ ^ (where ^=stress and _=no stress), although it really is all over the place. The use of mixed feet in the first line is interesting, not only because it creates a mirror effect (_^_^_ _^_^_), but also because I feel trochees lead more gracefully into the next line. Although I don't usually write with feet in mind, stress patterns are usually very important in fixed forms, and the sonnet is certainly not an exception. While a uniform iambic pattern is not necessarily desirable, it is a standard, and the lack of any resemblance of a coherent pattern makes it a painful necessity. Not to mention that the need for a rhyme throws a wrench into it as well. The B rhyme is ludicrously forced, for example. All in all, I give it a D.

6. Long Poem (Rhymed)

In a city so inconsequential no one knows it name
not even its residents, there is a sad sad lane
where hope comes to die.
Hastily drawn penises scrawled on the wall, flowers try
to grow through cracks in concrete
but choked by weeds. The walls are replete
with campaign posters, from a time when the political parties cared,
crumbling into ruin. The windows have not fared
much better. Some riddled with bullet holes,
others shattered completely, shards of glass gathered in pot holes.
All full of stories of violence, intimidation and fear.
Of course, there will be no investigations, the police don’t even come here.
When human trash leaves the lane, the cops ride them down,
valiant knights on trusty black and white steeds to protect the town.
When the skirmish ends, sometimes the cops throw them in jail,
and sometimes, a corpse, pale
and cold is returned to the mother.
She weeps, but in the end, he’s just another
tragedy from the lane, and there’s already too many to count.
Drugs, gangs, disease, the police, as ways to die, they’re all tantamount.
Who cares
though, who cares?
To others, they’re scum who’re born in the gutter and crawl to the streets
gun in hand, knife in teeth.

Again, I feel like rhyme hurts more than helps. Though evidently far more at ease here, the wildly changing line lengths make rhyme hard to notice and little more than a gimmick for the sake of it being poetry. Not that the rhymes are bad themselves, but there is too much reuse of words as rhymes for no apparent reason. The storytelling as well is simpler than the writer has shown us s/he is able to. I feel like keeping at least a constant metre (even if not a classical one) with free verse could have worked much better in the way of enjambments and storytelling focus. Not that it is bad, but again it is all over the place. C

 

[Buster's Uncle]

(Being careful not to read the other reviews before I comment, I have to say that I'd wondered about the same point Johanna made about the second - it's two haikus with an intermediary line. A B was sorta generous of me...)

3. Author's Choice

The war is over, my children tell me.
Let’s watch the parade to celebrate our victory.
Not now, not ever, I cry.
Not until every speck dust goes goodbye.
Before I can give them brooms to finish the war, my children flee.

There's nothing wrong with this, but I'm not sure it has anything new to say - but if the intent is something about pragmatic duty remaining in the face of grief - maybe it IS new. B

4. Cinquain

Hell
is the
quiet moments of
despair hiding in daily
life

I could have been a pair of claws, scuttling across the ocean floor. This is very strong, but perhaps too derivative? B

 

[Cutlass]

First, as a disclaimer, poetry really doesn't speak to me. So I don't consider myself a good judge of it. I just don't really feel it, and so don't often look at is. So my lack of experience with it makes me not a good arbiter of it.

That said;

Short Poem (Unrhymed), I felt the imagery was pretty strong here. The poets point really does come through.

Haiku, mixed feelings on this one. Not really clear either way.

Author's Choice, didn't work for me. I sorta think I know what the poet was trying to say. But don't feel it was said well.

Cinquain, this was pretty well done. It takes a powerful point and makes it in few words.

Sonnet, really didn't speak to me.

Long Poem (Rhymed), middle marks. I can't really do justice to reviewing this.

 

[Synobun]

Like with Cutlass, poetry doesn't speak to me and I find most forms of poetry to be drab or otherwise... messy. As a result, my comments will be on what each poem makes me think of rather than commentary on its technical points.

1. Short Poem (Unrhymed)

There is a dam between us.
behind it are words left unsaid.
neither of us can break it,
so instead we part our separate ways.

Sometimes,
in the poisonous fog of silence
I wonder.
when did love not become enough?

Ever since you came back from war
your eyes have been drawn to the stars
and we’re falling apart.
When did I stop being home?

I think the obvious meaning here is that someone in the military came back from deployment and grew distant from their significant other. However, maybe it also includes those who undergo a significant personal struggle of some kind. Some traumas or struggles are referred to as war when described from a creative viewpoint.

I relate to the story being put forth here. Not feeling like your love is enough to conquer the problems in front of you is a haunting experience.

2. Haiku

Wear your disbelief
like armor, wield your caustic
words like they’re weapons.

It won’t save you.

Before destiny,
you are an infant, naked
and shaking a stick.

I didn't understand the connection between the two segments initially. After rereading a few times, I think I figured it out? A person who responds with anger and denial is powerless when destiny, i.e. the bigger picture, comes knocking. Their attitude and vehemence at resisting ends up fruitless. Their hostility was for naught.

3. Author's Choice

The war is over, my children tell me.
Let’s watch the parade to celebrate our victory.
Not now, not ever, I cry.
Not until every speck dust goes goodbye.
Before I can give them brooms to finish the war, my children flee.

This seems like prose poetry to me so I approve! It says to me that a soldier's journey is one where you're a passenger to your own life. You get told when it's over and nobody is there for you when you get back because you're no longer needed. Yet you remain stoic.

4. Cinquain

Hell
is the
quiet moments of
despair hiding in daily
life

I relate to this conceptually. Life is often like Hell. I don't know how I feel about assigning divine worth to a miserable existence, though. I get it but it doesn't sit too well with me.

5. Sonnet

I am an artist, perhaps you know me?
My colors are ashen gray and blood red.
I am an artist, surely you know me?
My price- not even a hair on your head.

I work on portraits of men, rich and poor
Women too, babies if duty demands.
My brushes are famine, plague and claymore
My canvas is the body of humans.

I am an artist, and you will know me.
My magnum opuses, they are grim.
I’m highly despised but mandatory;
My works cause some to sing (funeral) hymns.

I am looking for a new master piece.
Would you like to rest in eternal peace?

This is actually REALLY good. Although I don't know much about poetry, I know the signs of a verse or snippet that have the potential of being a classic some day. Imagine this sonnet in a story or as part of an established poet's repertoire and it'd get acclaims, I think. Super well done. I don't have any comment on whether or not it meets the requirements of a sonnet, but it definitely meets the needs of poetry that flows and speaks. This'd be a perfect introduction to a novel about death.

6. Long Poem (Rhymed)

In a city so inconsequential no one knows it name
not even its residents, there is a sad sad lane
where hope comes to die.
Hastily drawn penises scrawled on the wall, flowers try
to grow through cracks in concrete
but choked by weeds. The walls are replete
with campaign posters, from a time when the political parties cared,
crumbling into ruin. The windows have not fared
much better. Some riddled with bullet holes,
others shattered completely, shards of glass gathered in pot holes.
All full of stories of violence, intimidation and fear.
Of course, there will be no investigations, the police don’t even come here.
When human trash leaves the lane, the cops ride them down,
valiant knights on trusty black and white steeds to protect the town.
When the skirmish ends, sometimes the cops throw them in jail,
and sometimes, a corpse, pale
and cold is returned to the mother.
She weeps, but in the end, he’s just another
tragedy from the lane, and there’s already too many to count.
Drugs, gangs, disease, the police, as ways to die, they’re all tantamount.
Who cares
though, who cares?
To others, they’re scum who’re born in the gutter and crawl to the streets
gun in hand, knife in teeth.

This seemed messy and it was difficult to follow for me. I kept wanting to skim down a few lines to get to the "good part" or the meaty part but each line has the bad habit of being essential to the rest. It wasn't interesting enough to want to read each line but required it, so that wasn't great. A city in shambles. It wasn't described very well in my opinion and didn't make me imagine or think of anything. Unfortunate, especially in contrast to the last poem.

 

[Buster's Uncle]

5. Sonnet

I am an artist, perhaps you know me?
My colors are ashen gray and blood red.
I am an artist, surely you know me?
My price- not even a hair on your head.

I work on portraits of men, rich and poor
Women too, babies if duty demands.
My brushes are famine, plague and claymore
My canvas is the body of humans.

I am an artist, and you will know me.
My magnum opuses, they are grim.
I’m highly despised but mandatory;
My works cause some to sing (funeral) hymns.

I am looking for a new master piece.
Would you like to rest in eternal peace?

You are Death, of course. Is it too obvious?

Vivid imagery, but slightly ... awkward rhythm? Maybe I just don't like sonnets. B

6. Long Poem (Rhymed)

In a city so inconsequential no one knows it name
not even its residents, there is a sad sad lane
where hope comes to die.
Hastily drawn penises scrawled on the wall, flowers try
to grow through cracks in concrete
but choked by weeds. The walls are replete
with campaign posters, from a time when the political parties cared,
crumbling into ruin. The windows have not fared
much better. Some riddled with bullet holes,
others shattered completely, shards of glass gathered in pot holes.
All full of stories of violence, intimidation and fear.
Of course, there will be no investigations, the police don’t even come here.
When human trash leaves the lane, the cops ride them down,
valiant knights on trusty black and white steeds to protect the town.
When the skirmish ends, sometimes the cops throw them in jail,
and sometimes, a corpse, pale
and cold is returned to the mother.
She weeps, but in the end, he’s just another
tragedy from the lane, and there’s already too many to count.
Drugs, gangs, disease, the police, as ways to die, they’re all tantamount.
Who cares
though, who cares?
To others, they’re scum who’re born in the gutter and crawl to the streets
gun in hand, knife in teeth.

Very similar reaction as to the last. I think you'd really have something here if the line breaks didn't seem so ... arbitrary. B


You have talent. Keep 'em coming.

 

[jackelgull]

Thank you everyone for reviewing my poetry, it's actually been my first stab at most of these styles, except for haikus, and its quite embarrassing really, since I've shown you my worst.

And Johanna, according to the site Valka linked about the cinquain, a pattern for the cinquain is:

Cinquain Pattern #1
Line1: One word

Line2: Two words

Line 3: Three words

Line 4: Four words

Line 5: One word


So I had been a bit mislead by that. But thank you for correcting me.

 

[JohannaK]

Right, it is true. I used wikipedia, which says nothing of that. It refers to the word-count version as a "didactic cinquain" but is easy to pass by as the example if the Noun, 2 Adjectives, 3 Gerunds, 4-word phrase, synonym.

My bad. It definitely feels really awkward, but I guess it does comply with the form, so a higher mark was in order.

 

[Valka D'Ur]

I'm still tallying the scores, folks. So please bear with me; they should be posted later tonight.