Sounder structure than before.

This is the same sonnet I posted the other day but now with the opening quatrain replaced with something much more fitting. And dignified. I did not want to read it and prefix my name to it until I'd replaced that quatrain. It still needs work, of course; I've underlined things I want to revisit later.

For those I haven't told (which may include all you reading, or not), my hope is to write each sonnet and bring it to a readable, enjoyable state. Then, after writing some total number, revisit each one and bring it up to snuff and standard. By this point, I hope to have a better grasp on the workings and tricks of sonnets and rhymes and so on. So when I say "revisit" or some such, I may mean later this week to poke at it or later this month or some such to redo as necessary. It remains to be seen, y'know?

Another thing I hope to incorporate: practice. I want to perform these sonnets (and all my poetry, really) as a sort of dramatic monologue-ness. I have no real basis in or much awareness of poetry slams, rap, spoken word, and so on or their respective presentational styles. I know, I live a sad, sheltered life. So the only real reference point I have in this, the closest to anything, are my experiences acting in high school (primarily Shakespeare) and a brief workshop on bring monologues to life (same director as the Shakespeares, incidentally).

As it is, though, and especially as these poems become more finalized, I hope to take time to really plan out their performance. When to do what with my voice, when to move thus and how to act so, generally slow down and relish each word (versus my usual anxious rushing).

Anyway, sonnet time:

All else stops as he roves the nearby crowd.
His shoulders flare so spread out broad and thick in show
Of something swarthy. Yet he does not go
--But comes. All thoughts but wanting disallowed!
He catches my lust, my longing; my gaze, now cowed,
Looks back--still staring now, now nearing. I know
His quarry, wanting his hard-sinewed glow,
Shudders at touch but has eyes unproud.
Would that I could turn to him and have hands
Have lips, have sighs. Would I could taken,
--Be with him or be him. Would that we stood
But a moment magnetic, against spans
Of time and desire--but leaves me shaken,
Untryst And twain. Would that I could: I would, I would.

An almost working sonnet.

So basically this was inspired by true events; emphasis on "inspired by". I was at the club, and this really hot guy passed me in the crowd, and though we made eye contact and he was hot as fuck I lacked the courage to engage him. Sucks.

The next day I dashed out a rough draft of an octave for a sonnet on my phone and then had work or class or something so left it at that. Later, I sketched out a sestet in my marble notebook and proceeded to rework that and part of the octave that had bugged me, and reworked and reworked and freewrote and reworked. Eventually the sestet and that latter half of the octave reached a pretty damn satisfactory point, though the octave's part still needs work.

Then I finally transcribed in what I'd dashed up on my phone. Yikes. Kinda way underworked compared to the other stuff I'd been fiddling so much with since I made those notes. All the same I'm going to post the current version including the opening 4 lines from the phone version despite having not gotten to revisit them. They will be in italics. I've included them because they do help introduce things and altogether help form a complete-ish sonnet. At the same time, I've underlined the lines in the sestet I find especially weak and requiring more work. Like, I kinda dislike that word "untryst" but I needed a foot there to make the line pentameter, sooo.....

A Great White swims the undulant crowd.
He makes his way immeasurably slow.
So tall, thick; so broad, strong; his ebb and flow (?)
He pushes through the mass unbowed
He catches my lust, my longing; my gaze, now cowed,
Looks back--still staring, now nearing. I know
His quarry, wanting his hard-sinewed glow,
Shudders at touch but has eyes unproud.
Would that I could turn to him and have hands,
Have lips, have sighs. Would I could be taken--
Be with him or be him. Would that we stood
But a moment magnetic, against spans
Of time and desire--but leaves me shaken,
Untryst. Would that I could: I would, I would. 

In the end, obviously, I'll rework the octave (all of it). I may all but entirely get rid of the current opening as the current second half could kinda make for a neat in medias kinda opening. Which I imagine would probably be pretty edgy and hip and stuff. And you know how much I care about keeping things edgy and hip. Who knows though, I really haven't reflected much on it at all.

Some notes on that draft and others.

A lil while back in posted a draft of a poem. It was a bit rough. Haha.

I've since decided to split the octave from the sestet; they're just too different and I want to develop the ideas in each part more and won't ever have space to as long as they're still conjoined. Makes sense right? Well see how that goes.

I can't remember if I explained this cycle already,  but I'm gonna write a bunch of sonnets and call them The Buttsex Sonnets. Lololol, right? Hopefully.

Basically they will all have something to do with gay stuff, but on a deeper level meditate on themes of love and lust and how they are so easily alloyed with other passions and become something different.

So, like the sonnets that will come from that other one:
The one building off the octave's material will further explore the contempt and judgment and mockery in the first 4 ish lines as the new octave. Then in the sestet it will take from the second half of the original octave: envy. A wish to be as seen and noticed as the "faggot in horizontal stripes", even though it's negative it's still more attention than the speaker feels he gets. I get. Whatever. Either way it's turning that contempt inward; this "gaybra" is actually cute as hell even as tackily dresses and obviously gay, and can probably (or so the speaker surmises) get sex anywhere anytime.

I like the language and tone of the sestet's material; it's idea isn't bad just underdeveloped as it stands. Basically it was replying to the gaybra's obviousness and shit and trying to compensate fro a perceived sense of inferiority.

There's another I'm working. It was inspired by this ridiculously hot guy at the club (yes I do go clubbing. Sometimes.). Basically he was rapturous. Like some magnetic predator sliding through the crowd...and we made eye contact, which he held, he continued to look, stare even, as my badhfulness took hold and I glanced away--only to find each time I glanced back he was still looking. And then he brushed against me and good god....Hot as fuck. But what I'm really excited about is the sestet. I'm using a lot of echoing--specifically "would I could" and stuff--to fey a haunting effect. I can't wait to read it out loud, especially the last line "...would that I could: I would, I would."

But why sonnets? Well originally it became a sort of challenge. I suck at rhyming and struggle with forms and generally write in meters other than pentameter. So I figured I'd challenge myself and it's been pretty interesting. As I've worked on them though a new awareness has taken hold: the conceptual potential of the conceit-volta dynamic. It's dialectic or so shit. So it provides profound possibilities for expressing and exploring specific ideas--especially in a contracted form. Because in order to develop the ideas most fully I need to be concise and creative. So I think this challenge had blossomed into something really interesting.

A draft of things to come.

So I recently got it in my head to write a cycle of sonnets. I'll see about posting some of my meditations regarding concepts/themes/fun times later, but know they're gonna be called The Buttsex Sonnets. Yup. It's a thing.

In fact here's a draft of the first sonnet. More textual/author's notes after the verse for those interested.

There's a faggot in horizontal stripes.
See! Lolls his head; flaps about at the wrists;
And wags his hips, and--oh--so sweetly lisps.
By this and these we know these types.
I'm sure if he saw me, he'd think likewise
In stereotypes: we all have our nitch.
O, to be noticed by this little bitch
Or anyone--to feel as cute--would be nice.
Catch me a fairy, hark, hail me a sprite!
Tear off his wings, his weeds, his airs, and thrust
Deep and unbidden. I'll show you what lurks
Beneath assumptions, between soul and sight:
I have as much machismo, I trust,
As much I must, as you your flippant quirks.

Sooo, yeah, there's that. I've already made notes for revisions and restructurings (mostly regarding lines 4 - 7 and chunks of the sestet, which I consider somewhat useless and weak sections right now), but this is the original (complete) draft. We could even call it the first draft.

going slightly mad?

Two nights of floorset and too much red bull/diet coke and probably not enough sleep or food either, and I came home tired, disorientated, wet, cold (those last two from the cold rain that fell). As words bashed about in my head, a few stuck together and made sense:

the world is spinning and so am i
my eyes roll __ly 'round my head, both inner and outers
looking haphazardly through things ____....
I can barely focus, barely stand; hardly think, hardly walk
--one thought before the other, one foot at a time--
it eludes me somehow, i'm not sure why.

Something is off. a cool drink of juice and it falls
right through my empty chest; I feel it//the wet chill (splash) in my femur.

'my god', i think, 'this is it, i've finally lost it;
i've embraced the cliche! there's sure no hope left for me!'
interrupted on the stairs as i fall into a half slouch
against the wall for support, turning my back to it
only for a moment before righting myself and descending

Ahoy! Draft 5: UBA

So here it is--for now at least. I simply must go to CVS and get something for these sniffles. I'll replace this post later if I come up with anything significant changes for this draft. Otherwise, onward to draft 6!

I. The Urge
This strange, animal energy,
—This deep, hard need to fuck—
This enthousiasmos so
Possessive & primal,
Heaves me, heedless & heady,
Overwhelms & seizes me.
I cannot hold, cannot see,
And cannot—would not—stop it.

My eyes, my lips, my body,
Hands and dick and legs and ass,
These things that crave
Lust and long and hunger for
The sureness of another
In my arms and ‘gainst my chest.
Sinew flexed and ready now--
To seize and seize and seize.

Too long stalled in hesitance,
I now come crashing headlong
Into you between bedsheets,
No longer my own in the night:
Seized as much as seizing you.
Body alongside body,
Point-to-point and parallel
Mouth-to-mouth and bone-to-bone.

I may not know whence it comes,
Nor whither it may soon go,
But you are here now before me
And its object, its treasure;
I want you now
—And I will have you.


II. The Burden
But it’s hard to say for sure, sometimes,
When we get so damn horny,
When/and everything gets all mixed up.
Why must we think?
It’s not what I want.
Who is this person in my arms?
What am I even doing here?
Why do I always do this?
This ought to be so wonderful,
So easy.
Why must we fight to make sex something beautiful?
Why must fun take/be so much effort?

Is it the fault of this modern age,
Or just my own misgivings?
That even basest passions
Are questioned, named, and judged,
--one night stands and love making
Strings attached & otherwise.
Why can’t things be just as they are
--Why can’t sex just be sex
(Or even less, now & then)?
Why must something so simple
Become so complicated.
But why am I worrying?
Why must we think?
Why must we think?

But how much hotter our passions burn
When fueled with thoughts of love.
How much more eager and willful we become
When we call it love--or think we can--
When we feel wanted, when we feel grateful,
When we want to believe, in Love and Truth,
In goods and bads and etiquette.

But no less am I a man or mammal
Nor any more can I keep that urge in check,
Than can I always claim such altruisms as love,
Such verities of the soul;
And it worries me.
For I do not know if I love you
—Or just want you—
Nor do I know if I always will.


III. The Aftermath
But, here now, let's savor this much, this time,
This little we can surely give eachother;
This fleeting, ecstatic moment for now.
Nevermind the wherefores & whereafters,
O, let them come later!
                           We are here now;
Let's be immediate and beautiful
With one another while we still can—try,
Ere those shudders and exhalation come
And take with them this magical thinking,
This sweet moment, the memory of it;
And leave with us in its passing
Those cold and lonely facts & futures
As we lie entangled and sweaty and
Sticky—and possibly second guessing.


(And poison actions with thought?)

5th Time's the Charm

So draft 5 of "The Urge, The Burden, & The Aftermath" is coming around the bend, and it's kinda a amaaazin feeling. I think I've finally (!?) gotten a handle on that irreverent middle section; the dialectic shall stand!! XD

I'm sure I've mentioned it at least one other time, but the middle section of this poem was horribly disobedient & infuriating. It just didn't fit, it didn't flow, it didn't work.

Somewhere between the 3rd and 5th drafts, I've finally sucked it up and starting slashing whole chunks. See, I'd begun to realize and even accept that there were sections that really belonged in another poem I've yet to write. Until realizing this, I'd clung so hard to these bits--they were & are pretty even if they don't belong in this particular poem.

Whether or not I ever use these bits afterall is less important than getting this particular poem to work. And frankly I kinda like the way it's looking. I still need to type it but it seems to read more smoothly & sensibly. Of course, having written that I've probably jynxed it, yeah? Oh well.

But not to worry, I've got about an hour and a half to work on that. Just sitting here, in the window of an NYC starbucks, oggling eye candy, waiting for my friend, and tapping away at the next draft of an increasingly satisfying poem :)