short story writers, journalists, painters, and poets

[milly balgeary]

let's see your stuff. post your best here and accept positive criticism and support.

[milly balgeary]

or novelists, chapter 1 of your great amerikan novel. i want to read the adventures of auggie march, in 2005, but just your chapter 1, please. unless it GETS good.

[FreddyKnuckles]

ok so I twice tried to post something and was told I was "Not authorized to view this page"

edit.  god dammit, but then it let me post that I couldn't post

seriously.  Is there a length limit or something?

what I'm trying to post isn't even that long

[milly balgeary]

if it is an amish guide, send to saintjon@gmail.com. i want to read fred!

[elpollodiablo]

I don't think posting anything longer than 1000 words or so is advisable... I'd gladly share and share my schlock alike, though.

[jebreject]

i'm thinking about making a webpage with some poems on it.  you know, sometime.  if you really want i post most of the stuff i write in my livejournal, which is at http://www.livejournal.com/users/reject/

[jebreject]

here are three poems though, i guess, just to get the ball rolling:

THINK NOT OF

Sarah with the fascinating body,
with the clover eyes and tambourine
handshake; Sarah with the
grip of a python and mouth
of a drunken Southern Belle,

O Sarah
walking straight past the bedroom,
straight through the bathroom,
into the sink and toilet
and spiderweb of pipes.

Think not of harmonicas
or calenders
or afternoon matinees,
just think of my naked flesh
whispering,
whispering ...

All the great songwriters
were singing off-key
writing songs for the birds
to sing them in mourning.

Sarah of the mountains
with the petticoat
and juicebox
and wallet
full of whispers.

TEN VIGNETTES

I.

The peacocks are laughing,
always laughing while playing
in the road or running through
the greenhouse, their tailfeathers
aplomb and forming a talisman
for prayer, or a lens through which
we might see the light.

II.

Jane was washing her hair in the sink,
her terrycloth robe slightly open.
The cat was scratching
at her toes.

III.  

In the garden there are sunflowers
so tall they kiss heaven on the lips.
Jacob is hiding in the cornfield
again.

IV.

Standing in the greenhouse
when it rains, you are certain
of death.  The winds whip around you
and the grim reaper is a hurricane,
and you would pray but there are no
hurricanes in Wisconsin.

V.

Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind
my childhood home--some of them
starved, some run over by the car.
My mother used to drown the newborns
in a pail behind the garage and dump
their slender translucent bodies
in that ditch.

VI.

Memories, laid out in a straight line,
for you, here:  barbed wire, raincoats,
weather veins, lightning rods, hills made
of sand, chipped paint, Cowboys and Injuns,
torn underwear, sixteen dead cats that had
names, and who knows how many
kittens without.

 
VII.

Jane lost it that summer when David died.
He'd gone and got caught in the auger,
not a pretty sight, that skinny farm boy
barely fourteen, turned into soup.


VIII.

We used to watch birds
land on the windowsill
and peck at the wood,
looking into the house
and watching us
watch them.

IX.

Jacob ran away in the winter,
stole the car and the money
from the safe.  The next spring,
Paul burned the farm to the
ground.

X.

My last memory of you
is in handcuffs, head down,
pushed into the back of
a squad car, insurance fraud
and arson.

WAITING FOR THE 15

I sit at the bus stop
holding my guitar
like she's my girl,
waiting for the 15
thinking about dancing
thinking about smoking
butts off the ground

waiting for the 15
trying to feel my fingers
watching my breath in the air
watching cars go by

waiting for the 15
holding my guitar tight
like she's my girl
thinking about dancing,
dancing, dancing

[milly balgeary]

THINK NOT OF:

i love 'spiderweb of pipes', yo! that is aesthetically diabolical.

sarah is the name of the waitress/divine/... there is something very nick cave about the name sarah although i do not think he ever used her name..(more fool nick)

love it! what does it mean, jeb?

TEN VIGNETTES

Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind
my childhood home--some of them
starved, some run over by the car.

awesome. that is REAL. if you Deleted translucent bodies... .. and made it present tense; my mother drowned newborns in a pail.

i.e.

"Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind
my childhood home--some of them
starved, some run over by the car;
my mother drowned newborns in a pail."

cutting away the fat, and leaving perfection. this is just my opinion but there is a sort of emily dickenson/darkness to that.

that is just my opinion but this haunts me!!

"Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind
my childhood home--some of them
starved, some run over by the car;
my mother drowned newborns in a pail."

[milly balgeary]

"Sixteen cats buried in a ditch behind
my childhood home--some of them

starved, some run over by the car;
my mother drowned newborns in a pail."


jeb ROCKS.

[FreddyKnuckles]

Setting Eyes

His speech was already starting to slur.  
He picked the hamburger up off of his plate.  
His gnarled old farmer,Aeos hands clenched the bun,
and the grease dripped down his wrist.  

He took a giant bite,Aeifilling his mouth.  
The undercooked burger oozed out of his lips.  
Pink grease dribbled down his chin.  
His yellow teeth mashed the food loudly.  

Then he began to cough.  
It was the cough of a man who smoked cigarettes,
and drank whiskey for 60 years.
It was a cough of permanent phlegm.

He grabbed the tall glass of whiskey
with his greasy hands and took another
long drink to wash down the meat
and to quiet his wheezing.

The whiskey did no good, and soon he fell
hard to the floor; his body bent unnaturally.
His neck muscles tensed as he made his last attempt
to fight the creeping cold hand.  His eyes faded

like the sun sets in winter: the last light flickers
out across the horizon beneath an array of pink air
against pure white clouds.  His eyes,Aei
every vessel and capillary twinged and popped,

and the whites were scourged with pink.  
His neck muscles relaxed and his head fell softly
on the slightly damp tile.  His eyes fluttered again
and then he closed them, unable to resist anymore.

[Maaik]

Two of mine:

Cross Pollination

Winter had not been hard
enough on nature.  So in
spring, when the trees came
they were all too ready
for the love that loves everything
alkaline yellow.

Forty feet up, a bridge spans
this neighborhood and a man
finished
releases himself to the gravity
of a wire necktie.

In that moment of consciousness
after the mind goes freelance
there was an exponent of terror, sure, but
just maybe
there was vindication in proving
which was really the messier
of two ends.  A burst of seed
for fertile purchase versus
thin gauge razoring through the neck.

Seconds before impact, I know
his body swept through treeline.
Small yellow life
whipped from his path before
crowding the street.  And
that is how they found him.
Headless and surrounded
by children who stared as if
some tree had really messed up.

To everything
there is a season.
Trees know this
and the head that authorities had
to search for knew it too.
There are, indeed, seasons
but autumn is just another word
for fall and
spring is simply
wire, coiled.
-----------------------------------------
An Obvious Valentine Conceit

Against my better judgment, I
took the old bow from above
the mantle, gave it
to you.

Unloaded cord strained
behind your forefingers, pulled
taut to cheek, released
with a snap and sent
slipping, spinning
from your grasp,
your arm to shoulder to chest
rattled in sympathy.  We chuckled.
I went to the kitchen for drinks.

My head in the cooler, I heard
your laugh ride atop
terrible scratching, torn up
chords, serrated sounds.
Bottle in each hand, I watched you
tear the limb across the strings
of my guitar.  ,AeuEverything you listen to
sounds like this.
We should start a band,Aeu you said
and fell beside yourself
on the couch.

The bow skittered to the floor and
I joined you on the sofa.
Bottles at our lips, we imbibed
without the weapon.

From the necks of our drinks
we kept furtive watch over the
thin crescent of elm still
on the floor.  ,AeuDo you
even have arrows for that
thing?,Aeu
,AeuSure.,Aeu
,AeuDon,Aeot you worry?,Aeu
At this I smiled, took your
soft hand in mine.  ,AeuAbout
you?,Aeu

Eyebrow raised, a look of purpose
overtook your smile, you locked
on the bow, grimacing,
empty bottle fumbling, then
an arrow notched
pinched in your hand.
And you stood over me
trajectory trained in
at my heart.  ,AeuWhere
did this come from?,Aeu

I looked from the steel
tip to your face.  ,AeuI thought you
brought it over here.,Aeu

Tremors of laughter roiled
through you.  Screaming giggles
connected us and I
lay helpless, smiling
at your shaking
drunken mercy.

I could only laugh
as the missile plunged through me
pinned me to the couch.

Now
I will drink as you push
the arrow through my chest and
out my shoulder, spicing red
soaking deltas into couch
and clothes.  Let you
plug the holes with pills
from your purse.  Sobbed
apologies met
only with smiles
from sobered eyes and
a request not to twist the thing
so much as it bores on through.
Under your control,Aeione
long steady pull
on arrow
and bottle,Aeido I
trust your tenderness
and the hardening
of my blood.

[Maaik]

IV.

Standing in the greenhouse
when it rains, you are certain
of death. The winds whip around you
and the grim reaper is a hurricane,
and you would pray but there are no
hurricanes in Wisconsin.

This reminds me of Richard Brautigan.

[milly balgeary]

freddie... what if you were to remain culturally observant (on the habits of hamburge-eaters yet more mysterious) and to lose the time-signaturest. to create a thing of the moment? to excise certain parts and make it tighter and smaller? you might hate this! more emily dickenson.. sorry!

his speech was already starting to slur
and the grease dripped down his wrist
Then he began to cough.
and drank whiskey for 60 years.
His neck muscles tensed as he made his last attempt
like the sun sets in winter: the last light flickers
against pure white clouds. His eyes,Aei

[milly balgeary]

i just got the feeling freddie, that his life was much shorter than he ever expected, and his "good things" passed without him knowing. so he smashes the reader with 60 years of whisky and then he trails of ... remember the pure white clouds of innocence.

[milly balgeary]

Two of mine:

Cross Pollination

Winter had not been hard
enough on nature.  So in
spring, when the trees came
they were all too ready
for the love that loves everything
alkaline yellow.

Forty feet up, a bridge spans
this neighborhood and a man
finished
releases himself to the gravity
of a wire necktie.

In that moment of consciousness
after the mind goes freelance
there was an exponent of terror, sure, but
just maybe
there was vindication in proving
which was really the messier
of two ends.  A burst of seed
for fertile purchase versus
thin gauge razoring through the neck.

Seconds before impact, I know
his body swept through treeline.
Small yellow life
whipped from his path before
crowding the street.  And
that is how they found him.
Headless and surrounded
by children who stared as if
some tree had really messed up.

To everything
there is a season.
Trees know this
and the head that authorities had
to search for knew it too.
There are, indeed, seasons
but autumn is just another word
for fall and
spring is simply
wire, coiled.
-----------------------------------------
An Obvious Valentine Conceit

Against my better judgment, I
took the old bow from above
the mantle, gave it
to you.

Unloaded cord strained
behind your forefingers, pulled
taut to cheek, released
with a snap and sent
slipping, spinning
from your grasp,
your arm to shoulder to chest
rattled in sympathy.  We chuckled.
I went to the kitchen for drinks.

My head in the cooler, I heard
your laugh ride atop
terrible scratching, torn up
chords, serrated sounds.
Bottle in each hand, I watched you
tear the limb across the strings
of my guitar.  ,AeuEverything you listen to
sounds like this.
We should start a band,Aeu you said
and fell beside yourself
on the couch.

The bow skittered to the floor and
I joined you on the sofa.
Bottles at our lips, we imbibed
without the weapon.

From the necks of our drinks
we kept furtive watch over the
thin crescent of elm still
on the floor.  ,AeuDo you
even have arrows for that
thing?,Aeu
,AeuSure.,Aeu
,AeuDon,Aeot you worry?,Aeu
At this I smiled, took your
soft hand in mine.  ,AeuAbout
you?,Aeu

Eyebrow raised, a look of purpose
overtook your smile, you locked
on the bow, grimacing,
empty bottle fumbling, then
an arrow notched
pinched in your hand.
And you stood over me
trajectory trained in
at my heart.  ,AeuWhere
did this come from?,Aeu

I looked from the steel
tip to your face.  ,AeuI thought you
brought it over here.,Aeu

Tremors of laughter roiled
through you.  Screaming giggles
connected us and I
lay helpless, smiling
at your shaking
drunken mercy.

I could only laugh
as the missile plunged through me
pinned me to the couch.

Now
I will drink as you push
the arrow through my chest and
out my shoulder, spicing red
soaking deltas into couch
and clothes.  Let you
plug the holes with pills
from your purse.  Sobbed
apologies met
only with smiles
from sobered eyes and
a request not to twist the thing
so much as it bores on through.
Under your control,Aeione
long steady pull
on arrow
and bottle,Aeido I
trust your tenderness
and the hardening
of my blood.

these are great. and here is the positive criticism you should totally ignore:

"
Winter had not been hard
enough on nature.  So in
spring, when the trees came
they were all too ready
for the love that loves everything
alkaline yellow."

what if you changed to the active:

winter has not been hard enough on nature
in spring when the trees come
they are all too ready for the love that loves everything

you know what i mean!

awesomeness, sheer:

releases himself to the gravity
of a wire necktie.

[milly balgeary]

i cannot compete with y'll


death si, is a shovel for wintertime

death you see, that gray and mottled color, that semi lunging dark,
death is what will blow to thee, from light to wasp, to willow tree,
death will be in thy eye,
its wintertime, oh be light.

[milly balgeary]

i really want this to be taken as positive criticsm. i just am a phrase and word nazi - much respect if you decide i am full of shit - i know how personal poetry is.


THEY are lovely.

[nati1107]

i cannot compete with y'll

milly, dont say that.  your short stories are fantastic  

[TheNames]

Where can i red some of your ss's milly?

[jebreject]

Freddie - I liked your poem well enough, but it's a bit heavy-handed, isn't it?  I mean, it just seems like there could be more subtle ways to decry unhealthy lifestyles, which, ultimately, seems to be what this poem is about.  BUT! you have some really great moments, and I especially liked "His eyes faded/like the sun sets in winter: the last light flickers/out across the horizon beneath an array of pink air/against pure white clouds."  That's beautiful, right there.  I'm not exactly sure about your line breaks, but otherwise, it's good stuff.  

Maaik - you have some really great stuff too.  "Forty feet up, a bridge spans/this neighborhood and a man/finished/releases himself to the gravity/of a wire necktie."  That's powerful.  I also really like "after the mind goes freelance," that's good.

Headless and surrounded
by children who stared as if
some tree had really messed up.

Not sure about the last line, "some tree had really messed up," but oh my god, "Headless and surrounded by children" is fucking brutal and wonderful.  Really great last stanza too.  Good ending for the whole thing.  Almost too clever, but not, and it works brilliantly.  Your second poem is really good too, although I don't know if I really have anything to say about it.  That's a good thing, though, I think.  Maybe not as strong of a poem as the first one, but still, really good.

[jebreject]

oh my god, i'm really sorry i didn't mean to turn this into a workshop

[jebreject]

death si, is a shovel for wintertime

death you see, that gray and mottled color, that semi lunging dark,
death is what will blow to thee, from light to wasp, to willow tree,
death will be in thy eye,
its wintertime, oh be light.

this is absolutely fantastic, provided you read it in a huge, booming, ultra-pompous voice, like you'd imagine all the old poet's voices to be.  or maybe like james earl jones reading "the raven" for that episode of the simpsons, like that.  it'd be amazing.

[jebreject]

IV.

Standing in the greenhouse
when it rains, you are certain
of death. The winds whip around you
and the grim reaper is a hurricane,
and you would pray but there are no
hurricanes in Wisconsin.

This reminds me of Richard Brautigan.

Thanks! Very much!

[robOt]

i wrote this at work some time last year. i was trying to focus on rhythm, and readability. my goal is to someday rework it so it is in perfect square format. equal number of characters per line, ect. but yeah, this was never meant to see the light of day. anyhow, enjoii.
=================================

untitled, no. 5181.

[scene: 1952. winter sidewalk.]

the word Resignation had echoed in his head
since breakfast. not for me, he thought.
definitely not. okay maybe he wasn't the
most ambitious sod on the block, no question,
but surely he didn't settle. got cozy perhaps,
set in his ways, but only 'cause he knew
what he liked. he didn't settle. the word itself
repulsed him. resignation was for the weak,
he thought. those who couldn't say no. nor yes,
for that matter. you know the type. people who
inched on with weak coffee to wake, boxed fare
at night, suffered the evening news, and the
occasional shim with the missus - with which
neither party was ever satisfied. you know
the type. not for me, he thought. definitely not.

[Maaik]

untitled, no. 5181.

We're not being academic snobs here, right?  Good.  Cos this really reminded me of the first song on Juno's first album, "The Great Salt Lake."  It's a spoken word piece set to music and it's really good, an interesting way to start a record.  It seems to be of similar sentiment anyway.  Reading this, I heard it in my head in a low, gravely voice, intoning more than emoting.

A couple mechanical notes: the line "the word itself/repulsed him" might read better without "itself."  "those who couldn't say no.  nor yes"...hm, that double "n" sound is distracting, I'd go for the less flowery "or."  I think if you want to beef this up, de-flower your articles (ha! I make funny, like to have sex with "the"!  Komidee!) and strengthen your language where it hits the hardest--nouns, verbs, adjectives.  The repetition here is appropriate and effective, but as it stands it calls attention to itself by being what the poem is built on.  If you punch your wording up just a little bit--and not much, cos you've got some good stuff here ("weak coffee to wake, boxed fare" sounds really good)--that could take care of that.

Oh!  Idea... you've got that timestamp/setting there.  That could be introduced organically within the poem.

And, as my friend Brian noted in every bit of criticism he turned in for our fiction class... Story good, needs more wizards.