When I post a poem on DKos, I always hope for lots of comments. I'd be lying if I said I didn't care about tips and recs, but I deeply appreciate the Kossacks who put forth the time and effort to tell me about how the poem affected them. Compliments are very nice indeed, but if the comment is critical, I like that too. For an artist, constructive criticism is a gift. Brecht is an especially incisive critic whose opinions I trust and treasure.
There are some special Kossacks who enhance the art of commentary by responding in verse. There is no better response to a poem than another poem. Highlighting their work is the reason for this diary. In the first volume of this series, I posted some poetry from comment threads under the verses I've published. That diary was rather well received, so I've collected more fine comments-in-verse from my most recent poems and pasted them below the impressionist cartoon cheese doodle.
(I've linked to my own poems for context, but even though these poems were commentary, they should not be seen as merely derivative. These verses can stand on their own.)
In response to King Suite Planet, Kossack PollySyllabic submitted this little gem:
Vacation
by PollySyllabic
Our tent collapses
under the weight of heavy snow
in a Bighorn Mountain storm
of an early June camp.
Cold smothering snow.
His fingers and cheeks are frozen
while untangling icy ropes
from ripstop nylon
and crumpled aluminum poles
to pull up stakes in the howl.
Shaking snow.
Brushing.
My fingers have hope by
turning the truck key to start
and sliding the heater knob to max.
Once packed and loaded
I kiss his fingers and warm his cheeks
to defrost the misery of having fun
camping.
The coffee pot is missing.
Commenting on
Poem or No Poem, Kossack
scribe wrote this:
I Wonder When
by scribe
I wondered when it was
that I came to love
this Night Poets song
but I did, and that's a good thing,
a nice thing to take to slumber
the sharing of a brothers heart.
You are too kind, scribe.
It should be no surprise that works posted in the "Indigo Kalliope: Poems From the Left" series should bring the poets out of the woodwork. In answer to A Voice I Heard, StewartAcuff, Jwills57 and bigjacbigjacbigjac commented in verse:
In the Tiny Hours
by StewartAcuff
In the tiny hours of the morning
Long before the sun casts its
Predawn gray and the east
Begins to light
You feel the oneness of us all
You hurt for the people who
Really are brothers and sisters
The people and families of Boston
And Newtown
And the people and families, victims
Of random, meaningless gun violence
Every damn day
The kids lost every day in drive-bys
And the men and women who
Try so hard to hold it all together
The families on the ramen noodles and
Baloney and peanut butter plans with
Hamburger Helper for a treat
The men and women scared of
Losing home -- not just a damn house
Don't you know, can't you see
But home, the only home
Their kids ever knew
And you hurt in the tiny hours
For your people who no longer
Can make the ends meet
And you know a much bigger
Struggle calls
Our people are sick of hurtin' and losin'
While those who really can
Make things happen
Sleep through the night
Without a thought to us
Lots and lots to do
Woody said it right in a different
But same kind of time
This land belongs to you and me.
The poem is backwards.
by bigjacbigjacbigjac
It starts at the present,
and goes back to infancy.
That forces me
to read it,
over and over,
like the retarded child
I sometimes am.
In forward sequence:
Emotional pain
in early childhood,
infant and toddler years,
may come out later,
in shocking words,
sudden actions,
and leave a mature adult
with a yearning,
yearning for something,
but what?
Maybe just a moment,
a moment of peace,
peace with one's parents,
peace with the world.
May you find,
dear ruleoflaw,
at least a moment,
maybe right now,
a moment of peace.
(Did you like that,
a new poem,
based on yours?)
(I liked it very much, bigjac!)
MY FATHER ROWED
by Jwills57
I got in the boat.
My father rowed--
He never let me.
The lake in the early morning was
A pane of glass over which flowed
Sky and clouds.
The previous night it snowed.
I saw a crow on a branch of a sycamore,
Wondered how it managed in its cold, arboreal abode.
The boat moved steadily for five or six minutes
Then stopped, and we sat on the lake and watched
Day unfold, watched the indifferent sun scuttle into the sky.
Finally my father said, "You row back now,"
And passed me the oars, a memory which
Neither time nor distance, nor even death, can corrode.
(That one brought back misty recollections of my own Pop. Jwills57 is a mighty fine poet and deserves a wider audience.)
Kossack exlrrp had this to say about A Poem of a Dog, a Dog of a Poem:
Untitled
by exlrrp
I think that one could never blog
a subject greater than a dog
Out for a walk or playing catch
Or sitting there giving his ears a scratch
In the rain or in the snow
he wants to go whever I go
You can make a poem about a hog
But only God can make a dog
Green Things Going prompted this from
Mike Kahlow:
Untitled
by Mike Kahlow
the hard spot on your chest
(and mine)
might not be bitterness
might be our hearts
trying to get out
and do some good
in the time we have left.
Solidarity, my friend.
Boston Beans left this charming stanza in response to
When the Words Come Home:
Stepper
by Boston Beans
The words from an Irish hand
Hewn from life's price
Their poetry-song and their music.
The wee family, a treasure of litheness.
Did I see a stepper?
I felt my heart in peace.
Old 'Beans has a muse who gives him no rest. His response to
When the Maybe Comes at Night is eloquent and righteous:
A poem for the now of our misgivings
by Boston Beans
The concrete image of men
with whiskey and guns
seems too real somehow
and I know it is the times
the Shut Down
the Confederate flag
going to disrespect
the President
his family
and us Americans
who yearn
for a better place
for kids and all of us
ever hopeful
in this land of the brave.
I hope you've enjoyed the latest bijous from the Dkos commentary versifiers.
I loved them when they were first posted and revisiting them has increased my affection. I will keep posting poems, and if y'all will keep throwing stanzas back at me, this series will continue.
Keep reading, keep writing, good night.