It has bits of previous poems I've written and characters from other much better poet's works.
Previous Version
This is a previous version of Plasticine..
Meagre sightless Tiresias,
I dress him in his paper suit-
Of Ochre.
Fumbling, while he caresses his
Coffee into lather.
He tells me in his mystic tone,
“The milk has grown old, fetch another!”
I gaze into that face,
Spider webs stretch their way-
From his eyes and across his face
And down his arms.
They race to his long nailed fingers,
That stir his coffee, absent mindedly
With a silver spoon.
Knowing my eyes are on his face,
A voice: whispered in bitter chocolate,
“Please don’t stare at me with that look.
I have known it on every face.
The pity, the confusion.
The self importance, the delusion.
It won’t earn them a place at god’s side”
Eyes squinted; I look at him this being,
Who has been both man and woman.
He who has lived many generations,
With both fear and adoration.
“You know that I told him,
The little man in a powdered wig,
“Everyman will have fifteen minutes.”
And I was right for even he,
Turned that upon me.
To ensure that he had his own, for being-
Both a prophet and an illusion.”
Forced I go.
Knowing I am no good,
I am no good.
For I have watched Ophelia drown,
From a vantage point; of coffee cups and broken saucers.
She wailed and she thrashed.
Pretty pale features, eloquent but in gloom.
The only weight on my conscience then-
Was my plastiscine children,
Whom I could crush with one hand,
Like the brave and the foolish.
Tiresias said they would die!
And for what?
A flag of, stripes gently starred!
Or!
The idea of people oppressed?
My dear Plastiscine children,
I am no good,
I am no good.
Should I go for milk?
Perhaps I am not even able for that!
I am not able, nor am I any good!
And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
Burning. His paper suit of Ochre fading.
And my Plastiscine children in my sweaty palm,
Crushed like mulch. Like poor Ophelia, I watched drown.
I am not able.
I am no good.
He is no prophet.
And I am no god.
To the cavalcade,
To the cavalcade.
I lost them there,
To the fanfare and the drums,
Their jubilant pretty faces,
Sun burnt and scarred.
And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
Singing hallelujah, hallelujah.
He has just been visited from god above.
Their jubilant and pretty faces,
Sun burnt and scarred-
I made them with my own hands,
From old bones and old lust.
My plasticine children for whom-
I was no good.
“............our affection for them grows faint,
Because we ourselves are dying.”
My children, scarred, deluded-
I lost them in confusion,
To war and the cavalcade moving.
Tiresias said I would lose them,
And to what?
Nothing that I myself couldn’t have concluded.
Pretty faces, I take them back.
Summer sun, sultry afternoon,
The beach, the sand, the sea so blue.
My plasticine children......
And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
He tells me in his mystic tone,
“The milk has grown old, fetch another!”
I gaze into that face,
Spider webs stretch their way-
From his eyes and across his face
And down his arms.
They race to his long nailed fingers,
That stir his coffee, absent mindedly
With a silver spoon.
But
I am not able.
I am no good.
He is no prophet.
And I am no god.
man, reading your poems make me feel like I'm in my AP lit class and I'm supposed to be analyzing and annotating! this is really good it definitely seems like you're a published, professional writer. I especially liked the line that started knowing my eyes are on his face. that was a cool stanza to me. nice work, keep it up!
"For I have watched Ophelia drown,
From a vantage point; of coffee cups and broken saucers.
She wailed and she thrashed.
Pretty pale features, eloquent but in gloom. "
"Their jubilant and pretty faces,
Sun burnt and scarred-
I made them with my own hands,
From old bones and old lust.
My plasticine children for whom-
I was no good. "
Aw, this was too great.
Experimental, eh? Well, you should write more in this experimental style. I like it. A lot.
"............our affection for them grows faint,
Because we ourselves are dying."
I really like this part [ along with the two chunks I copied & pasted into the beginning of this review].
This part specifically I feel as though I can really understand and connect to.
The first two parts at the beginning of the review are very beautiful in an unusual way. I wouldn't say beautiful in a sad way but beautiful in a twisted way? A weathered and torn way?
Ha, I have no clue what I'm getting at anymore.
But I really a enjoyed this write.
Great work.
I would just like to say this is a masterpiece, such wild obsurity but filled with the emotion of a child. Beautifully mature and moving, i love the line spiderwebs stretch............. It reminds me of a crazy, extreme genious.
i had to stop and take a look at who's work I was actually reading here...yours or T.S. Eliot's...cuz man this piece was great...shows what sort of talent you have...and what brilliant mind must be lurking within...excellent write...
A sorrowful tale of a man who lost his mind? A man that sits and watches that mumbles about Shakespeare and watches his children die? At first it was very confusing and it still is a bit to be honest but that is what I love. I love analyzing and going deep into the poetry. Very well written, successful experiment as well
man, reading your poems make me feel like I'm in my AP lit class and I'm supposed to be analyzing and annotating! this is really good it definitely seems like you're a published, professional writer. I especially liked the line that started knowing my eyes are on his face. that was a cool stanza to me. nice work, keep it up!
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
