An afternoon with my daughter and Charles Bukowski, Free form Options

[Guest_Billydo_*]

An afternoon with my daughter and Charles Bukowski

Devon afternoon under a Manchester sky:
walking wounded with walking wounds,
take refuge in the car, while the others
do the holiday big-shop.

My twelve year-old touches my hair
with a pink marabou-tipped wand,
showering tinsel for fairy dust,
"Your hair is now pink";
my ticket to her fun-fair mind.

"Read me a poem!"
I choose carefully.
"I aced my exams!"
I am not surprised.
"Should I say - her spirit soars like an eagle - in my first chapter?"
"It sounds corny," I say, and she agrees.
"Read me another poem!".

I'm running out of choice.
"Let's play word games!"
(Thank heaven for that).

We decide that the poplars look like teeth,
grating, grinding to a car-alarm howling.
A car-park caution light blinks blobs of amber,
tinting the windscreen's rain glaze ,
petrifying us in our car like prehistoric insects.
Street lamps, feet trapped in warm tarmac,
look on, dull and jealous;
it is not yet their time to shine.

My wife phones:
"Sorry for taking so long, we have finished now."
The wand touches my hair again.
"Your hair is back to its normal colour":
black and grey.
We yawn and stretch, outside the car,
under a newly blue sky.

In a car park in Totnes,
my daughter and me,
and a book of poems,
by Charles Bukowski,
all covered in fairy dust,
are sparkling in the sunshine.



Initial Version
An afternoon with my daughter and Charles Bukowski

A grey, cloudy afternoon on holiday in Devon:
walking wounded with walking wounds,
take refuge in the car, while the others
do the big shop.

My 12YO touches my hair
with a pink marabou tipped wand,
showering tinsel for fairy dust,
saying, "your hair is now pink";
this is my ticket to the fun fair.

"Read me a poem!"
I choose carefully.
"I aced my exams!"
I am not surprised.
She reads voraciously
and is starting to write
her first novel.

"Should I say - her spirit soars like an eagle - in my first chapter?"
"It sounds corny," I say, and she agrees.
"Read me another poem!".

"I don't know why everyone raves about Harry Potter", she says
"the writing is not that good".
We play word games.
We decide that the poplars look like teeth,
grating, gyrating to a car-alarm howling.

A car-park caution light blinks blobs of amber,
freezing us in our car like prehistoric insects.
Street lamps, feet trapped in warm tarmac,
look on, dull and jealous,
because it is not yet their time to shine.

My wife phones:
"Sorry for taking so long, we have finished now."
The wand touches my hair again.
"Your hair is back to its normal colour":
black and grey.
We yawn and stretch, outside the car,
under a newly blue sky.

In a car park in Totnes,
my daughter and me,
and a book of poems,
by Charles Bukowski,
all covered in fairy dust,
are sparkling in the sunshine.

May 2005.

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Mike

this is a warm reminiscence of special time spent with your daughter.  Father and daughter time, so important for both of you.

I have to say that this reads more like prose than poetry.  A wonderful, very interesting story that perhaps could be released from the format of a poem, giving you more freedom to describe your time together.

Just a couple of comments for you to take or leave.

A grey, cloudy afternoon on holiday in Devon:
walking wounded with walking wounds,....tautology
take refuge in the car, while the others
do the big shop.

My 12YO touches my hair....not everyone will know what 12YO means.  I think it should be written as twelve year old
with a pink marabou tipped wand,
showering tinsel for fairy dust,
saying, "your hair is now pink";
this is my ticket to the fun fair

A car-park caution light blinks blobs of amber,
freezing us in our car like prehistoric insects.
I love this image


If your daughter likes to write, you should try her on the Flash-Jam's.  My 12 year old loves to do them and they are a wonderful way of encouraging their creativity.  It seems a great shame to me that at school she never does imaginative writing.  It is such a waste because she writes wonderful stories.  it is also a great way of sharing something together.  She writes her story and I read it, then I give her mine to read.  I post what she has written on MM and she loves reading the comments and making her own.

Nina

[Guest_Billydo_*]

Hi Nina

Thanks. Will review.

What is Flash Jams?

Cheers

Mike

[Guest_Toumai_*]

Hi Mike,

Good to see you back from darkest Devon with trophies of your expolits.

Lovely quirky atmosphere in this tale of you and a pink thing enjoying a peaceful break. A few ideas to toss if you think they are irrelevant.

A grey, cloudy afternoon on holiday in Devon:
walking wounded with walking wounds,
take refuge in the car, while the others
do the big shop.

I rather like the tautology: reinforcing and the wounds are actually from the hiking, I presume

My 12YO touches my hair
with a pink marabou tipped wand,
showering tinsel for fairy dust,
saying, "your hair is now pink";
this is my ticket to the fun fair.

12YO is a bit confusing. What fun fair? Ticket to magic, another world?

"I don't know why everyone raves about Harry Potter", she says
"the writing is not that good".
We play word games.
We decide that the poplars look like teeth,
grating, gyrating to a car-alarm howling.

The poplars like teeth are wonderful, but I think gyrating sounds a bit sureal ... grinding might be more tooth-like?

A car-park caution light blinks blobs of amber,
freezing us in our car like prehistoric insects.
Street lamps, feet trapped in warm tarmac,
look on, dull and jealous,
because it is not yet their time to shine.

Lovely stanza (jealous street lights? hehe)

My wife phones:
"Sorry for taking so long, we have finished now."
The wand touches my hair again.
"Your hair is back to its normal colour":
black and grey.
We yawn and stretch, outside the car,
under a newly blue sky.

In a car park in Totnes,
my daughter and me,
and a book of poems,
by Charles Bukowski,
all covered in fairy dust,
are sparkling in the sunshine.

Lovely gentle, warm holiday ideas float here with your imaginations.

Cheers,

Fran

[Guest_Toumai_*]

Mike,

forgot to add that the Flash Jams are being run from the Acropolis (member challenges) forum and some info is here:

http://forums.mosaicmusings.net/cgi-bin....;t=4173

Fran

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Mike

A flash-Jam is an exercise which we have just started doing on MM.  Flash" writing is immediate, unplanned and from the heart. Given a stimulus - a title, picture, poem or description - you are invited to write for a short time (twenty minutes to half an hour is ideal) on whatever comes into your head.  

Your response might be in prose or poetry or some combination of the two. It may not even "make sense" but it will spark ideas, help your 'voice' and suggest (to you, at least) new approaches to your work.  
If you wish to take part, please do not read anyone else's Flash until you have posted yours.

So far we have done two and the third one will be next Saturday.  If you go to the Acropolis http://forums.mosaicmusings.net/cgi-bin....SF;f=18 you can have a better look at what the first two were.  You can, should you wish have a go at them.  But if you do, write as soon as you have read the stimulus and don't read anyone else's flashes till you have finished yours.

Nina

[Guest_Cathy_*]

Hi Mike,

I missed this one somehow!  This is something to remember for a lifetime ... quality time with one's child.  I love to remember times I spent with my two and then I will tell them the stories which usually embarass them ... "oh mom!"

{omit}[add]

A grey, cloudy afternoon on holiday in Devon:
walking wounded with walking wounds, I rather like this line.
take refuge in the car, while {the} others
do the big shop.

My 12YO touches my hair  I would probably use 'year old'.
with a pink marabou[-]tipped wand,
showering tinsel for fairy dust,
{saying,} "[Y]our hair is now pink";
this is my ticket to the fun fair.

"Read me a poem!"
I choose carefully.
"I aced my exams!"
I am not surprised.
She reads voraciously
and is starting to write
her first novel.

"Should I say - her spirit soars like an eagle - in my first chapter?"
"It sounds corny," I say, and she agrees.
"Read me another poem!".

"I don't know why everyone raves about Harry Potter", she says
"the writing is not that good".
We play word games.
We decide that the poplars look like teeth,
grating, gyrating to a car-alarm howling.

A car-park caution light blinks blobs of amber,
freezing us in our car like prehistoric insects.
Street lamps, feet trapped in warm tarmac,
look on, dull and jealous,
because it is not yet their time to shine.

My wife phones:
"Sorry for taking so long, we have finished now."
The wand touches my hair again.
"Your hair is back to its normal colour":
black and grey.
We yawn and stretch, outside the car,
under a newly blue sky.

In a car park in Totnes,
my daughter and me,
and a book of poems,
by Charles Bukowski,
all covered in fairy dust,
are sparkling in the sunshine.

Thanks for sharing!
Cathy

[Guest_Billydo_*]

Hi Cathy

Thanks for that.

I have not had much time to spend on sites of late. I am working flat out at the moment.

I like your changes and will implement them.

Cheers

Mike