I missed your original post, but we definitely have different ideas of what constitutes "visually evocative." I don't particularly find the Gluck poem to be visually evocative; I find its imagery pretty bland, almost stock! The rest aren't my imagistic cup of tea, either.
But this, an excerpt from a Galway Kinnell poem, I find visually evocative:
*
I have heard you tell the sun, don't go down, I have stood by as you told the flower, don't grow old, don't die. Little Maud,
I would blow the flame out of your silver cup, I would suck the rot from your fingernail, I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light, I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones, I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body, I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood, I would let nothing of you go, ever,
*
I'd be happy to post the entire poem if anyone would like to read the rest.
Also, this bit from "Elm" I find especially evocative:
*
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.
*
And this poem by Jack Gilbert, "Finding Something":
*
I say moon is horses in the tempered dark, because horse is the closest I can get to it. I sit on the terrace of this worn villa the king's telegrapher built on the mountain that looks down on a blue sea and the small white ferry that crosses slowly to the next island each noon. Michiko is dying in the house behind me, the long windows open so I can hear the faint sound she will make when she wants watermelon to suck or so I can take her to a bucket in the corner of the high-ceilinged room which is the best we can do for a chamber pot. She will lean against my leg as she sits so as not to fall over in her weakness. How strange and fine to get so near to it. The arches of her feet are like voices of children calling in the grove of lemon trees, where my heart is as helpless as crushed birds.
*
The arches of her feet like voices...& not just voices, but children's voices in a grove of lemon trees... YES. Such a provocative image in a domestic space marked with chamber pots & the smell of someone dying.
Brigit Pegeen Kelly is a poet that consistently produces images I find "evocative" and intriguing. For example, the opening from "Dead Doe":
*
The doe lay dead on her back in a field of asters: no.
The doe lay dead on her back beside the school bus stop: yes.
Where we waited. Her belly white as a cut pear. Where we waited: no: off
from where we waited: yes
at a distance: making a distance we kept, as we kept her dead run in sight, that we might see if she chose to go skyward; that we might run, too, turn tail if she came near and troubled our fear with presence: with ghostly blossoming:
*
I love how the movement of the images forces my own imagination to make the transformations. Much like this poem, one more, by Charles Simic: "Return to a Place Lit by a Glass of Milk." This poem is difficult to imagine if you're trying too hard to make the pictures in your head:
*
Late at night our hands stop working. They lie open with tracks of animals Journeying across the fresh snow. They need no one. Solitude surrounds them.
As they come closer, as they touch, It is like two small streams Which upon entering a wide river Feel the pull of the distant sea.
The sea is a room far back in time Lit by the headlights of a passing car. A glass of milk glows on the table. Only you can reach it for me now.
*
This is actually, I think, an inner look at the associative mental process conjured by an "evocative" image. The hands themselves seem to call up this memory of the glass of milk on the table, in the past, in a different life entirely, & they do so through the speaker's associative thinking: streams --> river --> distant sea --> room far back in time, where the milk sits illuminated by passing headlights.
So, maybe your question was too vague? I dunno. Hope you liked some of these pieces, anyway.
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Date: 2008-10-01 03:31 am (UTC)But this, an excerpt from a Galway Kinnell poem, I find visually evocative:
*
I have heard you tell
the sun, don't go down, I have stood by
as you told the flower, don't grow old,
don't die. Little Maud,
I would blow the flame out of your silver cup,
I would suck the rot from your fingernail,
I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light,
I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones,
I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body,
I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood,
I would let nothing of you go, ever,
*
I'd be happy to post the entire poem if anyone would like to read the rest.
Also, this bit from "Elm" I find especially evocative:
*
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
*
And this poem by Jack Gilbert, "Finding Something":
*
I say moon is horses in the tempered dark,
because horse is the closest I can get to it.
I sit on the terrace of this worn villa the king's
telegrapher built on the mountain that looks down
on a blue sea and the small white ferry
that crosses slowly to the next island each noon.
Michiko is dying in the house behind me,
the long windows open so I can hear
the faint sound she will make when she wants
watermelon to suck or so I can take her
to a bucket in the corner of the high-ceilinged room
which is the best we can do for a chamber pot.
She will lean against my leg as she sits
so as not to fall over in her weakness.
How strange and fine to get so near to it.
The arches of her feet are like voices
of children calling in the grove of lemon trees,
where my heart is as helpless as crushed birds.
*
The arches of her feet like voices...& not just voices, but children's voices in a grove of lemon trees... YES. Such a provocative image in a domestic space marked with chamber pots & the smell of someone dying.
Brigit Pegeen Kelly is a poet that consistently produces images I find "evocative" and intriguing. For example, the opening from "Dead Doe":
*
The doe lay dead on her back in a field of asters: no.
The doe lay dead on her back beside the school bus stop: yes.
Where we waited.
Her belly white as a cut pear. Where we waited: no: off
from where we waited: yes
at a distance: making a distance
we kept,
as we kept her dead run in sight, that we might see if she chose
to go skyward;
that we might run, too, turn tail
if she came near
and troubled our fear with presence: with ghostly blossoming:
*
I love how the movement of the images forces my own imagination to make the transformations. Much like this poem, one more, by Charles Simic: "Return to a Place Lit by a Glass of Milk." This poem is difficult to imagine if you're trying too hard to make the pictures in your head:
*
Late at night our hands stop working.
They lie open with tracks of animals
Journeying across the fresh snow.
They need no one. Solitude surrounds them.
As they come closer, as they touch,
It is like two small streams
Which upon entering a wide river
Feel the pull of the distant sea.
The sea is a room far back in time
Lit by the headlights of a passing car.
A glass of milk glows on the table.
Only you can reach it for me now.
*
This is actually, I think, an inner look at the associative mental process conjured by an "evocative" image. The hands themselves seem to call up this memory of the glass of milk on the table, in the past, in a different life entirely, & they do so through the speaker's associative thinking: streams --> river --> distant sea --> room far back in time, where the milk sits illuminated by passing headlights.
So, maybe your question was too vague? I dunno. Hope you liked some of these pieces, anyway.