[stylist] Poem - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" - Finalish Draft

Thu Jul 9 17:11:03 UTC 2015

As to the asterisks, I will argue in favor of it for just a minute. Lots of
poets, and even prose writers, are playing with visual elements nowadays in
their writing. While it can be irritating or difficult for JAWS users, it's
quite popular these days. In particular, writers are trying visual ways to
convey something as opposed to placing in narration.

For example, instead of writing dialogue like, "Oh, no," then adding tag
saying they said slowly, a writer may write dialogue,
"O-H N-O," the dashes representing the drawn out syllables when saying oh no
slow.
Or simply writing it, "Ooooooh noooooo," which I find equally irritating to
read with JAWS, grin.
But my point is that when it comes to the artistry, using visual means in
which to convey something, or for symbolic reasons or just for a visual
element, is very common.

I write this way often, but as a screenreader user, I totally understand how
it's distracting, or in many cases, you don't even know, like with bolding
or italics, unless you know to check.

So, I guess, to each his own, smile.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jackie
Williams via stylist
Sent: Thursday, July 09, 2015 11:23 AM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
Cc: Jackie Williams
Subject: Re: [stylist] Poem - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" -
Finalish Draft

Bill,
Is this the right word? Untellable.
I would benefit from you writing a note after your poems that says: "About
this poem," which suggests the motivation and meaning of the poem as Poem a
Day always does with their poems. I usually do not read it until I have
given a try at understanding, but then, when I read it, the meaning shines
through.
I have to tell you that your introduction to your poems fascinates me as
much as your poems themselves. Example: today, I was kind of appalled at how
clunky it was, and set out to break its crooked bones so I could reset them
again with, it is hoped, more 
patience and expertise.   
Incidentally, I agreed with Chris's comments about your short poem with all
of the astericks. With JAWS it interfered with any understanding even with
many readings.

Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of William L
Houts via stylist
Sent: Wednesday, July 08, 2015 10:07 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List; kempiro at yahoo.com
Cc: William L Houts
Subject: [stylist] Poem - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" - Finalish
Draft

Hello Friends,

Here's an almost complete revision of a poem I posted here maybe eight or
nine months ago.  I received a number of comments, almost all of them useful
and to the point, then set it aside.  Sometimes I do that, just let things
age for a while so I'm not quite as ego-driven about the damned thing.  A
good thing, too, because when I looked at this one today, I was kind of
appalled at how clunky it was, and set out to break its crooked bones so I
could reset them again with, it is hoped, more patience and expertise.
Anyway, here it is; comments welcome as always.

--Bill

---

*Close Encounters of the Third Kind *

/"Encounters"/crucible heart:

Not that truth incarnate ark,

singing, bringing our captured crewmen

to earth again, forty years after abduction,

but coming home wise if staggered

white with untellable answers.

No: it's that terrible, gorgeous scene

in the embattled countryside home

where the starfolk lay their light-siege,

sending scorching demands through the vents:

O remember that five note song,

that call from the small black-eyed

seraphs, so trumpet bright and fierce,

setting mother and child at odds,

his toys themselves climbing to life, crying

come,O come, you brother, you son

while mother must not, must not lose her Barry

to stark ferocious angels,

who brook no mere mother's rage, their sage enchantment

voiced five tone bright, their scorching light

surging through cracks as Barry

is birthed through the dog door, earth to mystery air,

loosed from house and awakened toys

to sky home, a child's top flying,

while thwarted mother shrieks below,

until they land at the tower,

release a boy joyous for secrets,

for mother, for deep aching earth.

Years later he'll tell of singing blue spheres,

of star folk free as light,

and of rooms where time itself dozed,

benign as an uncle.

-- 

"Oh, Sophie!  Whyfore have you eated all de cheeldren?"

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