Criticism Forum

[Vailyn]

daughter

"Pop,Pop"! "Pop"! SPLAT.
The snow was cold,
so cold.
He felt his heat escaping.

Why aint the snow yellow?

He scratched a few feet,
didn't make it far.
Didn't hear the crunch of shoes.
Didn't feel the ice
under his nails.

Twenty-eight
and thought he'd made it.
Instead,
he's just another snow angel.

Uhm, this poem has me baffled.

The first line sounds/feels like a threat to me. Actually, the whole poem has a dark slant. I thought (thinkin ya know optimistically) that the first stanza might be about someone who gets hit by snowballs... how else do you get those sounds? Then... oh, this just popped into my head. Well, if this poem was about death, then it all pulls together in my head. The three pops like gun shots and the splat of him falling to the ground. Crawling, scratching his way from the shooters/pursuers. Losing all feeling, having odd pondering thoughts. He's 28 and for some reason that's important I guess or it wouldn't be there. But that doesn't matter. The fact that he made it that far because now he's just another mark on the ground. A impression of a body left in snow. Dead.

Am I ANYWHERE close? Huh huh huh? Darn poem is like a puzzle. Heheh.. leaves thinking...

-V

 

[daughter]

Bingo

Vailyn--

Cool interpretation. Thrilled that it made sense to you. Twenty-eight is significant when in your culture so many men die younger. I had hoped the 'ain't' would make you pause at its usage.

My s/o trashed the draft. Well, actually he said it was okay. You know the shrug. LOL

He told me what he didn't like. What isn't working for you?

Thanks.

Peace,

daughter

 

[Vailyn]

daughter

<GrinS> the death shrug? LoL

Man, you need to put your link to your poems back into the signature line... <scratches head> I think it was to your own website? Right? Or to your list of submitted work on Lit? Either or, you should put it back. Cuz I just realized that Making Snow Angels is nothing like your usual stuff. (Of those I've read.) It's much more dark. If my interpretation is anywhere close.

Title is good. Makes a good connection between the poem, subject and the irony. The title by itself is so innocent and good. Then you get thrown for a loop with the first line and it goes into a circling pondering group of "Huh?", "What?", "Why?", "Where's that again?", and back to "huh?". LOL, well, it was like that for me.

My first read: I was only seeing the surface stuff and denying my instincts on the feel of the poem.

Second read: I didn't want to read into it too much because I didn't know if my feeling of darkness was a feeling I was projecting onto the piece or what it was really saying.

Other reads afterwards: I keep coming back to the death idea and it gets more morbid. (All these pictures in my head, man, being a visualist sometimes sucks!)

The line:

Why aint the snow yellow?

Made me go "huh?" a LOT! I didn't really get it. A friend said it was the guy losing control of his body and staining the snow with his urine. Ewwwwww! Laffs. And this line is by itself, so that alone means it should have great meaning to the whole poem, but I just don't get it.

OOPS gotta go, will finish when I get home...

Home! Yeah! OKay. Lemme finish this.

It bothers me a lot that I don't get the one line of the poem that should be like the key. You know what? Having lived in SC for most of my life, the "ain't" didn't even really register as something that might be significant until I was getting ready to go home from work. It is the only word with a accenting flavor in the whole poem. You wrote something pretty stark here. I understand your point about people not being able to reach old age in some places, but how does that fit in here? The 28 is not enough for me to come to that conclusion. Maybe my problem is that this is like one of those things that don't have any one good thing I can hold onto and go "ah ha!".

Then again, <grins> MAYBE you just want to leave us with a frustrated reaction of mind's twirling?

Also, maybe for the full effect you are looking for in this piece, you need a few more lines or another short stanza?

-V

 

[karmadog]

re:making snow angels

This is a very sad poem, daughter.

The first line took me a minute to get also, but it is a shooting, presumably a shoot out. The two sets of quotation marks makes me think there are two different guns firing. Probably the "angel" defending himself.

The diffidculty people are having with the first stanza is that we are expecting play and the words ("pop" and "splat") play into that. Maybe a snowball fight. But you were more clever than that. You were playing with our expectations. You begin to show us what really happened with the second line.

"The snow was cold,
so cold."

A cliched line from every war movie ever made. I don't mean to say that it is a bad line, I think it was a nice use of a cliche to hint at your meaning. Clever.

Then: The snow "aint" yellow because it is read with the dying young man's blood.

The next part is also nice. I think there is a double meaning here. Both his dying efforts to move and his efforts to get ahead in life. Wait a minute (thinking). Was the crunch of shoes the shooter coming to finish him? If it is then the final "pop" was the shot that finished him. If that's the case, I think it might be made a little clearer. If it's not, then I don't understand the crunch of shoes line. Of course the next line is easy. He doesn't feel the ice under his nails (an unpleasant sensation which would surely not go unnoticed by most) because he is either dead or dying.

The last stanza ties it up. Did you intend for the victim to be a gangster? Combining "didn't make it far" and "thought he'd made it" would seem to imply that.

Assuming that all that stuff is right: I think that you might move the third "pop" to somewhere after "didn't hear the crunch of shoes". Considering the gravity of that shot, maybe in a line of its own in italics. between "under his nails." and "Twenty-eight".

Of course, I could be entirely wrong about my interpretation, but I think you wrote well enough that I would have realized I was being dumb, but everything fits together.

 

[corazon]

Making Snow Angels

In my first readings of the poem I found the "noises" distracting; too much like a comic book. I wasn't entirely certain (with the quotation marks) that they weren't meant to be read as dialogue.

I wonder if you used italics, or some typographical off-set to bring attention to them, instead of the quotation marks, if they would seem less puzzling.

Having said that -- after my second and third read, I understood what the pops and the splat were! And I also understood the age reference and so your choice of words, the comic book quality of them (Splat! is oh so Marvel Comics) I thought they were brilliantly picked.

This is a young man, but not so young, not quite grown-up, though certainly a "legal" adult. The puzzling thing to me is that I think there's more to this-- more than just the tragic waste of a life, more than just his being wrong that he'd "made it". I think you need to dig into the emotion of this loss a bit more.

I am also looking for some motive... some more of the story, though I don't think you need to add too much; only the slightest bit of story for the reader. Right now, I'm watching something random, something menacing and sad, but I've no context to put it in.

(And I realise I'm adding to this thread 2 days late. I'm just joining the forum, and I warn you now-- I will always be 2 days late. Forgive me ahead of time.)

- corazon -

.......

Making Snow Angels
"Pop,Pop"! "Pop"! SPLAT.
The snow was cold,
so cold.
He felt his heat escaping.

Why aint the snow yellow?

He scratched a few feet,
didn't make it far.
Didn't hear the crunch of shoes.
Didn't feel the ice
under his nails.

Twenty-eight
and thought he'd made it.
Instead,
he's just another snow angel.

 

[daughter]

relevance

corazon and karma--

A friend who got it immediately said, if this appeared with a collection of other works about urban life, you'd have an immediate context. Instead, you're left to think a bit what this is and why. I'm not sure if that's the best way to approach this. But I wanted stark and I wanted the reader to be jarred and then forced to re-think and contemplate what's going on.

The opening is meant to disturb, shock. The sounds are as absurd as the senselessness of the shooting. I'll give it some thought how effective it is, corazon. Thank you.

Ironic, karma, you assumed the angel was a ganster. Black men are killed everyday for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The contraction 'ain't' and reference to his age was intended to give the reader a social context. And since he died an angel, I hadn't thought a reader would assume he was corrupt.

Third pop is the one that killed him, Karma. Exchange of fire would come off better on separate lines just like we treat dialogue.

"He thought made it" refers to a cultural reality. When a black man lives past eighteen, we exhale a collective sigh of relief. He's made it through a critical point of existence. So at 28, we think he's survived being another statistic. In this work, I'm angry that despite beating other statistics, I'll be Damned that he end up shot, now's he just another snow angel.

corazon, italics might be better. Thank you. Karma, the cliche wasn't intended but I'm glad it work. I was honestly thinking of a real scene, and snow is damn cold, colder when you dying in it.

I'm not sure if I want to elaborate here. Death isn't an elegant affair. There are no beautiful soliloquies in our streets.

I rarely address political and social ills in my work. When I do, there are no frills and make-up. Everything in life isn't pretty. The "in your face" approach is deliberately orchestrated.

Thank you all. My partner isn't crazy about it. No great work, but one that matters. Might not ever submit it anywhere, but it's a keeper. The commentary is real.

Peace,

daughter

 

[corazon]

context

I agree that context is all-important. I like the spare, stark qualities of this poem, and I wouldn't want to see that get lost in too much "explaining"; I think if you do elaborate on the event, you should do so sparingly. There is a severity about this poem that is essential. I think it would be lost with too many words added to the "story".

I think it has an understated power to it; not to be tossed away as 'no great work'.

- corazon -

 

[Vailyn]

<grins> Thanx for the explaination, daughter, everything clicks better now. Even having grown up asian, it still hasn't really hit me about cultural differences and such. Those things don't really stick out to me because of my outlook on life. Being outside of the world the poem was written in, I didn't quite get the idea. To me, it was a man, no color or culture. Until the "aint" actually stuck in my head and it became a southern man. So, heh. Go fig on the reader interpretation, eh?

Hi there, Corazon. Eh, sometime's we don't post for days either, so don't worry about timing. It's the interaction itself which is important.

To All: Hey, I am working on editing Dual Passions. Not sure if editing is a good idea. The idea which I want spoken gets a bit too hazy with the changes I have made. So. Heh, if anyone would like to further comments or suggestions, I'm all up for it! I printed out your comments DP!

-V

 

[corazon]

spare me nothing

It seems only fair, since I'm new here, to offer a piece of my own for critique. I prefer honesty above all-- so, feel free to use your teeth.

Thanks in advance.

- corazon -

.......

Hit the Ground Running

It is a dark night. Above–
a handful of stars. The air,
thick with billows of smoke.

I hit the ground running
with the memory of your
fingers in my hair.

Those long white fingers that,
now, in the dark, curve over
shaft and handle; a caress.

Those fingers in my hair.
And the nails in my scalp.

My lungs burn from the
smoke-stained air but I run;
the cold clack of steel behind me.

I hit the ground running from
where you'd thrown me, landing
upright and cat-quick:

Run.

Smoke all around from fires that
spread through the underbrush
to lick the bellies of the trees.

I strain to breathe,
cut my bare feet on stones.

Above me – the stars disappear
one by one. Behind, your sharp
eye finds the scope:

Run.

I hit the ground running
with knuckle-bruises blooming
at my temple, cheek, and chin.
I still feel you pulling at my hair.

The effort to run, to breathe,
makes my heart race, my blood boil.
I hear the shots behind me as
long fingers find the trigger
as the ribbons in my hair come undone.

I hit the ground, running red.

.....

 

[Vailyn]

On: Hit the Ground Running

<grins> Glad to see your work here for our hungry eyes and red pens! <grins> Laffs.. maybe we could use red pens? <Grins>

Okay, here is my editted version of your poem. The changes are only suggestions. I took out parts that only repeated what you have neatly and nicely stated in the poem already and also changed the form a bit so it would fit in with what you start the poem off with. I really really like the stanzas 1-3 and the 5th. Well, if you count "run" as a stanza! =)

Almost changed the last line completely until I remembered that it is also the title. The title and poem itself does tie in rather well. Your strength is in making this poem short and sweet like the beginning of the poem and also in your grammatical structure. I don't write in this kind of style, but I can clearly see the starts, stops and pauses.

Good clean visual on a scene which only lasts mere seconds, minutes. Interesting idea. Like a movie. I failed to make the last three stanzas as short and complete as you have the first three, but hope to have kept it in the same kind of voice and flow as you desired.

-V


Hit the Ground Running

Dark is the night. Above–
a handful of stars. The air,
thick with billows of smoke.

I hit the ground running
with the memory of your
long white fingers in my hair.

My lungs burn from the
smoke choking air but I run;
the cold clack of steel behind me.

Run.

Smoke weep ashes from fires that
spread through the underbrush
to lick the bellies of the trees.

I strain to breathe, hidden
stones cut my bare feet.

Above me – the stars disappear
one by one. Behind, your sharp
eye finds the scope:

Run.

Running with knuckle-bruises blooming
at my temple, cheek, and chin. I still feel
your nails digging into my scalp, my skin.

Gasp of breath, quick pound of heart,
panic strain to tear all sense apart and ice
run in my veins as shots shoot behind.

Mind’s eye see; long fingers calmly trigger
as the ribbons in my hair come undone and
it falls free even as I hit the ground; running.

 

[karmadog]

snow angel

I'm late getting back, but it's Mardi Gras season down here. Too much partying.

Daughter, I wasn't assuming the young man was a gang member because he was black. I was asking if that was your intention because of the context and something I thought might be hinting at it. It's true, though that I forget that people are shot so frequently for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were just forty murders last year in the county I live in and the two surrounding counties combined. Stilll too many, but not that bad.

 

[Vailyn]

Poem being Worked: Thank You

This is something that a friend of mine requested from me. In trying to fulfill it, I came out with this. It's a bit too wordy and long. To me, the last stanza is the strongest and a short poem all on it's own. However! My friend doesn't want a poem just saying thank you. She wants the overall feel of why she is saying thank you. Memory is the key. By all means, gimme your thoughts on it. Extra help to whittle it down and make it more IT will be welcome! =)

Oh yeah! It's also suppose to be in center alignment but I dunno how to do that, sooooooooooo...

[color=sea-green]

As a child, you held my hand when I was afraid.
Dried my tears when I cried.
Held me tight in your arms:
For love, comfort and protection of a treasure,
A treasure, you called my life in yours.

As a youth, you pushed me harder when I fell
And I learned to never give up.
Showed me that beauty lies within
And I am my best just as me.
How to work past betrayals of my trust
And hold tight to those who stand by me;
You said that's what true friendship is.

As a young adult, you shared my joys upon love's first touch
And shared tears when it all fell apart.
Beamed so proudly as I stood in cape and gown,
When I chose to take a break to find myself,
You didn't lose your cool or call me a fool.
Calmly supported all my decisions
Having had the experience & wisdom.
I caught your sigh of relief, when I came to my senses,
And returned to finish my degree within three short years.
During which I met a man who took my breath away
Before I achieved my BA-
Well, I had his name.

As an Adult, you kept a loving eye from afar:
Smiling through the tears on my wedding day,
Harsh words of honesty when I slid back into mulish immaturity;
Unveiled my eyes to see the real treasure my husband is, not false dreams.
Then death took you away
And I did not know true lost till then.

Thank you
Though I say the words too late
I feel your spirit close, so safe
To hear the things I did not say
Before time and fate took you away
I love you, Mom.
More than I ever knew
I'll miss you always.
Cause even a small part of you
In my heart, isn't quite the same
As knowing you are only a phonecall away.
My life is full and I continue to grow
Living with one who's loves me true..
I just wanted to say,
I love you.
Thank you for loving me too.
[/color]

 

[daughter]

come lazy morn

edited. thanks for the input

 

[Vailyn]

daughter, kewl observation

While my morning and day has been just plain lazy, I wish I also made a neat observation like that!

<starts to pass out coffee to whoevers interested>

=)

-V

Psst! Don't forget to take breaks, daughter! All work and no fun makes sourpusses anyday!

 

[daughter]

No vacancies

Back with edited version soon.



thanks.

Peace,

daughter

 

[Vailyn]

daughter


Space,
behind my lids,
smooth surfaces between
breasts and thighs, slightly high.
You settle, sigh, content to
fill that space;
no longer empty.

You like it there;
I like it that you like it here.
Feeling this space,
warm, settled, content,
I sigh.

Full in this
place we’ve made,
between thighs, slightly high.
breasts,
smooth surfaces between
space behind my lids.

I hope this helps! I like this poem and it goes well w/ that stark poem style you are going for. The only line I don't really like is "no longer empty." I wish I could come up w/ something to fill it in w/ the same idea you have but I can't think of any right now. Sowwy! Hope this helps. =)

Happy V-day!!!
To you, your s/o and your family.

-V

 

[daughter]

Thank you, Vailyn

edited for a time. It's a surprise.

Peace,

daughter

 

[Swashbuckler]

If I may...

I would first like to say that there is some great work and quality criticism going on here in this thread.

That being said I would like to hazard one of my own personal favorites for you all to take a look at. I am anxious to get some quality feedback on my own stuff. So let the truth set you free as they say. After all, its only words.




Words


A cold breeze, A threatening
sky
Blood at boil, Rage on high
Words like thunderbolts loosed
to fly
Enough hit thier marks, and
now I die

 

[Vailyn]

~Swash~

(Big Hug for Swash!)

Awwwww! You're here. *smooch* Great to see you here as well as in our favorite Corner. =)



Words

A cold breeze, A threatening
sky
Blood at boil, Rage on high
Words like thunderbolts loosed
to fly
Enough hit thier marks, and
now I die


Okay, I hope this helps. I'm sorry to say that this piece does not speak to me like most of your other work on da Corner.

Since the poem is so short, how about this way?

A cold breeze,
threatening
dark sky.
Blood at boil, Rage on high!
Words like bolts loosed
to fly.
Stark darts hit their mark,
and now: I die.


-V

 

[Swashbuckler]

Hugs right back to ya, Vailyn.

Alright, you say it doesn't speak to you, let me know what doesn't work for you. That is what I would really like to know.

Thanks for your suggestion on structure, but I am going to give away the ending right now. I am not changing it.

It worked for me in a very personal moment and that is how I wrote it then and it spoke wonders to me then, and still does.

I apreciate the time you took to think about it for me, and I look forward to knowing what did not work for you. The first thing that comes to my mind, did you try reading the piece with the title as the first line?

Thanks for taking a look, Vailyn, I really do apreciate it.

~Swash~

 

[KatPurrs]

Swashbuckler,

How about this? I've been practicing trying to give as much impact to my work with the least amount of words possible. Is this too stark? It works for me. Kinda flows, doncha think? lol

Words

Cold breezes,
Threatening skies,
Blood at boil,
Rage on high.

Thunderbolts loosed
forced to fly,
Hit their marks,
And then I die.

This poem spoke to me. How many times have we been "killed" by hurtful words? Why, I'd rather take a beating! *wink* Hope this helps.

Kat~

 

[daughter]

Speaks to me

Swashbuckler--

Poetry begins as thought, some truth or message that matters to the writer, but that is only half the purpose of poetry. Like all forms of communication, it is designed to convey something so that another can understand it. If your reader does not get it then the poem fails.

When you share it, it's no longer yours no longer about you. Why else did you share it? A reader doesn't have to like it or agree with it, but a communication should be comprehensible. Sometimes the reader does need study or help understanding, but if the work lacks the structure or content that it might be understood, that falls on the writer.

This is a critique forum, we look at structure, content, technique. We're concerned if a poem works. How a poem makes us feel is one component. So many poet thinks that's enough. To the serious writer/reader it is not. The how matters, too.

Plenty of us like what we believe you are saying in this poem. It is how you're saying it that Vailyn is questioning. We respect your right to toss or use our suggestions, but our observations are us telling you how the poem affects us. That is what you're asking us when you post to a critique forum.

KatPurrs offers a useful draft. For me, the poem would be better if you flesh it out. It is more a snapshot than anything else and as written, you are expecting the reader to feel as you do, but you haven't given us enough to have the same connection. Some greater detail and or greater use of poetry devices might give the reader the bridge she needs to feel the way you felt when you wrote this.

Keep writing and I hope you will continue to share with us.

Peace,

daughter

 

[daughter]

Re: If I may...

Words


A cold breeze, A threatening
sky

***How cold? What does it feel like? Describe a threatening sky. Why is it cold? How do you describe cold without saying 'cold'?

Blood at boil, Rage on high

****Why is the narrator's blood at a boil? Give us some context for this state.


Words like thunderbolts loosed
to fly

***You give us an image but we have no idea why these event is transpiring.

Enough hit thier marks, and
now I die

***Someone speaks cruelly to the narrator and he likens the attack to death. We can relate, but I feel this would be stronger if you created a text for the conflict.

Thanks for the read.

Peace,

daughter

 

[Ded Poet]

Re: spare me nothing

Hit the Ground Running

It is a dark night. Above–
a handful of stars. The air,
thick with billows of smoke.

I hit the ground running
with the memory of your
fingers in my hair.

Those long white fingers that,
now, in the dark, curve over
shaft and handle; a caress.

Those fingers in my hair.
And the nails in my scalp.

My lungs burn from the
smoke-stained air but I run;
the cold clack of steel behind me.

I hit the ground running from
where you'd thrown me, landing
upright and cat-quick:

Run.

Smoke all around from fires that
spread through the underbrush
to lick the bellies of the trees.

I strain to breathe,
cut my bare feet on stones.

Above me – the stars disappear
one by one. Behind, your sharp
eye finds the scope:

Run.

I hit the ground running
with knuckle-bruises blooming
at my temple, cheek, and chin.
I still feel you pulling at my hair.

The effort to run, to breathe,
makes my heart race, my blood boil.
I hear the shots behind me as
long fingers find the trigger
as the ribbons in my hair come undone.

I hit the ground, running red.

.....

This narrative needs to be a bit more cohesive, and pared of cliches. I don't know whether the repetition works or not, but the event that is being described needs to be clarified somehow. 'Hit the ground running'-- from where, for instance.What is the speaker running from (besides
whoever's got her by the hair), what's the context? Is there a forest fire?

Keeping the narration strictly to the POV of the speaker and her immediate impressions is rather confusing for the reader in this case. We need some context.

The first line 'It is a dark night' is bad (reminds me of Prairie Home Companion's "Guy Noir"). There are similar examples of not-so-fresh telling in this piece that need to be winnowed out.

Still, there is movement and tension and drama here. If you find a way of keeping that urgent first-person voice, while giving more detail and cutting the cliches, this could be a strong poem.

Hope this helps.

Respectfully,
DP

 

[daughter]

Re: spare me nothing

corazon--

I see a context for the scene. It's in the title and the action of the piece. For me, this is a spoof on that movie with Ice T. A band of hunters invite him for weekend. What he doesn't know is he's the prey. They let him know casually over breakfast. The coversation is so matter-of-factly that you choke on your eggs mid-sentence.

I read it again. The betrayal is deeper. This is historical? This is a young girl being shocked in the middle of night by terror? Is this about Native Americans? Or is this an abusive relationship? Whatever it is, she has no time to process it.

.......

Hit the Ground Running

It is a dark night. Above–
a handful of stars. The air,
thick with billows of smoke.

***The series of periods fragments this. Opening with the stars isn't particularly strong and borders cliche but at least in this instance it is forebodding something dark. That makes it more interesting. The billows of smoke is fire burning--a village?


I hit the ground running
with the memory of your
fingers in my hair.

****This first memory is her remembering startling. This child was once praised for her hair. This attacker once fingered her hair. An intimate, non-threatening image coupled with instant fear and flight.

Those long white fingers that,
now, in the dark, curve over
shaft and handle; a caress.

****An older weapon. She doesn't actually sees this knows this.

Those fingers in my hair.
And the nails in my scalp.

***The punctuation and format is something I'd look at. Isn't bad. Not sure if the periods are the way to go.

My lungs burn from the
smoke-stained air but I run;
the cold clack of steel behind me.

***Not sure she can hear the steel. Her heart is pounding, she's pushing branch and breathing hard.

I hit the ground running from
where you'd thrown me, landing
upright and cat-quick:

****Now, I'm not sure. Is she being hunted or captured? Did she escape after being thrown out of bed?
Run.

Smoke all around from fires that
spread through the underbrush
to lick the bellies of the trees.

***the image is bordering well-worn especially the 'lick the bellies'

I strain to breathe,
cut my bare feet on stones.

Above me – the stars disappear
one by one. Behind, your sharp
eye finds the scope:

***Like the movement. The speed of her running is there, but the one by one slows it, contradicts the blurred vision, blind running.

Run.

I hit the ground running
with knuckle-bruises blooming
at my temple, cheek, and chin.
I still feel you pulling at my hair.

****this stanza seems out of sequence. What is the above if it is not her running? Move below this or delete?

The effort to run, to breathe,
makes my heart race, my blood boil.
I hear the shots behind me as
long fingers find the trigger
as the ribbons in my hair come undone.


****Weakest stanza. Cliche-riddled and I've seen you craft far better lines. You've lost all energy and intensity here. I rap your knuckles for 'blood boil' and 'heart race'. The last line of this strophe is superior. It implies youth, innocence, trust--the lost and fear running rampant. It is incredible how much you convey when you hit on mark with an image. You have a way of maximizing the impact of an image.

I hit the ground, running red.

***We're not sure if she's shot or bleeding from the cut feet. I like the ambuguity.


Like to see this revised. The run isn't over. Good read.

Peace,


daughter