Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[flyguy69]

I'm a feedback slut. I always want more.
Give it to me hard and fast, baby.


Sorry about the broken heart (in five places, no less!) but that's the risk when you fuck with a slut.

I am not sure if you are looking for feedback or not, but I just wanted to make some comments.

First of all, I enjoyed reading this poem, content and presentation, lovely. It broke my heart in two different places.

I enjoy your internal rhyming and repetition of sounds, very clever and far from the standard rain pain you blue

oh no, trouble. I read it again looking for more details to comment on and it broke my heart in three new places and now I am unable to think critically.

 

[Willows_Tears]

first day in Venice

half way to Rialto bridge
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

later: lost again
we find a bare mattress down a staircase
outside the church of San Giovanni in Bragora
someone sleeps down there
I can't stop thinking in English
tripping across text book time lines
Vivaldi's mother first felt his kick
under her ribs in front of this alter

laptop calendar checks in:
Little Bean's startin' to grow his kidneys
no espresso for you m'lady"

five minutes after you throw away the map
Salvadore Dali opens my torso
like a four drawer dresser

we lean over ropes
to see inside

 

[Willows_Tears]

I'm a feedback slut. I always want more.
Give it to me hard and fast, baby.


Sorry about the broken heart (in five places, no less!) but that's the risk when you fuck with a slut.

you sure have a filthy mouth for an angel

confused about the disclosed risk:
was it the fucking with a slut that inspired the poem which in turn broke my heart?
or do you consider just reading and commenting on your poetry some sort of fucking, and the slut, being yourself the fuckee, if so, I hope you were using some sort of protection

don't worry about the broken heart, it just allows space for new growth

 

[flyguy69]

first day in Venice


....

Very nice!

I'll comment in a bit-- I'm working on one for Tzara first.

 

[Willows_Tears]

Very nice!

I'll comment in a bit-- I'm working on one for Tzara first.

yes I have heard of this tradition- age before beauty

 

[flyguy69]

Love: the serene flow of images, the metaphor.
Not so hot on: the title, the switch from concrete to abstract imagery.

The metaphor, the dissolution of the river as a post-coital glow, is wonderful, and the slow roll of images evokes that process very well.

I dislike the title because it focuses on rivers entirely, while the poem is quite specifically about the delta. That might be my biologist background-- I immediately saw hydrologic data and floral succession graphs!

You move from concrete images of the confluence to more abstact images of giving up one's identity-- i like the former better.

You slip into "telling" mode in a couple places. I'm not as opposed to this as some critics, but I think you diminish the poem's impact a bit. "Tranquil," "grand" and "strange" in particular.

It is always easier to tell someone what to take out than what to put in, but I think you could tell us more about the river's termination as a death.

Here are some line-by-line thoughts

QUOTE=Tzara]Riparian

Now the sudden quiet. Their bodies' joined heat "The sudden quiet" bothers me and I'm not sure if it is "the" or "sudden" that bothers me more. The article implies it is a universal (or at least ubiquitous) experience but I'm not sure that it is. "A" would avoid this. "Suddenness" also conflicts with the metaphor because slow dissipation is not a sudden phenomenon. "Joined" is probably superfluous.
rises in cool air, dispersing like the mood, Circular metaphor! You know better!

as how a river slows and spreads to enter
a great sea. How it is tranquil at the end,

with the swirls and eddies of each current lost
in the grand harmonic motion of the tides.

It is not unlike death, this calm effacement, You introduce a new metaphor, here, but I think you can make it work. Be careful of cliche (the small death).
the free gift of one's identity and self The image of post-coital relaxation as gift of identity and self is a bit OTT, for my taste.
changed for a single motion, single body—
a strange and fluid creature that tastes of salt. Are you calling your partner a "strange and fluid creature"? The river would not taste of salt, of course. I think you may be letting the metaphor slip away here-- you've been comparing the sensation to the river's entropy, and now your talking about your partner's body (I think).[/QUOTE]

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

I'm a feedback slut. I always want more.
Give it to me hard and fast, baby.


Sorry about the broken heart (in five places, no less!) but that's the risk when you fuck with a slut.

did someone say hard and fast?

 

[Liar]

first day in Venice

half way to Rialto bridge
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

later: lost again
we find a bare mattress down a staircase
outside the church of San Giovanni in Bragora
someone sleeps down there
I can't stop thinking in English
tripping across text book time lines
Vivaldi's mother first felt his kick
under her ribs in front of this alter

laptop calendar checks in:
Little Bean's startin' to grow his kidneys
no espresso for you m'lady"

five minutes after you throw away the map
Salvadore Dali opens my torso
like a four drawer dresser

we lean over ropes
to see inside

Wonnerful.

I have only two suggestions to make.

First is about the ending. Whatever it is you're trying to describe, is lost on me. Peeking inside Dali drawers? Ooo-kay... The poem up until then was anything but surreal, so that sudden imagery sounds cool, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it's saying.

Second: You might want to look over the choices in formatting. Some places where the content took a turn, the looks of the poem did not. It throws the tempo and pacing off for me.

Here's one such place:
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

After "street signs" there's a new proposition, but the line looks just like the ones above and below. It makes me rush past it and lose what it's trying to say. I start to read "back pack heavy" as if it was a continuation of the sentence, and after a while, it makes no sense at all until I go back and read it again. If you for instance had regular capital letters and punctuation, it would have worked. Or an extra line break.

Good luck. It's a real keeper, once you sort out that pacing thing.

 

[TheRainMan]

nice stuff goin' on here.

wish i had the time to join in.

 

[Willows_Tears]

Thanks! I knew the Dali reference was a stretch... it is just that it seemed to all fit together when it really happened, but something is lost in translation. If you have yet to see the Dali sculptures of ladies with drawers coming out of their chests (or thighs, etc) you really should. I felt such a physical reaction to them, as if my own chest were pulling open... all of my secrets and dreams spilling out like panties and socks...god, to be able to do that with poetry is a dream

I found one up there ^ but it was not one I saw.

I will seriously study your suggestions, thank you so much for taking the time to read, think it over, comment. I did not even think to change the format with the change in tone....

I want to make it work. Have to kind of figure out what I want it to do first, I guess. Maybe it is more than one poem.

Thank you again.

~Willow

Wonnerful.

I have only two suggestions to make.

First is about the ending. Whatever it is you're trying to describe, is lost on me. Peeking inside Dali drawers? Ooo-kay... The poem up until then was anything but surreal, so that sudden imagery sounds cool, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it's saying.

Second: You might want to look over the choices in formatting. Some places where the content took a turn, the looks of the poem did not. It throws the tempo and pacing off for me.

Here's one such place:
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

After "street signs" there's a new proposition, but the line looks just like the ones above and below. It makes me rush past it and lose what it's trying to say. I start to read "back pack heavy" as if it was a continuation of the sentence, and after a while, it makes no sense at all until I go back and read it again. If you for instance had regular capital letters and punctuation, it would have worked. Or an extra line break.

Good luck. It's a real keeper, once you sort out that pacing thing.

 

[Tzara]

Hey, Fly. Thanks for the comments.

I'm stuck in foggy (foggy!) southern California with a flaky wireless connection so I may be even more incoherent than usual.

Love: the serene flow of images, the metaphor.
Not so hot on: the title, the switch from concrete to abstract imagery.

The metaphor, the dissolution of the river as a post-coital glow, is wonderful, and the slow roll of images evokes that process very well.

I dislike the title because it focuses on rivers entirely, while the poem is quite specifically about the delta. That might be my biologist background-- I immediately saw hydrologic data and floral succession graphs!

You move from concrete images of the confluence to more abstact images of giving up one's identity-- i like the former better.

I didn't like the title either, for the reasons you state. Didn't know what else to use, though, so it was kind of a placeholder.

I would like to use Confluence, which is more appropriate for what I'm trying to say, except that when I look the word up, it seems to refer fairly specifically to rivers joining--not river to ocean.

You slip into "telling" mode in a couple places. I'm not as opposed to this as some critics, but I think you diminish the poem's impact a bit. "Tranquil," "grand" and "strange" in particular.

But I like telling!

I wrote this draft in syllabics, so some of these are perhaps just a teensy weensy bit padding sense for form.

It is always easier to tell someone what to take out than what to put in, but I think you could tell us more about the river's termination as a death.

It's not really meant as death, but as transubstantiation. I'd say "transubstantiation," but I'm writing 11 syllable lines and that word would almost take up a line by itself.

Or something.

Here are some line-by-line thoughts

Riparian

Now the sudden quiet. Their bodies' joined heat "The sudden quiet" bothers me and I'm not sure if it is "the" or "sudden" that bothers me more. The article implies it is a universal (or at least ubiquitous) experience but I'm not sure that it is. "A" would avoid this. "Suddenness" also conflicts with the metaphor because slow dissipation is not a sudden phenomenon. "Joined" is probably superfluous. Agreed.
rises in cool air, dispersing like the mood, Circular metaphor! You know better! Actually, I don't always--though it's usually by accident. I was using the word "heat" literally (with the original intent of riffing on thermodynamics). Thanks for pointing this out.

as how a river slows and spreads to enter
a great sea. How it is tranquil at the end,

with the swirls and eddies of each current lost
in the grand harmonic motion of the tides.

It is not unlike death, this calm effacement, You introduce a new metaphor, here, but I think you can make it work. Be careful of cliche (the small death).
the free gift of one's identity and self The image of post-coital relaxation as gift of identity and self is a bit OTT, for my taste.
changed for a single motion, single body—
a strange and fluid creature that tastes of salt. Are you calling your partner a "strange and fluid creature"? The river would not taste of salt, of course. I think you may be letting the metaphor slip away here-- you've been comparing the sensation to the river's entropy, and now your talking about your partner's body (I think). I'm trying to talk about the joined bodies as a single creature. The river merges with the ocean, gives up its identity, its waters become saline, it becomes part of a larger whole with its own rhythms and identity. Badly, apparently, but there you have it.

Hey, thanks again for the detailed comments. Always helpful, though not as flattering as just calling me the second coming of Yeats:

Twisting and turning in the widening mire
The author cannot hear his audience;
The poem falls apart; its center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the word.​

Back to the Poetry Garage. Where'd I leave that wrench?

 

[sugarmountain]

tongues walk through passions field,
yield, then push on taste the fruit
as it falls from pulsing petals,
strident stamens

tongues wrestle, dip and scoop
into the wells of desire's vessel
sip the nectar, nurture the blooms,
inspiring colors

tongues drip, ripe with words
sensual, stirring as mortar
and pestal grind together
kindred souls

 

[flyguy69]

This is a marvelous poem that stumbles a bit on anecdote.

The theme of discovery is beautiful, and the metaphor of learning of/about your pregnancy as a Dali sculpture is wonderful. Be careful as you edit that don't simply tell us about your trip (details like the mattress, the weight of your packs, etc.)-- stick to the trope of the poem.

Like Liar, I wondered about the Dali connection (though I assumed the final lines were a reference to ultrasound or an HCG test), so it might be helpful to reference the sculpture earlier in the poem, then come back to the opened drawers as you and your partner share in the delight of your discovery.

The "laptop calendar" is not an engaging detail, but the triple play with "bean" had me grinning!

Good luck with this.

first day in Venice

half way to Rialto bridge
you notice tile mosaics
under our sandals are street signs
back pack heavy we turn around
barely make check in

later: lost again
we find a bare mattress down a staircase
outside the church of San Giovanni in Bragora
someone sleeps down there
I can't stop thinking in English
tripping across text book time lines
Vivaldi's mother first felt his kick
under her ribs in front of this alter

laptop calendar checks in:
Little Bean's startin' to grow his kidneys
no espresso for you m'lady"

five minutes after you throw away the map
Salvadore Dali opens my torso
like a four drawer dresser

we lean over ropes
to see inside

 

[rikaaim]

I haven't been here in some time. I don't have regular access to the net. I wrote something this morning that I like, but would like some opinions, feedback, and guidance on it. I would appreciate any help that can be offered. Also, please don't feel bad if I don't seem to reply. It may take me some time to get back to the net and comment on comments. Anything left is greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance.

Middle of the Storm


I awake to a sorrowful tune.
Davey Jones’ song is begging its due.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I rock back and forth
in a turbulent sea.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

On deck overhead
the boards creak and they crack.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The men shout,
“We can’t keep it back!”

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The hateful wind blows
with an unforgiving force.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The stern begs for mercy
at the flogging of the storm.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I rise topside
to see the corruption.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

A midsummer’s day
Erupts into chaos.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The men they are fighting
with the grace of sea warriors.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

While the sky is collapsing
and red storms are engulfing.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

Over the bow
Davey Jones calls.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

Waiting and watching
for more victims to fall.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

His bony finger
motions and beckons.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

His sadistic smile
curves my intentions.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The appeal of the depths
are hard to ignore.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The still blue waters
remind me of shore.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I lean further over
to survey the peace.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I peer deep down
and see a release.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

Oh the sea is a callin’
with a sweet, soulful sound.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

While lightening is shattering
the boat all around.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The men they are a strugglin’
to keep her together.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The boats a rockin’
the sails are tattered.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I look once more
to the callin’ of the sea.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

And realize
this is not about me.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The sea shall claim me
when it’s due time.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

For now the men need me
to help them this round.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The ship she is a splitin’
right down in two.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

The men look at me and shout,
“Capn’, what should we do?”

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

She calls like a siren
hopeful at best.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

I turn to her and laugh
and then turn away.

Come quick.
Come quick.
Into this alluring slumber . . .

“Men, stand fast!
This bitch ain’t lost yet!”

 

[annaswirls]

(I know he wants me) while I bleed

from: http://english.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=255046

thanks for the comments on this! More than one person said they thought it ran on too long. I am not sure what to cut, although I did remove a few things already-- so I will play with it a bit here, any suggestions, greatly appreciated. Is there a place where your interest waned? You thought ho hum I should stop reading this now

While I bleed

It is in his persistent comments
about lunar cycles and fertility
and the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin.

Trying to understand,
I become submerged into his fantasy
of entering me during my heaviest flow
cock surrounded by thick blood.
And god, what would it feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red?

And how better to approach the ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
a laceration straight into living flesh.

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and
a dull lump in my throat
that tried to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement sink
water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus poured from the nostrils.
My fingers traced the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints
red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound
with everything, everything holy
I beg
god just kill me
just fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.


Original:

I know he wants to take me while I bleed.
It is in his persistent comments
about moon cycles and
the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin.

Submerged into his fantasy
of piercing me during my heaviest flow
cock surrounded by thick blood
god what it must feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red.

And how better to approach this ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
through a laceration
straight into flesh.

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
through the bullet hole
into living flesh
or slipping into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked from fingertip
to a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and
a dull lump in my throat
trying to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement
fingers would dig into the brain
as water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus pouring from the nostrils.
My fingers entered them too
slipping the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give deeper inside.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

Tonight I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints, belly
smudged with a thin layer
and red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound
with everything, everything holy
and I scream
and beg
just kill me
fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.

 

[flyguy69]

Gah! Strong poetry, Anna!

This is good stuff.

S1: "Persistent" doesn't do anything with the cyclic rhythm of the poem. How about "recurrent"?
Why does "poetry" appear here? It seems gratuitous (ha!) in poem that never mentions it again.

S2: "Trying to understand"-- let readers figure this out.
"Submerged" is wonderful, but use active voice.
"Cock" is implicit in "enter."
Then "see" gets added to "feel": very nice synaesthesia! I like it. I don't know if God does, though.

S3: drop it.

S4: some simple trimming is called for (I'm so fucking clever!)-- e.g. if you can slip your fingers into her throat it is clearly slit open, and you don't need to tell us the feet are both roped and hooked, etc.
Beware the gerund.

S5: More of S4. Consider revising in such a way that these strophes break on a change in subject (e.g. butchering v. response, or dead v. living, etc.).
"Basements" are always "down," and we already assume you are a child in these two S's.
The "getting back inside" image is powerfully sexual, but I'm not sure it is part of this poem. This poem is more about wounding and blood than about returning to the womb.

S6: The "wounded animal being stabbed" is overkill (I'm so fucking clever!). Try a more subtle touch, here.
The attribution of "holiness" to the act also puzzled me: a strength of this poem is the gritty secularity, the demystification of death and menses. I would leave the holiness out, though the epithetical use of "God" is ok.
Let readers decide what kind of tears they are.

Good luck.

from: http://english.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=255046

thanks for the comments on this! More than one person said they thought it ran on too long. I am not sure what to cut, although I did remove a few things already-- so I will play with it a bit here, any suggestions, greatly appreciated. Is there a place where your interest waned? You thought ho hum I should stop reading this now

While I bleed

It is in his persistent comments
about lunar cycles and fertility
and the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin.

Trying to understand,
I become submerged into his fantasy
of entering me during my heaviest flow
cock surrounded by thick blood.
And god, what would it feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red?

And how better to approach the ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
a laceration straight into living flesh.

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and
a dull lump in my throat
that tried to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement sink
water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus poured from the nostrils.
My fingers traced the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints
red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound
with everything, everything holy
I beg
god just kill me
just fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.


Original:

I know he wants to take me while I bleed.
It is in his persistent comments
about moon cycles and
the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin.

Submerged into his fantasy
of piercing me during my heaviest flow
cock surrounded by thick blood
god what it must feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red.

And how better to approach this ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
through a laceration
straight into flesh.

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
through the bullet hole
into living flesh
or slipping into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked from fingertip
to a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and
a dull lump in my throat
trying to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement
fingers would dig into the brain
as water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus pouring from the nostrils.
My fingers entered them too
slipping the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give deeper inside.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

Tonight I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints, belly
smudged with a thin layer
and red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound
with everything, everything holy
and I scream
and beg
just kill me
fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.

 

[annaswirls]

you are very fucking clever, thank you Mister Fly, for taking the time to read and find places to trim. gah indeed, I do not know if I have the courage to go back in and work on this mess, it has gotten me into trouble already.

THANKS!

 

[flyguy69]

you are very fucking clever, thank you Mister Fly, for taking the time to read and find places to trim. gah indeed, I do not know if I have the courage to go back in and work on this mess, it has gotten me into trouble already.

THANKS!

You got mad skillz, girl.

 

[vampiredust]

Bombs

He joined the air force when he
was sixteen, wanting to escape
the bombing raids coming from
his mother’s lips. The memories

that filled his apartment slowly
turned to glass. As time matured
him, the whisky and cigarettes
changed into babies, who bombarded

him with food. He retaliated with his
fists, shattering the fortress that had
surrounded him. And as the glass fell,
all he could feel were millions of bombs
exploding all around him.

 

[wildsweetone]

you are very fucking clever, thank you Mister Fly, for taking the time to read and find places to trim. gah indeed, I do not know if I have the courage to go back in and work on this mess, it has gotten me into trouble already.

THANKS!

work on it. it's a good stretch for your skills (amongst other things). it is the dogma of others that causes their own problems with certain topics.

While I bleed

It is in his persistent comments
about lunar cycles and fertility
and the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin. (i like how you've taken the first line out. it makes me want to read more to find out WHAT is in his comments)

Trying to understand, (i trip on this line. i think it's the word 'trying')
I become submerged into his fantasy
of entering me during my heaviest flow(this is a little 'wordy')
cock surrounded by thick blood.
And god, what would it feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red?(this is a little mixed. is it him that's wanting to know what it would feel like to see himself red? or is it the lyrical subject that wants to know how she feels to see him red? if the former, take out 'And god,')

And how better to approach the ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
a laceration straight into living flesh.(are you inferring his cock is a 'laceration'? i think it might need to have the word 'or' at the line beginning - perhaps a comma after 'laceration')

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked('and hooked upside down' on the next line)
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and(i trip here too. perhaps 'lust' three lines down comes too late?)
a dull lump in my throat
that tried to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement sink
water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus poured from the nostrils.
My fingers traced the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing(is the repetition of 'over', intended, necessary?)
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints
red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound('pierces into' almost sounds too soft)
with everything, everything holy
I beg
god just kill me
just fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.

among this poem are many phrases i really like... turns of words that stick out and work well. i'm not sure about all of the repetition - perhaps take one or two out. i think they're a tool that should be used sparingly and i think you use one or even two, too many.

the roped and hooked line - roped is a solid line end, especially for the act (having a farming background i understand this). in my opinion 'roped' is one complete act and 'hooked upside down' is another complete act. i also think it reads with better impact to separate the two.

one thing that i don't see you mentioning is the scent. do you recall that sweet scent of gutted and skinned carcass? and, if you're going this far with the topic, what about the scent of menstruation and sex? scent in this poem might be overpowering to the poetry, but it's worth trying out. as it's likely to have a very strong impact, i would reduce it to less than a handful of words - maybe even one might be enough. you've got most of the vivid imagery down pat, but why not try adding the scent dimension? you can always chuck it out if you don't feel it adds the right touch.

put the time in on this poem. what you are learning is worth the effort. you can do it. you're good at what you've done. now, get better. if you never show another soul the end result of this poem, you will have the sense of accomplishment for your own self and nobody can diss that.

 

[annaswirls]

I know he wants me while I bleed

It is in his references to
the fertile moon and ripe fruits
that drip red juice down his chin.

I become submerged in this fantasy
of entering me during my heaviest flow,
surrounded by thick blood and muscle
looking down to see himself coated
bayonet red.

And how better to approach the ideal
of making your way right into another person?

Like long ago butchering day,
the intimacy of fingers
that slipped into the slit throat, still warm
with feet roped and hooked upside down
blood soaked into shit and straw
under the overshoot.

Something burned in my breasts
and between thighs
as a dull lump in my throat
tried to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it science.

Water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus poured from the nostrils.
My fingers traced the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained
un-alone.

I kneel like a animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
warm blood down my thighs.
His fingers paint my skin
with thick prints
red drops splatter the sheets
as he presses into my wound
with everything, everything holy
and I beg
god just kill me now
just fucking kill me whole.

 

[annaswirls]

WSO- thank you thank you for your input. I found all of it helpful and used many of your suggestions. you are too fucking clever

 

[SeattleRain]

Chemicals battle for dominance
in blood, today, dirty fighters win
and hours until night time stretch
like a mile of hot tar.

It's these days that follow the nights
you visit my dreams
time, condensed
like honey.

I do not want this to end.
I keep cheating,
squeezing another verse in between
like paint by numbers
and numbers and numbers,
each step cut in half
I never arrive.

These mourning days follow nights
laughing lovers dance around me,
tossing pennies that have lost their shine.
Alone with patina green
and oxidation brown,
unable to convince myself
lovers will be lovers,
just pick up the change
drop it into wishes.

These days
I learn I am not
finished with you,
colors blend to brown
and monochrome my brush.

I need turpentine,
gasoline,
some petroleum based
something or other.

Baby I miss you on my pallet,
and I would roll down a long tar mile
to hear you love you know you one more time.

I believed these days were over
but like the crickets
and crocodiles,
the repeating sounds draw me into you
and again,

 

[vampiredust]

Am going to look at this stanza by stanza:

Chemicals battle for dominance
in blood, today, dirty fighters win
and hours until night time stretch
like a mile of hot tar.

I like this line. Gives a very raw, war like image. The first half of the sentence sounds great when read aloud but the addition of the word today makes the transition to the latter half sound awkward. The simile in the latter half is good but I think it could be developed a little better. The addition of a word before hours would help, imho.

It's these days that follow the nights
you visit my dreams
time, condensed
like honey.

I would think about either cutting this stanza or rephrasing it. The first half sounds awkward. It needs more words to help the rythmn. Perhaps you could say:

'It's in the days that follow the nights
that you visit my dreams'

I don't get the image in the latter half of the stanza and how this fits in the rest of the poem. It's a good simile but I can't see where it fits in.

I do not want this to end.
I keep cheating,
squeezing another verse in between
like paint by numbers
and numbers and numbers,
each step cut in half
I never arrive.

The first line of the stanza is good. The simile you've used needs refining. I think you meant 'painting by numbers' The last two lines of the stanza connect well to the image and everything flows well. Good.

These mourning days follow nights
laughing lovers dance around me,
tossing pennies that have lost their shine.
Alone with patina green
and oxidation brown,
unable to convince myself
lovers will be lovers,
just pick up the change
drop it into wishes.

The first three lines have an excellent rythmn. The alliteration of laughing lovers helps. The imagery of the patina green and oxidation brown
helps create an effective scene in the latter half of this stanza. Again, the the imagery of the change connects with the earlier image of the pennies. Neato.

These days
I learn I am not
finished with you,
colors blend to brown
and monochrome my brush.

The line colors blend to brown has great rythmn and the imagery is great in these last two lines. Good work.

I need turpentine,
gasoline,
some petroleum based
something or other.

Why the addition of something or other ?. This sounds cliched and I think it would sound better if you replaced it.

Baby I miss you on my pallet,
and I would roll down a long tar mile
to hear you love you know you one more time.

I like the image of rolling down a 'long tar mile' but the last line sounds awkward. Think about either cutting or rephrasing it.

I believed these days were over
but like the crickets
and crocodiles,
the repeating sounds draw me into you
and again,

Do crocodiles make repeating sounds? I'm a little confused about this. I would think about changing the first line. The latter half of the stanza is good and ends the poem well.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Pearl in the Buttermilk

.....