It's the 2026 Revise-a-Poem Challenge (Comments welcome!)

[SapioSexual9]

In any case, the Scots was just there as window dressing.

My husband grew up in a polyglot home. Speaking 8 or 9 languages. According to him, the Scots stopped speaking their language a long time ago. I would agree it’s probably best.

 

[NivKay]

i.
Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry

until

*
one flake

**
and then another

***
and still more fall
and group and mass,
filling the air, falling

down

****

down,

gracing the ground
with an illusion of purity,
punctuating branches
with complex simplicity.

@Angeline far be it for me to critique your work, how would I even presume - after many visions and revisions - to disturb your universe? After all, I have only the utmost respect for you, almost ardour (is that even allowed?)

But if I may...I feel that you needn't have split the lines like that - "until"..."one flake"..."down" ... I am aware that is merely my opinion, but the thinking here is that you can achieve the same effect in stanzaic form:

Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry until
one, and then another
and still the flakes fall
and group and mass,
falling filling the air...

Note in the last line, I shift falling and filling and discard the comma, so that falling, as a phenomenon fills the air - falling flakes filling the air .

Cities in snow are beautiful,
sifted drifts rest on wrought iron spikes,
crystal stilettos are deadly,
hang half-hid by gables.
Bemused gargoyles perch on stone,
sporting milk mustaches

I felt that the line "Cities in snow are beautiful" seemed to stymie the flow of the whole poem, of the snow falling and gathering density, as you zoom out from street, to streetlamps, to the whole city. So, I thought perhaps taking that first line out, and incorporate "Cities" somewhere else in the stanza. But I wasn't sure about this thought either, so herein ends my catechism.

 

[NivKay]

My husband grew up in a polyglot home. Speaking 8 or 9 languages. According to him, the Scots stopped speaking their language a long time ago. I would agree it’s probably best.

Scots is designated a "vulnerable" language, and some census suggest about 45% still speak in Scotland. I know relatives in Stirling still do, although, I don;t know enough of it to be sure of anything. Scots certainly does your head in!

 

[NivKay]

So, I posted this poem in the Poem-a-week- thread and in my Non-erotic thread, but I dug this up again. The poem is primarily my thoughts surrounding the estrangement between my brother and i, which has been going on for years. But it also dawned on me that it fits with the times we're in, brother killing innocent brother.

This is the original version:

Putrescence

We walked down to the sea’s brittle calm,
One morning in that long ago.
We hardly spoke – when I recall the moment,
I hear only the sea’s voice – and I followed
You, brother, just as I had a long time before,

The sight of you when you came to save me
From the teacher’s wrath – you were one of the
Older boys, the ones who walked like giants
And the rest of us, eight and trembling with curiosity,
Could only gawk at the chasm between us and your kind.
I learnt kindness from you. I remember you smiled,
Never chided, patient, calm, a comfort.

And so I followed you, down the shore line, mutable, tumultuous,
Till the years bled and waned, till the distances
That mark our lives grew, festered, like unspoken sores, putrid.

Brother, I never knew you,
Never knew your words,
but you knew me, didn’t you? You saw me,
That day when you saved me,
And chose to forget, forget
Kindness, forget the impulse to save.

Now, once again, we are at that brittle shoreline,
And I lead you to it, perhaps, to help you remember
Kindness, patience, to call the spirit of your giant
Back from the Hadean dark.

But you are not there.
And the sea speaks in Iniquity’s tongue.

I've only just begun edits, so I haven't done too much...but this is what I've got so far. Any thoughts, suggestions welcome!

Putrescence

We walked down to the edge of the sea’s brittle calm,
One morning in that long ago.
Hardly speaking – only the sea’s voice remains,
In my recollection – and I followed
You, brother, just as I had a long time before,

That sight of you when you came to save me
From the teacher’s wrath – you were one of the
Older boys, the ones who walked like giants
And the rest of us, eight and trembling with curiosity,
Could only gawk at the chasm between us and your kind.
I learnt kindness from you that day. I remember you smiled,
Never chided, patient, calm, a comfort.

And so I followed you, down the shore line, mutable, tumultuous,
Till the years bled and waned, till the distances
That mark our lives grew, festered, liked unspoken sores, putrid.

Brother, I never knew you,
Never knew your words,
but you knew me, didn’t you? You saw me,That day when you saved me,
And chose to forget, forget
Kindness, forget the salvation you gave me.

Now, once again, we are at that brittle shoreline,
And I lead you to it. Perhaps, to help you remember
Kindness, patience, to call the spirit of your giant
Back from the Hadean dark.

But you are not there.
And the sea speaks in Iniquity’s tongue.


The 'salvation' line in the third last stanza makes me cringe...

 

[42BelowsBack]

I think @

Scots is designated a "vulnerable" language, and some census suggest about 45% still speak in Scotland. I know relatives in Stirling still do, although, I don;t know enough of it to be sure of anything. Scots certainly does your head in!

Very interesting. I think always listen to the people themselves.

Many many years ago. On an overseas trip I uninvited, attended a vulnerable Language symposium. I think Sapio’s husband is speaking in terms of language Functionality. Scots being seen as dialectal on a continuum of Broad English.

Of course it was a poem aka shit fight as there were no existing criteria distinguishing a language from a dialect back then. However I did come away with my own understanding of the intrinsic link between language and identity.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Th

@Angeline far be it for me to critique your work, how would I even presume - after many visions and revisions - to disturb your universe? After all, I have only the utmost respect for you, almost ardour (is that even allowed?)

But if I may...I feel that you needn't have split the lines like that - "until"..."one flake"..."down" ... I am aware that is merely my opinion, but the thinking here is that you can achieve the same effect in stanzaic form:

Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry until
one, and then another
and still the flakes fall
and group and mass,
falling filling the air...

Note in the last line, I shift falling and filling and discard the comma, so that falling, as a phenomenon fills the air - falling flakes filling the air .


I felt that the line "Cities in snow are beautiful" seemed to stymie the flow of the whole poem, of the snow falling and gathering density, as you zoom out from street, to streetlamps, to the whole city. So, I thought perhaps taking that first line out, and incorporate "Cities" somewhere else in the stanza. But I wasn't sure about this thought either, so herein ends my catechism.

This is superbly written feedback. Thanks for sharing Niv. We live and learn.

 

[SapioSexual9]

@Angeline far be it for me to critique your work, how would I even presume - after many visions and revisions - to disturb your universe? After all, I have only the utmost respect for you, almost ardour (is that even allowed?)

But if I may...I feel that you needn't have split the lines like that - "until"..."one flake"..."down" ... I am aware that is merely my opinion, but the thinking here is that you can achieve the same effect in stanzaic form:

Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry until
one, and then another
and still the flakes fall
and group and mass,
falling filling the air...

Note in the last line, I shift falling and filling and discard the comma, so that falling, as a phenomenon fills the air - falling flakes filling the air .


I felt that the line "Cities in snow are beautiful" seemed to stymie the flow of the whole poem, of the snow falling and gathering density, as you zoom out from street, to streetlamps, to the whole city. So, I thought perhaps taking that first line out, and incorporate "Cities" somewhere else in the stanza. But I wasn't sure about this thought either, so herein ends my catechism.

This is superbly written feedback. Thanks for sharing Niv. We live and learn.

Agreed. This superbly written feedback. Made easy for @NivKay by the source material. We sure do live and learn. 42 You’ve been demoted Joking. We love you mansplaining Caveman. You bring us together. It’s just that when it comes to feedback, NivKay is kicking your ass. (I know @SpermFactory. It’s a poets collective not a competition).

 

[SapioSexual9]

So today of all days, when I'm in the thick of snowmageddon, I'm thinking about this poem and my love of snow (just not at the moment lol). I wrote it way back in 2004 and it's another favorite of mine, but I know it could be better. For starters my title sucks. I think the second section, especially, needs something. Any feedback/suggestions are much appreciated.


Wanting Snow

i.
Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry

until

*
one flake

**
and then another

***
and still more fall
and group and mass,
filling the air, falling

down

****

down,

gracing the ground
with an illusion of purity,
punctuating branches
with complex simplicity.

ii.
In fallen snow life imitates art.

White lines cross narrow surfaces,
delicate as pen-and-ink illustrations
that flow like a coda on the flight of birds,

wider swaths curve to streetlamps,
strangely iridescent and compelling,
playing light impressions over landscape,

and late at night when the city’s
blanketed expanse seems unending
in contrasts, Steigliz’s ghost
haunts avenues, camera in hand,
stalking relentless ice.

iii.
Cities in snow are beautiful,
sifted drifts rest on wrought iron spikes,
crystal stilettos are deadly,
hang half-hid by gables.
Bemused gargoyles perch on stone,
sporting milk mustaches

They should be ashamed
of themselves!

All the motion of architecture
is rearranged. The silence
in a map of footsteps
speaks louder than the clang
of skyscrapers.

iv.
Early morning is best
for snow walking. The dawn
of solitude is broken,
crunched by boots,
the crash of icicles falling,
the steady hiss of my breath
puffing pockets in a wool scarf.

Later I’ll be a face in a window,
swaddled in hot chocolate
and Segovia.

I like the tinkles of snow. They are very playful and feminine. It’s like they trickle down from 2004. When you wrote this poem. Dear @Angeline, What ever you decide. Don’t let this poem lose your 2004 voice.

 

[NivKay]

Agreed. This superbly written feedback. Made easy for @NivKay by the source material. We sure do live and learn. 42 You’ve been demoted Joking. We love you mansplaining guy. You bring us together. It’s just that when it comes to feedback, NivKay is kicking your ass. (I know @SpermFactory. It’s a poets collective not a competition).

Can I just say, there are some very lovely arses here... and I love all you arses...truly...and I would like to finish by saying, we only kick the arses we love... but seriously.. I hope I haven't offended. If I have, then i am truly sorry..am I forgiven?

 

[SapioSexual9]

You wanna throw a snowball at that face. Admit it!

What about warm? A warm face?

Or maybe "a face hidden in a window" ? "watching from a window" ?

Haha don’t over write it. It was warm as it was and yes haha.

Idiot.

 

[NivKay]

I like the tinkles of snow. They are very playful and feminine. It’s like they trickle down from 2004. When you wrote this poem. Dear @Angeline, What ever you decide. Don’t let this poem lose your 2004 voice.

Here here!!

 

[Angeline]

Thank you all. I'm tired (it has been a loooong, snowy, sleety day in my world). I will respond more fully and (I hope!) coherently tomorrow. I you all, too!

 

[Waeponwifestre]

I am curious about enjambment in your poem and capitalizations.



EPIC. I feel like I just read the Bible, having never read the Bible, having purchased a Trump China Bible (you see the pages came pre-stuck together).

I feel kinda bad cause I’ve been busy with other stuff lately so haven’t been commenting as much as I’d like on others poems but the minute I see someone talk about my stuff of course I’m posting immediately

You know all my poems with enjambment are capitalized like that and maybe it’s a dumb answer but I just think it’s more visually appealing to have every line start with a capital letter.

For this poem in particular I wanted a lot of enjambment and exclamation points to really give the whole poem kind of frantic, almost manic feel. I felt like it paired well with a lot of the apocalyptic imagery.

I hope you bought that shit second hand, or maybe not if the pages were stuck together

 

[Waeponwifestre]

So, I posted this poem in the Poem-a-week- thread and in my Non-erotic thread, but I dug this up again. The poem is primarily my thoughts surrounding the estrangement between my brother and i, which has been going on for years. But it also dawned on me that it fits with the times we're in, brother killing innocent brother.

This is the original version:

Putrescence

We walked down to the sea’s brittle calm,
One morning in that long ago.
We hardly spoke – when I recall the moment,
I hear only the sea’s voice – and I followed
You, brother, just as I had a long time before,

The sight of you when you came to save me
From the teacher’s wrath – you were one of the
Older boys, the ones who walked like giants
And the rest of us, eight and trembling with curiosity,
Could only gawk at the chasm between us and your kind.
I learnt kindness from you. I remember you smiled,
Never chided, patient, calm, a comfort.

And so I followed you, down the shore line, mutable, tumultuous,
Till the years bled and waned, till the distances
That mark our lives grew, festered, like unspoken sores, putrid.

Brother, I never knew you,
Never knew your words,
but you knew me, didn’t you? You saw me,
That day when you saved me,
And chose to forget, forget
Kindness, forget the impulse to save.

Now, once again, we are at that brittle shoreline,
And I lead you to it, perhaps, to help you remember
Kindness, patience, to call the spirit of your giant
Back from the Hadean dark.

But you are not there.
And the sea speaks in Iniquity’s tongue.

I've only just begun edits, so I haven't done too much...but this is what I've got so far. Any thoughts, suggestions welcome!

Putrescence

We walked down to the edge of the sea’s brittle calm,
One morning in that long ago.
Hardly speaking – only the sea’s voice remains,
In my recollection – and I followed
You, brother, just as I had a long time before,

That sight of you when you came to save me
From the teacher’s wrath – you were one of the
Older boys, the ones who walked like giants
And the rest of us, eight and trembling with curiosity,
Could only gawk at the chasm between us and your kind.
I learnt kindness from you that day. I remember you smiled,
Never chided, patient, calm, a comfort.

And so I followed you, down the shore line, mutable, tumultuous,
Till the years bled and waned, till the distances
That mark our lives grew, festered, liked unspoken sores, putrid.

Brother, I never knew you,
Never knew your words,
but you knew me, didn’t you? You saw me,That day when you saved me,
And chose to forget, forget
Kindness, forget the salvation you gave me.

Now, once again, we are at that brittle shoreline,
And I lead you to it. Perhaps, to help you remember
Kindness, patience, to call the spirit of your giant
Back from the Hadean dark.

But you are not there.
And the sea speaks in Iniquity’s tongue.


The 'salvation' line in the third last stanza makes me cringe...

I like it, although I agree that the word “salvation” doesn’t really seem to fit.

The previous stanza has a lot of almost kind of medical words and terminology - bled, fester, sores, putrid. I think replacing it with a term more along the lines of convalescence might help to contrast with the themes of infection that run through this poem. Or some other word that has more of a medical or physical connotation as well might be nice - I think it would help strengthen the metaphor overall.

 

[Angeline]

My husband grew up in a polyglot home. Speaking 8 or 9 languages. According to him, the Scots stopped speaking their language a long time ago. I would agree it’s probably best.

I'm telling Jamie Fraser on you!

 

[Angeline]

@Angeline far be it for me to critique your work, how would I even presume - after many visions and revisions - to disturb your universe? After all, I have only the utmost respect for you, almost ardour (is that even allowed?)

But if I may...I feel that you needn't have split the lines like that - "until"..."one flake"..."down" ... I am aware that is merely my opinion, but the thinking here is that you can achieve the same effect in stanzaic form:

Wanting snow, wanting gray,
anticipating harbinger clouds
looming and the crackle of
air stinging dry until
one, and then another
and still the flakes fall
and group and mass,
falling filling the air...

Note in the last line, I shift falling and filling and discard the comma, so that falling, as a phenomenon fills the air - falling flakes filling the air .


I felt that the line "Cities in snow are beautiful" seemed to stymie the flow of the whole poem, of the snow falling and gathering density, as you zoom out from street, to streetlamps, to the whole city. So, I thought perhaps taking that first line out, and incorporate "Cities" somewhere else in the stanza. But I wasn't sure about this thought either, so herein ends my catechism.

Hi Niv. First off thank you so much for the time you took to read and comment on my ode to snow. As far as your respect (and potential ardour) let's just call it a mutual admiration society! You were gone for a while and I was so happy to see you posting here again. Your poems and thoughtful opinions are a delight to read.

I see your point about not separating out those words ("one flake...down...until"). The way they are now is kind of gimmicky (which makes me want to cringe). I did it to slow the reader down and pause, to mimic the way a storm starts with a flake or two and slowly increases until the whole landscape is filled. If I bunch it all together in the stanza I'll lose that halting pace. I'm going to try spacing a few lines out with tabs and see how that looks

The revision to "falling filling the air" is much better. I think I was a lot more comma prone in 2004!

I agree that "Cities in snow are beautiful" needs to go. It reads like a platitude. I don't think I even need to work "cities" into Stanza iii as I've used it in the previous stanza plus there are other contextual references. Also not sure I should keep the reference to Alfred Steiglitz, which is meaningful to me but maybe not anyone else! Maybe it's better to change it to a photographer, not be so specific.

I'll post a revised version soon. Thanks again for your thoughtful feedback.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Time Punched.

Day by day
Five or six hours a week?

Trying to remeber
Johnny once was a pugilist.

His mind. not him. A page
in novelistic incident.

What happened to him
in Berlin?

In huge unrelated incidents.
no matinee. His feet are kicking.

He says “let it go”
that did not happen.

Skipping everyday.
Or is he.

Drowning five or six
alarm clocks a week?

In five or six beats a minute,
—he slows to remember his life

in a ring, minute by minute
as though that makes sense?.


The reviewed poem. (Thank you everyone for your help).

JOHNNY HARD TIME

Day by day.
His hand in glove.
Fifty six hours a week.
Perseverance is brutality.

Every minute of the day.
His acceptance of self.
Fifty six seconds a minute.
The brute aspirational.

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Explodes day by day.
Explodes in rope work,
Explodes in heart beats.
A hand in glove he explodes.

His destiny a personal journey.
Counting ten. Seconds crawling.
Time. His face time punched.
The canvas is his ever waiting.

The alarm clock rings.
Five or six times a week.
Punching his dream.
The canvas in seconds he wakes.


13 Is lucky for some.


Still needs a touch up. But I don’t want to expend anymore gym time on it at the minute.

 

[SapioSexual9]

H

Time Punched.

Day by day
Five or six hours a week?

Trying to remeber
Johnny once was a pugilist.

His mind. not him. A page
in novelistic incident.

What happened to him
in Berlin?

In huge unrelated incidents.
no matinee. His feet are kicking.

He says “let it go”
that did not happen.

Skipping everyday.
Or is he.

Drowning five or six
alarm clocks a week?

In five or six beats a minute,
—he slows to remember his life

in a ring, minute by minute
as though that makes sense?.


The reviewed poem. (Thank you everyone for your help).

JOHNNY HARD TIME

Day by day.
His hand in glove.
Fifty six hours a week.
Perseverance is brutality.

Every minute of the day.
His acceptance of self.
Fifty six seconds a minute.
The brute aspirational.

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Explodes day by day.
Explodes in rope work,
Explodes in heart beats.
A hand in glove he explodes.

His destiny a personal journey.
Counting ten. Seconds crawling.
Time. His face time punched.
The canvas is his ever waiting.

The alarm clock rings.
Five or six times a week.
Punching his dream.
The canvas in seconds he wakes.


13 Is lucky for some.


Still needs a touch up. But I don’t want to expend anymore gym time on it at the minute.

42 I am enamored that you always put your balls out, get them punched, then business as usual overnight rewrite your poems.

Now darling wear a kilt like Jamie Fraser

 

[Angeline]

Time Punched.

Day by day
Five or six hours a week?

Trying to remeber
Johnny once was a pugilist.

His mind. not him. A page
in novelistic incident.

What happened to him
in Berlin?

In huge unrelated incidents.
no matinee. His feet are kicking.

He says “let it go”
that did not happen.

Skipping everyday.
Or is he.

Drowning five or six
alarm clocks a week?

In five or six beats a minute,
—he slows to remember his life

in a ring, minute by minute
as though that makes sense?.


The reviewed poem. (Thank you everyone for your help).

JOHNNY HARD TIME

Day by day.
His hand in glove.
Fifty six hours a week.
Perseverance is brutality.

Every minute of the day.
His acceptance of self.
Fifty six seconds a minute.
The brute aspirational.

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Explodes day by day.
Explodes in rope work,
Explodes in heart beats.
A hand in glove he explodes.

His destiny a personal journey.
Counting ten. Seconds crawling.
Time. His face time punched.
The canvas is his ever waiting.

The alarm clock rings.
Five or six times a week.
Punching his dream.
The canvas in seconds he wakes.


13 Is lucky for some.


Still needs a touch up. But I don’t want to expend anymore gym time on it at the minute.

This is great. It engages senses: hearing, vision and touch all strong. And time, in various appearances, runs through it like a spine. I feel like you need something in the lines that end "he explodes" and "he wakes". I know you don't want to add an "and" in either line, but something to intensify the cause-effect relationship in each case..

 

[SmilingLez]

The reviewed poem. (Thank you everyone for your help).

JOHNNY HARD TIME

Day by day.
His hand in glove.
Fifty six hours a week.
Perseverance is brutality.

Every minute of the day.
His acceptance of self.
Fifty six seconds a minute.
The brute aspirational.

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Explodes day by day.
Explodes in rope work,
Explodes in heart beats.
A hand in glove he explodes.

His destiny a personal journey.
Counting ten. Seconds crawling.
Time. His face time punched.
The canvas is his ever waiting.

The alarm clock rings.
Five or six times a week.
Punching his dream.
The canvas in seconds he wakes.


13 Is lucky for some.


Still needs a touch up. But I don’t want to expend anymore gym time on it at the minute.

Hi @42BelowsBack

Since I know nothing about boxing, I am curious about whether or not the heart slows before or after he gets into the ring. It would seem to me to be more powerful and confident if his heart beat slows after he gets into the ring .

He enters the ring.
His heart slows.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Also I do not understand the last line.

 

[NivKay]

I like it, although I agree that the word “salvation” doesn’t really seem to fit.

The previous stanza has a lot of almost kind of medical words and terminology - bled, fester, sores, putrid. I think replacing it with a term more along the lines of convalescence might help to contrast with the themes of infection that run through this poem. Or some other word that has more of a medical or physical connotation as well might be nice - I think it would help strengthen the metaphor overall.

@Waeponwifestre thank you! Thank you kindly!

Yep, that line, cringeworthy! I was basically trying to reconnect with an earlier line about the brother saving him from the teacher’s wrath.

I like your suggestion about the terminology. I was actually going for images of decay, and disease, not so much the medical, you know? The festering speaks to me of some kind of corruption, but I take your point. Thank you so much, will work on this!

 

[NivKay]

Also not sure I should keep the reference to Alfred Steiglitz, which is meaningful to me but maybe not anyone else!

Oh, I would keep it! I loved that reference, because you’re trying to point to the city as canvas, which the snow paints. So, the metatextual works there!

 

[NivKay]

Time Punched.

Day by day
Five or six hours a week?

Trying to remeber
Johnny once was a pugilist.

His mind. not him. A page
in novelistic incident.

What happened to him
in Berlin?

In huge unrelated incidents.
no matinee. His feet are kicking.

He says “let it go”
that did not happen.

Skipping everyday.
Or is he.

Drowning five or six
alarm clocks a week?

In five or six beats a minute,
—he slows to remember his life

in a ring, minute by minute
as though that makes sense?.


The reviewed poem. (Thank you everyone for your help).

JOHNNY HARD TIME

Day by day.
His hand in glove.
Fifty six hours a week.
Perseverance is brutality.

Every minute of the day.
His acceptance of self.
Fifty six seconds a minute.
The brute aspirational.

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Explodes day by day.
Explodes in rope work,
Explodes in heart beats.
A hand in glove he explodes.

His destiny a personal journey.
Counting ten. Seconds crawling.
Time. His face time punched.
The canvas is his ever waiting.

The alarm clock rings.
Five or six times a week.
Punching his dream.
The canvas in seconds he wakes.


13 Is lucky for some.


Still needs a touch up. But I don’t want to expend anymore gym time on it at the minute.

I loved this rewrite. Feels a lot more … fleshed out. I enjoyed the visualisation of his day, and the boxing ring becomes a smaller version of the fight he fights each day of his life. So that central metaphor of life as boxing, wonderful! I loved the clipped sentences - reminded me of the sharp movements of boxers when they unleash their hits, there is tightness in everything, their bodies, their movement, their focus.

The line, ‘ the canvas in seconds he wakes’ troubled me. Not sure how this could be done better, but it strikes me as not as sharp as your other lines. I’m sorry, I’m not sure how you would tighten this, but this line did strike me as an anomaly.

Loved this, @42BelowsBack !!

 

[Angeline]

Oh, I would keep it! I loved that reference, because you’re trying to point to the city as canvas, which the snow paints. So, the metatextual works there!

Someone else just told me the same thing so I'm listening to you and her!

 

[42BelowsBack]

Hi @42BelowsBack

Since I know nothing about boxing, I am curious about whether or not the heart slows before or after he gets into the ring. It would seem to me to be more powerful and confident if his heart beat slows after he gets into the ring .

He enters the ring.
His heart slows.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Also I do not understand the last line.

Thank you for your feedback. In reflecting on your comment it should read mind. This comment I find fascinating, ‘It would seem to me to be more powerful and confident if his heart beat slows after he gets into the ring.’ It’s fascinating how two people can see the same thing differently i.e.

42 training

He enters the ring.
His heart slows.

vs

@SmilingLez

His heart slows.
He enters the ring.
One punch in. Explodes
the meaning of everything.

Your suggest works for me. Thank you for the above. I will change it including heart to mind (His mind slows).

In the poem I was thinking of sounds as I wrote. So I wrote Time slows which slowed the rhythm of the poem and then speeds back up again.

Thank you for pointing out the following doesn’t readily connect.

Explodes
the meaning of everything

I was thinking of the mantra, train hard fight easy.

Once again thank you. You’ve shown me things I couldn’t see.