Not For The Thin-Skinned

[wildsweetone]

just wondering if anyone has time to make a comment on the above... i've written more poems in a similar manner in the last few days and would like a hint or two where i'm going off the walls.

thanks

 

[duckiesmut]

You start with the wind, blowing down the street to you two examples of culinary neighborly goings-on. The phrasing is lovely; however, you go from those images floating on the breeze, to you seeing your neighbor’s bantam.

I’m not certain if you’re implying the comparison between the calm and mundane of suburban life to the aggression of the secondary meaning of bantam. That said, it doesn’t feel like that comparison is well-developed, if it is intended. Those things said, it’s possible it’s not a lack of development in the poem, but rather, my lack of understanding. If that proves the case, my apologies.

‘sharp’ along with ‘mint-vinegared’ feels excessive-->to me, vinegar brings sharp to mind without having to state it directly.

The wording of the last line feels ordinary compared to the rest of the poem. ‘tempt the taste buds’ also feels minorly cliché. ‘beguile the mind’ brings up thoughts of Gascoigne’s Lullaby to me, which makes for an odd parallel. It’s possible I’m the only loony one who’ll make that mental loop.

Thanks, WSO. This was fun to play with.

 

[Guest]

trying something... a little different


It’s an odd wind, the westerly If you replace "the" with "this" it makes the words more intimate, personal.
that blows down from the top "from the top of" is the same as "down" and is unnecessary
of the street. Sometimes a sharp "tart" would be more alliterate here
mint-vinegared scentIf you reverse "vinegar" and "mint" the alliteration improves, also vinegar-ed is a bit awkward.
slips along the seal. Sometimes does a scent slip "along"? Maybe "between" would keep the rhythm. Also "something" is repeated - try "at others?
roast dinners float
along the breeze, beguile "on" would neaten this line.
the mind and tempt the taste buds "the" is diepensable
into red alert mode flooding "mode" is a bit clumsy and could go.
the mouth with saliva. what else floods the mouth - let the reader do the work.
But this time, my green eyes"green" is introduced for no apparent reason
spy the neighbour’s silky bantam"spy" is a bit grating - try "catch"
hiding under the shrubbery.:"lurking" instead of "hiding"adds a bit of mischief

I'm always nervous to do this. Please don't take it personally because I really like this poem. It creates a clear image and tells a tale in a nea package.

 

[wildsweetone]

thank you both for your comments. and tess, don't be nervous, other eyes are often helpful.

 

[Tzara]

It’s an odd wind, the westerly
that blows down from the top
of the street. Sometimes a sharp
mint-vinegared scent
slips along the seal. Sometimes
roast dinners float
along the breeze, beguile
the mind and tempt the taste buds
into red alert mode flooding
the mouth with saliva.
But this time, my green eyes
spy the neighbour’s silky bantam
hiding under the shrubbery.

Hi, WSO. Sorry this took so long.

First off, let me comment that I think Tess did a superb job of commenting on the poem. Better than I would have had I started without seeing what she wrote. She and Duckie have said a number of things I might have (had I been smart enough to think of them), so I'll skip to sections where I have something different to say.

Let me start here:

It’s an odd wind

I like this (particularly if you use Tess' "this" with it) because it foreshadows the capriciousness of what the wind reveals that you describe later in the poem.

Sometimes a sharp/mint-vinegared scent/slips along the seal.

I agree with Duckie that vinegar implies sharp or tart and with Tess that the form "vinegared" seems awkward. I would add to that that "mint-vinegar" seems a little fancy (it sounds "boutiquey" to me) compared with the other cooking references, but I am not much of a cook and don't really know. Also, "seal" confused me at first. I think you mean window seal? So I might suggest something like

Sometimes/a vinegar scent or mint/slips under the seal.

Next, this section:

beguile/the mind and tempt the taste buds/into red alert mode

I think "beguile" and "tempt" work together, but "red alert" fights with those--the other words are seductive, "red alert" is not. I might even have said that "red alert" might be a bit overused, but I like that it sort of refers back to roast (red meat).

my green eyes/spy the neighbour's silky bantam/hiding under the shrubbery

I can see what Tess means about "green" being superfluous, but I kind of like it there, as you are switching from olfactory images to visual ones. The whole last image (the chicken in the shrubbery) works OK if you want to merely show that the wind brings forth different kinds of images (olfactory, visual), but I liked Duckie's comment about the aggressive connotation of the word "bantam." Also, you have so far presented images of cooking and food, then show us an image related to food (the bantam, though I don't know whether you mean this as a producer of eggs or as an animal that might be itself eaten in the future) but which is not yet itself food. You also move from passive images (smells of vinegar, mint, cooking roast--all inanimate things) to a potentially active image (a living bird) but without a particularly active presentation of the image ("hiding" is a passive action). You might heighten the contrast by having the bird do something, have it revealed scratching at the ground or something.

A different way to contrast the pleasant smells with the switch to a visual image, would be to make it an unpleasant image--for example, the wind shifts the shrubbery and you see the neighbour's bantam lying dead. But that would be a very different poem.

As I said before, I quite liked this. Good luck in revising it.

 

[wildsweetone]

thanks Tzara, your thoughts are much appreciated.

 

[wildsweetone]

another...



He strolled the street
in plastic bag socks

and broken shoes that scuff
on the gum-basted pavement.

A street nice girls don’t go,
darkened by warehouses decorated

with glass-blasted windows.
The street where dangling shoes incriminate

the tinny house, blackened
by soot from the coal fire inside

and guarded with out by rotweillers.
And he slipped inside

to grab a joint
that glowed as he tripped on

in the slow-motioned way
that drags him through each day.

 

[wildsweetone]

bump

are y'all sleepin' or is this thread null and void?

 

[flyguy69]

Is this the start of another poem? It doesn't seem a whole poem unto itself: a man buys some pot... then what?

Your line breaking has evolved dramitically, WSO, and this one illustrates that. Breaking on "scuff," "decorated," "incriminate," etc. wonderfully emphasize the theme of the poem. I also think your selection and abundance of modifiers is very good, and the use of verbs like "drags" works well.

There is, however, an authenticity missing here. I feel like I am watching a drug transaction on prime-time television-- stock images of a dirty street, the poor loser that smokes pot to numb his miserable life. It needs grit, something that surprises, some reason to care about him or his condition.

If, as I originally asked, this is an intro to something larger then I think you are off to a good start.

Good luck.

another...



He strolled the street
in plastic bag socks

and broken shoes that scuff
on the gum-basted pavement.

A street nice girls don’t go,
darkened by warehouses decorated

with glass-blasted windows.
The street where dangling shoes incriminate

the tinny house, blackened
by soot from the coal fire inside

and guarded with out by rotweillers.
And he slipped inside

to grab a joint
that glowed as he tripped on

in the slow-motioned way
that drags him through each day.

 

[wildsweetone]

okay, hmm. i seriously thought it was a complete poem in its own right.

i have a feeling it's because of the way i've broken the stanzas. if it were all one single stanza, i think it would read differently. i have tried several different ways myself.

'stock images' oh rats. i thought i'd done fairly well. lmao from 'stock images' it sounds like i've stereotyped really well. lol

hmm what if i rearranged the lines... like they do with news items in the paper...



In broken shoes that scuff
on the gum-basted pavement,
along a street nice girls don’t go,
darkened by warehouses decorated
with glass-blasted windows,
the street where dangling shoes incriminate
the tinny house, blackened
by soot from the coal fire inside
and guarded with out by rotweillers,
he slipped inside
to grab a joint
that glowed as he tripped on
in the slow-motioned way
that drags him through each day,
as he strolled the street
in plastic bag socks.


how's that? different emphasis? too much without periods? still only half a story?



okay... i saw a man walking one day (many months ago) with plastic bag socks. it intrigued me and that image sparked this poem a few weeks ago. the socks are the main image and i've just realised from your comments that that image was completely lost in the first attempt.

what do you think?

 

[duckiesmut]

*****

 

[flyguy69]

*****

Wha? I just hunted this thread down because I remembered that I wanted to crit this poem! Do you still want it, Duckie?

 

[duckiesmut]

Yes, please, and thank you. It and I are having a difference of opinion. Help would be appreciated.



dust my bare toes brown
with the traveling of weary men,
half awake in caffeine dreams
as they watch us dance beside
the highway, bottles emptied
as the sun slinks down like
a little boy, hiding from his future-

and we twirl, like children
playing stickball in the street,
merry-go-rounds of inebriated
innocence,
locking elbows and swinging hips-
then dip, dip,
dip me down as skirt flicks

up, cotton wrinkles in the steadfast
grip of a grime-scarred
hand, thin fingers clutch
as we slide, wet with the tastes
of candied sugar kiss, warm
from passing trucks that honk
their quiet driving sight as

we spin, two never-grown
children who fall, dizzy
with the wheezing giggle
of a breathless joy, singing
out as voices meet in warbling
tune with the whir and whistle
of diesel, pumping trucks along

 

[wildsweetone]

i'm still learning about poetry myself so please take my thoughts with a bucket of salt...

Yes, please, and thank you. It and I are having a difference of opinion. Help would be appreciated.



dust my bare toes brown
with the traveling of weary men,
half awake in caffeine dreams
as they watch us dance beside
the highway, bottles emptied
as the sun slinks down like
a little boy, hiding from his future-

and we twirl, like children
playing stickball in the street,
merry-go-rounds of inebriated
innocence,
locking elbows and swinging hips-
then dip, dip,
dip me down as skirt flicks (-as 'the' skirt, or 'my', 'her', etc... it feels a little stark otherwise)

up, cotton wrinkles in the steadfast
grip of a grime-scarred
hand, thin fingers clutch
as we slide, wet with the tastes
of candied sugar kiss, warm
from passing trucks that honk
their quiet driving sight as (honk and quiet don't go together for me)

we spin, two never-grown
children who fall, dizzy
with the wheezing giggle
of a breathless joy, singing
out as voices meet in warbling
tune with the whir and whistle
of diesel, pumping trucks along

i like the concrete imagery you put in my mind, and i like what you want to say with this poem. thank you so much for bringing it back and sharing.

 

[Liar]

Yes, please, and thank you. It and I are having a difference of opinion. Help would be appreciated.



dust my bare toes brown
with the traveling of weary men,
half awake in caffeine dreams
as they watch us dance beside
the highway, bottles emptied
as the sun slinks down like
a little boy, hiding from his future-

and we twirl, like children
playing stickball in the street,
merry-go-rounds of inebriated
innocence,
locking elbows and swinging hips-
then dip, dip,
dip me down as skirt flicks

up, cotton wrinkles in the steadfast
grip of a grime-scarred
hand, thin fingers clutch
as we slide, wet with the tastes
of candied sugar kiss, warm
from passing trucks that honk
their quiet driving sight as

we spin, two never-grown
children who fall, dizzy
with the wheezing giggle
of a breathless joy, singing
out as voices meet in warbling
tune with the whir and whistle
of diesel, pumping trucks along

Sorry, I don't have time for as much feedback on this right now as I'd wish, but I just have to ask one thing...

What is the relevance of the stanza breaks? Why do you cut them where you do, sometimes mid-phrase?

 

[flyguy69]

Upon what do you disagree? And how do you settle such disputes?

I think it is a lovely portrait of a childhood memory, one that ably avoids sentimental embellishment. Its strengths are in concrete imagery (the highway, the merry-go-round, the skirts, the trucks) and in its focus on the event without a didactic "lesson."

I think it is weak in its use of metaphor: some are too akin to the image for which they stand ("like children playing stickball" standing for children dancing; describing children as two "never grown children"). I also think you over-use modifiers a bit-- this is very subjective, but look at how many of your nouns are accompanied by a modifier (bare toes, weary men, caffeine dreams, little boy; all in S1). Modifiers are, of course, essential to shaping the interpretation a reader draws from your nouns, but they can sometimes over-direct. Ted Kooser likens modifiers to "the shadows of nouns." He cautions writers not to let the shadow cast the figure.

There are a couple places where you slip into telling: in S1 you tell us that the men are weary, and that they are half awake. One problem there is that you have told us the same thing twice, a second problem is that I'm not sure how children on the side of the road know this, and thirdly, you have told readers instead of showing them. What cues might the children get to make them think the drivers are weary? Do they know anything of the distances being traveled, or do license plates tell them something, etc?

A couple places, too, you slip into abstraction. The first two lines seem to invite readers to dust the narrator's toes with traveling, when, in fact, it is the trucks that are doing the dusting, and they are doing it with road dirt. In S3 the N's become "wet with taste" and "warm from trucks."

Be careful that every single image contributes to the overall poem-- this is the essence of poetry. Images like the empty bottles don't, in this case.

I hope this helps.

Yes, please, and thank you. It and I are having a difference of opinion. Help would be appreciated.



dust my bare toes brown
with the traveling of weary men,
half awake in caffeine dreams
as they watch us dance beside
the highway, bottles emptied
as the sun slinks down like
a little boy, hiding from his future-

and we twirl, like children
playing stickball in the street,
merry-go-rounds of inebriated
innocence,
locking elbows and swinging hips-
then dip, dip,
dip me down as skirt flicks

up, cotton wrinkles in the steadfast
grip of a grime-scarred
hand, thin fingers clutch
as we slide, wet with the tastes
of candied sugar kiss, warm
from passing trucks that honk
their quiet driving sight as

we spin, two never-grown
children who fall, dizzy
with the wheezing giggle
of a breathless joy, singing
out as voices meet in warbling
tune with the whir and whistle
of diesel, pumping trucks along

 

[duckiesmut]

wildsweetone:

I agree about the lack of an adjective causing a too-stark nature, and that honk/quiet causes a paradoxical problem. Which I kind of liked, but hey, you can't always have what you want, can you?

Liar:

For this one, as far as line breaks go, I did very little tweaking there. The line breaks you see are the ones that came straight from my head. So, to answer why they sometimes stop and start mid-thought, the only explanation I have is to say that I must be an odd bird. On rereading before posting, I liked the breaks as they are, but I'd very much like to hear your thoughts on where they should be adjusted.

fly:

Thank you for the analysis. I agree, re: metaphor. Bad, duckie, bad. I have a problem slipping from showing to telling. There should be a self-help class for those of us with that disease. "My name is rachel and I have a problem..."

But anyway. I'll take my scissors and trim off the baby fat, and see where this stands.

As far as the disagreement went, the poem and I were having a spat about the delete button. I wanted to use it, and the poem just didn't want to play along. (I have the odd habit of giving inanimate objects personalities. Just nod and smile.)

***
Thanks to the three of you for taking the time to read and comment, and apologies for the two-day-or-so delay in my response.

 

[TheRainMan]

OK.

I have been told that this is the place to come for intense critique.

I had a poem up today, not only here, but in three other places where I write, and I got opinion that was so opposite and covered the entire spectrum, that I decided to put it on this thread, hoping people will come and tell me what they think, what is right and what is wrong with the poem.

The opinions I have gotten could not be more different. 1201 loved the last stanza. THenry loved the first two but hated the last. He thought the title was brilliant, but Ishtat thought the title was pretentious.

In other places, I got opinion ranging from "send it to Ploughshares right now" to "What the fuck are you talking about?"

So, here it is. 1201, THenry, Ishtat, you girls from Canada, Lauren, Jim, anyone and everyone. Please come here and give me your ideas, so I can sort them out. Say nice things. Tell me the poem sucks. Whatever you think.


In the Cedar Boxes of Our Souls

I find myself scribbling your name
on napkins at breakfast
and walking this morning
a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

But I know where you’ll wind up.
Not crumpled and trashed
with leftover eggs
or disappearing spring by spring
inside a carved heart, not even
flattened delicately between
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,

after the crumbling bridge that joins us
stands no more and current
can’t be crossed and I look down
and watch what would have flowed
beneath it pass by, and up
on starlit nights at what I threw away,

I’ll lock you tight in a wooden place
that hurts, but understands
the mathematics of the morning after,
how they subtract not add—the tang
from a tongue, a face
from the dark. You, from me.

 

[sandspike]

"Cedar Boxes"

I would drop the third verse. 1, 2 and 4 have some great lines that keep
this poem together. I see nothing in the 3rd to tie this work together. This
poem has good visuals for me as long as I read 1,2, & 4.

 

[*Catbabe*]

Rainman: I liked the poem as a whole and it worked for me. Here are some things I might change.

-Cat


In the Cedar Boxes of Our Souls

I find myself scribbling your name
on napkins at breakfast
and walking this morning
a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

-I would drop the ‘of our souls’ in the title
- I think maybe ‘hold her’ for you might be stronger in the last line and I am not sure you need ‘for you’ at all.

But I know where you’ll wind up.
Not crumpled and trashed
with leftover eggs
or disappearing spring by spring
inside a carved heart, not even
flattened delicately between
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,

-I’m not sure you need the “But”
-could you say ‘with leftover eggs, covered
spring by spring

after the crumbling bridge that joins us
stands no more and current
can’t be crossed and I look down
and watch what would have flowed
beneath it pass by, and up
on starlit nights at what I threw away,

-I am not sure you need the sense of dialogue that your first words bring… I might move right into the lines so I would get rid of the ‘No”
-could you say ‘after our crumbling bridge collapses
and the current can’t be crossed, I look down…”
-I am not sure if you need the starlit night part




I’ll lock you tight in a wooden place
that hurts, but understands
the mathematics of the morning after,
how they subtract not add—the tang
from a tongue, a face
from the dark. You, from me.

-I don’t think you need tight
- I don’t like the word tang reminds me of orange drink crystals…that of course is a personal connotation but wrecks the word for me

how they subtract not add
a face from the dark
and you from me.

 

[twelveoone]

OK.

I have been told that this is the place to come for intense critique.

I had a poem up today, not only here, but in three other places where I write, and I got opinion that was so opposite and covered the entire spectrum, that I decided to put it on this thread, hoping people will come and tell me what they think, what is right and what is wrong with the poem.

The opinions I have gotten could not be more different. 1201 loved the last stanza. THenry loved the first two but hated the last. He thought the title was brilliant, but Ishtat thought the title was pretentious.

In other places, I got opinion ranging from "send it to Ploughshares right now" to "What the fuck are you talking about?"

So, here it is. 1201, THenry, Ishtat, you girls from Canada, Lauren, Jim, anyone and everyone. Please come here and give me your ideas, so I can sort them out. Say nice things. Tell me the poem sucks. Whatever you think.


In the Cedar Boxes of Our Souls

I find myself scribbling your name
on napkins at breakfast
and walking this morning
a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

But I know where you’ll wind up.
Not crumpled and trashed
with leftover eggs
or disappearing spring by spring
inside a carved heart, not even
flattened delicately between
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,

after the crumbling bridge that joins us
stands no more and current
can’t be crossed and I look down
and watch what would have flowed
beneath it pass by, and up
on starlit nights at what I threw away,

I’ll lock you tight in a wooden place
that hurts, but understands
the mathematics of the morning after,
how they subtract not add—the tang
from a tongue, a face
from the dark. You, from me.

No doubt about it, you are a good writer for women - I am not the target audience, as said. I think the last set of lines are the tightest, and a bit of summing up of the rest.
that hurts, but understands why the s on understands?

stands no more and current this is a nice play on the word current

after the crumbling bridge that joins us nice line, as is and in context

the whole thing does a nice dance, between past and present. of acceptance and rejection - up and down-
"...I look down
and watch what would have flowed
beneath it pass by, and up
on starlit nights at what I threw away, "
is a little shopworn, but serviceable. But with the combination of trashed and leftover eggs I arrive at "what I threw up", would reconsider this combination of word choices, at least changing "up" on the end line.

"cedar" has no emotional resonance for me - again, not the target audience.

"tang" - yeh, orange crystals come to mind, don't object, as it has so many other resonances also

"flattened delicately between
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,"
possibly good lines for audience? looks a little too old, too coy

There are no strong lines here, nothing that burns through, that you can't escape from, this comes closest:
"a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin."
but it is quite strange - you are talking to cedars, the cedar would wear her skin, for you? the cedar has skin? Looks like bad Neruda, Lorca. A little too strange in the context of the rest of the poem. Here is what prompted the "What the fuck are you talking about?" comment I think. I would rethink, reword.

I think you did rather well, considering some of it dips into the stock footage, it has a unified feel and tone.

 

[champagne1982]

Hello Rainman, I enjoyed your poem and I've italicized my thoughts on what I would try to do for improvement of the piece. This is only one Canadian girl's opinion, feel free to use the suggestions as you like.

In the Cedar Boxes of Our Souls A shorter title would work here, just Cedar Boxes, let the reader decide if it's a box of your soul or not.

I find myself scribbling your name It's nice that you find yourself at the very beginning of your tale. Could you think about rephrasing that? I scribble your name would work as well, I think.
on napkins at breakfast
and walking this morning
a cedar said yes, Since you are personifying the tree here, I would try to arrange the cedar's words into quotes or maybe italicize its speech. If you do that, though, don't forget to insert the comma between said and a capitalized "Yes"
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

But I know where you’ll wind up. I am confused here as to who is speaking. Is it still the tree or have you taken up your narration here? That is why I recommend you devide the tree's speech from your voice, somehow.
Not crumpled and trashed
with leftover eggs and coffee grounds
or disappearing spring by spring Disappearing doesn't create the imagery for me. I know what you mean but the word is weak. The use of spring isn't enough either, you seasonalize your love with it. Would you consider that the scar fades year after year?
inside a carved heart, not even
flattened delicately between flattened delicately seems a bit of an oxymoron. I'd consider saying that you pressed delicately evoking an image of a flower as a metaphor for her name.
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,

after the crumbling bridge that joins us If you are scribbling her name and carving initials in a tree over this person, why is the bridge crumbling. The adjective is wrong for the state of your relationship as I see it. Do you really need an adjective at all in front of bridge?
stands no more and current
can’t be crossed and I look down Think about dropping the word and in this line. Try inserting a period or link your thoughts about the bridge and the river with a semi-colon.
and watch what would have flowed Are you standing on the bank since your bridge can't be crossed? If you want us to see a solitary figure on a dilapidated old bridge, you'll have to get him to the middle of it. Solidify the bridge so you can stand on it and maybe make her end of it barricaded or something.
beneath it pass by, and up You could glance up at the sky, because as the number guy said, I link this thought and the next as "threw up".
on starlit nights at what I threw away,

I’ll lock you tight in a wooden place I know you're drawing parallels between the tree, a keepsake cedar chest and a casket, I'd still change the word place to box.
that hurts, but understands
the mathematics of the morning after,
how they subtract not add—the tang zest?
from a tongue, a face You're in the dark, instead of telling us it's her tongue and face, could you show us? Feel the wetness of her tongue and the softness of her cheek.
from the dark. You, from me.

 

[annaswirls]

Sometimes getting many opinions makes things very confusing. My suggestion is to print out the critiques, read them and write notes. Cross out the comments you totally disagree on. That might help simplify the process.

In the end, you have to make the choices. It is not easy to do, but seeing your level of writing, I am sure you have learned these lessons before.

I have only a few comments:

I do not like the title. Everytime I see Souls or of our souls, I just get this grating feeling like someone is going to try to be deep and philosophical and painfully corny.

Just a bad start in my opinion.

I always thing that a poem will take itself to the soul if it is done correctly. It is a word better experienced than read.

Why not just In the Cedar Boxes.

In the Cedar Boxes of Our Souls

I find myself scribbling your name
on napkins at breakfast
and walking this morning
a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

I like how you have action in your writing instead of dreadfully beautiful wonderous gorgeous description of the environment, which is so boring to me!

I like the image of scribbling the name at breakfast
and I LOVE the image of the cedar saying yes
However, the transition between the one and the other is very unclear.


I find myself scribbling your name on napkins at breakfast and walking this morning

sounds like you found yourself scribbling her name on napkins at breakfast and while walking this morning. try to simplify the sentence structure to make sure it is clear that they are two different actions.

Do you need "at breakfast" and "this morning" Just a thought

a cedar said yes,
if you have time and a knife
I will wear her for you on my skin.

gorgeous. I always like when writers put new voices (like the cedar) in italics. It gives a visual reinforcement that someone new is speaking.

But I know where you’ll wind up.
Not crumpled and trashed
with leftover eggs
or disappearing spring by spring
inside a carved heart, not even
flattened delicately between
the pages of a book
no one but me will ever read. No,

after the crumbling bridge that joins us
stands no more and current
can’t be crossed and I look down
and watch what would have flowed
beneath it pass by, and up
on starlit nights at what I threw away,

I’ll lock you tight in a wooden place
that hurts, but understands
the mathematics of the morning after, consider looking over the line breaks here. Breaknig Understands from mathematics makes it confusing to me to readhow they subtract not add—the tang
from a tongue, a face
from the dark. You, from me.


A very lovely poem, very moving. I would not yet send it to Ploughshares but why not-- just read this out loud. Set the alarm for 3 am and read it before you go pee and get a drink of water. As if you are another person. Give it to a stranger to read out loud for you, see where they stumble and make it more smooth.

(I am writing down these suggestions as I need to follow every one of them)

Thanks for giving us this poem to learn from, as I feel writing critiques is sometimes more educational to the reviewer. Makes us think about what we believe to be important. Forces us to try to live up to our own advice.


Passing on a piece of advice I have gotten several times, let me recommend an activity. Change this poem around (not for good, just for an exercize) and get rid of all of the "ing" verbs.

I have found that simply by doing this, I can make my poems more readable, more accessible.

Also with this one, consider shortening your sentences-- I think some of the confusion comes along with not having a break. Just a thought.

all the best,

as

 

[ishtat]

Verbs

Anna Swirls analysis is excellent but I would like to qualify one point she makes - about long sentences.I have noticed that you tend (not just in this work) to use a lot of verbs sometimes in not particularly long sentences.The sentences in reality may not be all that long but several verbs make them seem so.

However the changes those fairly frequent verbs make can in turn make it less easy to read sometimes than it might be. This is not incorrect at all in fact your writing is rather particular in its accuracy/punctuation etc but I do feel that the rythmn of the work can sometimes be tricky to pick up. I might be being a bit picky but I think your work is worth it.

 

[TheRainMan]

What a wonderful response!

Thank you all as a group for taking the time to read and offer your ideas. I am beginning to work my way through them now, and will answer individually as many of the points you raised as I can. That may take a while.

Thanks again everyone. I'll be back. : )