Not For The Thin-Skinned

[TheRainMan]

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.

sandspike: I agree that third verse is the least essential, and I did try it that way. The final result did not feel right to me, and I write a lot by 'feel' alone. I think it made the relationship described in the poem seem more like a crush, or infatuation, than the real thing. The third stanza (rewritten a bit now) serves the purpose of adding depth to the relationship itself, which I think adds a bit of depth to the poem.

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

-Cat

-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.


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


-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 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.

*Catbabe*: I did drop "of our souls" from the title, as you and many others suggested. I do think the new title works better, considering the poem itself. I also agree with your recommendation to get rid of the word "No" and the entire sense of dialogue it created, as well as agreeing that 'tight' was superfluous in the last stanza. The word 'tang' does bring to mind that awful orange drink, but it has so many other connotations to me, and I would hope to most readers, that it is still there to bother you.

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.

twelveoone: The "s" on understands is because the subject it is matched with is "place," not "I."

You are the only one who noticed (or at least mentioned) the ambiguity in the double meaning of the word "current." It is one of the things that makes it necessary to keep that stanza, I think.

I see what you mean about having 'up' at a line's end. It did not strike me until you pointed it out. It has been covered by other words to take that punch away.

"Cedar Box" was meant to convey a picture of one of those secret boxes many people keep their precious things in, a box they hide somewhere, on an upper shelf closet covered by spare sheets, perhaps.

I agree the whole "flattened delicately" run in the original was a bit shopworn. I think "flattened delicately" is perfect, but I pared the rest some.

As this early stage of a writing life, I'll settle for reading like 'bad Neruda.' His kind of polish only comes with time, and sweat.

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.

champagne I agree, with you and others, on the title. I like the original title very much, but I don't think it is quite appropriate to this poem.

The first line I find myself scribbling your name is far different than your suggestion of I scribble your name, in that the former implies it is an involuntary action, something done without realizing it. That is what I want, and it would be lost by removing the words "find myself."

I definately agree that the tree's 'words' need to stand out, as both you and annaswirls suggested. That has been done. That also clears up the point you made about not being certain who is speaking in the second stanza.

To me, flattened delicately describes perfectly how someone hides the petal of a flower inside a book, as it they can somehow preserve what it is, even pressed flat. It conveys 'intention' more than anything.

The bridge is crumbling because the writer is acknowledging that that is what happens to relationships, at least his - the inevitability of it, as if it is taken for granted...and yes, he is on the bank, looking down and up. The bridge is no longer there.

The 'threw up' question has been solved, I think.

The word place is used instead of box for the very reason that it is vague. The place she is to be hidden is inside himself, the cedar box we all have in there for secrets, and by using the specificity of the word 'box,' I think that would be lost.

I am so fond of the last stanza, I am wary of doing anything else to it. I do understand what you mean by adding the specific of 'wetness,' but it feels so right to me the way it is.

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 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

annaswirls:Thank you for the title suggestion. I agree, and it is the one I think is best now.

The transition problem you spoke of between scribbling and walking was correct, and has been repaired by a simple comma, at the end of line 2.

The reason 'breakfast' and 'morning' are there is to convey the thought that the first thing in the morning this happens, as in 'before anything else,' and also involuntarily, thus magnifying its importance.

Putting the cedar's 'words' in italics, as both you and champagne suggested, was a marvelous idea. It works much better.

I've been through the whole "ing" thing before. I think "ing" verbs (or verbs used as gerunds, or participles) only becomes a problem if overdone. It is easy to string them out, one after the other, and if you do that there is no doubt you lose punch to your words.

I realize I do write with somewhat longer sentences that many poets, with frequent punctuation. It has become a matter of style, and changing it changes the impact of my words, and changes my poetry too much. I know, because, I've tried.

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.

ishtat: You and the comment you made on the poem itself are one of the main reasons I put it up here in the first place. Thank you for that.

I agree that I write by rhythm. I can feel it when I read my own poetry, and I do try to pass it on. To make it a less complex rhythm would be ideal. Now, to figure out just how to do that.



Thank you all so much, and please do add more comments if you wish.

Here is the rewrite, as it stands now (still, not done, I'm sure):


In the Cedar Box

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 fading spring by spring
inside a carved heart,
not even flattened delicately
between pages no one reads. After

the crumbling bridge that joins us
falls and current can’t be
crossed, I’ll look down
at what would have flowed
beneath it pass by,
and up on starlit nights
at what I threw away, and hide you

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.

 

[twelveoone]

I agree the whole "flattened delicately" run in the original was a bit shopworn. I think "flattened delicately" is perfect, but I pared the rest some.

As this early stage of a writing life, I'll settle for reading like 'bad Neruda.' His kind of polish only comes with time, and sweat.



I agree that I write by rhythm. I can feel it when I read my own poetry, and I do try to pass it on. To make it a less complex rhythm would be ideal. Now, to figure out just how to do that.

few things:

Writing like bad Neruda is of more interest than shopworn.

"Current" was excellent, easy for me to see, I've used it the same way in one of mine (not here, not anywhere)

This may not be a good idea to simplify the rhythm, lead the audience, don't bow to them, for the original the rhythm (I felt) was perfect. I apologise for not having the time for the revision, (I am off writing bad Neruda).

You have excellent instincts (better than mine) and attitude to criticism, wish you great success.

 

[bogusbrig]

few things:

Writing like bad Neruda is of more interest than shopworn.

"Current" was excellent, easy for me to see, I've used it the same way in one of mine (not here, not anywhere)

This may not be a good idea to simplify the rhythm, lead the audience, don't bow to them, for the original the rhythm (I felt) was perfect. I apologise for not having the time for the revision, (I am off writing bad Neruda).

You have excellent instincts (better than mine) and attitude to criticism, wish you great success.

What is it with this Neruda fetish? I hate his love poems! Maybe I'm just a freak with my likes and dislikes but I find Neruda gives me poetic indigestion, he's like eating too many Belgian chocolates. One with a coffee is enough but for sustenance, totally inadequate and indigestable.

 

[annaswirls]

What is the meaning of H/L, Mister Rain Man?

Nice re-write.
Reads much more easily.

 

[twelveoone]

What is it with this Neruda fetish? I hate his love poems! Maybe I'm just a freak with my likes and dislikes but I find Neruda gives me poetic indigestion, he's like eating too many Belgian chocolates. One with a coffee is enough but for sustenance, totally inadequate and indigestable.

wimmen love him, in English
he is much better in Spanish, but then everbody is.

 

[bogusbrig]

wimmen love him, in English
he is much better in Spanish, but then everbody is.

I guess that is reason enough to write like him. That Italian film Il Postino which was the film I believe that made Neruda a household name (Damn, even my philistine sister has heard of him) has a lot to answer for.

Though if he is guaranteed to get you laid he can't be all bad, unless you are getting laid by someone like my sister, then I'd rather be thrown into a pit of vipers.

 

[annaswirls]

no one taught me how to lay concrete

Trolly, you are right, it IS mundane and I am working on something from the outside that can come bring it together, give that edge, the thud in the gut that I feel from the poem but is NOT translated yet. I will get it, have faith furry little guy.

Rainman, thank you for the comment on the Allen stanza, I got a similiar reaction from another writer, and have worked on it. I also changed it to 1st person upon the suggestion of a few others-- as an experiment-- the thing is, I saw this whole poem as being written by my brother, because I felt like I was being watched by the men in the family (like I used to watch them work) while I tackled the concrete job myself. I tried to keep that feel with the last section.

Istat, cward2, lobomao, Maria, thank you for your kind words and for pointing out to me what works so I know what I should keep doing, and for acknowledging that it is not easy

Queen of Hearts, thank you-- I did work on punctuation, although I am not sure where you thought it needed work. It is always a chore.

Still have to work on the sticky eyed kitten part. maybe it needs to go into another poem and get it's little paws out of my wet cement.



No one taught me how to patch concrete

But from the hayloft
I watched my brothers carry sand
and gravel as father pulled the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.
Just like gravy in a mashed potato dam.

From the safety of Nana’s porch
I saw Darren foolishly pick at gravel
caught in the gear. His success
was rewarded with fingers
crushed by rusted teeth.

I held wet washcloths for blood,
brought pills for pain;
held wet washcloths
on the hay loft kitten’s eyes,
softened crust, drained puss.

Soak it in Epsom salts,
just like Nana said.
Epsom salts and wet washcloths
could fix about anything.

The women taught me,
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides of the bowl,
fill the holes with icing,
use the knife to even ridges.

Wipe counters with wet washcloths
before it hardens fast.

Today I do not call for the men.
Alone I feel them watching me fill holes,
and patch cracks in the steps
that lead to my house.
They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my new trowel
and pull it all smooth before
going inside to ready the chicken
for roasting. Vegatables,
washed and peeled.



~

No one taught you how to lay concrete
by annaswirls ©

But from the hayloft
you and sticky-eyed kittens
watched father pull the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.
You told Mom it was like gravy
in a mashed potato dam.

From Nana’s porch
you saw the gears catch Allen’s fingers.
Held wet washcloths for the blood.
Held wet washcloths over kitten’s eyes
softened crust, drained the puss.

You wiped counters.

The women said,
This is how we fix a broken cake
with icing, use the knife
to even ridges, scrape powder
from the side of the bowl.

Today you do not call for help.
I watch you fill holes,
patch cracks in the steps
that lead to your house.
You scrape excess cement
with the edge of your trowel,
pull it smooth before
before preparing chicken
for the evening meal.

 

[Minervous]

Trolly, you are right, it IS mundane and I am working on something from the outside that can come bring it together, give that edge, the thud in the gut that I feel from the poem but is NOT translated yet. I will get it, have faith furry little guy.

Rainman, thank you for the comment on the Allen stanza, I got a similiar reaction from another writer, and have worked on it. I also changed it to 1st person upon the suggestion of a few others-- as an experiment-- the thing is, I saw this whole poem as being written by my brother, because I felt like I was being watched by the men in the family (like I used to watch them work) while I tackled the concrete job myself. I tried to keep that feel with the last section.

Istat, cward2, lobomao, Maria, thank you for your kind words and for pointing out to me what works so I know what I should keep doing, and for acknowledging that it is not easy

Queen of Hearts, thank you-- I did work on punctuation, although I am not sure where you thought it needed work. It is always a chore.

Still have to work on the sticky eyed kitten part. maybe it needs to go into another poem and get it's little paws out of my wet cement.



No one taught me how to patch concrete

But from the hayloft
I watched my brothers carry sand
and gravel as father pulled the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.
Just like gravy in a mashed potato dam.

From the safety of Nana’s porch
I saw Darren foolishly pick at gravel
caught in the gear. His success
was rewarded with fingers
crushed by rusted teeth.

I held wet washcloths for blood,
brought pills for pain;
held wet washcloths
on the hay loft kitten’s eyes,
softened crust, drained puss.

Soak it in Epsom salts,
just like Nana said.
Epsom salts and wet washcloths
could fix about anything.

The women taught me,
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides of the bowl,
fill the holes with icing,
use the knife to even ridges.

Wipe counters with wet washcloths
before it hardens fast.

Today I do not call for the men.
Alone I feel them watching me fill holes,
and patch cracks in the steps
that lead to my house.
They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my new trowel
and pull it all smooth before
going inside to ready the chicken
for roasting. Vegatables,
washed and peeled.



~

No one taught you how to lay concrete
by annaswirls ©

But from the hayloft
you and sticky-eyed kittens
watched father pull the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.
You told Mom it was like gravy
in a mashed potato dam.

From Nana’s porch
you saw the gears catch Allen’s fingers.
Held wet washcloths for the blood.
Held wet washcloths over kitten’s eyes
softened crust, drained the puss.

You wiped counters.

The women said,
This is how we fix a broken cake
with icing, use the knife
to even ridges, scrape powder
from the side of the bowl.

Today you do not call for help.
I watch you fill holes,
patch cracks in the steps
that lead to your house.
You scrape excess cement
with the edge of your trowel,
pull it smooth before
before preparing chicken
for the evening meal.

Dear Annaswirls:

You have been so kind and effusive in your praise of my poems that the least I can do is make some comments about yours. Helpful comments, I hope.

The poem is mundane: I assume this is your reaction to the "Trolly's" comment about your poem being mundane. One interesting thing about that comment is that the highlighted portion reads From Under the Bridge, which brings to my mind Arthur Miller's play A View from the Bridge. Miller was a "mundane" playwright. You should hope to be so good at depicting human behavior.

The word mundane means "of, relating to, or characteristic of the world" and "characterized by the practical, transitory, and ordinary : COMMONPLACE." If you are able to write well enough to convincingly evoke the ordinary and commonplace emotions that we as human beings experience, you not only can count yourself Miller's equal, you can claim your place along side the greatest literary artists humanity has produced.

All great art is ultimately about the ordinary. Why else would we, who are the ordinary, care about it?

Point of View: This is much improved in the revised version of the poem. Having your brothers observe you watching them learn how to pour/lay/place (or whatever is the correct term) concrete doesn't work. In the original form of the poem, they would be concentrated on their work and probably not even notice you. The only way I see a brother's narration work is as a flashback. You would start with the final stanza/strophe and then flashback to the earlier formative ones and depend upon the good graces of your readers that they believe your brothers were actually paying attention to you up in the loft.

Grammar, spelling, style, and everything else: I am not an authority on the technical topics (grammar/spelling). But I think there are some areas of concern. Please consider the following comments:

• Line 1: "But" (I would make this lower case, as it only makes sense as continuing a sentence started by the title. I admit I do not know the poetic conventions on this. Perhaps the convention is to captialize the first line in any case. I find this confusing.
• Line 3: I would change "father" to "Father".
• Line 8: "caught in the gear" A concrete mixer? Wheelbarrows don't have gears.
• Line 8: "His success / was rewarded": Passive voice.
• Line 12: Why is there a semicolon here?
• Line 14: I do not understand why this kitten is here and why you are holding a wet washcloth on its eyes. This relates back to holding the wet washcloth on your brother's damaged fingers, which is good, but the kitten seems extraneous without a better introduction as to why it is here.
• Line 15: "softened crust, drained puss" This seems to be a list of "women's" jobs--tending wounds or injury, bringing medicine. The "softened crust" is confusing. I assume you mean "pus" ("thick opaque usually yellowish white fluid matter formed by suppuration and composed of exudate containing white blood cells, tissue debris, and microorganisms").
• Line 16: "Soak it" Tense change. Shouldn't this be "Soaked it"?
• Line 21 & ff.: "this is" As is, this seems to be remembered speech and should perhaps be quoted or italicized. Alternatively, you might change the start of this stanza to:
  The women taught me
  how to fix a broken cake:
  scrape powdered sugar​
  An em dash would work as well.
• Line 27: "hardens fast" This seems redundant to me, but I also think it is alright that way.
• Line 28: "Today I do not call for the men" I would strike either the "for" or the "the".
• Line 29: I would change "Alone" to "But" and eliminate the comma.
• Line 36: "Vegetables" is misspelled.

Overall: This is a wonderful poem. It is about how we learn things even when they are not explicitly taught to us. We do not just learn by observation, though. The stanza that makes this poem is the one that speaks about being taught how to fix a broken cake and then relating that back to the surrounding theme of concrete work. You learned to patch concrete both by (surreptitiously) watching your father and brothers and by (explicitly) being taught a different, but related, skill (fixing a broken cake) by your mother/grandmother/aunts. That is what makes this poem brilliant.

And are you channeling me? My latest revision of one of my poems (which I may post below for comment) uses wet cement as an image!

I hope these comments have been of some help.

 

[Minervous]

.....

 

[annaswirls]

Minervous,
I have been remiss in thanking you for your thoughtful and thorough critique of my poem, and in my apology in my lack of think skinning yours here.... but now I am quite glad I did not touch yours, there was nothing to change

Please consider posting here again, we are usually better about jumping on poems it must be the season.

eh hem.
as often it is so

~as

 

[TheRainMan]

Did Minervous have a poem up here, and pull it down for lack of answer?
It seems that is the case.

If I had seen it, I certainly would have put my two cents in.

Please consider putting it back, Min.

I'm sure annaswirls and I would both have something to say about it.

 

[Angeline]

*************************

 

[annaswirls]

Did Minervous have a poem up here, and pull it down for lack of answer?
It seems that is the case.

If I had seen it, I certainly would have put my two cents in.

Please consider putting it back, Min.

I'm sure annaswirls and I would both have something to say about it.

She did have one up, but I think pulled it when she submitted it,
and then it got a well deserved e



so thank goodness I did not mess with it



Hi Rainman, you have a date for New Years Eve?

 

[TheRainMan]

She did have one up, but I think pulled it when she submitted it,
and then it got a well deserved e



so thank goodness I did not mess with it



Hi Rainman, you have a date for New Years Eve?

I do now.

 

[annaswirls]

I do now.

ooh I better go put some clothes on!

do try and get your post count up to 100 before then so I can check out your AV, you know, wear something that matches your eyes

 

[Minervous]

.....

 

[wildsweetone]

Minervous, I recommend them both as skilled poets. Their critiques are worth seeking should you require the help. Don't hesitate to ask. Also, it's a very busy time of year for everyone, it will take up to 48 hours for people to come online and comment (it seems there's a lot of last minute shopping getting done this year ).






(Rainman and annaswirls, my apologies for jumping in here. i wish i had been sooner, elsewhere.)

 

[annaswirls]

No one taught me how to lay concrete

any suggestions would be appreciated. I have worked so long on this one I am not sure I can see it clearly. I want a new ending.

No one taught me how to lay concrete

I held wet washcloths
to soften the crust on hayloft kitten’s eyes
while father scraped his hoe
along the bottom of the wheelbarrow.

And when Darren used his fingers
to free gravel caught in the gears
I held washcloths to soak the blood,
brought pills for his pain.

Soak it in Epsom salts
Nana said. I suspected
Epsom salts and wet washcloths
could fix about anything.

The women taught me,
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides of the bowl,
fill the holes with icing,
use a knife to even ridges.

Roma is silent
except for the sound of obstructed breath.
Across the hall I pretend to sleep and he tells her
More tongue, less teeth,
yes, like that.

Under the blanket
my fingers move in slow circles
that quicken when Roma gets it right
and his instruction turns to praise of Jesus
oh God. His pores open and spill
their sacrifice. I bite my sheet.
My toes are numb from the tightening
of restrained expression.
Roma too is silent as she walks
to the bathroom for a glass of water
and a towel.

Today I do not call for the men.
Alone I feel them watching me
as I patch cracks in the steps
that lead to my house.

They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my shiny trowel
and pull it smooth,
smooth before going inside
to ready the chicken
for roasting. Vegetables,
washed and peeled.

 

[wildsweetone]

see my thoughts in bold anna, just on a first reading of your poem.

any suggestions would be appreciated. I have worked so long on this one I am not sure I can see it clearly. I want a new ending.

No one taught me how to lay concrete

I held wet washcloths
to soften the crust on hayloft kitten’s eyes
while father scraped his hoe
along the bottom of the wheelbarrow. (the two events seem unrelated)

And when Darren used his fingers
to free gravel caught in the gears
I held washcloths to soak the blood,
brought pills for his pain.(brought or bought?)

Soak it in Epsom salts
Nana said. I suspected(is it better to leave 'Nana said' unitalicised?)
Epsom salts and wet washcloths
could fix about anything. (is 'about' needed?)

The women taught me, (women or woman? only Nana is mentioned)
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides of the bowl,
fill the holes with icing,
use a knife to even ridges.

Roma is silent
except for the sound of obstructed breath.
Across the hall I pretend to sleep and he tells her(line break after 'sleep'?)
More tongue, less teeth,
yes, like that.

Under the blanket
my fingers move in slow circles
that quicken when Roma gets it right
and his instruction turns to praise of Jesus
oh God. His pores open and spill
their sacrifice. I bite my sheet.
My toes are numb from the tightening
of restrained expression.
Roma too is silent as she walks
to the bathroom for a glass of water
and a towel.

Today I do not call for the men.
Alone I feel them watching me
as I patch cracks in the steps
that lead to my house.

They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my shiny trowel
and pull it smooth,
smooth before going inside
to ready the chicken
for roasting. Vegetables,
washed and peeled.

the ending you have seems a little 'dull'. i'd like to see something with punch to stand up with the rest of the poem.

hmm so, do the men go closer to inspect your handiwork? what do they think of it? do they fix it?

does some other 'random' person come along? some other family member?

why was the concreting left to you to do?

not sure any of that helps. they're just my thoughts.

and i like! it so you have to finish it.

 

[Tzara]

Well, this will probably not be very helpful, but I liked your earlier version much better in almost every way, and one of the things I particularly liked about it was the last strophe. I thought it was quite close to being a very fine poem and very true. This version seems kind of chaotic to me.

I would contrast this with the poem "Sequins and Denim" you wrote the other day (which I'd link here, but you seem to have removed it). That poem has a rather abrupt change in the narrative as well, but it works there because both narrative themes (the narrator's pleasure in how attractive the jeans are and the widower's sexual feelings for the narrator) have something in common. I don't see that here and it just ends up being jarring.

I also like the previous title much better ("patch" rather than "lay"), as it linked the fixing of the cake and the fixing of the concrete, but that isn't as big a deal as you have changed the narrative so much.

any suggestions would be appreciated. I have worked so long on this one I am not sure I can see it clearly. I want a new ending.

No one taught me how to lay concrete

I held wet washcloths
to soften the crust on hayloft kitten’s eyes
while father scraped his hoe
along the bottom of the wheelbarrow.

And when Darren used his fingers
to free gravel caught in the gears
I held washcloths to soak the blood,
brought pills for his pain.

Soak it in Epsom salts
Nana said. I suspected
Epsom salts and wet washcloths
could fix about anything.

The women taught me,
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides of the bowl,
fill the holes with icing,
use a knife to even ridges.

Roma is silent
except for the sound of obstructed breath.
Across the hall I pretend to sleep and he tells her
More tongue, less teeth,
yes, like that.

Under the blanket
my fingers move in slow circles
that quicken when Roma gets it right
and his instruction turns to praise of Jesus
oh God. His pores open and spill
their sacrifice. I bite my sheet.
My toes are numb from the tightening
of restrained expression.
Roma too is silent as she walks
to the bathroom for a glass of water
and a towel.

Today I do not call for the men.
Alone I feel them watching me
as I patch cracks in the steps
that lead to my house.

They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my shiny trowel
and pull it smooth,
smooth before going inside
to ready the chicken
for roasting. Vegetables,
washed and peeled.

 

[annaswirls]

Thanks WSO! I will definately keep these things in consideration. I like your idea or a random person coming along..... especially in looking at Tzara's comment about the section not fitting in...
hmm


Thanks for reading and taking the time

see my thoughts in bold anna, just on a first reading of your poem.



the ending you have seems a little 'dull'. i'd like to see something with punch to stand up with the rest of the poem.

hmm so, do the men go closer to inspect your handiwork? what do they think of it? do they fix it?

does some other 'random' person come along? some other family member?

why was the concreting left to you to do?

not sure any of that helps. they're just my thoughts.

and i like! it so you have to finish it.

 

[annaswirls]

Of course it is very helpful! Thank you so so much

Do you mean you prefer when I had it in 2nd person?

I will go back and look more carefully at the earlier versions.

Sequins and Denim was accepted elsewhere, so I had to take it down sorry... but thank you very much for thinking of it.

The thing I was going for was a man teaching a woman something while she watched from a distance, and I thought the new stanza did that but you are right in that there is probably too big of a leap.

damn this poetry crap is hard.

I want a new hobby.

Well, this will probably not be very helpful, but I liked your earlier version much better in almost every way, and one of the things I particularly liked about it was the last strophe. I thought it was quite close to being a very fine poem and very true. This version seems kind of chaotic to me.

I would contrast this with the poem "Sequins and Denim" you wrote the other day (which I'd link here, but you seem to have removed it). That poem has a rather abrupt change in the narrative as well, but it works there because both narrative themes (the narrator's pleasure in how attractive the jeans are and the widower's sexual feelings for the narrator) have something in common. I don't see that here and it just ends up being jarring.

I also like the previous title much better ("patch" rather than "lay"), as it linked the fixing of the cake and the fixing of the concrete, but that isn't as big a deal as you have changed the narrative so much.

 

[Tzara]

Do you mean you prefer when I had it in 2nd person?

No. The one in first person that I linked to.

Sequins and Denim was accepted elsewhere, so I had to take it down sorry... but thank you very much for thinking of it.

I assumed as much. I thought it was a good comparison to this because of the abrupt narrative change.

The thing I was going for was a man teaching a woman something while she watched from a distance, and I thought the new stanza did that but you are right in that there is probably too big of a leap.

I almost said something about that perhaps being what you were thinking, but didn't. Get some other opinions, but yeah--it feels to me like I've suddenly walked into a different poem.

It also for me destroys the symmetry in the poem. In the other version, you learn two things--how to fix a broken cake and how to patch concrete. One thing is learned from women, one from men (though indirectly). These things are brought together in that last strophe, which is why I like it so much.

 

[TheRainMan]

I want a new hobby.

I'm looking for a new masseuse.

I liked the first version of that poem better, too.

 

[annaswirls]

I'm looking for a new masseuse.

when you find one, send her over, this poem is killing me

I liked the first version of that poem better, too.

yeah, that would be so easy. hmm?

I held wet washcloths
on the hayloft kitten’s eyes
while father pulled the hoe
across the lime-crusted wheelbarrow.

And when Darren used his fingers
to free a piece of gravel
caught in the mixer's gears
I stood to the side,
held wet washcloths to soak the blood,
brought him pills for the pain.

The women taught me,
this is how to fix a broken cake,
scrape powdered sugar
from the sides,
fill the holes with icing,
use the knife to even ridges.

Roma is silent
except for the sound of obstructed breath.
I pretend to sleep and he tells her
More tongue, less teeth,
yes, like that.

Under the blanket
my fingers move in slow circles
that quicken when Roma gets it right
and his instruction turns to praise of Jesus
oh God. His pores open and spill
their sacrifice. I hold my breath,
bite my thumb.
My toes, numb from the tightening
of restrained expression.
Roma too is silent as she walks
on sock feet to the bathroom
for a white towel and cold water.

Today I do not call for the men.
Our men have gone to the city.
We are the day people.
Mothers jog with strollers,
elders limp on hip replacements
to move the sprinklers from one side
of the yard to the other.

Only strange men come to our houses.
They hang our awnings, clean the gutters,
connect jumper cables.
They come with trucks.
I feel them watching me
as I fill holes and patch cracks
in the steps that lead to my house.

They nod as I scrape excess cement
with the edge of my shiny trowel
and pull it smooth. The fed*ex guy
drops a box by my neighbor's door.

I wash my hands
and prepare dinner.