Not For The Thin-Skinned

[DeepAsleep]

An offering

I wanted to eyeball this thread for a few days before I brought anything for the slaughter. I like where it's gone and I respect the amount of mechanical talent you've all displayed. I can't critique like that.

Anyhoo. The poem I'm laying down, here, is one that I really want to like, but have sort of avoided, because I tried for a different voice and got slapped for it. The title sucks, in retrospect, so bear with it and I'm not really certain what I was thinking with the format (I, II, III, etc.). In any case, there are things I like very much, here, but overall I'm thoroughly dissatisfied.

Melancholera


I.
So many days look like
pale reflections of death,
suppurating hours
spent behind smoked glass.

(Variations on a theme.)


II.
Was a home, once,
"our little den of sin,"
we said, and I miss you
on the balcony
waving me away to work.
God, but you loved
my sorry ass.


III.
The infectious
melancholy
of moments.

(guess which line inspired the title!...'scuse me. Heh.)

Half-forgotten memories of a merry face
half-obscured by sheets blown in the wind,
all half-remembered over a cup of coffee,
shared across a table;
an endless overlook of
separations which echo
up and down hollow bones.

IV.
Birdboned
and flightless.

When I got there,
all my hopes clutched to my chest
in neat little bundles,
she was waiting with
arms spread so wide.

I could have circled the earth
on her wings.

(i hate the last two lines of this part, but I'm bound up because I don't want to throw away how it feels, to me. An editing problem i have.)

V.
Useless affectations of affection
effected all my affluent ardor.

I liked to fuck her,
but I didn't love her.
She always knew.

I knew.


VI.
On these pale days,
peering back with the bones
of old memories tack-tacking
against each other
to the tune of, "should've been,"
it's easy to overlook
the disguising inconsistency
of falsely uncertain understanding.


VII.
We never admit
that we really understand
the things we look away from.


VIII.
People are puzzles
glimpsed too close -
distance-lent perspective
plays neat little jokes on memory.

In the hole,
any grass
is greener grass.

IX.
Dust of years,
dust of ages
undisturbed
by forgotten sages -
(How I make memory
into a museum!)
What curious curator
catalogues the curios
I keep locked up inside
cabinets in my mind?

He is a hobbled crone of
a stickfigure. This man
has bruised veins,
all liver-spotted palsy,
ugly effectiveness.

(Don't ask me. I just work here.)

X.
Strange writings in the dirt of mind,
these lost languages of past connection.
There are people whose words
I once could have foretold,
who speak now with tongues
I feel I never knew.
All ties have fallen to drift and decay.
What fool, I, trusting my heart to frayed ropes.

The center cannot hold.

(I'm moved to change the first word of the fifth line to 'that' rather than 'who' but I wonder if that will make it feel too impersonal.)


There you have it! Fire at will.

~D.A.

 

[Angeline]

yes, mistress.

(curse noted)


why don't you put up a poem while you're here, grammar nazi?

Ok.

Here's the first poem I ever posted at Lit. Rip it up, Hyphenator.

Dispos-a-Girl

Hey boys, you like what you see?
Over here, that’s right,
you wanna have me?
I watch y’all stare.
Wanna mess up my hair?
Wanna touch me here?
Make my lip gloss smear?
Wanna send me a note or give me a call,
pick me up just to let me fall?
Maybe push me hard up against the wall,
and get so damn excited you tear my dress?
Yeah, you wanna feel better,
relieve your distress?
Pull my hands up above my head,
throw me down on the cyber bed,
and do it?
Yeah do it, then go away--
catch up with me on another day.
I’m dispos-a-girl,
I’m a backstreet treat.
Wanna pull my hair,
wanna suck my feet?
You can rock me in your secret life,
turn the PC off,
and kiss your wife.

 

[flyguy69]

I wanted to eyeball this thread for a few days before I brought anything for the slaughter. I like where it's gone and I respect the amount of mechanical talent you've all displayed. I can't critique like that.
...
There you have it! Fire at will.

~D.A.

I confess, D.A.; the "chaptered" format doesn't do anything for me because it doesn't always seem tied to dramatic leaps in time or theme. I would either lose this format, or make that connection stronger.

 

[DeepAsleep]

Ok.

Here's the first poem I ever posted at Lit. Rip it up, Hyphenator.

Dispos-a-Girl

Hey boys, you like what you see?
Over here, that’s right,
you wanna have me?
I watch y’all stare.
Wanna mess up my hair?
Wanna touch me here?
Make my lip gloss smear?
Wanna send me a note or give me a call,
pick me up just to let me fall?
Maybe push me hard up against the wall,
and get so damn excited you tear my dress?
Yeah, you wanna feel better,
relieve your distress?
Pull my hands up above my head,
throw me down on the cyber bed,
and do it?
Yeah do it, then go away--
catch up with me on another day.
I’m dispos-a-girl,
I’m a backstreet treat.
Wanna pull my hair,
wanna suck my feet?
You can rock me in your secret life,
turn the PC off,
and kiss your wife.

This is a cute little hipshot that makes me feel all, "Go on, sista, tell 'em! Do yo' thang!" It's a little bit ghetto, as we say around the coffee table. I think that is awesome.

Over all, I think this could benefit from some chop-chop. Break it up a little.

...some of your rhymes make my eyeballs all fuckstruck, but it's a first piece, so what're ya gonna do, y'know? Everyone starts somewhere, 'n all that.

Hey boys, you like what you see?
Over here, that’s right,
you wanna have me?

The rhythm I'm reading into these lines makes me smile, but I wonder if "over here, that's right" couldn't be re-worked - perhaps with some sort of descriptive business. "Over here, that's right" sort of feels like filler.

I watch y’all stare.
Wanna mess up my hair?
Wanna touch me here?
Make my lip gloss smear?

...This is hard, because I'm biased about line by line rhyme. I'm trying, dammit.

The third line's question mark could be tossed, if you decide to leave the last two alone, and I don't think it'd hurt anything - It works as one sentence. It could be that adding "You" to the beginning of the second line would make this feel a little more... Ehh... Specific? Not sure if that's the right word, but I like it, so fuck it.


Wanna send me a note or give me a call,
pick me up just to let me fall?
Maybe push me hard up against the wall,
and get so damn excited you tear my dress?

The first two lines, here, need a touch of throwing away and re-writing, because (i feel) the second two lines should stay, and you need a rhyme for "wall" to stay in format. Choppy-choppy!

Yeah, you wanna feel better,
relieve your distress?

Here we go with filler, again. Discard and re-do!

Pull my hands up above my head,
throw me down on the cyber bed,
and do it?
Yeah do it, then go away--
catch up with me on another day.

Speaking of fuckstruck eyeballs, this chunk turns my brain into velveeta. "And do it" stands out like if the chick from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues smashed her zeppelin in a car door. I'm too bemused for comment - This poem really makes me grin.

I’m dispos-a-girl,
I’m a backstreet treat.
Wanna pull my hair,
wanna suck my feet?
You can rock me in your secret life,
turn the PC off,
and kiss your wife.

Ok, "Wanna suck my feet?" actually made me laugh. A lot. It's fucking corny and sort of sassy-sexy. It must stay. The rhyme with backstreet treat works pretty well... "Then turn the PC off" might flow better, and I like how the poem ends.

Um, beyond that, you'll have to consult someone with a better feel for rhythm..

"Me na got na riddim, cah me come from farin." as the Jamaican in me says.

~D.A.
Fuckstruck Velveeta

 

[DeepAsleep]

I confess, D.A.; the "chaptered" format doesn't do anything for me because it doesn't always seem tied to dramatic leaps in time or theme. I would either lose this format, or make that connection stronger.

Yeah, it's pretty weak. Here, without chapter choppies.

Hasty non-chapter choppy edit


So many days look like
pale reflections of death,
suppurating hours
spent behind smoked glass.

(Variations on a theme.)


Was a home, once,
"our little den of sin,"
we said, and I miss you
on the balcony
waving me away to work.
God, but you loved
my sorry ass.

The infectious
melancholy
of moments.

Half-forgotten memories of a merry face
half-obscured by sheets blown in the wind,
all half-remembered over a cup of coffee,
shared across a table;
an endless overlook of
separations which echo
up and down hollow bones.

Birdboned
and flightless.

When I got there,
all my hopes clutched to my chest
in neat little bundles,
she was waiting with
arms spread so wide.

I could have circled the earth
on her wings.

Useless affectations of affection
effected all my affluent ardor.

I liked to fuck her,
but I didn't love her.
She always knew.

I knew.

On these pale days,
peering back with the bones
of old memories tack-tacking
against each other
to the tune of, "should've been,"
it's easy to overlook
the disguising inconsistency
of falsely uncertain understanding.

We never admit
that we really understand
the things we look away from.


People are puzzles
glimpsed too close -
distance-lent perspective
plays neat little jokes on memory.

In the hole,
any grass
is greener grass.

Dust of years,
dust of ages
undisturbed
by forgotten sages -
(How I make memory
into a museum!)
What curious curator
catalogues the curios
I keep locked up inside
cabinets in my mind?

He is a hobbled crone of
a stickfigure. This man
has bruised veins,
all liver-spotted palsy,
ugly effectiveness.

Strange writings in the dirt of mind,
these lost languages of past connection.
There are people whose words
I once could have foretold,
who speak now with tongues
I feel I never knew.
All ties have fallen to drift and decay.
What fool, I, trusting my heart to frayed ropes.

The center cannot hold.

 

[Angeline]

This is a cute little hipshot that makes me feel all, "Go on, sista, tell 'em! Do yo' thang!" It's a little bit ghetto, as we say around the coffee table. I think that is awesome.

Over all, I think this could benefit from some chop-chop. Break it up a little.

...some of your rhymes make my eyeballs all fuckstruck, but it's a first piece, so what're ya gonna do, y'know? Everyone starts somewhere, 'n all that.

Hey boys, you like what you see?
Over here, that’s right,
you wanna have me?

The rhythm I'm reading into these lines makes me smile, but I wonder if "over here, that's right" couldn't be re-worked - perhaps with some sort of descriptive business. "Over here, that's right" sort of feels like filler.

I watch y’all stare.
Wanna mess up my hair?
Wanna touch me here?
Make my lip gloss smear?

...This is hard, because I'm biased about line by line rhyme. I'm trying, dammit.

The third line's question mark could be tossed, if you decide to leave the last two alone, and I don't think it'd hurt anything - It works as one sentence. It could be that adding "You" to the beginning of the second line would make this feel a little more... Ehh... Specific? Not sure if that's the right word, but I like it, so fuck it.


Wanna send me a note or give me a call,
pick me up just to let me fall?
Maybe push me hard up against the wall,
and get so damn excited you tear my dress?

The first two lines, here, need a touch of throwing away and re-writing, because (i feel) the second two lines should stay, and you need a rhyme for "wall" to stay in format. Choppy-choppy!

Yeah, you wanna feel better,
relieve your distress?

Here we go with filler, again. Discard and re-do!

Pull my hands up above my head,
throw me down on the cyber bed,
and do it?
Yeah do it, then go away--
catch up with me on another day.

Speaking of fuckstruck eyeballs, this chunk turns my brain into velveeta. "And do it" stands out like if the chick from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues smashed her zeppelin in a car door. I'm too bemused for comment - This poem really makes me grin.

I’m dispos-a-girl,
I’m a backstreet treat.
Wanna pull my hair,
wanna suck my feet?
You can rock me in your secret life,
turn the PC off,
and kiss your wife.

Ok, "Wanna suck my feet?" actually made me laugh. A lot. It's fucking corny and sort of sassy-sexy. It must stay. The rhyme with backstreet treat works pretty well... "Then turn the PC off" might flow better, and I like how the poem ends.

Um, beyond that, you'll have to consult someone with a better feel for rhythm..

"Me na got na riddim, cah me come from farin." as the Jamaican in me says.

~D.A.
Fuckstruck Velveeta

I have edited this poem a few times since I wrote it, but what I posted here was the original version. I wanted to see what a few people would say and then edit it again. In a way, I don't want to change it too much because it has sentimental value to me (how dumb is that, especially considering the poem). A lot of what you recommend I absolutely agree with. I think the poem will be best served by breaking it into pieces.

I have to look more closely at your poem, but I wondered--upon reading it--if you had ever read Wallace Steven's Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. There is a certain similarity between it and what you are trying to do with yours. Stevens poem isn't an easy read--you have to work to really appreciate it, but I love the idea of taking a thing--concrete or ephemeral--and taking a number of unique looks at it. It's a perspective poem.

Have you ever read it? Can you see any similarities?

 

[DeepAsleep]

I have edited this poem a few times since I wrote it, but what I posted here was the original version. I wanted to see what a few people would say and then edit it again. In a way, I don't want to change it too much because it has sentimental value to me (how dumb is that, especially considering the poem). A lot of what you recommend I absolutely agree with. I think the poem will be best served by breaking it into pieces.

I have to look more closely at your poem, but I wondered--upon reading it--if you had ever read Wallace Steven's Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. There is a certain similarity between it and what you are trying to do with yours. Stevens poem isn't an easy read--you have to work to really appreciate it, but I love the idea of taking a thing--concrete or ephemeral--and taking a number of unique looks at it. It's a perspective poem.

Have you ever read it? Can you see any similarities?

I see where it would look similar, but he approached it way better than I had ever thought to. I've never read the entirety of that, though the first blackbird bit is quoted in a little book of zen tidbits I got as a present back in the day.

~D.A.

 

[annaswirls]

The Sidewalk (anna thing)

Thank you DA,
This was actually written for my niece who just turned 21, not my kid. Damn, I will be happy when my kids can read the sign.



I am right there with you. The ME is going back into that sentence. Not sure why I took it out?

She doesn't ask me questions anymore:
Why can't cats have puppies?
Why doesn't rain ever fall up?

And I am glad that it was emotionally confusing, as it is a confusing emotion when kids you helped to raise in one way or another, become independent. You want them strong and assertive, confident... but sometimes you miss the hand holding when you cross the street, etc.

Someday that girl is going to have to hold MY hand crossing the street!

Thanks again, DA

~J

I found this poem emotionally confusing, because I'm not sure whether I was putting my own spin on it, or actually reading what you intended. Plus, I don't have kids, so I've no idea what it's like seeing them all grown, 'n whatnot.

Sack made some great comments that I'd have missed, but one question I'd like an answer to, or at least something I'd like to address is this part:

She doesn't ask questions anymore:
Why can't cats have puppies?
Why doesn't rain ever fall up?

I feel, like *catbabe*, a certain longing for these questions she doesn't ask, almost as if you feel slightly distanced from her, and if that's the intent, it seems that it would be more specific if you wrote it

She doesn't ask me questions anymore:
Why can't cats have puppies?
Why doesn't rain ever fall up?

Or you could go whole-hog and add 'why' as in, 'why doesn't she...' but that's going a bit far, perhaps. Just my thoughts on the only point I bound up at. This is an excellent poem, Anna.

~D.A.

 

[annaswirls]

DA Melancholera

Melancholera


I.
So many days look like
pale reflections of death,
suppurating hours
spent behind smoked glass.

(Variations on a theme.)


II.
Was a home, once,
"our little den of sin,"
we said, and I miss you
on the balcony
waving me away to work.
God, but you loved
my sorry ass.


III.
The infectious
melancholy
of moments.



Half-forgotten memories of a merry face --merry? the only time I hear people use the word merry is in front of christmashalf-obscured by sheets blown in the wind,
all half-remembered over a cup of coffee,
shared across a table;
an endless overlook of
separations which echo
up and down hollow bones.

IV.
Birdboned
and flightless.<---this is excellent. A paradox. I always wish I had written them.

When I got there,
all my hopes clutched to my chest
in neat little bundles,
she was waiting[,] (with)
arms spread (open?)(so) wide.

I could have circled the earth
on her wings.--it is a poem, why not make this be a real image..

I circled the earth
on her wings



V.
Useless affectations of affection
effected all my affluent ardor.----ick

I liked to fuck her,
but I didn't love her.
She always knew.

I knew.I have faith that you can come with a more effective way of getting this across. Why not think of HOW she knew.... what did you DO to let her know this
? Write that scene, and we will understand without being told.

VI.
On these pale days,
peering back with the bones
of old memories tack-tacking
against each other
to the tune of, "should've been,"
it's easy to overlook
the disguising inconsistency
of falsely uncertain understanding. could be broken down/ simplified


VII.
We never admit
that we really understand
the things we look away from. --again, show don't tell. give it a shot. what do you do to demonstrate that you do this

VIII.
People are puzzles
glimpsed too close -
distance-lent perspective
plays neat little jokes on memory.<--- good observation

In the hole,
any grass
is greener grass.--good image, clarify. maybe change word hole

IX.
Dust of years,
dust of ages
undisturbed
by forgotten sages ----are you sure you want to say this?
(How I make memory
into a museum!)
What curious curator
catalogues the curios
I keep locked up inside
cabinets in my mind?--you dont have to say these last two lines, and if the curious curator does the cataloging, maybe have another employee of your museum locking the cabinet (you do not need "mind" it is implied. no one will think they are real cabinets Just use those metaphor without condition)

He is a hobbled crone of
a stickfigure. This man --do you need this identifier? we know it is "this man"
has bruised veins,
all liver-spotted palsy,
ugly effectiveness.

(Don't ask me. I just work here.) oh I love it

X.
Strange writings in the dirt of mind,
these lost languages of past connection.
There are people whose words
I once could have foretold, ---this seems wordy. what can you cut and still keep the meaning/feel you intend?
who speak now with tongues
(I feel )I never knew. ---you dont have to use "feel" because you are the poet, we know it is how you feelAll ties have fallen to drift and decay.
What fool, I, trusting my heart to frayed ropes.---voice changes, kind of like the sages
The center cannot hold.


~D.A.

Hey DA are not consistant-- in the use of your language skills which fluxuates between masterful and, well, not so masterful-- also with your language use, that fluxuates between modern and casual, to almost archaic and formal. Did you intend this?

I read through, and I will do so again, like you I really like pieces of it.

Overall suggestion, clean it up, take out the parts that are redundant (as noted)
or unnecessary. Think about the overall feel/message you want to give to the reader.

This is definately worth the pain and effort of the re-write!

~J

 

[DeepAsleep]

Hey DA are not consistant-- in the use of your language skills which fluxuates between masterful and, well, not so masterful-- also with your language use, that fluxuates between modern and casual, to almost archaic and formal. Did you intend this?

I read through, and I will do so again, like you I really like pieces of it.

Overall suggestion, clean it up, take out the parts that are redundant (as noted)
or unnecessary. Think about the overall feel/message you want to give to the reader.

This is definately worth the pain and effort of the re-write!

~J

I love archaic phrasing and it leaks out sometimes when I write poetry, because I'm often in a serious frame of mind when I write, which lends itself easily to older words (for me, anyway). The first expulsion of words usually gets edited into something less solemn - "If You Listen" being a good example of nearly no formality. But, yeah, when I was a kid, I spent about three months speaking mostly in a fairly archaic sort of manner, because I had this hero from a series of books - Dodger, from the Shadowrun series, if it matters to any of you. I'm formal, at heart, though I tend to slip into a more 'happy-go-fuck-you' frame of mind when I'm not doing anything serious.

I agree that the voice change needs to be ironed out, in any event, and I'll examine your other suggestions as I re-edit this. Thanks, J.

~R

 

[twelveoone]

Re: Sidewalk

anna, at first glance; you both start and end on weak lines, and I'm really not sure why you would want end it on that near repeated line as a summnation
We walk on the street
we walked on the street.

Suggest Caps here, as the sign would be, and consider line breaks also
Pawn Shop
Checks Cashed
Bail Bond Liquor

 

[annaswirls]

anna's reply to 1201 York road comments

anna, at first glance; you both start and end on weak lines, and I'm really not sure why you would want end it on that near repeated line as a summnation
We walk on the street
we walked on the street.

Suggest Caps here, as the sign would be, and consider line breaks also
Pawn Shop
Checks Cashed
Bail Bond Liquor

Thanks 1201, yeah they are pretty weak lines. I will think about why I decided to use them. This is definately not one of my better poems, but I felt badly just letting it sit there rotting.

will think about the signs-- seems to make sense!

Thanks for reading and commenting!


OKAY WHO IS NEXT?

 

[average gina]

My turn to be shredded...

Changed my mind... I'm submitting the poem below for ripping.

 

[average gina]

I was sure that I might have you
for so much longer
you broke my heart
as you got weaker
how dare you do
what the doctors expected
damn it...
how dare you consider
not being strong enough
to beat the odds
you were suppose to live
you were larger than life
not the other way around
damn it.
i am selfish now
wishing you had endured
wishing you got better
just to touch you
damn it!
could you not
have taken me with you?

 

[impressive]

Tease My Empty Heart

Why must you tease my empty heart?
What has my heart done to you,
To slice, dice, and when you’re through,
Toss it back to me all shredded
With pain so very deeply embedded?
Why must you tease my empty heart?
I hope throughout each passing day
Your angst will somehow give way
To something peaceful, warm and pure,
So my love for you will endure.
You’ll do anything I say I fear
To keep my loving ways so near
Until your need to hurt me comes
And my heart’s love blood runs
Leaving it aching and restless.
Dam you to hell for now but, “Yes!”
I’ll say when you come again
And I’ll think dam you to hell and then
Beg for your embrace and your kiss
Feeling so much painful bliss!
Why must you tease my empty heart?

I have to read it slam-style to get anything from it ... but if that's how you want it read, I think it would be more effective if your words were harsher -- more biting and less angst-y.

Oh, and it's "damn"

 

[*Catbabe*]

Hi Gina,

I broke the poem into sections to make my comments easier to understand. You have lots of great ideas here and you definitely portray a strong sense of emotion in the piece.

Here are some of my ideas section by section:

I was sure that I might have you
for so much longer
you broke my heart
as you got weaker
how dare you do
what the doctors expected
damn it...

What if you told us what having him longer might have looked like? Choose something special maybe that defined your time together to draw the reader deeper into the relationship. When the line is more personal it is almost always a better line because you have to define it for yourself before you share it. You are much less likely then to use a phrase that someone else has already written because nobody has seen exactly what you have seen.

The same idea with “you broke my heart”. That is a phrase that can apply to millions of people. Tell us what it means to you specifically and you almost assuredly have a better line. As a reader, “broke my heart” seems like filler and my eyes will skip it, but if you tell me really and truly how you felt, I would never skip a word.

What did weaker look like? The reader wants you to paint the picture so that we can see what you are trying to share with us. We always want to hear your words which usually take time to come out and you have to really focus on what you want to say.

This is definitely really opinion here but I think the piece might also be stronger if you really focused on one main feeling that you want to project. You have two HUGE ones in the first section, mourning the lost time together and a sense of abandonment.


how dare you consider
not being strong enough
to beat the odds
you were suppose to live
you were larger than life
not the other way around
damn it.

The same issues repeat in this section. There is a very strong sense of emotion but the pictures or imagery just aren’t there so as a reader I don’t feel drawn in to the middle of the poem…I am just watching from a distance which is fine sometimes but you are a writing an emotional poem so I think you want us closer.

You have also brought in a third emotion now, anger. Anger because the person perhaps gave up their will to fight. All three emotional issues raised by the poem are really quite intense and I can see why you wanted them all in there because they are so important. However, sometimes if the poem starts to contain too much then the effect is that everything is somewhat watered down and not as intense as it should be. The reader feels overwhelmed so instead of feeling what you want them to, they feel nothing at all. If you focus on one or maybe two then you can paint the picture with more clarity and then reader doesn’t feel bounced around as much.

I would always avoid expressions like “larger than life” and replace them with your own ideas about what that means or what that looked like to you.


i am selfish now
wishing you had endured
wishing you got better
just to touch you
damn it!

In this section you have returned to mourning your loss which is a big leap from the anger in the last one. I think this section also stays too much on the surface. It doesn’t share enough to engage me…what would you have done if he had lived? What would it have meant to you?


could you not
have taken me with you?

I like your ending and I think it captures a common feeling in a very direct concise manner. It would need a capital with your current punctuation. I think “could you not” is a bit awkward and could easily be replaced with a clearer statement like:

Sometimes I wish I had gone with you.




I know the process of losing someone is difficult and filled with lots of emotional changes and I can see why you wanted to portray that, but I think in a short poem you are best served to focus your efforts.

Maybe you could elaborate each section that tries to capture one particular aspect of the grieving process and make it into its own poem and then you could have a sequence of short poems that together capture the whole experience?

If you do leave all the different changing emotions in the poem you will have to figure out a way to get them to flow better together so the effect isn’t as jarring or overwhelming.

I am not a big fan of repetition so although I understood why you punctuated with the “damn it’s” they didn’t really work for me. If they were meant to portray anger and frustration I think that would come out on its own if you fleshed out why you feeling the things you were in each section. Describe what the loss looks like to you and then we will know how it feels without you telling us.

Please don’t feel that my comments are in any way a comment on what the poem talks about or your experiences, Gina. My comments are just about the words. If you want me to clarify anything you can ask me here or in pm.

Best of luck with it.

T.

 

[annaswirls]

Gina's Poem

Hi Gina!

I have hesitated in commenting on this poem because it is so personal, so based upon emotion, I can imagine it is quite close to you. I am surprised you chose it for dissection. I purposefully picked one I was not too crazy about.

I an in awe of Catbabe, really she put into words the feelings I had about your poem but could not figure out how to say it.

She is right. Make this personal. Make us feel what you feel, not by telling us to feel it, or telling us how you felt. It never works. Pick a few potent moments and put us in them.

the chilling pierce I feel
my dead wife's comb
underneath my heel.

I do not remember who wrote that, I know someone would. Big name. I will search it.

I read it years and years ago, probably 15 and still I remember the lines.

Make your poem more like this, you have intense emotions that deserve a potent poem, memorable. Yours.

Sometimes people think if they make poetry too specific that they will lose universal appeal, and that is true if it is all detail detail detail of the situation without feeling built in.


I would suggest brainstorming images that pop into your mind as you run through your range of emotions,
mourning, anger, longing.


okay, not to make a comparison, but Neo wrote a poem about how he imagined his dead cat was still there... I will look for it. It shows how his specific experience can be translated to other peoples feelings because of empathy. He did not prescribe a response. He recreated the experience and allowed the reader to have their own.

I hope this helps!

I love the ending, not the wording exactly, but your choice to end with this question.

I think it is important, no matter how you change this poem, to keep it clear that you are asking, why didn't you take me with you?

a question many of us have asked, I am sure.

I was sure that I might have you
for so much longer
you broke my heart
as you got weaker
how dare you do
what the doctors expected
damn it...
how dare you consider
not being strong enough
to beat the odds
you were suppose to live
you were larger than life
not the other way around
damn it.
i am selfish now
wishing you had endured
wishing you got better
just to touch you
damn it!
could you not
have taken me with you?

 

[average gina]

The more I think about this poem and the input, the more I think that changing this poem would be like using a bunch of bandaids to stop an amputated leg from bleeding.

Pictures do form in my mind. Specific ones. Ones that make me choke and ache. I'm on the verge of throwing up just thinking about them, the pain has so thrown me. Now if only I could give you the pictures. I do understand. I think the rewrite of this poem will be more of an evolution than an edit.

I wish I could put all of my posted poems up for ripping (except for I Screamed at Inhumanity--I know people do not like the redundancy of it, but I do and I have since removed the last line), but this is for one and all to share, not a public forum asking all, "Do you like me?" or "How am I doing? Call 1-800-RIP ME UP".

I totally hunger for any tactful advice. Thanks Cat and Anna (and anyone else that wishes to respond).

 

[twelveoone]

I wanted to eyeball this thread for a few days before I brought anything for the slaughter. I like where it's gone and I respect the amount of mechanical talent you've all displayed. I can't critique like that.

Anyhoo. The poem I'm laying down, here, is one that I really want to like, but have sort of avoided, because I tried for a different voice and got slapped for it. The title sucks, in retrospect, so bear with it and I'm not really certain what I was thinking with the format (I, II, III, etc.). In any case, there are things I like very much, here, but overall I'm thoroughly dissatisfied.

Melancholera




There you have it! Fire at will.

~D.A.

General comments: what is the significance of 10? fingers? use your hands (in the imagery). As Anna noted, your use of language fluxuates, if you keep that use consistent within each numbered section, I feel it will work. On the top level I would pick a number that has a significance, and add a line or two, that would add a unifiing theme, i.e. 5 senses, lines about seeing, next section, lines about what has been heard, sounds. Do it subtly.

I.
So many days look like
pale reflections of death,
suppurating hours
spent behind smoked glass.
pus discharging hours? you call attension to that word here, really want to do that? Second line is a cliche


II.
Was a home, once,
"our little den of sin,"
we said, and I miss you
on the balcony
waving me away to work.
God, but you loved
my sorry ass.
Second section, simple, consistent, nice twists


III.
The infectious
melancholy
of moments.

Half-forgotten memories of a merry face
half-obscured by sheets blown in the wind,
all half-remembered over a cup of coffee,
shared across a table;
an endless overlook of
separations which echo
up and down hollow bones.
Either get rid of "half" or develop it further,i.e. a little further than just separation.
Despite what you may have read in the "Handbook of better than average poetry", "bones" (as is "stones) is a cliche, have a stonger reason for using it. Other cliches, "blown in the wind" "echo" as used here.
"The infectious melancholy of moments." if you must use the word "suppurating" do so close to this line.

IV.
Birdboned
and flightless.

When I got there,
all my hopes clutched to my chest
in neat little bundles,
she was waiting with
arms spread so wide.

I could have circled the earth
on her wings.
This is almost "killer", maybe a little more work, I like the effect


V.
Useless affectations of affection
effected all my affluent ardor.

I liked to fuck her,
but I didn't love her.
She always knew.

I knew.
V. is totally fucked, as is, by the first two lines. They scream look at me I can do word play; spread 'em out. This is compounded by the simplicity of the next four lines, which are effective.


VI.
On these pale days,
peering back with the bones
of old memories tack-tacking
against each other
to the tune of, "should've been,"
it's easy to overlook
the disguising inconsistency
of falsely uncertain understanding.


VII.
We never admit
that we really understand
the things we look away from.
VI, and VII address the same issue, but contradict each other. You have already summed it in "uncertain understanding."
I would drop "falsely", I forgive you for "pale days" and even "bones" although both could be better.
You will be questioned on:
"the disguising inconsistency
of uncertain understanding."
which has a nice disgusting ring to it, think it out, do what you can to keep it.



VIII.
People are puzzles
glimpsed too close -
distance-lent perspective
plays neat little jokes on memory.

In the hole,
any grass
is greener grass.
VIII is marred by the complexity of the first four lines against the last three, the last three are weak.

IX.
Dust of years,
dust of ages
undisturbed
by forgotten sages -
(How I make memory
into a museum!)
What curious curator
catalogues the curios
I keep locked up inside
cabinets in my mind?

He is a hobbled crone of
a stickfigure. This man
has bruised veins,
all liver-spotted palsy,
ugly effectiveness.

Dust, dust, dust, one two many here. Mere "dust" implies either years or ages.
This section is going places, but is not there, yet. Quick fixes:
Drop "curious" to avoid tongue twister effect.
Rewrote line
This man
IS bruised veins, liver-spotted, palsied.
"ugly effectiveness" would be better describing the making of memory into a museum.




X.
Strange writings in the dirt of mind,
these lost languages of past connection.
There are people whose words
I once could have foretold,
who speak now with tongues
I feel I never knew.
All ties have fallen to drift and decay.
What fool, I, trusting my heart to frayed ropes.

The center cannot hold.
X. Suffers from "sounding cool". Think this one out. This past connection, what is it?
"but I didn't love her.
She always knew."
What do you really want to say?
I am sorry for what some would say the brutality of this, I think it shows a lot of promise, this sectioned questioning, this various ways of looking at the disintergration of a relationship, iron out the confusion, tighten it up, and refine your techniques and you will have something beyond "good".

 

[annaswirls]

to Gina and the haiku I used

Gina,

You described the very images that poetry is made of.

It is hell.

It is not easy to be brave and truthful to those moments.

Do it.

It will make you feel better and if you really let go, it will make for amazing poetry


I bet this was not easy for him to write

haiku, by Taniguchi Buson

The piercing chill I feel:
my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom,
under my heel.

 

[DeepAsleep]

General comments: what is the significance of 10? fingers? use your hands (in the imagery). As Anna noted, your use of language fluxuates, if you keep that use consistent within each numbered section, I feel it will work. On the top level I would pick a number that has a significance, and add a line or two, that would add a unifiing theme, i.e. 5 senses, lines about seeing, next section, lines about what has been heard, sounds. Do it subtly.

I.
So many days look like
pale reflections of death,
suppurating hours
spent behind smoked glass.
pus discharging hours? you call attension to that word here, really want to do that? Second line is a cliche


II.
Was a home, once,
"our little den of sin,"
we said, and I miss you
on the balcony
waving me away to work.
God, but you loved
my sorry ass.
Second section, simple, consistent, nice twists


III.
The infectious
melancholy
of moments.

Half-forgotten memories of a merry face
half-obscured by sheets blown in the wind,
all half-remembered over a cup of coffee,
shared across a table;
an endless overlook of
separations which echo
up and down hollow bones.
Either get rid of "half" or develop it further,i.e. a little further than just separation.
Despite what you may have read in the "Handbook of better than average poetry", "bones" (as is "stones) is a cliche, have a stonger reason for using it. Other cliches, "blown in the wind" "echo" as used here.
"The infectious melancholy of moments." if you must use the word "suppurating" do so close to this line.

IV.
Birdboned
and flightless.

When I got there,
all my hopes clutched to my chest
in neat little bundles,
she was waiting with
arms spread so wide.

I could have circled the earth
on her wings.
This is almost "killer", maybe a little more work, I like the effect


V.
Useless affectations of affection
effected all my affluent ardor.

I liked to fuck her,
but I didn't love her.
She always knew.

I knew.
V. is totally fucked, as is, by the first two lines. They scream look at me I can do word play; spread 'em out. This is compounded by the simplicity of the next four lines, which are effective.


VI.
On these pale days,
peering back with the bones
of old memories tack-tacking
against each other
to the tune of, "should've been,"
it's easy to overlook
the disguising inconsistency
of falsely uncertain understanding.


VII.
We never admit
that we really understand
the things we look away from.
VI, and VII address the same issue, but contradict each other. You have already summed it in "uncertain understanding."
I would drop "falsely", I forgive you for "pale days" and even "bones" although both could be better.
You will be questioned on:
"the disguising inconsistency
of uncertain understanding."
which has a nice disgusting ring to it, think it out, do what you can to keep it.



VIII.
People are puzzles
glimpsed too close -
distance-lent perspective
plays neat little jokes on memory.

In the hole,
any grass
is greener grass.
VIII is marred by the complexity of the first four lines against the last three, the last three are weak.

IX.
Dust of years,
dust of ages
undisturbed
by forgotten sages -
(How I make memory
into a museum!)
What curious curator
catalogues the curios
I keep locked up inside
cabinets in my mind?

He is a hobbled crone of
a stickfigure. This man
has bruised veins,
all liver-spotted palsy,
ugly effectiveness.

Dust, dust, dust, one two many here. Mere "dust" implies either years or ages.
This section is going places, but is not there, yet. Quick fixes:
Drop "curious" to avoid tongue twister effect.
Rewrote line
This man
IS bruised veins, liver-spotted, palsied.
"ugly effectiveness" would be better describing the making of memory into a museum.




X.
Strange writings in the dirt of mind,
these lost languages of past connection.
There are people whose words
I once could have foretold,
who speak now with tongues
I feel I never knew.
All ties have fallen to drift and decay.
What fool, I, trusting my heart to frayed ropes.

The center cannot hold.
X. Suffers from "sounding cool". Think this one out. This past connection, what is it?
"but I didn't love her.
She always knew."
What do you really want to say?
I am sorry for what some would say the brutality of this, I think it shows a lot of promise, this sectioned questioning, this various ways of looking at the disintergration of a relationship, iron out the confusion, tighten it up, and refine your techniques and you will have something beyond "good".

You're the bomb! Thank you so much for your assessment. One thing I had trouble with, here, was my attempt at injecting running themes into this poem, bones, for instance blending into two of the bits. I'm gonna tear this down from the ground up, in the next few days, and I'm going to take into account all these suggestions. Thanks to you, people.

~D.A.

 

[wesleyann]

Just a thought, DA,

"The center cannot hold" has a lot of baggage what with "The Second Coming" and all.

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world" W. B. Yeats (obviously only the first four lines)

Normally I would say it's not a problem but as iconic as this poem is, it's kind of like screaming 'FREEBIRD" at the end of your work. It totally took me out of it.

BTW, kudos to you and all for having the guts to put your work out there for all to dissect. Perhaps someday I will too . . . .

WA

 

[twelveoone]

You're the bomb! Thank you so much for your assessment. One thing I had trouble with, here, was my attempt at injecting running themes into this poem, bones, for instance blending into two of the bits. I'm gonna tear this down from the ground up, in the next few days, and I'm going to take into account all these suggestions. Thanks to you, people.

~D.A.

Don't tear it down, without saving the good chuncks. I read somewhere about writing a story that somtimes you start in the middle, come to the end, AND THEN write the beginning to introduce the story. Do the same here, section by section.

 

[twelveoone]

Orignal
When I sometimes write I have a visual image of what it should look like on a page. In the original comments, (of which, I am proud and humbled by) two people noted the duality of this. The image I had was of a Japanese print with writing on it. I could not convey that, and I am not sure I am able to do it here, despite the use of Japanese images, terms.
Aware is a Japanese term, as is "ghost in the forest".
I apologise in advance, if I will not be able to respond to any suggestions on this, but any comments, suggestions, I will be thankful for, for this slighly redone version



Aware

I was not aware
I would go through life and find no reason

I try forgetting
so there will be nothing
but consuming emptiness

Still, contemplation of those breaking moments
that became who I am
a ghost, glued with a chameleon’s skin
Unforgetting; unshedding
this cloak of failures
assigned to me


Will you see me
in the cold rain in the forest
as a vague and ugly ghost
a monsterous form assumed
reprehensible, half crawling
with a basketfull of souls
traversing clouded downward slope
grasping for limbs, footholds
slipping on strewn November leaves
to an occluded stream?
Where as an old woman would,
with clawed hands in hard water
I try to wash away the smear
of shame and father’s failures
the stain of stolen hope


That you, my child, may be equal
and able to enjoy
the unclouded sun,
the smile of blossoms,
the murmurs of springs

Now
in the pity of passings
with no reason
I am alone
aware

 

[PatCarrington]

1201

i'm sorry i do not have time to critique this today, since i like what i read very much. hopefully, i'll be able to get to it. i'm sure others will step up for a poem of this quality.

about your desire to convey a japanese print (which is does not do to me), couldn't you simply change the title, to make the reader enter the poem with that slightly slanted perspective you want?

ukioy-e?

awareness in ukiyo-e?

awareness in a floating world?

woodcut of a rising sun?

it is just a thought, and those titles were not considered thoroughly...