I have no particular attraction to the word in this piece bar the rhyme with distorted and the way it seems to mash together
an open invite to tear a poem to pieces
- Thread starter todski28
- Start date
I have no particular attraction to the word in this piece bar the rhyme with distorted and the way it seems to mash together
Senna Jawa
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"Sign Language" by todski28
Todski proposed his poem:
in bflagsst's thread titled Bflag's Pleasures of Criticism. Perhaps I shouldn't spoil bflagsst's pleasure by adding my pleasures and displeasures
; first of all this Todski's own thread an open invite... fits this discussion better, more narrowly. (Oooph, so much for my formal explanations and excuses).
The other Todski's poem, The smile of breaking was extreme while Sign Language belongs more to the middle of the road (being extreme or not is just a feature--it's neither good or bad).
Poem The smile... starts right away from the middle of it, WOOP, BANG. Some poems like this are successful. Most of the time it may mean a drawback; especially in the case of an extreme poem. If it were not for the Lit discussion I would simply disregard The smile... just after first 2-3 lines, the poem would be too obscure to me. Fortunately, due to the thread, I stopped for a longer time to read it in full, and to dwell on it. Nevertheless one should not lose readers just like this.
Poem Sign Language has a more common composition. It consists of two contrasting parts. There is no symmetry. The first one serves as intruduction. The second one stores a conclusion, the point of the whole piece. Many of LeeAnn Heringer's poems are like this. (The occurrence of TWO is so common in poetry that a rec.arts.poems Serra challenged us--or may be just me privately--to write poems about THREE. I wrote one such poem especially to meet her challenge; see the my Lit archive).
There are two popular ways in which TWO appears in a poem: contrast (thus accompanied with certain tension) or juxtaposition. Todski's Sign... is based on contrast.
Sign Language on the micro level of details is very good, very strong. (In particular, the line: the scars that blink as they move, is SUPERB!). On the global level poem Sign... is poor, artistically it doesn't exist--basic understanding of poetry is missing.
I have to stop now. I plan to write about the poem on the micro-level and the global level in the next post (writing about The smile... poses a harder challenge).
REMARK -- Observe how natural is the composition of the old Chinese poem
MEETING IN THE ROAD from the What a Poet Needs thread. It is one of the advantages of MEETING... over poem What a Poet needs, and of course over The smile... .
Todski proposed his poem:
in bflagsst's thread titled Bflag's Pleasures of Criticism. Perhaps I shouldn't spoil bflagsst's pleasure by adding my pleasures and displeasures
; first of all this Todski's own thread an open invite... fits this discussion better, more narrowly. (Oooph, so much for my formal explanations and excuses).The other Todski's poem, The smile of breaking was extreme while Sign Language belongs more to the middle of the road (being extreme or not is just a feature--it's neither good or bad).
Poem The smile... starts right away from the middle of it, WOOP, BANG. Some poems like this are successful. Most of the time it may mean a drawback; especially in the case of an extreme poem. If it were not for the Lit discussion I would simply disregard The smile... just after first 2-3 lines, the poem would be too obscure to me. Fortunately, due to the thread, I stopped for a longer time to read it in full, and to dwell on it. Nevertheless one should not lose readers just like this.
Poem Sign Language has a more common composition. It consists of two contrasting parts. There is no symmetry. The first one serves as intruduction. The second one stores a conclusion, the point of the whole piece. Many of LeeAnn Heringer's poems are like this. (The occurrence of TWO is so common in poetry that a rec.arts.poems Serra challenged us--or may be just me privately--to write poems about THREE. I wrote one such poem especially to meet her challenge; see the my Lit archive).
There are two popular ways in which TWO appears in a poem: contrast (thus accompanied with certain tension) or juxtaposition. Todski's Sign... is based on contrast.
Sign Language on the micro level of details is very good, very strong. (In particular, the line: the scars that blink as they move, is SUPERB!). On the global level poem Sign... is poor, artistically it doesn't exist--basic understanding of poetry is missing.
I have to stop now. I plan to write about the poem on the micro-level and the global level in the next post (writing about The smile... poses a harder challenge).
REMARK -- Observe how natural is the composition of the old Chinese poem
MEETING IN THE ROAD from the What a Poet Needs thread. It is one of the advantages of MEETING... over poem What a Poet needs, and of course over The smile... .
Last edited:
Senna Jawa
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"Sign Language" by todski28 (cnt.)
The great description of hands in the first three stanzas of Sign Language (or here S.L. for short) makes this poem. It's so good that you may even decide that S.L. simply is a good poem. The overall judgment actually is not important, and so I will address the shortcomings of the poem.
But first of all let me stress how fantastic is line 2, it's about hands:
This dynamic and colorful image is a treat for your eyes. The delicate lightness which has in its background the crudeness of the hands themselves is true poetry at the best.
As a reader, you have to see it, it's your reader's duty and pleasure provided by the author. The tanned hands (or dark or black), and the discoloration of the blisters. All moving. During physical work and exercises, during everyday chores, during walks with his woman, ...
========================================
I will follow with a large number of negative comments. The number should not matter. I still have a positive overall impression of the poem Sign Language.
Now about the strategy of S.L. The author wanted to share with the readers an image of a combination: a strong man and a child (or a fragile woman). Fine. However, this banal idea is a cliche.
This concept should not be given to the reader on a plate, explicitly. But that's what the author did. Actually, todski28 has performed in this direction quite an impressive exercise (hands talking), which once again shows his potential. Thus it's a pity that his exercise doesn't work artistically. More about it later. Also, at the end of my comments, I will address how to carry this poem without suffering the banal impression (it would take more effort, the poetry is not easy, but it's doable).
A banal idea tends to go hand in hand with a bunch of concrete cliches and banal formulations (local cliches), and the author commits declamations. Thus we get lines like this:
and
Such verses are not a minor problem, they artistically mean a huge drawback, when we talk about poetry-- there is no excuse for them. They can be addressed like other problems (of the poem) described below near the end. (It's a good exercise to replace these cliches by something authentic, without a heart or other cliched/ficticious metaphors, etc.).
Now let's follow todsky's creative but misguided exercise:
This gives a sample of the detailed problems with your strategy. The total, overall effect of S.L. is that the whole poem feels like a retarded (but oh-so-moral) kindergarten instructor talking to small kids wearing smelly diapers.
======================================
(Above, in addition to the criticism, I already have made some constructive suggestions too).
There is more than one way to replace your strategy with another. A simple and natural one, and still excellent (as good as any) would be to provide nothing but pure reportage. Let the readers by themselve get the contrast between the crude man and his gentle relation to his child (and wife).
You may still give samples of the man's voice, it can even be given in the first person, but only as quotes, otherwise let the man be gramatically a third person.
As it is now, you have the man talking about his own hands. It is possible but it affects the whole character of the situation-- do you really want the man to sound narcissistic?! That would be a different and unintended effect.
=================================
Once again, regardless of my criticism, I am still impressed by Sign Language.
Comments on Sign Language (poem by todski28)
The great description of hands in the first three stanzas of Sign Language (or here S.L. for short) makes this poem. It's so good that you may even decide that S.L. simply is a good poem. The overall judgment actually is not important, and so I will address the shortcomings of the poem.
But first of all let me stress how fantastic is line 2, it's about hands:
the scars that blink as they move
This dynamic and colorful image is a treat for your eyes. The delicate lightness which has in its background the crudeness of the hands themselves is true poetry at the best.
As a reader, you have to see it, it's your reader's duty and pleasure provided by the author. The tanned hands (or dark or black), and the discoloration of the blisters. All moving. During physical work and exercises, during everyday chores, during walks with his woman, ...
========================================
I will follow with a large number of negative comments. The number should not matter. I still have a positive overall impression of the poem Sign Language.
Now about the strategy of S.L. The author wanted to share with the readers an image of a combination: a strong man and a child (or a fragile woman). Fine. However, this banal idea is a cliche.
This concept should not be given to the reader on a plate, explicitly. But that's what the author did. Actually, todski28 has performed in this direction quite an impressive exercise (hands talking), which once again shows his potential. Thus it's a pity that his exercise doesn't work artistically. More about it later. Also, at the end of my comments, I will address how to carry this poem without suffering the banal impression (it would take more effort, the poetry is not easy, but it's doable).
A banal idea tends to go hand in hand with a bunch of concrete cliches and banal formulations (local cliches), and the author commits declamations. Thus we get lines like this:
your fragility
and
...we cradled you
to our heart
to our heart
Such verses are not a minor problem, they artistically mean a huge drawback, when we talk about poetry-- there is no excuse for them. They can be addressed like other problems (of the poem) described below near the end. (It's a good exercise to replace these cliches by something authentic, without a heart or other cliched/ficticious metaphors, etc.).
Now let's follow todsky's creative but misguided exercise:
- the title (Sign Language)--nothing terrible, but this title is not much to a point (it doesn't connect materially and directly with anything in the poem), it's not convincing. The unfortunate thing is that it directs the reader toward abstraction. I don't want to provide my own variants of the title, let me just suggest that this title should be sensual (but not erotic--it should have its color, smell, ...; some of these things and nothing more. It should only induce profoundness gently, without spelling it out for the readers. (Don't spell out any abstract profoundness at all anywhere).
- Stare at my hands and dare them to speak-- this line was a big and artistically wrong idea. It's artificial. Even if a man would think and talk like this (not very likely but possible), it's still not poetry. It's not fresh. Perhaps, if there was distance to the character, if there was in addition a different main narrator, if the character (the man) was inserted and would appear in a main narrator's story, then it'd be easier to swallow the character's quoted voice). In general, todski, you may consider poems which are not like standard movies with one screen only, but innovative, with more then one screen, positioned at different distances; or like a movie in a movie--actually, this is done occasionally in movies). It may be hard to give up on this idea of the man talking like Stare..., but such things leave a bad taste most of the time (many people, also on Lit, don't have any taste, so this might be no problem).
- talk or action?--instead of the man talking about his hands (which was done superbly), it may be cleaner to show glimpses of him in action (at work, exercising, fighting in a bar).
- the story they most want to tell--pronoun they stands for man's hands. It'd be simpler to say my hands. We start to see (in the next line) who is the man talking to. But even after that next line: is the day they held you, it is still not clear, not quite. Authors quite often like the phony tension of keeping the reader in the dark, like in the first line (Stare...). It's done in prose and movies too. This though is cheap.
With this same line the story..., we are revisiting the problem mentioned earlier, of artificiality. As a minimum, it needs distance from the man (which I mentioned already). Otherwise the author and the lyrical subject (the man) are identified, to make the sound of the whole poem naive. - It is possible (after some stumbling) to understand the sudden introduction of pronoun we (in the phrase as we cradled), but logically and linguistically, and with respect to the composition of the whole piece, this it's kind of shocking. This is not Art of Words.
This gives a sample of the detailed problems with your strategy. The total, overall effect of S.L. is that the whole poem feels like a retarded (but oh-so-moral) kindergarten instructor talking to small kids wearing smelly diapers.
======================================
(Above, in addition to the criticism, I already have made some constructive suggestions too).
There is more than one way to replace your strategy with another. A simple and natural one, and still excellent (as good as any) would be to provide nothing but pure reportage. Let the readers by themselve get the contrast between the crude man and his gentle relation to his child (and wife).
You may still give samples of the man's voice, it can even be given in the first person, but only as quotes, otherwise let the man be gramatically a third person.
As it is now, you have the man talking about his own hands. It is possible but it affects the whole character of the situation-- do you really want the man to sound narcissistic?! That would be a different and unintended effect.
=================================
Once again, regardless of my criticism, I am still impressed by Sign Language.
Last edited:
Thank you senna for this. That is very helpful and insightful on all counts. I will hopefully be back in a couple of days to respond a bit more but as it stands you have provided me with a lot of things to help me progress as a writer and also some great tips on where the poem fails from a poetry perspective.
Senna Jawa
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Thank YOU, todski. This reminds me the Lit old days when several regulars (far from all, but still several) talked about poetry (and without playing any low games) because they valued poetry instead of making pretenses.
I am afraid that I've committed a lot of typos; possibly some fractions of sentences still hang there when they were meant to be removed; and so on. Let me know, and I'll try to correct the mishaps. I am prone to mistakes.
twelveoone
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well, well, well
and clap, clap, clap
something from the pass of Szczerba has awoke
there is something is bfag's thread, that would you both would pay to heed well.
But this:
"Once again, regardless of my criticism, I am still impressed by Sign Language."
and all that was above.
This impresses me.
and clap, clap, clap
something from the pass of Szczerba has awoke
there is something is bfag's thread, that would you both would pay to heed well.
But this:
"Once again, regardless of my criticism, I am still impressed by Sign Language."
and all that was above.
This impresses me.
champagne1982
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1201: Do you just use the colour cyan for your texts to be obnoxious? LOL it hurts my eyes so generally I just hit the "quote" reply button and see what the heck you have to say.
With a nod to Senna and todski, I liked 'Sign Language" too.
twelveoone
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probably
as I am annoyed, ignored...
but wonder of wonder
finally SJ speaks in the positive about someone else, and some of it is in a clear voice, this is what is known as balance.
tod, who is quite the adept student (as we all should be) will benefit from part of it, but be advised that no one is right all the time in all things
twelveoone
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'sides didn't know you ever bothered to really read what i say
champagne1982
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You have shown insight in the past so, being insane, I continually pursue the same course in hopes that the current outcome will be different. Lol. I am sorry to have disillusioned you.
twelveoone
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Sure as shit, someone is going to misread this...
the cyan thing is for Senna, I wouldn't want to hurt his eyes, even though he put me on ignore, I'm sure he sneaks a peek. EEK!
anyway, I'm glad to see you see the proper relationship between insight, insanity and poetry, a tricky mix.
Thank you
Days blur together
it’s one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
FUCKING SHUT YOUR MOUTH
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
it’s one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
FUCKING SHUT YOUR MOUTH
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
greenmountaineer
Literotica Guru
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let 'er rip
Days blur together
it’s one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
This opening stanza is somewhat confusing to me. I get it (I think) by the exaggerated affect of L2 & L3 coupled with the opening of S2, but it took some effort. I'm of the opinion "don't make the reader work too hard at the beginning of the poem."
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
FUCKING SHUT YOUR MOUTH
L3 felt redundant because of L2 and the image that jumps out in the next stanza.
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
I like the above as a stand alone line.
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
From "his pale throat..finger slit like prison bars(great line BTW) is where I had my "aha" with the poem, tod, AND I MAY BE TOTALLY MISINTERPRETING IT, so I don't want to continue critiquing it until you validate or invalidate my take:
Is the guy looking at himself in the mirror or is Shane someone else?
Days blur together
it’s one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
This opening stanza is somewhat confusing to me. I get it (I think) by the exaggerated affect of L2 & L3 coupled with the opening of S2, but it took some effort. I'm of the opinion "don't make the reader work too hard at the beginning of the poem."
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
FUCKING SHUT YOUR MOUTH
L3 felt redundant because of L2 and the image that jumps out in the next stanza.
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
I like the above as a stand alone line.
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
From "his pale throat..finger slit like prison bars(great line BTW) is where I had my "aha" with the poem, tod, AND I MAY BE TOTALLY MISINTERPRETING IT, so I don't want to continue critiquing it until you validate or invalidate my take:
Is the guy looking at himself in the mirror or is Shane someone else?
Those first comments gm are already a big help.
Shane is a second person this documents my first of three drug induced psychotic episodes, we had been awake for around 6 -7 days he was laughing and I very nearly killed him.
I actually remember seeing myself reflected in his eyes which is what stopped me,
Fragmented cohesion is essentially the head space that occurs so I have tried to keep with the way it felt to me, in an attempt to have an empathetic reaction from a reader. I should possibly gI've it a very straight forward title that helps bring a reader in so they know what they are in for.
Shane is a second person this documents my first of three drug induced psychotic episodes, we had been awake for around 6 -7 days he was laughing and I very nearly killed him.
I actually remember seeing myself reflected in his eyes which is what stopped me,
Fragmented cohesion is essentially the head space that occurs so I have tried to keep with the way it felt to me, in an attempt to have an empathetic reaction from a reader. I should possibly gI've it a very straight forward title that helps bring a reader in so they know what they are in for.
greenmountaineer
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Thanks. Now I can wrap my head around it differently. I'll continue commenting when I have more time.
BTW (and I'm not trying to get you to change the poem) with poets like you and I are who tend (like?) to delve into the dark side of our natures, and its negative self-talk, looking at ourselves in the mirror so to speak in a monologue can be effective.
greenmountaineer
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OK. Shane's your drug buddy. Thanks for the clarification. To resume:
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
I'm confused by "the cross/hatching"
If cross-hatching is intended as a compound word, I would not use enjambment:
"to mingle with the cross-hatching
of diamond tiling
or
"to mingle with the cross-hatching of
diamond tiling"
because the sonics of diamond tiling segues well with "metal clatters" IMO.
If cross/hatching are two words, I confess I'm confused by their meaning.
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
shaking fear his blanket
I don't what you mean here. Is fear his blanket? If so, why would fear be a blanket? I understand how we try to blanket our fears, but what does fear blanket?
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat 2nd "echo" redundant, doesn't add anything to the line
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that Is this a typo? I'm not sure why you inserted it.
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal great line; I can almost taste the grit myself.
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
Powerful crescendo accelerating at "the moon shatters...." You took me to the edge literally and metaphorically, but didn't leave me there because
"it's Sunday"
a day of rest, "The Lord's Day," a new beginning; there's always hope.
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
I'm confused by "the cross/hatching"
If cross-hatching is intended as a compound word, I would not use enjambment:
"to mingle with the cross-hatching
of diamond tiling
or
"to mingle with the cross-hatching of
diamond tiling"
because the sonics of diamond tiling segues well with "metal clatters" IMO.
If cross/hatching are two words, I confess I'm confused by their meaning.
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched and foetal curled he gurgles
a garbled growl shaking fear his blanket
shaking fear his blanket
I don't what you mean here. Is fear his blanket? If so, why would fear be a blanket? I understand how we try to blanket our fears, but what does fear blanket?
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat 2nd "echo" redundant, doesn't add anything to the line
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that Is this a typo? I'm not sure why you inserted it.
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal great line; I can almost taste the grit myself.
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
Powerful crescendo accelerating at "the moon shatters...." You took me to the edge literally and metaphorically, but didn't leave me there because
"it's Sunday"
a day of rest, "The Lord's Day," a new beginning; there's always hope.
Cross
Hatching
was one of those experimental errant thoughts we try new and then I was hoping that the cross en jammed as it was would embed a flash image of Jesus on the cross a cry for a salvation from myself and to tie it into the end which you summed up perfectly the lords day of rest.
Shaking fear his blanket
Have you ever been curled into a formal position trying to gather warmth from your own body shaking at how cold it is? I was attempting a literal description trying to implant am image of sad a wino or homeless person curled in such a way that it causes an empathetic reaction.
Echo was added simply because I felt it added sonically. speak that section out loud with out the second echo and it loses some of the musicality
But your thoughts add the next lot of perspective for me so thank you gm for your time!
Hatching
was one of those experimental errant thoughts we try new and then I was hoping that the cross en jammed as it was would embed a flash image of Jesus on the cross a cry for a salvation from myself and to tie it into the end which you summed up perfectly the lords day of rest.
Shaking fear his blanket
Have you ever been curled into a formal position trying to gather warmth from your own body shaking at how cold it is? I was attempting a literal description trying to implant am image of sad a wino or homeless person curled in such a way that it causes an empathetic reaction.
Echo was added simply because I felt it added sonically. speak that section out loud with out the second echo and it loses some of the musicality
But your thoughts add the next lot of perspective for me so thank you gm for your time!
greenmountaineer
Literotica Guru
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- 2,442
You're welcome, tod. This was an enjoyable read. It's almost as much fun to delve into a poem that captures your imagination as it is to write one.
I'm still a bit puzzled by "shaking fear his blanket..."
I know punctuation isn't in vogue with some poets, but did you mean "shaking fear, his blanket?"
The main reason I don't punctuate is a lack of proper understanding of it, so my punctuation is a distraction more than guide I have found.
I was trying to write out the cliche
A blanket of fear but 8 am seriously thinking of revising the line and trimming some bits and pieces based on some of your thoughts so thank you again.
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Shane snorts another line
then I do mine
our party trick,
one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched, foetal curled he gurgles
"please don't" shaking adrenaline
fuels his fear
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
a door slams,
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
then I do mine
our party trick,
one sleep till Saturday
and it’s just turned Monday midnight……
hyped up neurons twitch
a flare of powdered dark
black bags full of pupils too wide
how normal it feels
how right to just let it all go
what are you laughing at
Shane, what the fuck are you laughing at
next thing I’m pulling
a serrated blade
from the knife block
his pale throat
begs to be opened to silence laughing jest
to set his blood free
to mingle with the cross
hatching of diamond tiling
metal clatters
laughing
thrown as I see me
reflected in the glinting gleam of his eyes
hunched, foetal curled he gurgles
"please don't" shaking adrenaline
fuels his fear
my hands grip my face
finger slit like prison bars
a door slams,
in two blinks of micro sleep
my feet echo an echo beat
owl sized eyes slice through night
a cactus stalk sways
waves me forward
a race to the cliff face
dragged by a mind that wont
that can’t
that
just sleep
head down into darkened descent
eroded trail narrows to a foot wide
on either side perilous death in misted breath
the wind tastes mortal
it threatens to upend
my travelling feet
my heart beats
like prey fleeing a predator
the moon shatters in pale shimmers
reflected twins co-joined in sin
and meth crystal hoar frost
dine on salted grit
crusted skin stinks of stale sweat
and
somewhere I
fell
somewhere I caught myself
it’s Sunday
greenmountaineer
Literotica Guru
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I'll get to this and write a detailed reply when I have more time, tod. First impression (or should I say second?) pretty impressive.
greenmountaineer
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Nov 28, 2008
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This poem, tod, IMO, is publishable beyond Lit. Although I don't keep score, it may very well be the best I've seen from you. I'm going to follow up with a more detailed explanation in a separate comment.
greenmountaineer
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Nov 28, 2008
- Posts
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One of the things 1201 wrote about was "the power of three." These are my words, not his, so if I'm off base and he's lurking, knowing the curmudgeon he is, maybe that'll draw him back to PF&D:
First "the grabber," then the twist which sets the reader up for "the aha," and then "the aha!"
Your poem had that effect upon me. In the first instance, you were setting the stage as I already mentioned. The twist for me was you were projecting your self-hatred out on Shane. The running away was an attempt to run away from yourself, not just what you almost did to Shane. You went about as far as you could go, ie, "the abyss"(the ultimate running away?) Then came "the aha," "it's Sunday."
Sometimes that "aha" is resolution of a conflict; sometimes it's the accepting of the conflict. "it's Sunday" left me thinking of both. Even an agnostic, I think, would appreciate "the Lord's Day" as a metaphor suggesting pause, rest, reflection, and a determination to start anew. There may be more screw ups along the way, but there is also the determination "I don't want to live this way anymore." By the end of the poem, you had me rooting for you. That's skillful writing.
First "the grabber," then the twist which sets the reader up for "the aha," and then "the aha!"
Your poem had that effect upon me. In the first instance, you were setting the stage as I already mentioned. The twist for me was you were projecting your self-hatred out on Shane. The running away was an attempt to run away from yourself, not just what you almost did to Shane. You went about as far as you could go, ie, "the abyss"(the ultimate running away?) Then came "the aha," "it's Sunday."
Sometimes that "aha" is resolution of a conflict; sometimes it's the accepting of the conflict. "it's Sunday" left me thinking of both. Even an agnostic, I think, would appreciate "the Lord's Day" as a metaphor suggesting pause, rest, reflection, and a determination to start anew. There may be more screw ups along the way, but there is also the determination "I don't want to live this way anymore." By the end of the poem, you had me rooting for you. That's skillful writing.
