Poetry Forum

[ The title is probably just a placeholder. I've been working on this one for a bit, and am unsure of how I feel about it. I may extend this significantly in the future. Nevertheless, any and all insight you can provide would be helpful. ]

Edit #1
A common man within the faceless crowd
is waiting for the sun to rise again
and cast his shade upon the rusted rails.
A light then flickers twice above his head.

The six o-five arrives at six thirteen,
as it has daily done for seven years.
It opens to reveal a monstrous gang
all sitting side by side on leather seats.

Some things of purple with a million eyes,
two legs, no arms; a greenish beast of fur
with  eight-toed feet; and scaly-legged things
that fly around with wings and silver skin.

He chooses not to go aboard, of course,
but takes the six eighteen he's never missed.
As it departs for restless city streets,
a worm walks through his brain into his shoe.

Beneath a paper mountain he performs
the task of pushing pencils on a page,
arranging words and markings of a man
that he has never met, except in print.

From urban rivers to the lake, he drives,
and sits beside the gently lapping waves
to laze around and ease a troubled tongue.
The water's fluid motion, he observes,
and watches wind remove the leaves from trees.

The canvas, white, with not a single mark,
will slouch against the glow of evening sun.
Across the lake there is a little house
of stone and brick and doric columns tall,
archaic forms completing golden lines.

He goes to paint the scene before he sleeps
but only thinks about what you and I
can say across the sea that sets apart.
Some pretty pictures of a polished poo
are all the paintings ever prove to be.





Original

A man waits at the station for a train.
The six o-five arrives at six thirteen,
as it consistently has for a year.

A light is flickering above his head,
while he stares at his shadow on the door.
It opens to reveal a monstrous crowd
all sitting side by side on wooden planks.

Some things of purple with a million eyes,
two legs, no arms; a greenish beast of fur
with  eight-toed feet; and scaly-legged things
that fly around with wings and silver skin.

He chooses not to go aboard, of course,
but takes the six eighteen he's never missed.
As it's departing for a sleepless place,
a worm walks through his brain into his shoe.

Beneath a paper mountain he performs
the task of pushing pencils on a page,
arranging words and markings of a man
that he has never met, except in word.

Subject precedes the verb, and clauses may
conclude with commas in the proper place,
but ev'ry sentence must be fully stopped.

He makes a record of the words that have
been purchased from his neighbour's timely store,
right after those obtained in bets or fights.

From urban rivers to the lake, he drives,
and sits beside the gently lapping waves
to laze around and ease his troubled tongue.
The water's fluid motion, he observes,
and watches wind remove the leaves from trees.

He goes to paint the scene before he sleeps
but only thinks about what you and I
can say across the sea that sets apart.
Some pretty pictures of a polished poo
are all the paintings ever prove to be.

(03-01-2016, 04:45 PM)UselessBlueprint Wrote: [ -> ][ The title is probably just a placeholder. I've been working on this one for a bit, and am unsure of how I feel about it. I may extend this significantly in the future. Nevertheless, any and all insight you can provide would be helpful. ]

A man waits at the station for a train.
The six o-five arrives at six thirteen,
as it consistently has for a year.

A light is flickering above his head,
while he stares at his shadow on the door.
It opens to reveal a monstrous crowd
all sitting side by side on wooden planks.

Some things of purple with a million eyes,
two legs, no arms; a greenish beast of fur
with  eight-toed feet; and scaly-legged things
that fly around with wings and silver skin.

He chooses not to go aboard, of course,
but takes the six eighteen he's never missed.
As it's departing for a sleepless place,
a worm walks through his brain into his shoe.

Beneath a paper mountain he performs
the task of pushing pencils on a page,
arranging words and markings of a man
that he has never met, except in word.

Subject precedes the verb, and clauses may
conclude with commas in the proper place,
but ev'ry sentence must be fully stopped.

He makes a record of the words that have
been purchased from his neighbour's timely store,
right after those obtained in bets or fights.

From urban rivers to the lake, he drives,
and sits beside the gently lapping waves
to laze around and ease his troubled tongue.
The water's fluid motion, he observes,
and watches wind remove the leaves from trees.

He goes to paint the scene before he sleeps
but only thinks about what you and I
can say across the sea that sets apart.
Some pretty pictures of a polished poo
are all the paintings ever prove to be.

It begins nicely, but from "He makes a record" onward, doesn't make a lot of sense to me. The deliberate disconnectedness of the two parts of the poem isn't working.

The poem is surreal. as no doubt it is meant to be. However, I look for a story or a meaning and find it difficult. Perhaps there is too much ground covered as I see in my mind's eye three phases which seem, at least to me, not linked. There is the train journey, then he seems to be marking some written English, finally letting a lake remind him of unsatisfactory pictures. The words and images are vivid and the mood successfully surreal, but I don't really understand what it all means - which could well be your intention

My advice here would be for you cut back heavily and really think about what it is you are trying to say to the reader then focus on bringing out that message. You have some strong surreal images that bring colour to the poem but the opening is rather dull and you could easily lose readers. For me you could start at S3 with and opening line such as " The carriage door opened" but this is your poem. It could be me of course that doesn't see what the poet sees so it may be worth waiting for a few other comments before you decide what your edit will look like, I notice you said you may extend this in the future I'm not sure at this stage that would be the best way to improve the poem. Best Keith

I am fairly sure I catch a lot of what blueprint is trying to elucidate. It's chock full of images, some so tight you can only catch a scent of it. Its confusing because its either too much (most likely) or not enough and needs expansion.

I see a combo of Rob Frost road not taken (the odd train that's late), then some Walter mitty ... Just a little. Frustration of technical job after an apparent missed opportunity....even Monsters, Inc.

Some sort of existential crisis ending in poo, an almost childlike frustration at apparent failure.

So I would go hacking off bits to expand whats the most important. Hope this helps some.

@Achebe - That stanza is a bit too abstract; I'm not satisfied with it. I shall work on it. I'm not sure if this piece is two or three parts, as it starts on one idea, moves to another, then back to the first.


@Julius - Surrealism was not a goal here, so I'll have to find a way to link the movement between the images. As far as meaning, it isn't anything deep or surreal, nor is it empty. If you want to try and see what it's about, pay attention to the parts that seem out of place. I'll have to find a way to fit them in a little better.

@Keith - Stanzas 1 and 2 are necessary, to be honest. There's a contrast to be seen from the first against the second and third. "The carriage door opened" does not fit in the least bit, but I will see about rewriting or eliminating line 3 and possibly reducing stanza 2.

@Aschueler - I suspect I'm still being far too wordy than I should be, but compressing this further without losing information is going to take a long time. Glad to see that Robert Frost is showing through, though evidently not how I had planned. I wanted to give the subtlest nod to "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". I do like how you're approaching the piece, however (no direct allusions to Monsters, Inc., though I do quite like the movie). The existential crisis was not what I had in mind in my first drafts, though it admittedly has a place in this form. There are really only two central ideas, so the only bits I could hack off without losing those ideas would be the light flickering.

The first wave of edits might take a while, but thanks to all who have commented so far.

I liked the light. Keep it. My mind supplied an annoying buzz, too. Joe vs the volcano.

And I've always thought "Stopping but the woods... " as a death metaphor.

Maybe you need to unfold the poem more if you can't simplify it.

Stopping by Woods on a Snow Evening is definitely along those lines, but the speaker is clearly not dead at the finish. "L'appel du vide" is how my professor explained it. It has a place in what I've written as well, just not in the exact same way. Here, it's meant to be a daily occurrence for the man: hearing the call everyday, but never acting on it. I might eliminate stanza 6, as it seems way too out of place, and honestly I forced it in there. Stanzas 5 and 7 are probably going to the first ones I focus on editing.

Edit: Thank you all for the feedback so far. I've edited the original post with the next version, but I don't believe it is quite up to par yet. A little summary of the changes.

Stanzas 1 & 2: Reworded, rearranged. Focused on making a clearer image. Fixed some holes in the meter that I previously ignored.

Stanza 4: Third line reworded, no significant change to the sense of it (unsure if that comma is grammatically correct or not, too lazy to check right now).

Stanza 5: 'word' had been repeated, second occurrence replaced with 'print'

Stanzas 6&7 (original): removed entirely. Too much tell, not enough show. Might be reworked.

New stanza added, though it still needs some attention.