Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
Hi rocky20,
I like the feeling of this poem. I like how there is a thread of story that runs through the poem; I never got lost. The trout is the mystical creature, a metaphor for both change and constancy. I feel the hot summer days, the long hours, the boredom, enough to lie down for hours peering into the waters.
I find myself wondering whether the last line of Maybe is needed, or whether the last group of lines would suffice.
Overall, I enjoyed the journey this poem took me through. I look forward to more contributions from you!
Murren
(03-19-2016, 11:38 AM)rocky20 Wrote: [ -> ]Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
You placed this in novice but it could well be in mild almost serious.
(03-19-2016, 11:38 AM)rocky20 Wrote: [ -> ]Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek. Reasonably nice flow until Dupuyer. Use poetic license to a better name.
One quiet trout is found this line feels like you are setting up a rhyme, but none follows
in his spot between consider within or among the rocks
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters. Plural of water is generally water, unless you meant separate bodies of water
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water. I like this, but I am also a sucker for tidal pools. Its part of my avatar pic
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads seems random to bring wheat in now
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran although nice, not sure this strophe adds enough to be needed
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him and this one is wordy, sounds like the weather channel
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
Great job, this captured my interest. Sorry for overly detailed crit, but it can handle it.
Mike
Thanks for the kind comments Mike and murren!
Mike - I hear you on the change of the creek name, but it is the actual name so I struggle with whether or not to change it. It is kind of a ridiculous name to try to make flow well though! I will ponder that one....
I really appreciated the detailed crit, that's what I'm looking for and I may edit this and place it in mild and see what comes of it!
(03-19-2016, 11:38 AM)rocky20 Wrote: [ -> ]Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete (You might not hyphenate "rif-raf", to go with "manmade")
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the (perhaps end with "down", so the article begins the next line?)
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort (wonderful line)
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him; (I think this should be a colon, not a semi-colon)
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too. (perhaps "for him, too")
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
This is quite good: you tell a compelling story using plain words, with good pacing and rhythm. It reminds me of Williams Carlos Williams, a poet I don't normally like, but do here.
I made a few grammar/usage suggestions in-line. I also wonder if the poem should end after the "Maybe the hot dry sun...got him too". To me, that is the capstone that focuses the poem's meaning, and makes it more than a simple nostalgic remembrance. I don't think you need to say anything more after that for this to have an impact on people.
Hope this helps,
Nester
Hi Rocky,
Like the others I agree this a very good work you have created here. I also agree with another commentor that you could perhaps end with
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
Thanks, Matt
(03-19-2016, 11:38 AM)rocky20 Wrote: [ -> ]Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
(03-19-2016, 11:38 AM)rocky20 Wrote: [ -> ]The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
I found the above to be poetic. The rest of the poem is just prose with line breaks eg.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
the first 2 lines have 5 syllables, the 3rd 4, the 4th 5 again, the 5th 6, and the 7th, 4.
it is not always necessary to have uniform syllable count or meter, but in their absence, rhythm has to be created through other means. that is not happening here.
also, no imagery except for the 'wheat heads' line
Thanks all for the critiques!
Achebe, I agree I do not know how to meter very well, and it is something I will need to start putting more thought into. I also agree with you on the prose vs. poetry, however, can't a poem have more of a narrative feel? I seem to read quite a bit that seems that way, but I agree that I could up the ante on the word choice and images to make the backstory more interesting.
Great title. It is the details of this poem which bring it to life - the bridge made from a railroad car, the gravel, the jelly-shoed feet, the snow runoff.
My vote is to keep the creek name. Of course you can make up any name which makes the poem better. There is an authenticity to this name which rings true.
rif-raf > rip-rap?
You may want to look at longer lines to increase the poem's density.
Shorter lines sometimes impede rather than assist the flow.
In a few places the text feels too passive. For example, 'one quiet trout is found . . . .' -- there may an opportunity for a more active verb to give the trout a more substantial presence.
Love the poem.
T