Given the chance I would have with Freud,
Perhaps he would be so kind as not to laugh.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
like it was a newspaper, the man is brave.
Since I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
And since I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out there like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is too preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk to me with a smile and with deep breaths.
(At least he notices me) like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless human being.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man that he was
was something I can look up to.
After all, he was someone special, someone bright.
The man told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
I feel like I can’t.
As a precursor to my critique, I have not read much Freud, so if your were referencing a specific idea/concept of his it may have been lost on me! The poem strikes me as prosey. I think my main gripe with it is that it too often operates in the didactic world of telling, as opposed to the poetic world of feeling. I think you can have more confidence in your readers ability to connect the dots, instead of making things explicit. The last two lines are a good example of where I feel things are made far too explicit, in a way it makes the poem feel impenetrable.
To me the poem reads like an imaginary sitting with Freud, where the narrator wavers somewhere between admiration, fear, and trust/distrust of Frued. I was thinking Freud is so concerned with intellectual ideas, like the books, that he is ignoring the human-human element that seems like it would be important to therapy. Another theme I thought you might be exploring is the way in which we idolize certain people through history, but that our personal or cultural idea of certain people is sometimes larger than the actual person. Some things I thought were effective in the poem was your descriptions of Freud's body language and the metaphors you used to describe his image. I also thought the reference to the Francis Bacon paintings was interesting and fed into the shark face, and the sickly feeling later on. At any rate, just my 2cents... Thnx for sharing!
(07-13-2021, 01:05 PM)Poetry In Motion Wrote: [ -> ]Given the chance I would have with Freud, Given I had a chance with Freud Reads a little smoother to me.
Perhaps he would be so kind as not to laugh.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
like it was a newspaper, the man is brave. I appreciate how direct the statement "the man is brave" is but I don't understand why he is brave, relative to the rest of this stanza.
Since I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings I think you can cut Since
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
And since I found him looking like a shark Again, I don't understand since. I do like the shark image, and while I cant quite imagine the mouth hanging out like a hook, I nearly can.
with that jawbone hanging out there like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is too preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk to me with a smile and with deep breaths.
(At least he notices me) like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless human being.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man that he was Horse-shaped is evocative and somehow recalls the shark face from earlier haha
was something I can look up to. This line and the following feel a little redundant with things you've written earlier. There may be room to cut.
After all, he was someone special, someone bright.
The man told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
I feel like I can’t. Hmm the end is falling a little flat for me. It doesn't provide anything the poem already doesn't already have
(07-14-2021, 02:24 AM)Miley Wrote: [ -> ]As a precursor to my critique, I have not read much Freud, so if your were referencing a specific idea/concept of his it may have been lost on me! The poem strikes me as prosey. I think my main gripe with it is that it too often operates in the didactic world of telling, as opposed to the poetic world of feeling. I think you can have more confidence in your readers ability to connect the dots, instead of making things explicit. The last two lines are a good example of where I feel things are made far too explicit, in a way it makes the poem feel impenetrable.
To me the poem reads like an imaginary sitting with Freud, where the narrator wavers somewhere between admiration, fear, and trust/distrust of Frued. I was thinking Freud is so concerned with intellectual ideas, like the books, that he is ignoring the human-human element that seems like it would be important to therapy. Another theme I thought you might be exploring is the way in which we idolize certain people through history, but that our personal or cultural idea of certain people is sometimes larger than the actual person. Some things I thought were effective in the poem was your descriptions of Freud's body language and the metaphors you used to describe his image. I also thought the reference to the Francis Bacon paintings was interesting and fed into the shark face, and the sickly feeling later on. At any rate, just my 2cents... Thnx for sharing!
(07-13-2021, 01:05 PM)Poetry In Motion Wrote: [ -> ]Given the chance I would have with Freud, Given I had a chance with Freud Reads a little smoother to me.
Perhaps he would be so kind as not to laugh.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
like it was a newspaper, the man is brave. I appreciate how direct the statement "the man is brave" is but I don't understand why he is brave, relative to the rest of this stanza.
Since I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings I think you can cut Since
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
And since I found him looking like a shark Again, I don't understand since. I do like the shark image, and while I cant quite imagine the mouth hanging out like a hook, I nearly can.
with that jawbone hanging out there like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is too preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk to me with a smile and with deep breaths.
(At least he notices me) like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless human being.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man that he was Horse-shaped is evocative and somehow recalls the shark face from earlier haha
was something I can look up to. This line and the following feel a little redundant with things you've written earlier. There may be room to cut.
After all, he was someone special, someone bright.
The man told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
I feel like I can’t. Hmm the end is falling a little flat for me. It doesn't provide anything the poem already doesn't already have
Thanks Miley, I know this poem is a little ambiguous but still I hope others will review this piece with a little more of a bigger scope than what you did. (though I like your critique) I think there is room for improvement.
Ok well I made a little revision to the poem. Hope you can enjoy that.
Therapy with Freud During a Siesta
By Yonathan Asefaw
Perhaps he would like to listen to my problems.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
as if he were a cat to a mouse, why should he read?
I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
Why were they so violent? They seemed like him.
I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk with a smile and with deep breaths
like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless physician of the mind.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man was listening to me
I needed him to hear my problems.
He told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
His words fill my ears inviting me to listen.
(07-16-2021, 04:27 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote: [ -> ] (07-16-2021, 04:10 AM)Poetry In Motion Wrote: [ -> ]Ok well I made a little revision to the poem. Hope you can enjoy that.
Therapy with Freud During a Siesta
By Yonathan Asefaw Sounds familiar
Perhaps he would like to listen to my problems.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
as if he were a cat to a mouse, why should he read?
I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
Why were they so violent? They seemed like him.
I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk with a smile and with deep breaths
like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless physician of the mind.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man was listening to me
I needed him to hear my problems.
He told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
His words fill my ears inviting me to listen.
Of course, but what do you think of the poem?