Triptych - The Lamb

Birth
I follow the crowd down to the river.
It is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, some stagger bright blinded
into the water, the splash of feet dulls
as they reach midstream their clothes drag.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive favour. I sit on a dune
as others go. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their heads, slaves and masters, dogs
fathers, children, while maternal women
sail swaddled infants safe in fig baskets.
I do not move. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag and breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter pealing
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic, absolved.
My tongue fishes unmilled grain from the bread.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

Business
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffing for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from an eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who stops to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, The glassy glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.

An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the narrow door into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg.
rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle,
in the lower branches of a cedar
spying into the courtyard down below.

My mother's neck is speckled with flour dust
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.

Betrayal
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my back.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up now."

Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shuttered to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.

I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned sandals, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple patch in the rushes.

Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird struts and listens,
to the four squat figures, impervious,
standing beneath the cross. Drawing closer
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes gaze up to heaven, released;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter, dropping the shaft.
Passing, I move my cloak to hide my load
from the tax collector's carrion gaze.

About 'First Meeting': Lovely story telling in a prose poetry sounding piece. It seemed like the carpenter (Jesus) and the narrator were watching John the Baptist. However, wasn't Jesus baptized by John? Unless he returns later... On the other hand, I have not gone to church or read the bible in decades.

About 'The Market Place': A vivid marketplace scene Jeremy. I am enjoying this series of prose poetry. It looked like you have a couple choices to make, unless you are trying to create some sense of hesitation or choice: pins me or holds me; bird or lizard. However, there is more of a stream of consciousness feeling to this passage, where these narrator options seem to reflect the workings of his mind. This brings us to the fish eye, which for a moment, I mistook for the soldier's, but again the shifting focus mimics the mind adrift. I would suggest; the stave's heel hollows a bowl (as 'feet' proceeds the image). I like baritone and lemon, but the way it is written, the voice sounds disembodied, at least not associated with the carpenter (maybe intended). Nonetheless, it seems like Jesus rises to hear the vocalization himself. Or the carpenter and the orator (Jesus) are not the same person. This would explain why he skipped the baptism. That taxman in the tree was a strong image. The mother reads out of place as the narrator has not made it home yet. Is there another narrator? Is there time lapse? I like it and want to read more.

About ‘Business’: This one had me more baffled than anything. I have probably missed the grand metaphor herein. The ‘fishmongering’ opening is effective in creating some confusion before the climax of your triptych. Dog Dongs and sardines don’t sound to appealing (are those dongs hush puppies?). I did get the impression of a hawker at a circus or sporting event. Potent image with the cast clothing on one bank and the crown of thorns on the far bank, but I am not convinced that you could see the crown from his poor vantage point. The crow seems overwrought, I like the flight, but the next line with the land/strut/listens/waits, is too much maybe. Hangs on tree implied a noose and rope for me, especially with the blood trapped in her head. Therefore, it conflicted with the nail and crucifixion. Yes, I know you can be nailed to a tree, but that takes away the possibility of carpenter playing a greater role in the execution (he could have built the cross). The woman slave is rather nameless/faceless and I suppose is your twist. She didn’t have the citrus-flavored-bass voice by any chance? Her brutalization seems to serve only in casting the other characters in a dark gloom or trick us that it was not Christ. Were the doc, taxman, carpenter, soldier arguing over the nail as a souvenir? The last line was the gem of this passage. It makes the fisherman seem like the only human in the third ‘panel’ of your triptych. He turns his back on the suffering of others and looks out for himself. Thanks for sharing your epic./Chris

Changed to 'heel' thank you Christopher.

I wonder if -
"The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him. His hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on." ?????

Does that give the opening more breath?

You would prefer a more explicit statement of the the narrator going home?

(03-25-2014, 10:52 PM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Changed to 'heel' thank you Christopher.

I wonder if -
"The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me. sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him. His hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on." ?????

Does that give the opening more breath?

Yes and the 'hooked/holds me' play is nice. You may need a comma or 'and' after me in place of the full stop.

You would prefer a more explicit statement of the the narrator going home?

Perhaps simply: 'Home, my mother's...'

Changed to -

"My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the barbel,
guts it, lops the head, fries it with butter."

(03-25-2014, 11:26 PM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Changed to -

"My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the barbel,
guts it, lops the head, fries it with butter."

Nice.

Or rather...

"My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs."

... after checking out recipes for Barbel

(03-26-2014, 12:47 AM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Or rather...

"My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs."

... after checking out recipes for Barbel

Can she whip up a batch of Dog-Dongs to go with? I am having some trouble with the third 'panel' of your triptych. I may PM you with some comments.

No need to PM, put it in the thread...

(03-25-2014, 09:10 PM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Triptych
Hi jeremy. Pushed for time. Check your syntax and spelling. Beadling? meager? Hot mornings-not when I was there. Unless you meant Jordon not Jordan. Hot afternoons, cool mornings? women-girdle?
Best,
tectak
First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Three meager coins lay before him. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's heel hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.

Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.





--------------------------------------
I'm looking for feedback on the middle section.

The 1st and 3rd section are pretty much set, if you spot a typo or apostrophe issue in there point it out.

RE: Triptych

About 'First Meeting': Lovely story telling in a prose poetry sounding piece. It seemed like the carpenter (Jesus) and the narrator were watching John the Baptist. However, wasn't Jesus baptized by John? Unless he returns later... On the other hand, I have not gone to church or read the bible in decades.

About 'The Market Place': A vivid marketplace scene Jeremy. I am enjoying this series of prose poetry. It looked like you have a couple choices to make, unless you are trying to create some sense of hesitation or choice: pins me or holds me; bird or lizard. However, there is more of a stream of consciousness feeling to this passage, where these narrator options seem to reflect the workings of his mind. This brings us to the fish eye, which for a moment, I mistook for the soldier's, but again the shifting focus mimics the mind adrift. I would suggest; the stave's heel hollows a bowl (as 'feet' proceeds the image). I like baritone and lemon, but the way it is written, the voice sounds disembodied, at least not associated with the carpenter (maybe intended). Nonetheless, it seems like Jesus rises to hear the vocalization himself. Or the carpenter and the orator (Jesus) are not the same person. This would explain why he skipped the baptism. That taxman in the tree was a strong image. The mother reads out of place as the narrator has not made it home yet. Is there another narrator? Is there time lapse? I like it and want to read more.

Jeremy, as requested, I posted below what I was going to PM to you:

About ‘Business’: This one had me more baffled than anything and it is probably me, as you are happy with it. I may have missed the key metaphor herein. The ‘fishmongering’ opening is effective in creating some confusion before the climax of your triptych. The excitement of the event to come. Dog Dongs and sardines don’t sound to appealing. Are those dongs the same thing as hush puppies (cornbread things that go with fish)? I did get the impression of a hot-dog hawker at a circus or sporting event. There is potent image with the strewn clothing on one bank and the crown of thorns on the far bank. Do you think the fisherman could see the crown from his poor vantage point (it is more like a third person narrator observation)? The crow seems over-stressed; the symbolism lost impact lost with all the descriptors and explanation. I like the flight, but the next line with the land/strut/listens/waits, is too much maybe. Hangs on tree implied a noose and rope for me, especially with the blood trapped in her head. Therefore, it conflicted with the nail and crucifixion. Yes, I know you can be nailed to a tree, but that takes away the possibility of carpenter playing a greater role in the execution (he could have built the cross). The woman slave is rather nameless/faceless and I suppose is your twist. She didn’t have the citrus-flavored-bass voice by any chance? Her brutalization seems to serve in casting the other characters in a dark gloom. Was the woman chosen to reveal that it was not Christ or does she act as a metaphor for something else. Were the doc, taxman, carpenter and soldier arguing over the nail as a souvenir? It was not clear to me. The last line was the gem of this passage. It makes the fisherman seem like the only human in the 'third panel’ of your triptych. He turns his back on the suffering of others and looks out for himself. Not evil, just very realistic and what could he really do, other than attract the tax collector. I know, a lot of questions that will provide spoilers for others if answered. Let's see what others see and say. Most of this is not critique, but more my attempt to grasp the poem. Thanks for bearing with me and sharing your epic. I will read it all again in one sitting later. /Chris

Thanks for the feedback Christopher.

About the 3rd section.

Dog dong - is partly a device to break the iambic, but is also a way of not using fuck - to represent the course nature of the fishermen - which would be wrong culturally and historically.

Looking at stuff about crucifixion, I was struck by the number of depictions not of a cross but a post, onto which the person was hung by a single nail through the hands (creating what I poetically term - the flame shape of the candle with the arms) and then impaled - impaling was apparently done to speed death, and to lessen the pain due to blood loss. And the 'inauspicious tree' was the name given to post/frame.... and the nail was apparently ground down and used in medicine - hence why the doctor and the tax collector want it - the doctor to use, the tax collector to sell. And the crow is there because it was common practice to leave the body exposed as a warning.... crucifixion being a punishment reserved for the lower, and particularly slave classes, as a way of keeping them in line - but also because of it's mythological iconic status.

The grand arching metaphor - is slightly more problematic to answer because there are a number of threads being spun...

a) this has nothing to do with the bible and this is a representation of a day. Between roughly 300BC and @100AD... possibly later, though the definition of the clothing limits this somewhat.
b) it is an allegory of Johanite heresies/traditions
c) if you take the baptism as being a Greek/Roman/Egyptian/Persian mystery cult, the allegory becomes about the early church/the Jesus Cult
d) there are elements of Simon Magus, and various apostolic/apostate traditions reacting with these three main strands

When writing the poem I have tried to play out these layers/strands, and deliberately not made choices, as to which strand dominates.

Which is perhaps not the answer you were looking for.

(03-26-2014, 05:51 AM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Thanks for the feedback Christopher.

About the 3rd section.

Dog dong - is partly a device to break the iambic, but is also a way of not using fuck - to represent the course nature of the fishermen - which would be wrong culturally and historically.

Looking at stuff about crucifixion, I was struck by the number of depictions not of a cross but a post, onto which the person was hung by a single nail through the hands (creating what I poetically term - the flame shape of the candle with the arms) and then impaled - impaling was apparently done to speed death, and to lessen the pain due to blood loss. And the 'inauspicious tree' was the name given to post/frame.... and the nail was apparently ground down and used in medicine - hence why the doctor and the tax collector want it - the doctor to use, the tax collector to sell. And the crow is there because it was common practice to leave the body exposed as a warning.... crucifixion being a punishment reserved for the lower, and particularly slave classes, as a way of keeping them in line - but also because of it's mythological iconic status.

The grand arching metaphor - is slightly more problematic to answer because there are a number of threads being spun...

a) this has nothing to do with the bible and this is a representation of a day. Between roughly 300BC and @100AD... possibly later, though the definition of the clothing limits this somewhat.
b) it is an allegory of Johanite heresies/traditions
c) if you take the baptism as being a Greek/Roman/Egyptian/Persian mystery cult, the allegory becomes about the early church/the Jesus Cult
d) there are elements of Simon Magus, and various apostolic/apostate traditions reacting with these three main strands

When writing the poem I have tried to play out these layers/strands, and deliberately not made choices, as to which strand dominates.

Which is perhaps not the answer you were looking for.

Yes, thanks for all the explanation and answers. I was working on that candle metaphor, but did not see the over the head arms as a flame. Even though I referenced the columnar crucifixion. I was thinking more of her pale limbs as the color of a candle. I did not say it was a bible story, but you lead us down that path or our own minds drew us that way. By the way, the year 33 AD falls within that time span. There were several other Easter eggs along the bunny trail of that fisherman's tale. The fork in the somewhat parallel story was when the carpenter didn't take the plunge. Then, he was not the orator in the square. A day or a year doesn't change the similarities nor hide a crown of thorns on the far side of a river bank. Nice work and thanks for sharing it.

It's a wreath of thistles.

It's very difficult to reference the Johanite gospels, or indeed many of the other traditions, without referencing the Bible.

I've cut the candle thing, it adds nothing, and removing it makes the slave woman more incidental.

(03-26-2014, 08:18 AM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  It's a wreath of thistles.

It's very difficult to reference the Johanite gospels, or indeed many of the other traditions, without referencing the Bible.

I've cut the candle thing, it adds nothing, and removing it makes the slave woman more incidental.

Whoops, I am not up on my Johanite Gospels. Sorry, about the thorn/thistle controversy. However, I have my own 'blue book' now so I can study up.

As for the candle, it is a potent image and metaphor, but yes her character is almost a prop in the discourse. On the other hand, I feel the most for her following her brutal treatment and death. You conveyed it well.

I forgot to mention that the value of the nail, albeit fascinating, is the epitome of greed, no matter how rare the metal.

(03-25-2014, 09:10 PM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Triptych

First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing swaddled infants in fig baskets.

I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter peals
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic and saved.

My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffs for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Three meagre coins lay before him. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.

An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's heel hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.

My mother's neck is speckled with flour
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.

Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."

Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt, morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple splash among the reeds.

Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird, struts and listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails, tearing again
at the woman's palms, as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.

I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.





--------------------------------------
I'm looking for feedback on the middle section.

The 1st and 3rd section are pretty much set, if you spot a typo or apostrophe issue in there point it out.

The poem - as a work - is the most interesting I have read here in a couple months at least. The mechanics could use a ton of work - you say blank verse but it's not and it might be better leaving it as not - The piece is most likely too long to include a detailed discussion, at least within the parameters of this forum plus, it would be a huge investment by anyone willing to undertake it.

I suppose i should offer something other than the metric observation and deduction that as a whole it is too large of an investment to undertake commenting on in one sitting.

The first part should be re-worked into past tense. I guess if you want to move further than that just let me know.

Christopher thank you for your help, you have been invaluable.

I trust you got the Eaziturn pages, with no MSG, edition.

(03-26-2014, 09:17 AM)jeremyyoung Wrote:  Christopher thank you for your help, you have been invaluable.

I trust you got the Eaziturn pages, with no MSG, edition.

It was my pleasure and the highlight of my day. Whatever you get for $2.99 American has whispered my way.

Hi,
Since you have posted these up as a collection I have been back several times because they have caught my attention and interest. As a read they deliver on many levels of intellect, but for me, sadly they fail to deliver in terms of a poem I can enjoy. This is both frustrating and confusing because the individual lines are undoubtedly well planned and executed in terms of the information and images they deliver and I really like the read...I guess this is just my problem - it is a read of interesting ideas. I am almost wanting to read these as a selection of Haibun. Densely packed descriptive images with a punchy Haiku to draw the whole together. Certainly the first poem in this group is like this for me. (Those last two lines would make a fantastic summation of the read above). And again in the market poem the last three lines already semi have this form.

I am sorry that cannot offer what you asked for on this one. I have enjoyed many of your other posted poems and went to this with keen interest. I think this one needs a quite a bit of re-working in terms of how the poem delivers - at the moment it is the form not the contents that is preventing me from really getting into this one.
You have asked for comments on the middle section, but for me the first stanza of the last poem (Business) was the least compelling. Again it has some great individual lines in there; which I am more than willing to highlight for you if you would like, but I appreciate that perhaps after the views and the idea of re-working this into a completely new form as I have expressed above; you might quite understandably feel you are too far down the road with where you want this poem to go to want to consider the opinions I have offered. I would respect and appreciate this as a valid response.

I am only sorry that I could not be of more help because this is a very worth project and undoubtedly has a lot of potential which I can already appreciate and I like very much.
All the best AJ.

thanks for the feedback Milo

the piece is non-rhyming, metrical verse which by definition is blank verse. I make it 38+37+24... 99 lines - 990 syllables... assuming the online checker is correct.

changing the tense of the first verse - section - would defeat the object of it being a triptych.