Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.

Hi, AWBH. The first line of the poem should not be there, it is telling me too much, the poem after reading it should be delivering the "nostalgia". Nostalgia, or anything to do with it "With empathy I pulled over to get a look" should be mentioned.

The use of "rubber" did not work for me, I do not think of "rubber" as being "snapabble"
in the way the situation implies.

The use of "constricted" line 2 verse 2, seems out of place to describe the trees branches before it fell.

Check your modifiers, the use of "husky" before "branches" seems odd to me, I would accept "dark"
Another one would have been "fresh" before "sap". There are others.

"Rocks" do not blow up as "grenades" do, so that line did not work for me.

"skylines" skyline.

There are lots more within the poem to "double-check".

I liked the ending verse, that returned me to the storm in an imaginative way. To have this ending is a bonus to work up to.

I would consider condensing the piece quite a lot.

JG

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when "when" and "the" are poor choices for beggining and end words. Conjunctions make for a boring and anticipated logical flow
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped 13 syllables here to line one's 11 causes the reader to rush through the poem to maintain the rhythm
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber. anthropomorphism here adds intense emotional attachment to the tree just through using the word "spine", good job
Driving past the fields of childhood memories, This line is illogical. It has no connection to the preceding lines and ruins the scene created so far
it's like someone killed the local pastor. These last two lines switch from iambic to trochaic, which ruins the rhythm

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water. add "now" after "swing", otherwise it sounds like the rope swing is limp and bowed over
His branches no longer constricted high the rope swing, or the tree? This line requires a logical connect-the-dots which, again, demolishes what could be a great mental picture. Also, why are the branches constricted? Was it a sickly, scrawny tree? If so, how could it have been a "high and mighty" oak tree?
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive, 18 syllables here is a full ten syllables longer than the next line, and eight more than the one before it. This makes the rhythmic quality sound horrible through this stanza, the lines have to be read through again and again because a good, lyrical quality can't be found in them
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other. as in the first stanza, a great use of "arms" to humanize the tree and add emotion

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what The inversion here feels forced, since it's just used to create a rhyme with the next line
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown. This stanza is filler material, it uses a great deal more content than neccesary to say that it was sad to see such a wonderful tree fall away from you

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard trochaic
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades. iambic
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position iambic
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still. trochaic

Your metric pattern has disintegrated, which upsets any lyrical quality this poem had left. The content in the last three stanzas is mundane, straightforward, and easily anticipated, and the poem has to be read several times to try and find a good way to speak it. The poem from here simply rants on about the same concept, the protaganist's love for this oak tree, and it just keeps telling reasons why. Instead, you could show the audience the passing of seasons and time through the oak tree's perspective, and let the audience deduce the intinsic value of the oak from that.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines. This is too forced. City skylines are gray and blue, colors the oak tree does not mirror
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be, no comma
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning Instead of telling us this, show us this by giving it as the last words of the oak tree
to take cover, enjambment here on a weak "to" would be better served by "cover"
when a storm is coming through.

It was a good poem, but too lengthy on its subject matter. With condensation and more attention to metrical balance, it could have that smooth, lyrical quality that demarcates a poem that souds "right" when read out loud.

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when "than when" with "never"
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped not "had" ...just snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber. in a...not by the...unless you want to make this storm special...but you do not. Nonsensical reasoning without thought. Rubber spines do not snap. Think what you are wanting to say, then say it, then check to make sure you meant it.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories, cliche extraordinaire. We have all used it...and if we haven't we will
it's like someone killed the local pastor. unrelated "it's". What is this "it"?

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water. Disconnect. What is limp and bowed over? The pastor? You do not say.
His branches no longer constricted high Disconnected because the last time you anthropomorphised the Old Oak was way back. You need to re-establish this gender assignation for it to work throughout the poem. "constricted "is a very debatable word choice which makes me lose trust in your certainty.
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other. Dreadfully gangly sentence...you have overstretched the punctuation so that it is likely you have shot an elephant in your pyjamas...you look at it, read it out loud and tell me I am wrong. Were they "hauling.. at" (Americanism?) withered arms or twigs?

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down. You are now giving birth to seedlings. This is too much. Punctuate to clarity before posting. This latter does not qualify as a sentence and biologically it is nonsense.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown. Tense tension mounts. "I never questioned the oak's strength, as I swung on his dark, husky (???) branches"

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades. I do not know....but was it a question? You did not use a question mark. Please read Rules of Posting in Serious. You are making too many schoolboy errors.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still. Complete gobbledygook. You are rushing to a landing and have flaps down and throttled back far to soon. This poem will stall.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be, Why this comma? Typo? Then proof read.
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through. Stall. Crash land. Nonsensically put.

You have some good ideas but your execution is haphazard and incompetent. You MUST read what you write out loud and check your word use.
Best,
tectak

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.

I completely agree with your thesis expounded in the title of the piece and I have done so many times myself, i.e., preserved trees in poetry and in my life as a member of the National Arbor Day Society.

As for the poem, you should strike that first line and get right into the pulp of the poem. I would replace rubber with something like glass. You have the antithesis of what you need. With oak being a hardwood, snapping like it was balsam would also be effective. In the next stanza, limp and bent over should be the tree or a limb and not the rope swing. Why the language inversion here: 'No more fresh sap can he deliver'. It reads oddly, 'He can no longer deliver sap' would suffice.

As I read along, there are a lot of images and events tacked together, but I think you need to organize and unfurl them better. In your close, you should add 'pulped' to your list in order to better connect the tree to that head line. Good ideas and images herein, but the execution needs to be better. Organize the stanzas, strive for brevity of word, clean up the run-on sentences, correct typos, use more effective punctuation, etc. Take your time with each line. Good luck with it my fellow tree-hugger./Chris

I don't have a problem with the first line. It's okay to simply say what you feel.

I'd like to see the poem a little more concise, with some words culled and better line breaks. The syntax in the poem is shaky, without clear sentencing. As free verse, it will have more coherence if you develop a dependable rhythm with the words.

The timing of the poem also isn't immediately clear. At first you say "when" the tree snapped, as if it just happened, but in other places in the poem it sounds as if the tree broke sometime in the past.

When you say things like, "Giving birth to a seedling, only to watch it come crashing down", you are confusing the timeline. Also, your verb forms (tenses, I guess) seem a little confused.

The more I wade into the poem, the more it feels like an early draft to me.

Oh yes, I hate the personification of the tree as a male, but that's just my preference.

To give you a quick example of how the language could be more concise, I quickly retyped a few lines. I'm not saying these retyped lines are good, but they don't ramble as much:

Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet
Than when the old oak tree by the North River Pond
Snapped in half in the storm, bending
As if its spine were made of rubber;
One felt the local pastor had been killed.

Cracked and bowed, the rope swing in the water,
Once great branches drooped down to eye level.
etc.

[I didn't read the other comments, so I may have repeated things that other people said.]

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high ("constricted"? "high and mighty" is cliched)
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless (how long after did the children start climbing on it? where are you in time?)
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.

Great to see red oak featured in a poem. I like the idea of comparing it to a pastor. I also like the swing image and the skyline image.

Red oaks don't typically produce fresh sap, unless there are injuries, so that image was distracting to me. Had this been a maple or another species known for producing sap then I would have liked this image very much. Maybe something else that it delivered can be used here instead, like shade.

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.

---

Hello, I am a novice and who am i to critique; I know of old oaks; the history and memories they invoke. As a novice I felt a bit confined with the punctuation which interrupted my thoughts; but i don't use punctuation, so I am lost; please forgive a newbie. Loretta

Overall I like the structure of the poem as well as the melancholic mood it evokes. However, I do have a few minor suggestions....

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when (I'm assuming you mean to say THAN when...)
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor. ("It's like..." doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of the verses. It sounds too informal--not sure what word to use. In any case, "It felt as if"... would sound better in my opinion. Also, perhaps you might consider adding "had" in front of "killed". By the way, the previous comments are made based on the assumption that the death of the oak tree is being compared with the killing of the local pastor.)

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water. (Limp and bowed over is a great choice of words!)
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other. (Withered arms--loved this!)

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines. (perhaps "change HIS colors" would sound even better.)
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be, (unnecessary comma here)
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.

Others have covered in more detail the problems with this piece, so I won't say more than that I loved the subject matter but was put off by the drastically differing line lengths which, for me, made it very difficult to focus on what was written.

i didn't read any other crits yet. it's hard for me actually to get into crit mode because i was rather carried away by this lovely work. i'll just go through and comment:

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber. hmm. "rubber" works, it does, but a little iffy because not sure if rubber would snap.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water. love the swing image dipping in water
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive, love this line especially the hive
that the rain could not wash over, maybe wash down? or wash off?
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other. maybe hurling them?

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down. maybe repeating that it fell too much. or just too many words saying the same thing.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown. took me a second but i like this. maybe releasing into greenery to drown? or somesuch, because i can see the letting go of the swing and flying into the bushes

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position nice 'regal position' !
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still. aw, protective tree. nice

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines. in contrast to the warming past lines this seems even more sad
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through. these last lines work but i would almost end on the saddest note possible; either the bit about not coloring the skylines or another line that continues how he can't do what he used to do, or be what he used to be.

(04-27-2014, 05:06 PM)AnywherebutHere Wrote:  Nostalgia never felt more bittersweet when  
the old red oak tree by the north river pond had snapped
in half by the storm, like his spine was made of rubber.
Driving past the fields of childhood memories,
it's like someone killed the local pastor.

Limp and bowed over, the rope swing dipped in water.
His branches no longer constricted high
and mighty, but drooped down to eye level.
No more fresh sap can he deliver, just sheltering an old honey hive,
that the rain could not wash over,
and children were climbing his lifeless
trunk, ripping out the only twigs left on his withered
arms, and hauling them at each other.

With empathy I pulled over to get a look at what
mother nature undertook. Giving birth to a seedling,
only to watch it come crashing down.
Never did I question his strength
as I would swing on his dark, husky branches, jumping in greenery
to drown.

Does he remember the sweat I soaked into his bole, when I pedaled so hard
from school, being chased by a battalion of girls using rocks as grenades.
I hid, and he hid me in his regal position
vines wrapping around my hurt, cradling me still.

No longer can he change colors to match the skylines.
The old oak tree will be taken in by the city to be,
chopped, sawed and glued.
Maybe to be the next headline warning
to take cover,
when a storm is coming through.

I like part of this poem a lot. In particular, I like the genuine attention you gave to the object. However, words like hurt throw me off a bit because they sound a little cheesy. Also, "no longer can he"  sounds awkward syntactically. Ultimately, you're the final judge of your poem. How adequate you are as a judge may depend on several factors. Good luck.

This forum is for Serious Workshopping.  As the OP has not responded to any of the critiques and has therefore shown no intention of workshopping, this thread is now closed.  Thank you to all who have given their valuable time and expertise in comments/ Admin