Lincoln's Birthday (Revision 4)

[svanhoeven]

Note: please don't let the subject matter keep you from offering a technical or aesthetic critique.

Revision 4 (metrical variation/corrections, changed some awkward/regional words, a little more compression:

For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.


Revision 3:

For weeks, I spied my unborn son. I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. During a growth exam,
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and fixed my eyes upon her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away.
For what? A "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.


Revision 2 (billy meter fix):

I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.


Revision 1 (blank verse/minor word changes):

I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.

I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.


Original version:

For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.

[svanhoeven]

I know it's bad form to reply to your own post. But: please don't let the subject matter stop you from offering a technical or aesthetic critique.

Also, some readers have interpreted it in such a way that I never saw Lincoln again after the labor. An earlier version has a middle section where I saw and held him after he died. I excised it, thinking that the last section with the regret was really only related to the first section, since the regret was that I didn't touch him in that minute he was alive. Now that I think about it, there was more fear than sadness in the birthing room, since everything went so fast. It wasn't until after that I broke down.

I think that makes the above version sound more emotionally detached, so I'm posting the alternate version below with the middle section included. Maybe someone here will have an opinion about leaving it in or not.

Lincoln's Birthday (middle section restored)

For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

My wife's work was just half done
when nurses took the boy away.
They took me too,
and after a time, they led me
to a quiet room where Lincoln
and I first met, alone.
I sat and couldn't rise.
I fixed my eyes upon his bassinet,
and staring through its clear plastic walls,
I saw his blanket,
striped pink and blue.
When the doctor finally showed,
I couldn't speak;
I bit my hand.
Something gripped my throat
until my teeth let go,
then tears surged out.
When the shaking stopped,
she handed him to me still wrapped
and said some words I soon forgot.
Then she left.
I peeked inside, afraid
to find some unformed
thing. His skin was dark
as though a nearby light had dimmed,
but nurses washed
away the blood. Relieved,
I watched his face
and studied every tiny limb.

I've since loved two other sons,
but they're no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.

[billy]

i prefer this version, the grief with the middle version weakens because of it. i think it very good but the narrative verges on prose. the last two lines of the 1st stanza are almost heart wrenching. i have no idea if the tale is true, nor do i need to know. it's pretty powerful as a piece of writing. as a piece of poetry i'd like to see more devices at work, alteration, consonance, and assonance etc. it does read as a very personal piece and that on it's own give the piece some strength. .

no real line by line, as i said it's a solid write.

thanks for the read

For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot i like the image of this and the next line, the urgency it shows feels real.
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair", broke and stroke work well, you need more of the same elsewhere in the poem.
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son very poignant
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.

[tectak]

For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.

Hi svan
You deserve more than I am prepared to give on this....like billy, I do not need nor care to know if this is a "true" story....but a story it undoubtedly is. I am happy to give it full marks for execution but am concerned, as of now, that the discipline of poetry has been sacrificed on the altar of poignancy. It is not a rare happening but you have made it a clean procedure. I do not like single dashes used where a semicolon could be used; save that one has been used before -close to and in the same sentence.
Best,
tectak

[svanhoeven]

Thanks for the comments, billy and tectak.

I've found a gender difference in opinions about the middle section. It seems that female readers think there's too much emotional distance without it, and are more satisfied with it in, because of it's "internal" narrative.

Billy, I see what you're saying about needing more devices. I started this one in the opposite way from my two previous poems, which had fixed meter and rhyme schemes, where I had to do the literary Sudoku to fill in the pentameter and so forth, and if the line endings didn't rhyme, they weren't done.

This one started as "iambic prose", then I worked on the compression and line breaks. The punctuation choices (short sentences and em dashes) were mainly to modulate the reader's pauses for emphasis. I didn't specifically set out to rhyme anything, but it ended up with some internal and "slant" rhymes by accident. Maybe I should go back and change some things to specifically strengthen the internal rhymes.

As for the "poignancy", the last stanza is the reason I wrote it, and the narrative contains no more than what I saw and did then, and think now. Nothing was invented and added for dramatic effect, though it may be the case that the narrative hasn't yet completed the transition from prose to poetry.

[wystan1000]

Hi svanhoeven - I think there is a great poem in here - yes, it lies in the last stanza.
What's important ...


the veiled foot and open door too soon (nice - not nice but good)
Stroke her hair and look away - you did
You tried to look at her wet, twisting face
but saw blood on pinkish skin
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.

You think of the time Lincoln lived and
wonder if he heard and felt before they cut the cord

But you regret doing what you were told
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"? (which I don't really understand)
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."

I think you should keep it all in that awful, regretted moment around the bed. I think you should start with the most arresting part - a nurse telling you to keep your eyes fixed on your wife's face - the attempt to do so, but then you say you saw "it" the pink. My son - did he hear and see before they cut the cord? Why did I do what they said (look at this bit again ... love, hands, sterile field wasn't clear) Why didn't I touch him? put a hand on and say "daddy loves you go in peace"

This is what I would suggested. And since I am on the verge of tears it seems to have some impact. Apart from the bits I have mentioned which I don't understand and the bits I have excised, I really like the language in the rest of it.

Hope that helps

Takooba

[svanhoeven]

I'd like to compress it further, but the two sections have to remain separate. The regret didn't occur at bedside but until far later, and I want to keep the narrative accurate. If the reader feels anything, I want it to be because I've accurately related what I saw and did and think now; skillfully describing those things should produce the same kind of feelings in the reader. If it doesn't, I need to work on the imagery and language.

A "sterile field" is a medical term for the area around a patient that has been made free of germs prior to a medical procedure. Any competent doctor or nurse would have strongly objected to me shoving my unscrubbed hands into the area in which they were working. Hence, I kept away.

[wystan1000]

I know what you mean (indeed I just pulled the "but it happened!" card on you elsewhere in the forum), but at the end of the day we are artists, not autobiographers, and our aim is to be as economical as possible, while conveying emotional truth. There is no room for spare words - narrative or otherwise - in great poetry. It's called material for a reason. It's what we work with to produce art.
I'll leave it there but I see a truly great poem in a one-stanza effort.

[svanhoeven]

You make a good point about "artists, not autobiographers". In this particular case, since this is my first poem with a first-person viewpoint, I'll stick with accuracy to give myself a narrative framework.

I've posted a new revision, changing it to blank verse and making some better word choices.

[Brownlie]

I like that your using blank verse. Your meter may be questionable at points but I can't properly investigate at this time. Great story that can be improved with mire details.

[svanhoeven]

Now that you mention it, I can see one inconsistent spot in the meter. I've used "veiled" as two demi-syllables, but "field" as one syllable. I'm changing "veiled" to "shrouded" which is clearly two syllables. It also has a different connotation.

[billy]

i see it more as free verse. the meter feels unregulated and though it's iambic in places, i would say it's not a consistent meter which blank verse needs to be...or am i wrong? please tell me if it's so
if it is free verse it doesn't damage the poem

[milo]

i see it more as free verse. the meter feels unregulated and though it's iambic in places, i would say it's not a consistent meter which blank verse needs to be...or am i wrong? please tell me if it's so
if it is free verse it doesn't damage the poem

almost perfect ip.

[svanhoeven]

Well, this is only my third poem, so I could be totally wrong about the meter. However, I've read in multiple places that iambic pentameter can be considered valid if at least three (a majority) of the feet on a line are iambic. Maybe I've scanned it too many times, but I think all the lines but one meet that criteria. Some troublesome lines:

ON a |ma TER |nal E |R BIRTH |ing BED
trochee |iamb |iamb |spondee |iamb

will NEV |er FIT? |PRINTS INKED |by LIT |tle FEET?
iamb |iamb |spondee |iamb |iamb

The invalid line:

to SAY, |"DAD dy |LOVES you, |GO in |PEACE."
iamb |trochee |trochee |trochee |(invalid)

I can easily fix the invalid line by changing it to something more personal:

to SAY, |"we LOVE |you LIN |coln, GO | in PEACE."
iamb |iamb |iamb |iamb |iamb

I'll post that revision. Any other specific lines you see a problem with?

[billy]

so these are iambic line as well?


I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks (how does this line have three iambs? ) i guess i'm scanning it wrong, i can almost get three but fail.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck

so let me get this right. a poem of iambic pentameter only has to have three iambs per line?
so all this time i've actually been writing in iambic pent when people have said i wasn't?

i realise that shakespeare threw in an odd spanner or two and i've done the same but three iambs per line makes it iambic pentameter seems a bit of a cheat. thanks for the enlightenment

[milo]

so these are iambic line as well?


I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks (how does this line have three iambs? ) i guess i'm scanning it wrong, i can almost get three but fail.

iHAD anUN bornSON atEIGHT eenWEEKS - perfect ip

Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept

chrisTINE andI weWOVE ourHANDS iSWEPT - perfect ip -ellision on "our"
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
[herCHEEKS andKEPT myEYES fixedON herWET - perfect ip, promoted "on"

no cure for this regret: Inside that speck

noCURE forTHIS reGRET inSIDE thatSPECK - perfect ip
so let me get this right. a poem of iambic pentameter only has to have three iambs per line?
so all this time i've actually been writing in iambic pent when people have said i wasn't?

i realise that shakespeare threw in an odd spanner or two and i've done the same but three iambs per line makes it iambic pentameter seems a bit of a cheat. thanks for the enlightenment

It is weird, I had written a whole post explaining this and then I deleted it because I don't want to look like a know it all

Rules for ip:

Lines should have 5 iambs and nothing else.

Exceptions:

there are some acceptable substituions in ip. Substitutions should be used to add emphasis or add to the reading. Substituions should NOT be used because the author cannot find an acceptable iamb.

acceptable sub:

1. Trochees can be substituted for any of the first 4 feet though earlier is better.

2. Double iambs (pyrrhic-trochee) should be used SPARINGLY.

3. Headless iambs can be used for first foot (9 syllable iambic line starting with a hard accent). NOT to be used in first line.

4. Fem endings.

5. Spondees can be used as a sub for any foot although shouldn't occur in the first line and no more than 1 per line. Also, shouldn't occur in line with a troche.

as you can see, the only line that has only 3 iambs has a double iamb sub and it is to be used sparingly (once per poem would be overkill)

3 beat feet should not be used without either a letter from the Pope or from Leanne (I would try the Pope first).

[svanhoeven]

I've seen most of these same rules elsewhere too. Not having any textbook, I just Googled it. The reference I've using can be found here, where the examples of substitutions are shown in Shakespeare's sonnets.

Substitutions should be used to add emphasis or add to the reading. Substitutions should NOT be used because the author cannot find an acceptable iamb.

Interesting. I had also read a few places that one should salt their IP with valid substitutions on purpose so that it didn't get monotonous, rather than aiming for a perfect alternation of stresses.

Sometimes the whole thing seems like Jewish dietary laws. If Rabbi Shakespeare had ice cream two hours after a steak, then we can do it too.

[milo]

I've seen most of these same rules elsewhere too. Not having any textbook, I just Googled it. The reference I've using can be found here, where the examples of substitutions are shown in Shakespeare's sonnets.

well, mine are better!! plus I mentioned fem endings.

Substitutions should be used to add emphasis or add to the reading. Substitutions should NOT be used because the author cannot find an acceptable iamb.

Interesting. I had also read a few places that one should salt their IP with valid substitutions on purpose so that it didn't get monotonous, rather than aiming for a perfect alternation of stresses.

Sometimes the whole thing seems like Jewish dietary laws. If Rabbi Shakespeare had ice cream two hours after a steak, then we can do it too.
[/quote]



As for varying to break up the rhythm - yes, a skilled writer /does/ use substitutions - deliberately and to add emphasis, meaning and improve the overall reading experience, not because he couldn'y think of an iamb.

[svanhoeven]

I'm going to crit myself here, then post a revision at the top.

I think the reason why the first version without the middle section seemed detached was that I didn't begin by establishing a connection between me and Lincoln other than to say I "had" him. I didn't show the reader anything I saw and did- something to establish my interest in him, the way that expecting parents pore over black and white ultrasound photos, or listen to a heartbeat. I've added some lines at the beginning to correct that.

[billy]

all i can say is "you and i remember budapest very differently"

i feel like i've just took two steps back. no matter how you write it out milo, i struggle at seeing it as it's supposed to be. i can accept i got it wrong but i can't for the life of me scan it the same way you did. seems like i have to go back to the drawing board