I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn

[Isis]

I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn


My shadow doesn’t need to write things down. Her head
is not a rising tide or a baseball stadium full of drunks. I can’t
keep a grocery list in mine for more than five minutes

especially not when comparing prices bleached out rows of leeks and oranges
or trying to remember the names of white flowers now peeking through the branches.
This is a point of contention at home where my other half, the human half
and not my shadow, doesn’t realize what he’s missing. Or not missing.

My shadow only saunters into the kitchen for tea and knows the weight
of a menu better than a chef’s knife. Other knifes are another story.
She doesn’t need to write lists, plans, praises, laments. They come to her
bidden, a pack of wagging dogs:
easily called up and dismissed. I would call them poems

but she calls them talk, the talk we all do when waiting or when
the train lows like a beast, some great sad beast,
perhaps one that has not walked this earth for millions of years.
She doesn’t think of millions of years or even of yesterday.
This makes conversation difficult.

Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming

an animal, from breaking into storm.

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps.

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass.
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass.

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light.

[Brownlie]

I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn

It has been a long time since I've read anything about Jung, but I know that they use his archetypes in myths, he had that idea about the collective unconscious and the persona (I had to look on Wikipedia to remember the persona part, but the idea of trying to unify individuality with a whole was part of Whitman's poetry). it seems to be similar to the id, ego, and superego concept of Freud of course the shadow is not necessarily based on primal instinct. You've also got the pronunciation Yoong which opens the topic up for puns.


My shadow doesn’t need to write things down. Her head
is not a rising tide or a baseball stadium full of drunks. I can’t
keep a grocery list in mine for more than five minutes

especially not when comparing prices bleached out rows of leeks and oranges
or trying to remember the names of white flowers now peeking through the branches.
This is a point of contention at home where my other half, the human half -- Maybe a comma here

and not my shadow, doesn’t realize what he’s missing. Or not missing.- "or not missing" sounds like a fragment. You may want to check up on it.

My shadow only saunters into the kitchen for tea and knows the weight
of a menu better than a chef’s knife. Other knifes are another story.
She doesn’t need to write lists, plans, praises, laments. They come to her -- The listing here is ironic.
bidden, a pack of wagging dogs:
easily called up and dismissed. I would call them poems -- Maybe a comma here

but she calls them talk, the talk we all do when waiting or when
the train lows like a beast, some great sad beast, -- Maybe a comma before or
perhaps one that has not walked this earth for millions of years.
She doesn’t think of millions of years or even of yesterday.
This makes conversation difficult.

Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming

an animal, from breaking into storm.

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps. -- long is somewhat boring you may want to describe the steps better with more exact language

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass. -- I like this line if it refers to Whitman, either way it's a good usage of a parenthetical comma.
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass. -- Prays seems to be a pun

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light. -- This is some sort of Jungian moment of discovery. Maybe some sort of spiritual experience.

Very cool stuff here though it's been awhile since I've looked at anything with Jung. It seems that if you're doing some sort of mythological analysis of something you can apply Jung to a criticism about most literature. That being said, there's probably a lot out there on Jung though I'm not sure if he is used explicitly in any poems, but I suppose that's besides the point really. I think this poem can be made much stronger if you clean up some of the more generalized language such as the word "long." Here's what I liked: the part about the flowers, what I perceived as interesting puns, and an attempt at a relatively high concept. You may want to see which words are not working strongly and replace or eliminate them. Well, maybe there's something here you can use. If you explain what you're trying to accomplish I may be able to help you more. Of course, some would argue that would hinder the workshop process. Thanks for posting, you have some promising material.

[rowens]

These parts sound the best to me, although the gray hair and the turquoise nails seem like assumptions if this is literally a shadow. The title just seems like a suggestion to float over the poem: you can think of Carl Jung, but don't think too much about him because I only read him once and fell asleep while doing it. These last few stanzas sound the best to me, anyway.


Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming

an animal, from breaking into storm.

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps.

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass.
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass.

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light.

[71degrees]

I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn


My shadow doesn’t need to write things down. Her head
is not a rising tide or a baseball stadium full of drunks. I can’t
keep a grocery list in mine for more than five minutes

especially not when comparing prices bleached out rows of leeks and oranges
or trying to remember the names of white flowers now peeking through the branches.
This is a point of contention at home where my other half, the human half
and not my shadow, doesn’t realize what he’s missing. Or not missing.

My shadow only saunters into the kitchen for tea and knows the weight
of a menu better than a chef’s knife. Other knifes are another story.
She doesn’t need to write lists, plans, praises, laments. They come to her
bidden, a pack of wagging dogs:
easily called up and dismissed. I would call them poems

but she calls them talk, the talk we all do when waiting or when
the train lows like a beast, some great sad beast,
perhaps one that has not walked this earth for millions of years.
She doesn’t think of millions of years or even of yesterday.
This makes conversation difficult.

Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming

an animal, from breaking into storm.

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps.

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass.
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass.

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light.

Love the title. Jung is all about personality (Myers Briggs) and both its understandings and misunderstandings surrounding self. Not much more self than one's shadow. Beautiful idea (Me and My Shadow / Frank Sinatra version is best / Peter Pan / Only the Shadow Knows)….to develop in a poem. Some of your line breaks are weird. I can't get any rhythm and I don't see any pattern or consistency to them. Love the colors (gray, sun baked, bleached leek and orange, shaded, etc.) associated w/the shadow. In an odd way I also like the female persona (which makes sense, I just haven't seen it (shadow) presented in this context often). Works well w/the "older" presentation / image of the shadow, also not seen often. For some odd reason I get an older Picture of Dorian Gray image, in a feminine sort of way. I like this. I like the present tense. I like the poem.

Thank you for posting and welcome.

[Todd]

Hi Isis, I enjoyed this one. The smooth diction made me trust the speaker. Some notes below:

I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn


The title sets this up well. We have the speaker's personified seat of creativity and darkness.

My shadow doesn’t need to write things down. Her head
is not a rising tide or a baseball stadium full of drunks. I can’t
keep a grocery list in mine for more than five minutes--This is a good setup for the distracted artist. The creativity knows things is a deep well. The human element is distracted and often overwhelmed by the noise of living. Nice imagery especially building drunks on top of the first rising tide to get a sense of the type of noise and distraction that makes the speaker only somewhat connected to other people. Creativity as a type of functional autism where everything is so loud.

especially not when comparing prices bleached out rows of leeks and oranges--Nice way to convey more language than math based
or trying to remember the names of white flowers now peeking through the branches.--and also conveying less of a scientist in the approach to interacting with the world
This is a point of contention at home where my other half, the human half
and not my shadow, doesn’t realize what he’s missing. Or not missing.No issues so far with content, length of lines, or breaks

My shadow only saunters into the kitchen for tea and knows the weight
of a menu better than a chef’s knife. Other knifes are another story.--the Jungian darkness is back nice line
She doesn’t need to write lists, plans, praises, laments. They come to her
bidden, a pack of wagging dogs:--I don't think you need the repetition of lists here. You have the grocery list earlier. I sort of like the lppl consonant grouping but I think I'd still cut lists.
easily called up and dismissed. I would call them poems

but she calls them talk, the talk we all do when waiting or when
the train lows like a beast, some great sad beast,
perhaps one that has not walked this earth for millions of years.--this is a fantastic sequence. I like the primordial feel of it all. I like the great sad beast. You get the feeling that its the shadow making the observation and conveying it through the noise. If I this were written like a play the human may notice the train lowing. The shadow would then say "like a beast some great sad beast" This reads for me like a conversation of sorts.
She doesn’t think of millions of years or even of yesterday.
This makes conversation difficult.--wonderful aside. The shadow is like benji in sound and the fury.

Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush;--this is a good contrast. Love the word play. I love the inclusion of reed and limbs giving a subtle organic image compared to something that is alien and not really a part of the world the speaker inhabits.
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw--The use of color is interesting. The animal figures below make you think of her nails like a ritual knife or object.
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming--great use of shades here.

an animal, from breaking into storm.--This is an interesting idea too as if the shadows preexisted and pushed the animal drawings to have other hosts. Very nice

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps.--No issues sun-baked steps is a good way to convey an ancient temple. It's the subtle choices I've enjoyed in this one

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass.--Good predator prey imagery with the beastly clouds tracking
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass.

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light.

I enjoyed the read. I hope the comments are helpful in some way.

Best,

Todd

[LorettaYoung]

I read Jung once while falling asleep in the cold dawn


My shadow doesn’t need to write things down. Her head
is not a rising tide or a baseball stadium full of drunks. I can’t
keep a grocery list in mine for more than five minutes

especially not when comparing prices bleached out rows of leeks and oranges
or trying to remember the names of white flowers now peeking through the branches.
This is a point of contention at home where my other half, the human half
and not my shadow, doesn’t realize what he’s missing. Or not missing.

My shadow only saunters into the kitchen for tea and knows the weight
of a menu better than a chef’s knife. Other knifes are another story.
She doesn’t need to write lists, plans, praises, laments. They come to her
bidden, a pack of wagging dogs:
easily called up and dismissed. I would call them poems

but she calls them talk, the talk we all do when waiting or when
the train lows like a beast, some great sad beast,
perhaps one that has not walked this earth for millions of years.
She doesn’t think of millions of years or even of yesterday.
This makes conversation difficult.

Her gray hair gets longer and longer but never
appears to tangle or break, even when my whole body has become a tangle
of muscle and reed, a tangle of a million limbs in bed or in the rush
to get on and off the subway. Her turquoise nails draw
animal figures in the air. She is shades away from becoming

an animal, from breaking into storm.

At a gathering of gods from places long forgotten she is carrying trays
and bundling white tulips and long grass to give to the leaving, those leaving down
the long and sun-baked steps.

My shadow pretends she does not need connection to the divine
to the round faces carved thousands of years ago in stone,
but only to the beastly clouds tracking across the sky, in the grass.
She prays beneath the statues and the stained glass.

I have seen her at this, my shadow wearing a robe of red light.

---

Hi Isis: tantalizing imagery; interesting that the shadow prays but needs no connection to the divine. Love the referencing of our shadows, "beastly clouds tracing their shadows in the grass.; could you let me know the significance of the "robe of red light". Interesting reading. Best, Loretta