Ode to a Sunken City / City of Ghosts

[Lysander Gray]

Your hands reek of the sea
salted and raw,
a perfume pulled loose
once trapped in tangles of hair.

Your mouth spills vodka
from veins once lively filled
with Shangri-La’s private reserve.

Your brow pounds that wet, wavy perm –
“Pacifica” on the tongues of your old lovers,
“Life” on the lips of your children.

They are grown now
some orphan some bred.
Some gleaming golden with
the scar of bronze worn too thin
beneath helmets of gold.

But it is your skin that I am concerned with-
Pock-marked and varicose.
A cemetery of promises and the occasional
pastel mausoleum rising
as mountains of broken teeth
through which your children play
alongside savages and barbarians
and the ghosts of old debutantes.

On rainbow coloured evenings
they bring the forest to your breast
and you; mother/ auntie
witness the crawl from tomb to tomb,
ruffling their dull plumes
to the beats of the crooning sea.

This is an Ode to a Sunken City-
Babylon of old with the sweetest warm kiss of death and delight.

There is boredom in your black; there is vengeance in your gold
as children disobey that which they are told.

Babylon of black, Babylon of gold
Mother of children with tales untold,
that dance between your broken teeth
and veins so very old.

This is an Ode to a Sunken City-
a song to your mountains and coasts,
your distant eyes and children now ghosts,
your lies of dreams enchanting and your plain faced hosts.

This is for the city of Ghosts.

[none]

The one problem I have with this poem is the association of the word "Black" with "Boredom". It's hard to picture any relationship between a once bustling city with the word "boredom". "Babylon of black" - what is the meaning of this line? Does Black represent mysteriousness, darkness or the ugly side of a big city? If so, then what is this "boredom" the poem is talking about? I can't help but to think the choice of word is poor and it makes the poem somewhat silly. I read the poem three times but still can't find any indication of apathy among the dwellers. Sure, it's a city in decline, but bored people would not "play alongside savages and barbarians" and "bring the forest to your breast" to mourn the dead.

[tectak]

Your hands reek of the sea
salted and raw,
a perfume pulled loose
once trapped in tangles of hair.

Your mouth spills vodka
from veins once lively filled
with Shangri-La’s private reserve.

Your brow pounds that wet, wavy perm –
“Pacifica” on the tongues of your old lovers,
“Life” on the lips of your children.

They are grown now
some orphan some bred.
Some gleaming golden with
the scar of bronze worn too thin
beneath helmets of gold.

But it is your skin that I am concerned with-
Pock-marked and varicose.
A cemetery of promises and the occasional
pastel mausoleum rising
as mountains of broken teeth
through which your children play
alongside savages and barbarians
and the ghosts of old debutantes.

On rainbow coloured evenings
they bring the forest to your breast
and you; mother/ auntie
witness the crawl from tomb to tomb,
ruffling their dull plumes
to the beats of the crooning sea.

This is an Ode to a Sunken City-
Babylon of old with the sweetest warm kiss of death and delight.

There is boredom in your black; there is vengeance in your gold
as children disobey that which they are told.

Babylon of black, Babylon of gold
Mother of children with tales untold,
that dance between your broken teeth
and veins so very old.

This is an Ode to a Sunken City-
a song to your mountains and coasts,
your distant eyes and children now ghosts,
your lies of dreams enchanting and your plain faced hosts.

This is for the city of Ghosts.

Hi ly,
I would crit this. It is worthy but I note your taciturn response to the one piece of crit this piece received. Are you still there? I would hate to waste my time.
Terse,
tectak

[Leah S.]

Your hands reek of the sea
salted and raw, Vivid and visceral, but the next line jerks me away.
a perfume pulled loose
once trapped in tangles of hair. I struggled and re-read and eventually thought I'd worked out that the person referred to spent a lot of time in the ocean once upon a time, hence their tangled hair also 'reeked' of the sea.
Your mouth spills vodka Vomiting?
from veins once lively filled shouldn't it be "once lively, now filled" ?
with Shangri-La’s private reserve. Not familiar with that brand. If you are being facetious, capitalize Private Reserve also.
Your brow pounds that wet, wavy perm – I know it's crit time, but I love this image!
“Pacifica” on the tongues of your old lovers, Sorry, I don't get the reference.
“Life” on the lips of your children.
They are grown now
some orphan some bred. er.....your children can't be orphans. I get that some of them had children and some didn't, but that's easy to tell us without bringing in a non-existent orphan.
Some gleaming golden with
the scar of bronze worn too thin
beneath helmets of gold. these three lines confuse me. At first I thought you were describing tanned, blonde children, but I couldn't fit 'scar of bronze' into the image coherently, and why 'too thin' ?
But it is your skin that I am concerned with-
Pock-marked and varicose.Nice.
A cemetery of promises and the occasional
pastel mausoleum rising What? Where? I thought of a pastel jumpsuit and smiled, but I couldn't get it to 'rise,'
as mountains of broken teeth much less become a set of broken dentures that surreally turns into a castle (sand-castle?)
through which your children play That's a pretty big denture-castle.
alongside savages and barbarians
and the ghosts of old debutantes.
On rainbow coloured evenings
they bring the forest to your breast My imagination had to go stick its head under cold water here. Syntactically, 'they' must be the children from the above stanza, but how does one bring a forest to a breast, and what for?
and you; mother/ auntie
witness the crawl from tomb to tomb, Where did the tombs come from?
ruffling their dull plumes Why have the children turned into birds?
to the beats of the crooning sea. Beating and crooning don't usually go together.....
This is an Ode to a Sunken City- Yow! Here I went back to the beginning, because my raddled, pastel old lady with zombie birdlike children was obviously just not it. Or maybe it is. Gack!
Babylon of old with the sweetest warm kiss of death and delight. Cliché.
There is boredom in your black; there is vengeance in your gold
as children disobey that which they are told.
Babylon of black, Babylon of gold
Mother of children with tales untold,
that dance between your broken teeth
and veins so very old. Forced meter, forced rhyme. Broke my teeth on it.
This is an Ode to a Sunken City- you said that.
a song to your mountains and coasts,
your distant eyes and children now ghosts, okay, zombies not too far off the mark.
your lies of dreams enchanting and your plain faced hosts. Plain-faced? Wait, what?
This is for the city of Ghosts.

Okay, if this is a poem about an old woman who resembles a Sunken City/a City of Ghosts, well and good. It's a familiar theme, but still not quite a cliché. If that is your intention, it's worth working on.