Night Terrors EDIT

[kolemath]

DRAFT 2

Night Terrors

A child asleep and walking to the hall and bathroom cabinets
and pouring medicines into the drain and shrieking to the empty bottles,
"They're coming! Help me!"
until father pinning shrieking body to the wall and yelling back, "Wake up!"
bear arms shaking back the yellowed eyes.
"They're coming!  Let go!" 
fighting for an hour, too small to rip away.

Normalcy returns by three AM in parents' bed asleep
but darting up in howls from four to five.

Possessed child, blood thick and high,
dreaming mind hurling sleeping body across an ocean splattering on the wall,
dreaming mind careening sleeping body from mountain peak to peak 
or being eaten by an unnamed closebehind. 
Possessed child surrounded,
death outside and stepping past the doorstep.

"Don't let it in," 
memory antique, sensory drain, mother crying, 
"Pneumonia and almost died but finished the whole hospital tray 
and cup of medicine today."



DRAFT 1
Night Terrors



As a child



sleepwalking,

I’d rummage through 

the bathroom cabinets, spilling

medicines and toothbrushes in the sink.



Some nights, I’d wake up screaming

pinned to the hallway wall

in my father’s bear arms.



“Wake up, son. Come on,” he’d shake

me. “Kole!”



I’d eventually come back and sleep

in my parent’s bedroom, darting up from time

to time, only to be held back down by my parents

on either side of me.



Possessed behavior,



ever-present in my memory,

in these terrifying unremembered moments, 



there is a feeling.



I’ll never be sure what it is, this feeling.



I’ve tried remembering

the devil for decades.



My blood feels dense, thick, high

like I’m hurling across an ocean to splatter

or careening from mountain peak to peak or be eaten 

by an unnamed 

closebehind.



Like death sits outside on the doorstep

and if I just stay inside . . .



I’m unsure of my earliest memory,

but I have three antiques: 

when mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,

my father stepping out of his truck with my first dog,



and my mother crying behind me.

I was eating lunch from the edge of a hospital bed.



My dad said once, “You probably don’t remember, 

but you almost died from pneumonia when you were a baby.”



I heard a monk speak on death as a slow process

of sense draining from you, followed by clarity.



Might I have begun the process,

of sensory drain

and death as a child in the hospital?



I see my parents’ deaths.  My fear

of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed

as a child.  My tears have not changed.



The unnamed closebehind:

my birth and death 
surrounding me.

[Achebe]

I see the following issues with this poem:

1. It's boring, like watching a CCTV recording on a regular day when no one was killed. The problem is not the topic, but the way it is told. You throw in irrelevant detail like toothbrushes and medicines in the sink and for a moment I thought that you were going somewhere, but that's where the sentence ended. Now if you'd intended to make it humorous, you'd have said antacids in the dog's bowl. If it was meant to be scary, medicines in the milk. But in the sink? I don't need to know the minutiae of your actual life unless there's a point to it.

2. There is no rhythm and the line breaks are arbitrary. It's basically boring prose. Eg:

I’m unsure of my earliest memory, but I have three antiques:  when mom broke the plate and spilt the beans, my father stepping out of his truck with my first dog, and my mother crying behind me. I was eating lunch from the edge of a hospital bed.


Why write this out over 6 separate lines?

[Lizzie]

KOLE!!!! My son has had night terrors too, and it's no joke. Seriously awful for all involved. I'm so sorry that has been part of your experience and I want to give the child Kole the biggest bear hugs of all time >< >< ><

Ok, on to the poem: I do agree that it reads very much like prose. I was wholly engaged with you in the beginning, and I thought that you did a great job of getting the reader in to the story, but when you started listing off the other things that you remember, I had a hard time jumping from one to the next. I do agree that those other memories are essential to the conclusion and absolutely belong as part of the overall story; but, as a reader, I'm trying to follow the main narrative while being asked to separately review these other memories and then return. I feel like that breaks up the flow of the "night terror" narrative. By the time I got to "possessed behavior," I was into the mode of that subject, feeling the adrenaline, so I mentally resisted switching gears.

It's a tough one because I like the immediacy of the first part and the cerebral analysis of the second, it's just that my brain doesn't work well when my blood's pumping.

I love your ability to explain and name the amorphous feelings coming out of this for you -- language can be so inadequate, and you've done a great job.

I can't wait to see where you go with this!

lizziep

[just mercedes]

Hi - I'm not sure what help I can be with this. For me the poem wanders too much, as if it's not brave enough to take a stand.

You posted it in Serious Workshopping, and I tried to read it seriously, and respond seriously. I think you need to work out more particulars that will anchor your reader in the scene - for example, names of medicine, colours of toothbrushes, anything that will differentiate your bathroom cabinet, your parent's bedroom, from every other in the world, and your narrator from every other unaware self-involved sleepwalker. For me, you don't include enough concrete images, and you do use too many abstract images such as death, memory, process. sense, death, process, sense, clarity etc.


Night Terrors

As a child

sleepwalking,
I’d rummage through
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes in the sink. 'rummage' for me implies purpose, which sleepwalking doesn't. I wanted the drugs to come back.

Some nights, I’d wake up screaming
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms.

“Wake up, son. Come on,” he’d shake strange enjambment - as if trying to hide the fact that this is prose with line breaks
me. “Kole!”

I’d eventually come back and sleep 'eventually' is very weak here
in my parent’s bedroom, darting up from time strange enjambment
to time, only to be held back down by my parents
on either side of me.very dramatic, but it doesn't feel true, I'm not trusting the narrator

Possessed behavior,

ever-present in my memory,
in these terrifying unremembered moments, ever-present, and unremembered - I think you have to make a choice here

there is a feeling. this is a very unimaginative phrase, flat, inactive, boring

I’ll never be sure what it is, this feeling. You have to make your reader want to know

I’ve tried remembering
the devil for decades. You're not sure, but now it's the devil?

My blood feels dense, thick, high
like I’m hurling across an ocean to splatter not sure how these two lines tie together
or careening from mountain peak to peak or be eaten check your context here
by an unnamed
closebehind.

Like death sits outside on the doorstep what is a like death?
and if I just stay inside . . . check use of ellipsis

I’m unsure of my earliest memory, unconnected to anything so far
but I have three antiques:
when mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,
my father stepping out of his truck with my first dog, as a reader I'm no longer interested

and my mother crying behind me.
I was eating lunch from the edge of a hospital bed. fragmentary, more confusion for your reader

My dad said once, “You probably don’t remember, 
but you almost died from pneumonia when you were a baby.” I'm at the point of - who cares?

I heard a monk speak on death as a slow process
of sense draining from you, followed by clarity. Context is lazy here

Might I have begun the process,
of sensory drain
and death as a child in the hospital? and if you did - so? There's no new message for me, your reader, yet

I see my parents’ deaths.  My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child.  My tears have not changed. I'm even more confused than you are.

The unnamed closebehind:
my birth and death
surrounding me. So - this is existentialism 101? Pre-existentialism? 

[dukealien]

To me, the poem is very clear with enough original flashes to hold attention.  Progression from specific to general, mystery to resolution (or resignation?) is nicely accomplished.  My few notes interleaved below.

Night Terrors  Almost a cliche, but right for this poem... a little edgy in that respect.  Revise to more innovative?

As a child

sleepwalking,
I’d rummage through
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes in the sink.

Some nights, I’d wake up screaming
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms.  Nice play on words (bear/bare)

“Wake up, son. Come on,” he’d shake
me. “Kole!”

I’d eventually come back and sleep
in my parent’s bedroom, darting up from time  "time to time" - could, again, be more innovative here
to time, only to be held back down by my parents
on either side of me.  Is "of me" necessary?"

Possessed behavior,

ever-present in my memory,
in these terrifying unremembered moments,   meaning comes through, but memory/unremembered confuses.  The feeling is not a memory, it's unremembered.  Sense of an unremembered feeling?

there is a feeling.

I’ll never be sure what it is, this feeling.

I’ve tried remembering
the devil for decades.   Meaning is clear enough, but perhaps "that devil" rather than "the devil," which contains other characters. "Demon?"

My blood feels dense, thick, high
like I’m hurling across an ocean to splatter
or careening from mountain peak to peak or be eaten   might need "to" before "be eaten," very far from the last verb here
by an unnamed
closebehind.  Brilliant!  Like a hidebehind, but chasing instead of stalking.

Like death sits outside on the doorstep
and if I just stay inside . . .

I’m unsure of my earliest memory,  Is comma necessary?
but I have three antiques:   just a thought - "hold" three antiques?  "Antiques" is very good.
when mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,
my father stepping out of his truck with my first dog,

and my mother crying behind me.
I was eating lunch from the edge of a hospital bed.

My dad said once, “You probably don’t remember, 
but you almost died from pneumonia when you were a baby.”  Good exposition, now on to the generalization...

I heard a monk speak on death as a slow process
of sense draining from you, followed by clarity.

Might I have begun the process,
of sensory drain
and death as a child in the hospital?   After "spilt" I was somehow expecting "in hospital."  Just dialect.

I see my parents’ deaths.  My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child.  My tears have not changed.  Great line.

The unnamed closebehind:
my birth and death
surrounding me.  I want something stronger here - "bookending me," something linear but better than that:  the closebehind is also closeahead.

Very expressive, hard thing for an adult to share.

[LJRich]

There are some strong images in this poem, and I enjoyed the opening stanza, a strong opening, which felt weighted down and weakened somewhat by more descriptive, expository details than necessary. I've copy-pasted the poem below with some suggested edits. I would start by breaking this piece into three sections - cutting away much of the cliches and journal-writing tone, fine-tuning the language, adding more muscle and heft to the poem. I see you definitely coming close to saying something but holding back, in the end. I hope some of this helps. I am new to this board but not new to critique, please let me know if you have any questions about the following.


i.
As a child  I rummaged through  
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes 
in the sink.

Some nights, I’d wake up screaming,.
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms. 

Wake up, son. Come on.


ii.
Mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,
my father stepping out of his truck 
with my first dog, [ed - get more specific here, name, type of dog?]

my mother crying behind me.
I was eating lunch from 
the edge of a hospital bed.

My dad said once, 
“You probably don’t remember, 
but you almost died 
from pneumonia when you were a baby.”


iii.
I heard a monk speak on death 
as a slow process
of sense draining from you,
followed by clarity.

I see my parents’ deaths.  My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child.  My tears have not changed.  [SHOW DON'T TELL - go for the jugular here, actually describe, picture your parents on their deathbeds, what are they doing, saying, wearing, looking like?]

The unnamed close behind:
my birth and death 
surrounding me.

[RiverNotch]

Night Terrors -- Now here's a piece that kinda plufffuffed for me. Reads, as others before have noted, like broken prose. Also, I feel like I've read that title before....[actually, used: look it up on my control panel, if you want to stroke my ego!] 

As a child

sleepwalking,
I’d rummage through
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes in the sink.

Some nights, I’d wake up screaming
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms. Like, hairy arms, or strong arms? Either way, I like the image -- reminds me of the movie Brave.

“Wake up, son. Come on,” he’d shake
me. “Kole!” And here I thought "Kolemath" was just an internet name.

I’d eventually come back and sleep
in my parent’s bedroom, darting up from time
to time, only to be held back down by my parents
on either side of me.

Possessed behavior,
ever-present in my memory,
in these terrifying unremembered moments, 
there is a feeling. I've compressed the four lines for my convenience, since the stanza breaks don't really mean anything....and so far, neither does the sentence.

I’ll never be sure what it is, this feeling.

I’ve tried remembering
the devil for decades. I mean, it's an expression, but since it's a feeling when you're possessed, it's the wrong sort of expression -- easily invalidates the last sentence.

My blood feels dense, thick, high "Feels": so you're having the feeling now? In which case, DUDE, WAKE UP! And "blood feels high".....hmm.....with those medicines earlier, I have a good guess....
like I’m hurling across an ocean to splatter "Across an ocean to splatter" where? On one of the continents? Weird, weird image.
or careening from mountain peak to peak or be eaten Or being eaten.
by an unnamed
closebehind.

Like death sits outside on the doorstep
and if I just stay inside . . . Good image, but right now, it feels kinda unjustified. In fact, in general, it feels unjustified -- the sentences, bar those few misses I earlier noted, fit, but overall the glue that connects them doesn't feel, er, well-structured enough, like the whole poem is just a collection of senses that are just, well, there, not trying to make a point ------- which does work for some pieces, but then the second thing, that the glue isn't aromatic enough, that (perhaps because of the perceived [by the author] necessity of having such a toned down tone) the whole thing doesn't stick out as a whole enough to be worth the read, ya dig? I think for a less abstract explanation, the earlier crits suffice.

I’m unsure of my earliest memory,
but I have three antiques:
when mom broke the plate and spilt the beans, spilled, ye Brit! xD But really, with that paragraph-long notion, this jump just feels like a random dig to try to keep the audience interested.
my father stepping out of his truck with my first dog,

and my mother crying behind me. And the images themselves are honestly so generic (or generically presented) that they don't even work as standalone anecdotes.
I was eating lunch from the edge of a hospital bed.

My dad said once, “You probably don’t remember, 
but you almost died from pneumonia when you were a baby.” Another gem, although too dialogue-like to really work, especially in a poem that's already very prosey (even if the piece is corrected enough to not read like broken prose, what with the selected tone).

I heard a monk speak on death as a slow process
of sense draining from you, followed by clarity. And here is where the poem starts to move -- that is, from boring to heavy-handed. Leaving the poem on "almost died" would have been enough, I trust my fellow audience members to make the connection, but now this?

Might I have begun the process,
of sensory drain
and death as a child in the hospital?

I see my parents’ deaths.  My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child.  My tears have not changed.

The unnamed closebehind:
my birth and death
surrounding me. So yeah, existentialism 101. Only, you know, not complex enough on either parts: on the part of the speaker, well, he got this all while dreaming! Who's to say that his night terrors weren't just, I dunno, hormonal, easily cured by some, what, anti-psychotics? thus making it an untenable, untenable line of thinking. And on the part of the audience, it's a topic that, in the clinical language of these last four stanzas, really should have gotten its own poem -- so far, it just reads incomplete. Really, if you'd just cut these last four stanzas, maybe add just a much, much slighter single-stanza conclusion, then that whole "existentialism 101" thing, though still (if you think about it hard enough) untenable, would at least read poetic, which is most important. That is, of course, if the images themselves were, well, not tighter, but more, I dunno, vivid? face-grabby? like, oneiric, but not like between dream-modes sort of oneiric? Something. The word escapes me.

I hope this all made sense. :S

[kolemath]

thanks to all the people who took the time to read and comment on a boring first draft. i couldn't look at this one for a while, but there ya go..sometimes our sensitive BS is tough to reexamine.


the first draft had no point, random images free of any connection to plot, abundant abstractions, and was a labor to read. i've revised for these points and tried to purge for excessive sentiment.

@achebe, lizziep, mercedes, duke, rich, river THANKS!

[CRNDLSM]

Howdy!  I was wondering if you were happy with your edit here?  I only ask because it's such a dramatic change from the original.  Not necessarily the descriptive qualities but the layout and everything.  Also, because I like both copies.  I thought the original was suspenseful enough a story to drag me into the wonders of night terrors (my older brother had them growing up), maybe it was a little too spacey but I guess I was expecting something halfway instead of what seems like two extremes.  The edit is very compact and suspenseful too, though. great storytelling.  Hope it makes it into a larger work sometime!

[kolemath]

Good question! I just felt like the first version wasn't a poem, based on the feedback I got, so my main goal was to write a poem.

thanks for the feedback!

[rollingbrianjones]

There's already a lot said on this poem - so I'll stick to a couple of brief points.

The language used, is it really terrifying?
Even the imagery used, though creative, could push the idea of Night Terrors much further. Even when death makes an appearance towards the end, there isn't really much language that causes me to share the fear/anxiety.
Some "dark" language or further pushed sinister implications would portray the fear felt by all of the family around the sleepwalker's behaviour, & could perhaps not only enhance the poem in terms of being a more powerful read, but mirror the terror within the language used and ultimately make the poem stronger. Imo the strongest poems are always those that mirror the poem's subject within the words, metaphors, stressed sounds etc.

Also second edit is a huge improvement on the first. I read it easily and took it in. I tried to do the same with your first draft afterwards and struggled, it was just too strung out and seemed much more forced than your most recent attempt.

Look forward to seeing if you develop this further, interesting subject matter.

[ellajam]

Posts have been deleted, please use this thread only for specific critique on the OP. Thanks, ella

[Lizzie]

Hey, Kole! I have a thought....

You know how we just did those prose poems in PWoF? I think it might work really well if you did this one as a prose poem. Those poems were supposed to work well for dreams, obsessional, repetitive thinking, etc. and I think that style would be an excellent fit for this topic.

You did a good job with the one you wrote for the event, so it might be something to try.

Hope this helps

lizziep

[kolemath]

Thanks for the suggestion, lizziep. I think I'll try that out for a rewrite.

Nice to see you too.