The Witch of Raider Hollow

[Southern Scarab]

Edit Two

The Witch of Raider Hollow

Under a yellow porch beacon, I watched the canopies pour their weight
over black bark, frightening the crickets
into suddenly silent millions.
Call me restless, a rocking chair out of wooden tune;
knuckle blistered, a lap full of coffee grounds spilt from spoons, and trying
to picture the caviar eyes of unseen insects.
To hear whatever the downpour smothered, wherever it crawls.
In their absence, the bullfrogs were just another chorus of sore throats.
Their cousins the stoats, invisibly, preferred to slip
away quietly.

Grandma's voice through the window,
like a crooked fork clattering on the kitchen floor:
a prayer to bed ridden aunty, who
they say, spoke to the hollow.
Fewer tell how it spoke back.

Still others say she chewed cloves.
That when the locusts arrived to sew dead-straw summers,
her and hers were the first to drop plow,
to haunt the valley where the Devil leashed a faithful sow.
And so that cliff hidden pond where the foxes sometimes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance:
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance-
to hear it told- under cloak and on hay-stacks of human hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.

In the morning, tight faced from cold,
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch.
Possibly millions, flaking into chaffy pollen--
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call
my name

In my dream I saw a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all,
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots.
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells
every so often--
strangest of all, because the bush does not die.

Edit One

Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush)
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds


Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty
they say she spoke to the hollow
fewer tell how it spoke back
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.


In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name


In my dream I see a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often
strangest of all, because the bush does not die

[Brownlie]

Hey, this is pretty cool. 

Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons -- Maybe be more specific by specifying what kind of leaves are blowing.
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush)
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks  -- I guess the stoats are in contrast to the frogs?
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds

Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty 
they say she spoke to the hollow -- Is "she" aunty or grandma?
fewer tell how it spoke back
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall -- Would avoid inversion with "summer fall." Plus, summer fall is redundant. "bringing summer" would mean the same thing right?
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.


In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen -- Like this description
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name


In my dream I see a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often
strangest of all, because the bush does not die

I like a lot of the description in the poem. Not sure what you're after here, but I was a little confused at some points. That's really my main critique. Pretty interesting writing though. Good luck with it.

[Vanity]

Hi! I like the last two stanzas...better than the first two. I think because something happens and I can see it..the sweeping, the dream. I like the dream and the bicycle and the vine part best. I would almost suggest reworking the second half of this.
I mean--im a big fan of description -- which is mostly what you've got in the first two. But it feels a little random. I'm not sure what you're setting me up for. I didn't care for 'leaves ....monsoons ' line, maybe it's the plural use? ' grandmas voice...fork bent with whispers' --I wasn't clear what you meant here. And I like out of the box metaphor use, but sometimes what seems so clear to you is lost on someone else.
But I liked the forgotten bike and the berry bush....(-: try for more clarity in the beginning. good luck with it. Thanks--V

[Southern Scarab]

Hey, this is pretty cool. 

Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons -- Maybe be more specific by specifying what kind of leaves are blowing. true
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush)
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks  -- I guess the stoats are in contrast to the frogs? I think. Honestly I didn't think about it, but I need to.
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds

Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty 
they say she spoke to the hollow -- Is "she" aunty or grandma?
fewer tell how it spoke back
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall -- Would avoid inversion with "summer fall." Plus, summer fall is redundant. "bringing summer" would mean the same thing right? I meant it in the sense of fall weather during summer time, but I definitely don't explain that well.
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.


In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen -- Like this description thanks
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name


In my dream I see a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often
strangest of all, because the bush does not die

I like a lot of the description in the poem. Not sure what you're after here, but I was a little confused at some points. That's really my main critique. Pretty interesting writing though. Good luck with it.

Thank you for your critique. Definitely working on a second edit!

---

Hi! I like the last two stanzas...better than the first two. I think because something happens and I can see it..the sweeping, the dream. I like the dream and the bicycle and the vine part best. I would almost suggest reworking the second half of this.
I mean--im a big fan of description -- which is mostly what you've got in the first two. But it feels a little random. I'm not sure what you're setting me up for. I didn't care for 'leaves ....monsoons ' line, maybe it's the plural use? ' grandmas voice...fork bent with whispers' --I wasn't clear what you meant here. And I like out of the box metaphor use, but sometimes what seems so clear to you is lost on someone else.
But I liked the forgotten bike and the berry bush....(-: try for more clarity in the beginning. good luck with it. Thanks--V

Do you mean that I should rework the second or first pair of stanzas?
You're right, there are some randomness and clarity issues.
thanks for your thoughts, They'll help with the second edit.

[Achebe]

I think you've got some great lines in:

"but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds"

Although I would question whether stoats need to hide from tomcats, there's great assonance in these two lines (also, "in the back" or "in backs" would be more correct)
However, the lines are run-on. I don't know whether that is deliberate or not, but it doesn't make for good reading.
What you have at the moment is a jumble of lines, some good, some ordinary. Perhaps you should begin afresh by forming complete sentences.

[Lizzie]

Hi Southern Scarab! Right off the bat, I want to say that I think you have lots of lovely imagery and unique expressions. You have a very distinctive voice, and that's fabulous. Ok, onward

Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush) -- Too close to the cliche, I think. I see that you're trying to make it different, but I don't think it's different enough to be a real subversion.
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune -- Now, this, I like. Honestly, I think "Call me restless..." would be a great opening line. It would establish the speaker right out of the gate, and give us someone to connect to. And the rocking chair out of tune is perfect -- wonderfully evocative.
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds -- Ok, so I almost stopped reading at the end of this paragraph. I had (still have) no idea what's going on. I need something to orient me in the piece to give me some kind of clue as to what might be happening in order for me to want to proceed. Perhaps because we get so many pieces here that are just nonstop obscurity from beginning to end, I almost didn't continue.

There are so many images, but they're all just tossed in a bag and shaken up. Like "black wood" -- it's left there, with no context, nothing it seems to modify, refer to; it's seemingly part of no larger context. I would go through word by word and make sure that every word needs to be there -- make each word pull its weight. And then try to pull everything in into some kind of more cohesive whole.
 


Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty
they say she spoke to the hollow
fewer tell how it spoke back -- I'm staying now. I was on my way out the door, but these two lines brought me back.  
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink --
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares. -- I have no idea what I just read, but it sounded beautiful. And, it's evocative. I can picture the horses, the lightning bugs, it's working.


In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch -- wonderful s sounds
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name -- ominous, I like it.


In my dream I see a blackberry bush -- if it was last night's dream is should be "saw", otherwise I don't know where I am in the storyline.
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all -- these two lines are my favorite from the poem. I can visualize this so easily and it's completely fresh imagery.
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often -- like "wicked wheels ringing"
strangest of all, because the bush does not die

I feel like stanza two should maybe be its own poem. It seems to break up the night-morning-dream flashback sequence. If you'd like to keep it in, I'd suggest linking it time wise with one of the other stanzas.

Punctuation....I'm an all in or all out kinda girl. I don't really care, I'd just recommend picking. Right now, it feels very random and sporadic, and it's distracting.

Again, as Achebe said (and he would know), you have an ear for language and can make a phrase sound mighty nice   I think you're doing a wonderful job on that front.

I like the loose, rambling feel of this, I just would like to see you really hone in on some key concepts and imagery and tighten things up a little around them.

Hope some of this helps!

Thanks so much for sharing, and, again, great work ><

lizziep

[Southern Scarab]

Version Two

The Witch of Raider Hollow

Under a yellow porch beacon, I watched the canopies pour their weight
over black bark, frightening the crickets
into suddenly silent millions.
Call me restless, a rocking chair out of wooden tune;
knuckle blistered, a lap full of coffee grounds spilt from spoons, and trying
to picture the caviar eyes of unseen insects.
To hear whatever the downpour smothered, wherever it crawls.
In their absence, the bullfrogs were just another chorus of sore throats.
Their cousins the stoats, invisibly, preferred to slip
away quietly.

Grandma's voice through the window,
like a crooked fork clattering on the kitchen floor:
a prayer to bed ridden aunty, who
they say, spoke to the hollow.
Fewer tell how it spoke back.

Still others say she chewed cloves.
That when the locusts arrived to sew dead-straw summers,
her and hers were the first to drop plow,
to haunt the valley where the Devil leashed a faithful sow.
And so that cliff hidden pond where the foxes sometimes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance:
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance-
to hear it told- under cloak and on hay-stacks of human hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares.

In the morning, tight faced from cold,
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch.
Possibly millions, flaking into chaffy pollen--
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call
my name

In my dream I saw a blackberry bush
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all,
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots.
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often--
strangest of all, because the bush does not die.

---

Hi Southern Scarab! Right off the bat, I want to say that I think you have lots of lovely imagery and unique expressions. You have a very distinctive voice, and that's fabulous. Ok, onward

Porch light, and the leaves are monsoons
Black wood, and the crickets hard to catch
(one in the hand and a thousand in the bush) -- Too close to the cliche, I think. I see that you're trying to make it different, but I don't think it's different enough to be a real subversion.
Call me restless- rocking chair out of wooden tune -- Now, this, I like. Honestly, I think "Call me restless..." would be a great opening line. It would establish the speaker right out of the gate, and give us someone to connect to. And the rocking chair out of tune is perfect -- wonderfully evocative.
Knuckle blisters, with coffee grounds spilt from spoons
The bullfrogs- another chorus of sore throats
but the stoats, invisibly, slip between the wood-stocks
hiding from the tomcat and his bone-beds in back of sheds -- Ok, so I almost stopped reading at the end of this paragraph. I had (still have) no idea what's going on. I need something to orient me in the piece to give me some kind of clue as to what might be happening in order for me to want to proceed. Perhaps because we get so many pieces here that are just nonstop obscurity from beginning to end, I almost didn't continue.

There are so many images, but they're all just tossed in a bag and shaken up. Like "black wood" -- it's left there, with no context, nothing it seems to modify, refer to; it's seemingly part of no larger context. I would go through word by word and make sure that every word needs to be there -- make each word pull its weight. And then try to pull everything in into some kind of more cohesive whole.
 


Grandma's voice is a fork bent with whispers
a prayer to bed ridden aunty
they say she spoke to the hollow
fewer tell how it spoke back -- I'm staying now. I was on my way out the door, but these two lines brought me back.  
Still others say she chewed cloves
that when the locusts arrived bringing summer fall
her and hers were the first to drop plow
to haunt the creek where the Devil's herd stopped to drink --
so that the cliff hidden pond where the foxes bury buck skulls
became their southern scholomance
a lightning bug disco where the Devil would dance
to hear it told- under cloak and on haystacks of hair
with the voice of screaming, bolting mares. -- I have no idea what I just read, but it sounded beautiful. And, it's evocative. I can picture the horses, the lightning bugs, it's working.


In the morning, tight faced from cold
I was sleepily sweeping cicada shells from the porch -- wonderful s sounds
hundreds of them, flaking into chaffy pollen
fever-struck!
I thought I heard a crow call my name -- ominous, I like it.


In my dream I see a blackberry bush -- if it was last night's dream is should be "saw", otherwise I don't know where I am in the storyline.
sprouting through the spokes of a forgotten bicycle
and then torn from it's roots and ridden, berries and all -- these two lines are my favorite from the poem. I can visualize this so easily and it's completely fresh imagery.
by children with camouflage faces
across crumbling parking lots
I hear those wicked wheels ringing like sniper shells every so often -- like "wicked wheels ringing"
strangest of all, because the bush does not die

I feel like stanza two should maybe be its own poem. It seems to break up the night-morning-dream flashback sequence. If you'd like to keep it in, I'd suggest linking it time wise with one of the other stanzas.

Punctuation....I'm an all in or all out kinda girl. I don't really care, I'd just recommend picking. Right now, it feels very random and sporadic, and it's distracting.

Again, as Achebe said (and he would know), you have an ear for language and can make a phrase sound mighty nice   I think you're doing a wonderful job on that front.

I like the loose, rambling feel of this, I just would like to see you really hone in on some key concepts and imagery and tighten things up a little around them.

Hope some of this helps!

Thanks so much for sharing, and, again, great work ><

lizziep

Thank you, that was extremely helpful

[Lizzie]

Hi, Southern Scarab! I didn't realize you had posted an edit, I just came back to it and it was here! You should probably put your new version above the old version so that people know you've updated it because not everyone will look at the comments.

Overall, I think you did a great job cleaning things up so that it's readable and engaging throughout. The final stanza is still my favorite. I read it as family roots remaining alive despite stresses. Probably way off base, but I like to make up my own storylines for things when there isn't a clear one provided.

I do still feel like you're showing me beautiful elements, images and then not tying them together directly. And, I'm on the fence about whether I'd suggest a change from this. It might actually be nice to have this be a series with some other poems that would help develop some kind of storyline.

Anyway, I think everything reads beautifully. I'd omit "every so often" in the second to last line because I don't think that it adds anything. This is one I keep coming back to, so thanks for posting!

lizziep

[Southern Scarab]

Hi, Southern Scarab! I didn't realize you had posted an edit, I just came back to it and it was here! You should probably put your new version above the old version so that people know you've updated it because not everyone will look at the comments.

Overall, I think you did a great job cleaning things up so that it's readable and engaging throughout. The final stanza is still my favorite. I read it as family roots remaining alive despite stresses. Probably way off base, but I like to make up my own storylines for things when there isn't a clear one provided.

I do still feel like you're showing me beautiful elements, images and then not tying them together directly. And, I'm on the fence about whether I'd suggest a change from this. It might actually be nice to have this be a series with some other poems that would help develop some kind of storyline.

Anyway, I think everything reads beautifully. I'd omit "every so often" in the second to last line because I don't think that it adds anything. This is one I keep coming back to, so thanks for posting!

lizziep
[/quote]

Good advice    I hadn't realized I'd buried the second edit like that, still kind of learning the site.

Thank you! The story's a little dubious to me as well, but I didn't want to be too concrete in this one.

It's funny you would say that, because it has three sisters. Putting together a group of poems revolving around Kentucky. Hopefully they'll bring something out in each other