Incurable (revision 18/11/2016)

[Sparkydashforth]

He studies the dinner card,
ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
tasting it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body. Shivers,
as fingertips recall their tactile experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated for caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain spectral gathering
that envelopes him, a swaddling pall covering his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
coddles him, imparts a sky-blue
and chrome enclosure for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonias.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels wax from crumbling ears,
waters psychic seeds
with the milky drops of dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up his loose ends,
until he drifts like a gibbous moon
over the new-sprung rack of his bed.



~~~~~~

Many thanks to all who got me to this revision.

Original Version

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~

[Leanne]

This isn't feedback just yet sparky, but a placeholder and a "don't lose heart I've read it" comment -- I promise I will return but I want to read this a few more times to fully appreciate it.

First impressions though -- I genuinely love this. The sensory experience is strong, particularly with the evocation of scents. You have a couple of typos that a quick proofread will soon sort out for you so I'll let you do that on your own. Also, is "manta" the word you want to use? Feels like it should be "mantle" or maybe, at a stretch, "mantra" for something less tangible.

More soon, when I'm not fitting comments in at work -- just wanted to let you know it wasn't being ignored.

[Sparkydashforth]

Hi Leanne,

thanks for the place-holder comment......much appreciated.

I think I caught the grammar errors? Not sure where the Proof-Reader
is found, but will find it in the fullness of time. Despite years of scribbling
I am still chronically, grammatically challenged.

Manta means shawl or cloth, but I think another word might be more fitting.
I wanted to use an exotic word here, but this may be a bit too cute.
Will scurry over to the On-line Lexicon to see what's on offer.

Again -
much obliged!

This isn't feedback just yet sparky, but a placeholder and a "don't lose heart I've read it" comment -- I promise I will return but I want to read this a few more times to fully appreciate it.  

First impressions though -- I genuinely love this.  The sensory experience is strong, particularly with the evocation of scents.  You have a couple of typos that a quick proofread will soon sort out for you so I'll let you do that on your own.  Also, is "manta" the word you want to use?  Feels like it should be "mantle" or maybe, at a stretch, "mantra" for something less tangible.

More soon, when I'm not fitting comments in at work -- just wanted to let you know it wasn't being ignored.

---

Hi Leanne,

thanks for the place-holder comment......much appreciated.

I think I caught the grammar errors? Not sure where the Proof-Reader
is found, but will find it in the fullness of time. Despite years of scribbling
I am still chronically, grammatically challenged.

Manta means shawl or cloth, but I think another word might be more fitting.
I wanted to use an exotic word here, but this may be a bit too cute.
Will scurry over to the On-line Lexicon to see what's on offer.

Again -
much obliged!

* Changed "manta" to 'pall'.

This isn't feedback just yet sparky, but a placeholder and a "don't lose heart I've read it" comment -- I promise I will return but I want to read this a few more times to fully appreciate it.  

First impressions though -- I genuinely love this.  The sensory experience is strong, particularly with the evocation of scents.  You have a couple of typos that a quick proofread will soon sort out for you so I'll let you do that on your own.  Also, is "manta" the word you want to use?  Feels like it should be "mantle" or maybe, at a stretch, "mantra" for something less tangible.

More soon, when I'm not fitting comments in at work -- just wanted to let you know it wasn't being ignored.

[Donald Q.]

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.   Interesting opening stanza, but I feel it could be a bit punchier? Whether you need 'carefully' is debatable, but 'ticks off the boxes' seems a bit long

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness, Nitpick; can you smell your own breath? I feel it is hard unless you raise your hand to mouth or something
as lungs struggle to filter air  
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. turgid and soup are doing the same thing; dont overwrite 
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,  some interesting and emotional imagery, 
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.  'expiring experiences' is too much for me, sound-wise
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex. latex caress might be better

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering  not sure if i like gathering as a noun here, and envelopes serves similar purpose after
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh again, gathering, envelopes, covers his flesh;   make sure you feel each similar statement actually adds something
with quilted retrospectives of his mother, this is good
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue  'even a 1985 Plymouth envelopes him' is really great. 
and chrome lodging for memories.  Not sure about the bit after the dash, i think i dislike lodging, but im not sure, it's not as good as the plymouth's intro

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.  Get that apostrophe out of my sight 
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears, not sure about pairing 'for' and 'from'. for and in, or just trowels wax from, perhaps.
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.  This whole stanza is the best written of the poem, very tight, good stuff. I would perhaps change the location of your semicolon though 'from crumbling ears;/plants psychic [NO DASH NEEDED] seeds into that residue, then waters...' I think that the bridge between residue and waters should crescendo the rhythm of the stanza. This is minimal nit picking, but this stanza is nearly perfect so why not push it that bit further. 

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, Did he put the mixture back inside him? This confused me a tad. 
they will bind up all his loose ends, cool
until he drifts like a wane moon I'm on the fence about your use of wane. 
over the foot of his skeletal bed. I feel there is perhaps a line missing in terms of the movement; the sprouts grow, they bind him up [insert line about movement here]  then he drifts over his bed . You don't need to rush your ending toooo much, one more moment of ascension might be good.


~~~~~

There are my line-by-lines.
I like your poem alot; I think there's plenty going for it. It avoids alot of the potential pitfalls for a poem about an old bloke dying; I'm not drowning in syrupy sadness by the end. I think you can tighten up the first half, there are parts that are slightly over-written with some redundancy, perhaps just because you wanted some sound play in there. With those parts refined I think you have a very strong poem. I will attempt to crit any changes you make.

[Leanne]

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon. -- this stanza makes me instantly love this old man, with his childlike joy, which of course hints to me that I will be pretty damn sad by the end of the poem (even if I hadn't read the title)

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. -- I am not sure about the word "turgid".  Generally it's used for things like rivers in flood, so even though it's a technically correct descriptor for congested air, the connotation is of something flowing quickly, which this air definitely does not do.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky, -- beautiful image
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences. -- the two "ex" sounds here don't work well for me.  They are harsh and give this line a kind of staccato that I don't enjoy in combination with such a soft sensory image.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself. -- you could probably put a comma here, run the sentence on and remove the comma on the next line.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh -- the consonance of the l sounds in this line works beautifully -- pall is a good choice
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue -- I'm not convinced that using envelope twice is your best choice of words
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s. -- no apostrophe!
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes. -- I just love this stanza in its entirety

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, -- perfect
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon -- waning or waned, surely?
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~

[Sparkydashforth]

Hello Donald,

thank you so much for this incisive edit.  An invaluable critique which I will take to heart.
In fact, I am already seeing the light after your suggestions, and will mull over them,
and revise accordingly. 
It is indeed good to see the way forward on this work.

Very much appreciate your time spent on this.

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.   Interesting opening stanza, but I feel it could be a bit punchier? Whether you need 'carefully' is debatable, but 'ticks off the boxes' seems a bit long

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness, Nitpick; can you smell your own breath? I feel it is hard unless you raise your hand to mouth or something
as lungs struggle to filter air  
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. turgid and soup are doing the same thing; dont overwrite 
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,  some interesting and emotional imagery, 
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.  'expiring experiences' is too much for me, sound-wise
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex. latex caress might be better

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering  not sure if i like gathering as a noun here, and envelopes serves similar purpose after
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh again, gathering, envelopes, covers his flesh;   make sure you feel each similar statement actually adds something
with quilted retrospectives of his mother, this is good
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue  'even a 1985 Plymouth envelopes him' is really great. 
and chrome lodging for memories.  Not sure about the bit after the dash, i think i dislike lodging, but im not sure, it's not as good as the plymouth's intro

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.  Get that apostrophe out of my sight 
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears, not sure about pairing 'for' and 'from'. for and in, or just trowels wax from, perhaps.
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.  This whole stanza is the best written of the poem, very tight, good stuff. I would perhaps change the location of your semicolon though 'from crumbling ears;/plants psychic [NO DASH NEEDED] seeds into that residue, then waters...' I think that the bridge between residue and waters should crescendo the rhythm of the stanza. This is minimal nit picking, but this stanza is nearly perfect so why not push it that bit further. 

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, Did he put the mixture back inside him? This confused me a tad. 
they will bind up all his loose ends, cool
until he drifts like a wane moon I'm on the fence about your use of wane. 
over the foot of his skeletal bed. I feel there is perhaps a line missing in terms of the movement; the sprouts grow, they bind him up [insert line about movement here]  then he drifts over his bed . You don't need to rush your ending toooo much, one more moment of ascension might be good.


~~~~~

There are my line-by-lines.
I like your poem alot; I think there's plenty going for it. It avoids alot of the potential pitfalls for a poem about an old bloke dying; I'm not drowning in syrupy sadness by the end. I think you can tighten up the first half, there are parts that are slightly over-written with some redundancy, perhaps just because you wanted some sound play in there. With those parts refined I think you have a very strong poem. I will attempt to crit any changes you make.

---

Hello Leanne,

thanks for this more detailed edit. I do agree with your suggestions,
especially those hard word sounds.
I have lots to ponder on, but a new revision is definitely imminent.
Excellent review from you!

Again, many thanks.

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon. -- this stanza makes me instantly love this old man, with his childlike joy, which of course hints to me that I will be pretty damn sad by the end of the poem (even if I hadn't read the title)

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. -- I am not sure about the word "turgid".  Generally it's used for things like rivers in flood, so even though it's a technically correct descriptor for congested air, the connotation is of something flowing quickly, which this air definitely does not do.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky, -- beautiful image
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences. -- the two "ex" sounds here don't work well for me.  They are harsh and give this line a kind of staccato that I don't enjoy in combination with such a soft sensory image.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself. -- you could probably put a comma here, run the sentence on and remove the comma on the next line.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh -- the consonance of the l sounds in this line works beautifully -- pall is a good choice
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue -- I'm not convinced that using envelope twice is your best choice of words
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s. -- no apostrophe!
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes. -- I just love this stanza in its entirety

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, -- perfect
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon -- waning or waned, surely?
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~

[Todd]

I like the bones of this. I haven't read the comments so forgive me if there's repetition. A few notes below:

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O--quick establishing of age. Efficient opening a bit static but no real complaints. Carefully ticks works for me in that it takes a throwaway type decision and elevates it to that of a key life choice.
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically--I like the contrast between anticipation and reality. I like mechanically. This feels thematic: a rich imagination vs. a bleak reality--sort of like a terminal Walter Mitty.
on a plastic spoon.--plastic gives a sense of the disposable and transient.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;--I love this line. As lines go it would be a more evocative first line.  Obviously that would be a bit of a reworking of lines. I guess I'd say while I liked the introduction of theme above this is the first line that popped for me.
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,--I've been attempting to smell my own breath. This feels like a literary conceit and not a reality. You could consider cutting this line and just moving directly to "as lungs struggle..."
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,--again the contrast from the last line. This is sort of your unifying principle in the poem chemical soup moves to sipping an effervescent sky (lovely by the way). It's this back and forth that the poem is about. This escape in the mind and memory that the body doesn't allow.
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,--I like the break on shivers.
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.--This may be stronger cutting expiring experiences. Remember gets you there I think.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.--Feels like it might be lacking in imagery a bit to set the scene better.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.I love this progression, especially delicately corrugated. I'm beginning to shy away from these "of ____" constructions. They always sound a little more bolted on than they should. Maybe some slight rewording.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering--This could just be me but gossamer always strikes me as so self-consciously poetic. I'm not saying the word is off limits just I don't think the phrasing here sells it.
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh--This though gets back to where it needs to be.
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth--This progression with its quirky connections is really well done. I like these last too lines very much.
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue--I'm not a fan of the envelopes him repetition (could just be a style choice on my part).
and chrome lodging for memories.--The more I think about this last part (below the Plymouth) I think I would consider cutting it all. It doesn't seem to do much.

At night, he enters a potting shed--what a beautiful launching point into dream. (at night, he enters). I like that is a place where something grows--a contrast to the waking world.
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.--This strophe opens well. I like the sensory elements (kill the apostrophe).
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,--This inversion on these last two lines feels a bit clunky.
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,--lovely line
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,--another killer line.
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.--The imagery and the progression is excellent in this strophe.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,--love the imagery in this line and how it fits with the theme. His body wastes away but he restores himelf with his dreams.
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon--feels like you need to use the adjective rather than the verb (wane).
over the foot of his skeletal bed.--These last three lines seem to foreshadow his death.


~~~~~

I enjoyed the read. I hope the notes help some. 

Best,

Todd

[Sparkydashforth]

Thanks Todd, another stellar review (not because most of it is positive).
I like your suggestions.
I've had 3 review posts now to help me revise, so no excuses if I fluff it.
Tomorrow I will get busy on this.

Cheers!

I like the bones of this. I haven't read the comments so forgive me if there's repetition. A few notes below:

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O--quick establishing of age. Efficient opening a bit static but no real complaints. Carefully ticks works for me in that it takes a throwaway type decision and elevates it to that of a key life choice.
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically--I like the contrast between anticipation and reality. I like mechanically. This feels thematic: a rich imagination vs. a bleak reality--sort of like a terminal Walter Mitty.
on a plastic spoon.--plastic gives a sense of the disposable and transient.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;--I love this line. As lines go it would be a more evocative first line.  Obviously that would be a bit of a reworking of lines. I guess I'd say while I liked the introduction of theme above this is the first line that popped for me.
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,--I've been attempting to smell my own breath. This feels like a literary conceit and not a reality. You could consider cutting this line and just moving directly to "as lungs struggle..."
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,--again the contrast from the last line. This is sort of your unifying principle in the poem chemical soup moves to sipping an effervescent sky (lovely by the way). It's this back and forth that the poem is about. This escape in the mind and memory that the body doesn't allow.
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,--I like the break on shivers.
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.--This may be stronger cutting expiring experiences. Remember gets you there I think.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.--Feels like it might be lacking in imagery a bit to set the scene better.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.I love this progression, especially delicately corrugated. I'm beginning to shy away from these "of ____" constructions. They always sound a little more bolted on than they should. Maybe some slight rewording.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering--This could just be me but gossamer always strikes me as so self-consciously poetic. I'm not saying the word is off limits just I don't think the phrasing here sells it.
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh--This though gets back to where it needs to be.
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth--This progression with its quirky connections is really well done. I like these last too lines very much.
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue--I'm not a fan of the envelopes him repetition (could just be a style choice on my part).
and chrome lodging for memories.--The more I think about this last part (below the Plymouth) I think I would consider cutting it all. It doesn't seem to do much.

At night, he enters a potting shed--what a beautiful launching point into dream. (at night, he enters). I like that is a place where something grows--a contrast to the waking world.
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.--This strophe opens well. I like the sensory elements (kill the apostrophe).
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,--This inversion on these last two lines feels a bit clunky.
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,--lovely line
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,--another killer line.
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.--The imagery and the progression is excellent in this strophe.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,--love the imagery in this line and how it fits with the theme. His body wastes away but he restores himelf with his dreams.
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon--feels like you need to use the adjective rather than the verb (wane).
over the foot of his skeletal bed.--These last three lines seem to foreshadow his death.


~~~~~

I enjoyed the read. I hope the notes help some. 

Best,

Todd

[Leanne]

Hi Sparky,

We've found that for workshopping it's best to keep versions together so that we can make comparisons and see the workshop process in action, rather than posting revisions as a new thread. It's fine to bump your thread with a little post when you've made some changes, just to let people know. I've set this up for you in this thread so you can see what I mean (never fear, most members can't go editing your posts like this, only those of us with unlimited powers to use for our own evil pursuits...).

I'll come back and give the revised version a good going-over soon.

[Sparkydashforth]

Thanks Leanne, I had a queasy feeling that I had cocked this up. Yes, it makes more sense
to place latest revs with their less beautiful kin.

L'chaim !

Hi Sparky,

We've found that for workshopping it's best to keep versions together so that we can make comparisons and see the workshop process in action, rather than posting revisions as a new thread.  It's fine to bump your thread with a little post when you've made some changes, just to let people know.  I've set this up for you in this thread so you can see what I mean (never fear, most members can't go editing your posts like this, only those of us with unlimited powers to use for our own evil pursuits...).

I'll come back and give the revised version a good going-over soon.

---

11-16-2016, 07:00 AM      (Rev 2)


He studies the dinner card,
ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
tasting it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body. Shivers,
as fingertips recall their tactile experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his curved spine
delicately corrugated for the caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain spectral gathering
that envelopes him, a swaddling pall covering his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
coddles him, imparts a sky-blue
and chrome enclosure for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonias.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels wax from crumbling ears,
waters psychic seeds
with the milky drops of dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up his loose ends,
until he drifts like a gibbous moon
over the new-sprung rack of his bed.

~~

[Todd]

A few observations on the revision. We start moving into subjective territory with these things as some of it simply a matter of preference.

He studies the dinner card,
ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
tasting it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,--I still don't really like this appeal to tasting now. What that first phrase really give me that "savoring a coolness" standing alone wouldn't provide?
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the chemical soup of the ward.--Nice cut. The line reads more quickly and feels less weighed down by the extra modifier. I didn't mind turgid at all but it seems the logical cut.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body. Shivers,
as fingertips recall their tactile experiences.--recall is a good substitute and I like tactile experiences too expiring as it goes with fingertips much better.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated for caress of latex.--This feels choppy without an article before caress.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain spectral gathering--Spectral is an improvement.
that envelopes him, a swaddling pall covering his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
coddles him, imparts a sky-blue
and chrome enclosure for memories.--I respect your artistic right to keep this. This is one of those style choices I mentioned earlier. I  think enclosure is a good enhancement. I think we already know that we are moving into the remembered past so I think what is bothering me most about this is "memories". I have a similar reaction to "dreaming" below but since I like that progression more I'm willing to shrug past it. I'd like more implication and less outright telling.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonias.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels wax from crumbling ears,
waters psychic seeds
with the milky drops of dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up his loose ends,
until he drifts like a gibbous moon--This is your biggest change. I could take this a few ways with "wane" I had felt that the focus was on the breakdown of the body. With gibbbous I have to rethink this to maybe being his memory and imagination has caused him to swell beyond his physical infirmity. This could be the release of death moon like a balloon. It could simply be him drifting to some other place through the escape of his thoughts. This makes it feel lighter than the previous read for me.
over the new-sprung rack of his bed.--This draws me back to the "The skin of his bone-racked back" line. The rack also makes me think of physical torture and him being freed from it. So, some big changes here but they work.

Best,

Todd



~~~~~~

Many thanks to all who got me to this revision.

Original Version

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~

[Sparkydashforth]

Thanks again Todd,

there is a newer version of this at the foot of the threads. I realized (moments after posting - isn't it always the way),
that I had used 'racked' twice. That line has been changed. The line "delicately corrugated for latex caress" needed a missing 'the'.

Yes, subjective preferences now play a part in assessing this poem, but that's okay also.
I remain open to persuasion.

Regarding the tasting of the breath: when I was seriously ill in hospital, there came a time when that sensation
manifested itself to me, as hard as it is to explain, it was real at the time.

Cheers!

A few observations on the revision. We start moving into subjective territory with these things as some of it simply a matter of preference.

He studies the dinner card,
ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
tasting it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,--I still don't really like this appeal to tasting now. What that first phrase really give me that "savoring a coolness" standing alone wouldn't provide?
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the chemical soup of the ward.--Nice cut. The line reads more quickly and feels less weighed down by the extra modifier. I didn't mind turgid at all but it seems the logical cut.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body. Shivers,
as fingertips recall their tactile experiences.--recall is a good substitute and I like tactile experiences too expiring as it goes with fingertips much better.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated for caress of latex.--This feels choppy without an article before caress.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain spectral gathering--Spectral is an improvement.
that envelopes him, a swaddling pall covering his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
coddles him, imparts a sky-blue
and chrome enclosure for memories.--I respect your artistic right to keep this. This is one of those style choices I mentioned earlier. I  think enclosure is a good enhancement. I think we already know that we are moving into the remembered past so I think what is bothering me most about this is "memories". I have a similar reaction to "dreaming" below but since I like that progression more I'm willing to shrug past it. I'd like more implication and less outright telling.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonias.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels wax from crumbling ears,
waters psychic seeds
with the milky drops of dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up his loose ends,
until he drifts like a gibbous moon--This is your biggest change. I could take this a few ways with "wane" I had felt that the focus was on the breakdown of the body. With gibbbous I have to rethink this to maybe being his memory and imagination has caused him to swell beyond his physical infirmity. This could be the release of death moon like a balloon. It could simply be him drifting to some other place through the escape of his thoughts. This makes it feel lighter than the previous read for me.
over the new-sprung rack of his bed.--This draws me back to the "The skin of his bone-racked back" line. The rack also makes me think of physical torture and him being freed from it. So, some big changes here but they work.

Best,

Todd



~~~~~~

Many thanks to all who got me to this revision.

Original Version

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~