Finale

[heslopian]

He left that evening, around ten o'clock.
Closed the door. Flicked the switch.
Entered darkness like a bus,
pulling into the station
on its last bit of fuel. Random images

danced by. Salt pebbles
shining in the bright cheese
on his last meal. A large pizza.
Canned laughter shutting off suddenly
as spotlights hit the house band.

A filth encrusted penny
found between sofa cushions.
The cause of it all was still there,
but why dwell on it? In these last
seconds of light why not reflect

on the puddles of life. We all know
the ocean is there, and what it can do.
He'd never know how his wife would react,
if his children would grow up hating him.
He could make an educated guess

based on what he knew of them,
but the physical facts were out of his reach.
Money. Money was the ocean, of course,
as it so often is. But the penny, the cheese,
the empty laughter, are what he left with.

[Leanne]

Very profound, Jack. The puddles/ocean and the penny motif are really well drawn and woven in nicely. I love the enjambment between S1 and S2, which kind of drops that first line of S2 from the last of S1, tying in with the puddles later.

I wonder if "salt pebbles" might not work a bit better than "pebbles of salt", and I'd suggest "filth-encrusted penny" rather than "penny encrusted with filth", just for economy and also to give you a little more punch from the alliteration/assonance.

All in all though, practically no work is needed here from my point of view.

[heslopian]

Thanks for your kind words, Leanne I'll make the edits now.

[addy]

I love how you used the dropping lines... they perfectly complement the shifting imagery in your poem. Your spaces and transitions were just as gorgeous as the images themselves, and those final lines killed me (as did practically every line). I think you nailed this one Jack.

[heslopian]

Thank you very much Addy. Truth be told I had no idea what the fuck I was doing to begin with, I just let the narrative take me where it would.

[Wildcard]

Entered darkness like a bus,
pulling into the station
on its last bit of fuel.

That's my favorite line in the poem. It's very gripping from beginning to end. No critiques, but a question: When a poem doesn't rhyme, why do you break it up into small parts instead of just writing paragraphs? Am I missing something?

[heslopian]

A lot of poems which don't rhyme, or follow a consistent scheme, are written in various metres, which you can learn about here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metre_(poetry) This is free verse, which means it follows no structure or metrical pattern. I wrote it and established the rhythm entirely by ear.

[Wildcard]

Oh, ok. I will wiki this thing until I figure it out. Thanks.

[Leanne]

I will do a lesson on line breaks in the novice forum, remind me.

It does take some getting used to, if all you've ever written is rhyme -- trust me, I know from experience

[billy]

we also have a flashcard section that gives a very basic idea of free verse and lots of other stuff.

[billy]

He left that evening, around ten o'clock.
Closed the door. Flicked the switch.
Entered darkness like a bus,
pulling into the station
on its last bit of fuel. Random images

danced by. Salt pebbles
shining in the bright cheese
on his last meal. A large pizza.
Canned laughter shutting off suddenly
as spotlights hit the house band.

A filth encrusted penny
found between sofa cushions.
The cause of it all was still there,
but why dwell on it? In these last
seconds of light why not reflect

on the puddles of life. We all know would "in" work better than "on"
the ocean is there, and what it can do.
He'd never know how his wife would react,
if his children would grow up hating him.
He could make an educated guess

based on what he knew of them,
but the physical facts were out of his reach.
Money. Money was the ocean, of course,
as it so often is. But the penny, the cheese,
the empty laughter, are what he left with.

the two edited parts work well jack,
even if this were in serious crit i'd be very hard pushed to see anything i think could be improved;

But the penny, the cheese,
the empty laughter, are what he left with. is superbly done and my fave, it really does seem so final.

i also thought, "flicked a switch" was perfect it felt like after those three words, there really was no going back on the path on the path chosen.
an excellent piece of prose poetry which is very publishable (jmo)

thanks for the read jack wish i could have been of more help.

i'll really try to get a couple of poems done myself tomorrow, i've been all over the place this week.

[heslopian]

What makes this prose poetry? I've never fully understood the lines between those genres.
Thanks very much for your kind words Bilbo

[billy]

these are the words of someone else, though i'm not sure who but it says it better than i could;

Prose poetry is poetry written as prose, in other words it is a hybrid form combining poetry and prose. The poem has all of the essential elements of traditional poetry written in verse. It has rhythm, rhyme, repetition, assonance, consonance, and imagery.The imagery can be so startling as to be surrealistic in nature.
i could be wrong but for me i read it as prose poetry.