Who will come...? Edit 2. Rowens, brownlie,milo and true

[tectak]

Edit 2

Who will come….?

The first was never meant to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the piercing scream, the life that flew to death
like Destiny, in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

Then hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell? We knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded into endless sleep.
She will not be at my party.

The price we pay for life, it seems, is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out into years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

Edit 1
The first was never going to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the scream that pierced, the life that flew to death
like Destiny in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

The hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell, we knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded in to deepest sleep.
She will not be at my party.

As if the price we pay for life is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out in to years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

Ok, not a bad revision, but what the hell is the purpose of the colon in L2?. Did you not see that that was the reason for the miscarriage/abortion confusion? Was never meant to live.? Or was never meant to live in..? If you want to open it up to suggestion and be tricky, why not just use an enjambment? What are you so afraid of?

Congrats on getting with the times.

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Really congrats, nice, modern poem. I can relate. It's becoming a word machine. I like the use of subtle sonics and rhymes to create flow. Very modern syntax too. Easy to read out loud.

L1. The L1 for you is the title. Sorry. Copying mistake.
Hmmm. I agree re. the colon. I wanted a long pause but cannot remember why! Sometimes, when I write, the speed of thinking is reflected in my printed word. Nonetheless, I should have removed the colon...it now looks decidedly odd.
Fear in writing is a strange suggestion! Writing is an arena where fear is relegated only to failure...once you accept failure as a learning process anything goes. Enjambment and I are old sparring partners. I very much enjoy the purity of internal rhyme with enjambment being the final arbitor of line break. The Ginsbergian mantra of write as you breathe is very much part of my upbringing in poetry. I once watched some South Asia indians playing their ridiculously esoteric game Kabaddi. They chant the word for as long as possible on one breath. After the game the leader representative was interviewed. He could, and did, speak in unbroken english with about 30 seconds between each breath. As he spoke, I noticed that he did not stop at natural points but quite unknowingly "enjambed" his speech. It had a wonderfully lyrical flow which I have only heard the Irish match.
I try when I try.
Best and thanks,
tectak

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Edit 2

Who will come….?

The first was never meant to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the piercing scream, the life that flew to death
like Destiny, in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

Then hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell? We knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded into endless sleep.
She will not be at my party.

The price we pay for life, it seems, is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out into years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

Edit 1
The first was never going to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the scream that pierced, the life that flew to death
like Destiny in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

The hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell, we knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded in to deepest sleep.
She will not be at my party.

As if the price we pay for life is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out in to years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

I will not comment on technique at this time, because I believe there are others here who can do that better than I. Regarding the substance of your poem I feel it can stretch beyond the party and explore the theme of time and aging. This sort of sounds like a soliloquy but I suppose you could say that about many other poems. There is some redundancy but the various instances where redundancy occurs add to the dramatic tone of the narrator. Perhaps you could find a way to keep the alliteration and do away with the redundancy. Any time a narrator is lamenting it is made more poignant if there are preceding events that lead to it. Think of Shylock's speech in Merchant of Venice. Take the thing alone and it is not as powerful as in the context. Poems don't necessarily have to be profound to be good they just have to sound profound (I am not saying your poem is superficial just musing on the nature of the art). Sorry for my digression I enjoy the analysis.

Hi brownlie,
thanks and appreciation are due. Overall, this piece has emerged relatively unscathed but I hope much improved. Those who know me on this site and others know that I don't do profound....I'm shallow like that What is often mistaken for profundity, in my work and others, is lack of clarity. Some take this to heights and make lofty claims to deep-thinking which only a naked king would fathom.See what I mean?
Best,
tectak

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Nice revision - some thoughts . . .

Edit 2

Who will come….? I would kill the elipsis but that is personal preference.
The first was never meant to live: in this new world, in these harsh times. the rhythm is a good enough excuse to use "this new" and "these harsh"
The wheels that scarred, the piercing scream, the life that flew to death
like Destiny, in bold pursuit of what was always going to be. I feel like "Destiny" is the wrong word here but I would be hard pressed to tell you what the right one was. "what was always going to be" is wordy and inefficient. what would be, what would always be, whatever.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity. "gravest gravity" is still not working for me.
She will not be at my party.

Then hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell? We knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded into endless sleep.
She will not be at my party.

"promised years" and "endless sleep"

The price we pay for life, it seems, is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out into years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?

I think the edit is coming along nicely. The rhythm is good though there is still a bit of metric padding. I love the concept BTW and hope to read the finished product.

regards my friend.

milo

Hi milo,
In one bound he was free. Sorry about the ellipses on L1. It is not line 1, it is the title. Copy-over error.
Gravest gravity is trite. It may have to go. Right now I am still taken with the metaphorical (and universal) pull to the grave and may take some shifting. We shall see.
Thanks as always.
Very Best,
tectak