05-22-2013, 03:53 AM
Hi Keith,
You asked me to leave some thoughts ...not sure if you wanted this many of them though
When I die feed me to the worms
A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. This feels a sort of fractured, I almost want to reverse the read to: Had an artist captured it, this (or the) sky would look false
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals. Strong images for an overcast sky-scape with a slight sub text image beginning to form in the abstract thermals. (I read rising currents of hot air, sourced out of a shifting image without form – so that taken as a whole [L1&2 together] I read a picture of fake unreality, spun by someone as yet to be identified who is hiding behind a shadowed and overcast image of something they are not and that this image is increasingly difficult to maintain…but on the first read I admit that I missed this and was only able to see the sub layer on the second reading ).
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak. Love olive afro canopy– exactly right. (For oak I read righteous person [of faith], but the nodding element adds a sub text of shallowness to this. So someone of standing and note who has been or allowed themselves to be compromised. The large suggest years of standing so aged.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk. Gurning throws me a bit – I take this as gurning as in twisted faces, but it did leave me guessing a bit if you had meant something else to be taken from the presence of the tree in the scene….but added to leathery it makes a good image for an old and lived in [unappealing] face.
The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus. Again this was a line that I wanted to reverse : trapped, dry mucus bends /ing [his] nostril hair.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth. This is all good and is steadily building on the images of the first stanza. Nice image links back to the oak tree image with caterpillars and stick thin. On my first reading I did nearly loose it here but then there were enough clues to the sub text of the first stanza to make me think twice.
Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger. It was on the mention of the collar that it dawned on me that you were moving in a progression from sky downwards and I began to get into the read. Starch collar = something bygone and outdated. The man is on an ancient leash.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script. This line has caused me extra work to decide what the significance was for the Ink and paper. (Also did you mean to have “to” slotted in-between frame and his?). In the end I took this as a generational marker. (non computer literate – he trots out his sermons and chants his lines by rote and from hand written notes).
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. Loving all the precision details by this point. (esp the nylon!) I think you have very skilfully navigated the path from list poetry into character detail and each line from here on is adding to the “vicar” picture as well as leading me on a sub plot.
Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil. Love the jump into the soil from the soles of his shoes. Cleverly done I think. Also love the mirror image of his hair in the white writhing roots. Nice alliteration as well.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots. “In the potters hand” beautifully subtle use of well known image of being in Gods hand. This draws my mind down the whole dust to dust etc with the need for words to take me there.
Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher. Love the contrasts in this stanza between the images for creation and the passage of time. The river [of and full of life] that once flowed in this place / life that is now only remembered by the dry flaky and shifting stones of flat dull grey . This is wonderfully partnered with the colour and warmth of the wood of the coffin worked to a mirror finish [ in my mind like the sun set reflected on a slow flowing river surface – beautiful]. The carcass and remains of what once was are then contrasted with man made, blousy comfort of life recreated in a coffin. (and all the time the poem is still moving the reader down)
Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands. Finally we get to the end of all things – to become worm feed!
As I said in my original post I just loved this and have got so much pleasure in going through this again to make these notes. I think there is much else that I could have added or made note of. I thought that it was a surprising poem in that I was not expecting to have so many layers to the read when I started out. From the details and the picture of the vicar with all his abstract forms of image that he hides behind to the point where he has become lost himself, to the beautiful images of nature that crop up in each of the stanzas and then the philosophical elements of the title and the overall image of the transitory nature of life being taken in froma view from the sky to the grave.
This was simply beautiful
Thanks for the read Kieth.
You asked me to leave some thoughts ...not sure if you wanted this many of them though
When I die feed me to the worms
A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. This feels a sort of fractured, I almost want to reverse the read to: Had an artist captured it, this (or the) sky would look false
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals. Strong images for an overcast sky-scape with a slight sub text image beginning to form in the abstract thermals. (I read rising currents of hot air, sourced out of a shifting image without form – so that taken as a whole [L1&2 together] I read a picture of fake unreality, spun by someone as yet to be identified who is hiding behind a shadowed and overcast image of something they are not and that this image is increasingly difficult to maintain…but on the first read I admit that I missed this and was only able to see the sub layer on the second reading ).
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak. Love olive afro canopy– exactly right. (For oak I read righteous person [of faith], but the nodding element adds a sub text of shallowness to this. So someone of standing and note who has been or allowed themselves to be compromised. The large suggest years of standing so aged.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk. Gurning throws me a bit – I take this as gurning as in twisted faces, but it did leave me guessing a bit if you had meant something else to be taken from the presence of the tree in the scene….but added to leathery it makes a good image for an old and lived in [unappealing] face.
The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus. Again this was a line that I wanted to reverse : trapped, dry mucus bends /ing [his] nostril hair.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth. This is all good and is steadily building on the images of the first stanza. Nice image links back to the oak tree image with caterpillars and stick thin. On my first reading I did nearly loose it here but then there were enough clues to the sub text of the first stanza to make me think twice.
Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger. It was on the mention of the collar that it dawned on me that you were moving in a progression from sky downwards and I began to get into the read. Starch collar = something bygone and outdated. The man is on an ancient leash.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script. This line has caused me extra work to decide what the significance was for the Ink and paper. (Also did you mean to have “to” slotted in-between frame and his?). In the end I took this as a generational marker. (non computer literate – he trots out his sermons and chants his lines by rote and from hand written notes).
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. Loving all the precision details by this point. (esp the nylon!) I think you have very skilfully navigated the path from list poetry into character detail and each line from here on is adding to the “vicar” picture as well as leading me on a sub plot.
Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil. Love the jump into the soil from the soles of his shoes. Cleverly done I think. Also love the mirror image of his hair in the white writhing roots. Nice alliteration as well.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots. “In the potters hand” beautifully subtle use of well known image of being in Gods hand. This draws my mind down the whole dust to dust etc with the need for words to take me there.
Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher. Love the contrasts in this stanza between the images for creation and the passage of time. The river [of and full of life] that once flowed in this place / life that is now only remembered by the dry flaky and shifting stones of flat dull grey . This is wonderfully partnered with the colour and warmth of the wood of the coffin worked to a mirror finish [ in my mind like the sun set reflected on a slow flowing river surface – beautiful]. The carcass and remains of what once was are then contrasted with man made, blousy comfort of life recreated in a coffin. (and all the time the poem is still moving the reader down)
Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands. Finally we get to the end of all things – to become worm feed!
As I said in my original post I just loved this and have got so much pleasure in going through this again to make these notes. I think there is much else that I could have added or made note of. I thought that it was a surprising poem in that I was not expecting to have so many layers to the read when I started out. From the details and the picture of the vicar with all his abstract forms of image that he hides behind to the point where he has become lost himself, to the beautiful images of nature that crop up in each of the stanzas and then the philosophical elements of the title and the overall image of the transitory nature of life being taken in froma view from the sky to the grave.
This was simply beautiful
Thanks for the read Kieth.