Twelve boar blues.edit 1,svan

[billy]

i started checking the meter and stopped half way down, it seems to be octameter which doesn't seem out of place for you

on the 1st line i wonder if it's not being a bit too clever; on a sky of many layers says it so much better...but that just me, it's why i mention it here and not in the body. last grass make it as rhyme so you're rhymes work well. the poem has a good rhythm to it and for the best part the iambs rule

i like your imagist style of poetry if that's the correct term. you use alliteration well in this one and if i had just one nit to profess, it would be palimpsest. it feels too un-rustic to fit in with the poem that follows it, if it were in the centre of the poem it may got past less noticed.

an enjoyable poem and a well worked sonnet, i think the octameter works

thanks for the read

Edit 1.

On sky of palimpsest, the sun marks out a lower arc of light should it be skies (because of days on the next line?
as days erased fold into crowns of silhouetted fractal fronds. i like f's and the image of fractal fronds.
Grey smoking Wraiths, damp Autumn’s breath, enwrap the forest firm and tight. should it be en-wrap?
Like widow’s rags of summer dead, black ravens croak and life responds.
A shiver tics along his flanks but holding still the boar inhales good image
to test the drift of cooling air. He knows his spoor will slip behind
when gentlest breeze blows in his eyes; in dimming light his vision fails
as atavistic senses rise to form a picture...clear, defined.
And here I stalk, on leaf-deep trail with cracking twigs and oozing loam.
I emanate the stench of man, my stifled breath a whistling blast. i take umbrage at stench
Each foot fall on the drum-skin floor leaves signs of where I chose to roam; for me there's a conflict of images, leaf deep and drumskin
my scent I paint on branch and stone, on briar thorn and bison grass.
This shotgun carried by my side will not this day be called to kill love the couplet and the fact he evaded death.
for he has gone to where the air is his alone, and time lies still.

original

On sky of palimpsest, the sun marks out a lower arc of light
as days erased fold into crowns of silhouetted fractal fronds.
Grey smoking Wraiths, damp Autumn’s breath, enwraps the forest firm and tight.
Like widow’s rags of summer dead, black ravens croak and life responds.
A shiver tics along his flanks but holding still the boar inhales
to test the drift of cooling air. He knows his spoor will slip behind
when gentlest breeze blows in his eyes; in dimming light his vision fails
as atavistic senses rise to form a picture clear defined.
And here I stalk, on leaf deep trail with cracking twig and oozing loam.
I emanate the stench of man, my stifled breath a whistling blast.
Each foot fall on the drum-skin floor leaves signs of where I chose to roam;
my scent I paint on branch and stone, on briar thorn and bison grass.
This shotgun carried by my side will not this day be called to kill
for he has gone to where the air is his alone, and time lies still.

Bialowieza
Autumn 2013