Go gentle into the yield (Edit 2)

[billy]

high AJ


come to this one late so i'll just reply to the edit.
you capture the scene well. i'd keep the 2nd as it does add to the poem by showing the skittishness of the beast. i think you could trim some parts down and lose an odd line or two but not too many. i enjoyed what you have so far. thanks for the read

Done a large edit on this one (My thanks to True and mungoman for original comments)
New title and have posted it here as this was where the original was posted, but quite happy to invite any level of crit.
From my read I am least happy with St 2...in fact thinking I could happily loose the whole stanza...would this confuse the read without being given this background info? i think a few conjunction etc can be edited out in order to hone the poem even more.


Edit one
Go gentle into the yield. i have no idea why but the title grabs me, i'm happy to find the poem isn't sunday-schoolish as i thought it would be from the title.

Like a leaf in still waters, why use the simile, why not be an outright metaphor and remove [like]?
I quiet myself.
Eyes and shoulders averted,
an open frame to softness.
The inner steel is set aside as I wait. is [is] needed?
                                                                                                                     
The filly, a taut string of uncertainty,
whickers as her scapegoat mate leaves.
Untouched, now isolated, flight or fight fills her.
An upturned bucket hides a snake,
something lurks in the shadows.
The least worst corner chosen,
to watch from a distanced spot.

I move, she moves. a suggestion would be to give these two clauses their own lines.
Small flickers of motion i like this image and see the horses withers twitching
become an avalanche of information. is [become] needed?
Subtle undercurrents
of connection swirl, i keep wanting to read it as connections, probably just me
momentarily held in deep pools
of newly created understanding.
 
Deep to deep, the call is repeated.
Well worn reflections. i like the sound of the wubble-ewes
We move in waves;
ripples that quicken and bring to birth
a whispered invitation.
In measured, mirrored steps,
we dance together.
           
I stop,
shoulder dropped, eyes soft just the one shoulder dropped?
to ask her a question.
The offered step is taken,
the un-haltered horse turns.
A bond, forged by that first touch,
is nuzzled and held in fragile trust.

The waters of Hippocrene clever use of hippocrene, it works in well with the horse content
will carry this lifeless leaf
beyond the pride of the fall, for me this is where the poem ends. the last three lines feel a little ott
to distant shores where I can let go,
breach these distances
and dance with gentle strength,
as I whisper my reply.

   

                                                                                                                                      




                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              




The Muses sang on mount Helicon
but a richer fountain of inspiration
sprang up and melted the mountain.
Graceful strength flowed
from within the hoof stuck sacred mount.
Once released, the flood gushed down the slopes
in a joyous overflow, where it danced
as glimmers of hope in puddled cups.
Creativity, mounted on wings of unbridled dreams,
swam the great divide from heart to mind
and filled the clay pots with poetry.

Like a leaf in still waters,
I quiet myself.
The inner steel is set aside as I wait
in softness, yielded to the need to be joined.
The smallest flicker of motion
becomes an avalanche
of information that moves in waves;
ripples that quicken and bring to birth
the whispered invitation.
The offered step is taken,
the un-haltered horse turns.

Subtle undercurrents
of connection swirl,
momentarily held
in deep pool reflections,
that are measured in mirrored steps.
Breath mingles, held by fragile trust,
a bond forged by that first touch.
The waters of Hippocrene
will carry this lifeless leaf
beyond the pride of the fall,
to distant shores where I can let go
and dance with gentle strength
as I whisper my reply.