When autumn (Edit 3)

[billy]

i did read and pass this one but just because of a lack of time. i'll comment on the edit.

i stopped wit the edit as i don't want to litter the page. for me the poem feels too involved with things that don't really matter to the poem {the poem is too full with descriptive narrative}


Shrivelled back into a semi dormant state, swallowed
by shadowy degrees of a granite set face,
that clocks the demarcation of daisy-chained
summer grace into bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time - twists
of clouded memories, that bleed vaguely grey
into the clear blue of spring fed eyes.

the above is an example of what i mean. it feels to full, i love phrases like [spring fed eyes] and bare [branched veins] but they're buried under an excess of image.

this isn't a re write but an idea of what i mean. feel free to hate me for it



Shrivelled back, a semi dormant state,
bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time
that bleed vaguely grey
into the blue of spring fed eyes.

for me it's not one of your better poem but there is definitely a good poem in there.

sorry for being long winded with the feedback

[sup]1st edit.[/sup]
When autumn comes
the golden up-lit broad lands and leafy lanes, words like up lit don't really work for me, i imagine underground lighting. it feel like the line is a weak starter. but it does set the tone for a nature poem
bejewelled with berries that have sucked the last bejewelled reads as one of those more cliched singular words. no suggestion on an alternative.
daylight saved hour from the sun,  dry out. the enjambment feels a bit off, i know it's the ground that's drying out but i keep seeing the sun dry out [this could just be me and how my minds wired up]
The remains, the empty husks, are laid to waste a suggestion would be a slight change [The remains; empty husks laid to waste]
by sharp edged winds that pluck
the plumped out leisure and leave behind while i like the L sounds, i can't work out why the word [leisure is used in this instance]
the wrinkled lines of weathered haste.

Shrivelled back into a semi dormant state, swallowed
by shadowy degrees of a granite set face,
that clocks the demarcation of daisy-chained
summer grace into bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time - twists
of clouded memories, that bleed vaguely grey
into the clear blue of spring fed eyes.

When you see a winter solstice, do not ask why
it blazes and burns at the paler shades;
this is the stored up harvest,                                                                                                                                             
trampled, crushed and aged.
It rages against the wasteful decay and thrusts
the languid sap up for the push for spring days,
aiming to make just one more summer of hay.
 
 
 

original draft.

When autumn comes
the golden up-lit broad lands and leafy lanes,
bejewelled with berries that have sucked the last
daylight saved hour from the sun, turn and dry out.
Husks of their former glory, laid to waste
by sharp edged winds that pluck
the plumped out leisure and leave behind
the wrinkled lines of weathered haste.

Shrivelled back into a semi dormant state, swallowed
by the shadowy degrees of a granite face,
that clocks the demarcation of daisy-chained
summer of grace, into bare branched veins;
gnarled and knotted by time; twists
of clouded memories, that bleed vaguely grey
into the clear blue eyes of a spring sky.

When you see a winter solstice, do not ask why
it blazes and cuts through the paler shades;
this is the stored up harvest,
trampled, crushed and aged.
It rages against the wasteful decay and thrusts
new shoots through the push of spring
to make one more summer of hay.
 
 
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