12-08-2014, 04:20 PM
Proofers Edit
Missing the internet
What’s the name [for] that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for [its use in] mending bones –
you bound leaves tightly around the break,
picked up your shield[,] and kept running?
I can see [it] in my old garden;
it [would] spread like cancer if I was slow,
[or: it spread like cancer [when] I was slow,]
with a central spike in spring of
violet triffid flowers, quite small [the spine, the flowers, or the plant?]
[from Wikipedia, "Since 1951, when The Day of the Triffids was first published, the word "triffid" has become a popular British English colloquial term for large, overgrown or menacing-looking plants." So, I'm worried your use here is in error . . .]]
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl[en-dash. the slash means the dew is either pearl or diamond, perhaps alternately]diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris[es,]
but its name has escaped me [. . .]
I can even see th[at] book[,]
in its place on my bookshelf [,]
in another country, in a room
that doesn’t exist any more[,]
in a memory that still does.
I turn to page 432 and see the
picture[,] but I can’t read [its]
caption [out: underneath]. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
the words have gone?
Copyedit:
Missing the internet
What’s the name of that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for mending bones –
you bound [the break] tightly with its leaves,
picked up your shield and kept running?
I can see it in my old garden,
spreading like cancer when I was slow,
its central spike [out: in spring] [covered in]
violet triffid flowers, [replace quite small with a single adjective to brighten].
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl/diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris
but its name has escaped me.
[And] I can [draw] the book
[from] [out: its place on, as understood] my bookshelf
--these lines are problematic. they are either irrelevant or overly cryptic:
in another country in a room
that doesn’t exist any more
in a memory that still does.
--the implication seems to be, "if the name if the plant were important and if the internet failed, even if I were to try, I couldn't find out the name." but I disfavor that read because there's no truth in it (a visit to the library would surely still be an option)
----for more on this, see the "aggressive copyedit to make the meaning more plain," below
--if the meaning is, instead, something like, "I get no search results when I google this plant in my brain," then what difference does the location and non-existence of the room make?
I turn to page 432 and see the
[is it a mistake to say, without comment, that despite not remembering the plant's name, you know what page the name is on? just throwing that out there]
picture but I can’t read the
caption underneath. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
[but that wouldn't be the situation, right? It'd be "breaks that can't be medicated with ancient Roman herb lore," right?]
the words have gone?
[this last line conflicts with the title. it implies that you're trying to Google the plant, while the title suggests you can't use the internet for some reason.]
Macro:
I take your thesis question to be, "If the internet were unplugged, would we be helpless?" But there's also a suggestion of emotional vulnerability that's quite pleasing. And the poem seems to interrogate the utility of names.
--There's a necessary assumption you might want to think about. It's that common Roman soldiers needed to know the plant's name in order to treat fractures. (Otherwise, your own forgetting of the name would be unimportant.)
----That assumption louses some things up, because it seems to not be true.
--The poem spends a lot of time avoiding its preoccupation. Instead if discussing the importance of the plant's name, it discusses its growing habits and one possible resource for finding that name. But does the plant's description matter for using or locating the plant? It isn't clear. (But if the answer is no, of course, the description of the plant is unnecessarily elaborate.)
--to illustrate, I've made your good poem into a bad poem, but the revision may help explain, in fewer words than a more elaborate macro comment, some of the issues w the poem.
--overly aggressive copyedit to make the meaning more plain
Breaks in the internet
It was that broad-leaved herb . . .
The one Roman bonesetters bound
broken legs with before
you picked up your gladius and ran back into battle . . .
In my old garden, it would sprawl malignantly, starving its neighbors.
A central stalk of violet triffid flowers, quite small, blossomed vernally . . . It was . . .
Water beaded on its furry, hydrophobic leaves in pearly diamonds . . .
It was perennial. It was independent.
It liked to grow between
the clump of yarrow and the blue bearded irises . . .
it was . . .
Is this how it starts? Breaks that
can’t be mended now
the names are gone?
I want that one book--
the one . . . I kept it high on my bookshelf,
the one in my room on that street . . .
the one in that country I grew up in . . .
On page . . . 432? . . . I can see its
picture but not the caption . . .
Missing the internet
What’s the name [for] that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for [its use in] mending bones –
you bound leaves tightly around the break,
picked up your shield[,] and kept running?
I can see [it] in my old garden;
it [would] spread like cancer if I was slow,
[or: it spread like cancer [when] I was slow,]
with a central spike in spring of
violet triffid flowers, quite small [the spine, the flowers, or the plant?]
[from Wikipedia, "Since 1951, when The Day of the Triffids was first published, the word "triffid" has become a popular British English colloquial term for large, overgrown or menacing-looking plants." So, I'm worried your use here is in error . . .]]
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl[en-dash. the slash means the dew is either pearl or diamond, perhaps alternately]diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris[es,]
but its name has escaped me [. . .]
I can even see th[at] book[,]
in its place on my bookshelf [,]
in another country, in a room
that doesn’t exist any more[,]
in a memory that still does.
I turn to page 432 and see the
picture[,] but I can’t read [its]
caption [out: underneath]. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
the words have gone?
Copyedit:
Missing the internet
What’s the name of that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for mending bones –
you bound [the break] tightly with its leaves,
picked up your shield and kept running?
I can see it in my old garden,
spreading like cancer when I was slow,
its central spike [out: in spring] [covered in]
violet triffid flowers, [replace quite small with a single adjective to brighten].
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl/diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris
but its name has escaped me.
[And] I can [draw] the book
[from] [out: its place on, as understood] my bookshelf
--these lines are problematic. they are either irrelevant or overly cryptic:
in another country in a room
that doesn’t exist any more
in a memory that still does.
--the implication seems to be, "if the name if the plant were important and if the internet failed, even if I were to try, I couldn't find out the name." but I disfavor that read because there's no truth in it (a visit to the library would surely still be an option)
----for more on this, see the "aggressive copyedit to make the meaning more plain," below
--if the meaning is, instead, something like, "I get no search results when I google this plant in my brain," then what difference does the location and non-existence of the room make?
I turn to page 432 and see the
[is it a mistake to say, without comment, that despite not remembering the plant's name, you know what page the name is on? just throwing that out there]
picture but I can’t read the
caption underneath. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
[but that wouldn't be the situation, right? It'd be "breaks that can't be medicated with ancient Roman herb lore," right?]
the words have gone?
[this last line conflicts with the title. it implies that you're trying to Google the plant, while the title suggests you can't use the internet for some reason.]
Macro:
I take your thesis question to be, "If the internet were unplugged, would we be helpless?" But there's also a suggestion of emotional vulnerability that's quite pleasing. And the poem seems to interrogate the utility of names.
--There's a necessary assumption you might want to think about. It's that common Roman soldiers needed to know the plant's name in order to treat fractures. (Otherwise, your own forgetting of the name would be unimportant.)
----That assumption louses some things up, because it seems to not be true.
--The poem spends a lot of time avoiding its preoccupation. Instead if discussing the importance of the plant's name, it discusses its growing habits and one possible resource for finding that name. But does the plant's description matter for using or locating the plant? It isn't clear. (But if the answer is no, of course, the description of the plant is unnecessarily elaborate.)
--to illustrate, I've made your good poem into a bad poem, but the revision may help explain, in fewer words than a more elaborate macro comment, some of the issues w the poem.
--overly aggressive copyedit to make the meaning more plain
Breaks in the internet
It was that broad-leaved herb . . .
The one Roman bonesetters bound
broken legs with before
you picked up your gladius and ran back into battle . . .
In my old garden, it would sprawl malignantly, starving its neighbors.
A central stalk of violet triffid flowers, quite small, blossomed vernally . . . It was . . .
Water beaded on its furry, hydrophobic leaves in pearly diamonds . . .
It was perennial. It was independent.
It liked to grow between
the clump of yarrow and the blue bearded irises . . .
it was . . .
Is this how it starts? Breaks that
can’t be mended now
the names are gone?
I want that one book--
the one . . . I kept it high on my bookshelf,
the one in my room on that street . . .
the one in that country I grew up in . . .
On page . . . 432? . . . I can see its
picture but not the caption . . .
A yak is normal.