Olive Tree

[RiverNotch]

Thanks for all the feedback!

Not going to lie, this poem sounds weirdly sexual for a poem that is ostensibly about a tree.  Not bad-weird, it's just a strange feeling.  Maybe I'm awful.  But honestly, it's beautiful imagery.  I can definitely imagine the way the olive wood feels, which is oddly like golden silk.  It's definitely very sensual, and I'm sort of imagining a girl with dark hair, standing tall, but sort of bent into the wind, arms stretched out to the sky.  It's  beautiful.  Glad you're spot on, there -- this is definitely all about sex, and has nothing to do with any actual trees.

Yes it it very beautiful and sensual if you imagine the tree as a woman. Pleasure passing from one being to another. No offense as I get that. But then I keep snapping back to a a person being sensual with a tree  That's disgusting   

It is often that a woodcarver will extract for their craft. Lather their finished product with oil to bring out the grain, and seal for protection. But have sensual thoughts in the process? Maybe.... Not going for this image, though. I can't tell if this is just a musing, or an actual idea taken from the poem.

Now to the structure. I understand the interaction between the person and the tree. But for the sake of flow, how about focusing on the tree first, then the person, then back to the interaction. Just a thought on flow such as this: I'll consider this.

Great extended metaphor. Seriously bravo.

I typed a whole restructure of this poem only to see Brownie beat me to the point. To reiterate, keep all your lines that begin with 'your' together. Keep your 'I' stanzas together also. The two 'between' stanzas are so good together in parallel, so good choice there. That leaves you with two miscellaneous stanzas. One that begins with "My golden knife" and another that begins with "Sweet little fingers". Take note that you use "pale flesh" twice...I don't know if this is intentional. Like I said, I'll consider this: I had a problem with the structure earlier on, too. The poem was not originally written in this order.

You are a young olive tree.
Your two thin arms
are two thin twigs,
bearing much fruit.

I pluck twelve olives Why twelve? I could definitely be missing the symbolism here. I had a reason when I wrote this, but I forget. Something Biblical, I think -- twelve disciples and all that. Or something Olympian (twelve Olympians, after all), I dunno. But right now, it doesn't really matter, does it? It's clear, but open enough for differing interpretations.
from these branches,
and press them for oil.

Your leaves are slender,
shaped like the fingers
of the hot sun.

Your trunk is sleek,
unspoiled by time,
leaning slightly to the wind.

Your skin is crisp,
skimpily covering Skimpily is so out of place in this poem. Bark is not skimpy, but even still, the word skimpy sucks. I'll mull over this -- this is somehow meant to reinforce the sex bit, but it might be too out of place.
your pale flesh of wood. The wood is not pale. The flesh underneath is pale. That's still the wood. Granted, I'm not very sure about my extended metaphors, yet, so I dunno.

I run my fingers
through every crack,
thinking of my oven
which is fueled by your wood. Lose 'which is' I'll think about it -- somehow, I think that'll sort of confuse the syntax.

Your roots are graceful,
rising and falling
into the earth like sea-waves. Lose 'sea', just 'waves' works. Also think about this -- I like actually saying the word sea before, because it invokes something classical, that sorta fits with the idea of the metaphor. Sort of.

Between two round knots
near your tall stems,
a perfect cleft sits.

Between two round knots 
near your long roots,
a perfect hole sits.

My golden knife Is this stanza beginning line change intentional? Partly so, as a sort of bridge to the major act. 
strips these spaces
of their bark,
revealing the pale flesh beneath. Pale flesh works here.

I spill, on the bared flesh, You need a new word for 'flesh'. Third time you've used it. I'll consider it.
libations of oil,
freshly-pressed.

Sweet little fingers Once again, you deviate from your first line structure, and honestly, you could do without this whole stanza. I'll consider this, too. I like this stanza, since this adds a different sense, but still.
slither from the mess
into my eager nose.

Your white flowers dance
to the joyful song
of the west wind.

I whisper a prayer
into your crown of sun,
giving thanks to Aphrodite Aphrodite = beauty... 
for your heat. Heat ≠ Aphrodite. I don't know what association you're going for here. Mate, Aphrodite=beauty+sex. I was leaving the metaphor at this point, as a conclusion. 

I have to say, though, I'm a bit uncomfortable with the metaphor in general, especially since it seems to flit to and from the actual show too much, and because the metaphor somehow falls apart with the actual show itself -- that is, no one really peels off bits of bark from a tree, then pours oil all over it to pray to the gods.