Golden Apples edit 2

[RiverNotch]

Hi river,

there comes a time for prose. It is when it wants to become a poem. To make it so is not as easy as simply sticking in line  breaks. I want to like this for its prose and so that we can agree at the outset, that is how I am going to read it. I guess I'll have to beat in some sound into this. But I'll work on that once all the issues of imagery and theme and plot and characterization are done -- probably rework this into stress meter with a lot of alliteration (I hate rhyming, hehehe).

Golden Apples

The night before last winter fell, Caution. Construction work ahead. The  night before last, winter fell. Yep. That is clear... but  lookee, I added a comma. Surely you didn't mean  "the night before, last winter fell"?  No. Of course not. Thing is, I am reading this out loud. Did you? I did. The night before winter came -- perhaps this could be clarified, extended, whatever. Or perhaps changed up, as will be noted.
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk 
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead 
saw death speeding low over the town, 
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. Love it. See it. Do not yet understand it. You do not need generically different oranges. Orange blossom, singular, is just fine.

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds. Temptingly dream-like  but  because I "know" you I don't think you would go down that route.I must say, though, that you do seem spacially challenged. You were inside then went outside then went in again to get your pen, then went out and followed a fast-moving meteorological phenomena through the clouds whilst  noting empty streets er, below. So you were up looking down or down looking up as you moved through those streets  by some means. Hmmm. Dreamy. Yes, spatially challenged -- need to change that. But hey, who said anything about this being just meteorological phenomena? 


And that's one of my problems with poetry (crafting it, maybe reading it). How do you make literal fantasies be what they are first, and not be thought of as symbols or metaphors beforehand? I encountered this before in "The Wandering Dream", where many of the impersonal images are objects first, symbols second -- it is literally a wandering dream to a waking man. Then, the problem was it needed paring down -- here, I think, I need a lot of clarification.


The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then, "then, and" is  clunky and probably avoidable by ommission. Try it with a period after   business. Tried -- will return with it once the rest of the poem is hammered out right. 
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave. Trying too hard causes mixed metaphorical musings. A dirge by any name is a sound. A box is a box is a box, lowered, raised or left where it is. I don't get this -- the dirge is being compared to a coffin. So death. Perhaps it's a bit of a mix, but it plays with the next "like" metaphor, since it indicates descent, while the next one indicates ascent -- the author falls, the lady later rises. Nevertheless, I'll look to improving this later, maybe make that suggestion more impactful, or change dirge to the more direct "drone".
So the thought came: was I her mark? Why did this thought come to you? It didn't to me and I've been with you since you left your place. Is there something you know that you thought you had told me? Well, you didn't...at least not to involve the causational "so". Agreed that I need to clarify this a bit, although I'm still thinking the line "as if all but I knew her business then" does it fairly -- perhaps I should change up the wording there, so the whole scene would seem more sacrificial?

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, Bugger me. Three cliches in a row plus a physiological paradox thrown in for good measure.Don't see that this adds anything useful. Padding. Yes. This was padding when I wrote this, too -- I'm not very good with narrative bridges yet. Will work on this.
a girl's scream shot through the silence When did the dirge stop dirging? "Through what pretty much was just silence" -- I'll change this up.
like the fateful first seedling of spring, You have done it again. Mixed metaphor due to terminological imbalance. A scream is a sound. A seedling is a seedling is a seedling...though why is the first one fateful and even  if you can tell me, what does it sound like? An onion, maybe? Although unlike the last mixed metaphor, the girl's scream is, as a symbol, a sign for itself, a scream, meant only to indicate to the speaker that things are going on. The metaphor isn't a metaphor for a metaphor (although the scream does signify something, that second level does not break with its primary meaning in the story). It's meant to suggest a thing shooting up from the ground, from the darkness, into a sort of light, into the speaker.
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited. That will slow your pulse if just walking slowly speeds it up. Please don't tell me we are in Backwards Land  Padded bridge, as in before. Will work on this.

Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son 
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window 
when a gust of wind pushed him off. No.Construction wonky. When did he fall? Before the gust of wind or after? This is an old chestnut. At which point do you fall off a bridge? When a gust of wind pushed him off. I don't see the error.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess. I am sure this is a great explanatory descriptor but I don't yet know what a sower is. I have a feeling I won't like it. Already it seems contextually isolated. Sower is a planter of seeds (Parable of the Sower?) -- a play with "like the fateful first seedling of spring".
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest, You DO know that the zest of an orange is that little volatile mist that spits out if the crumpled skin? Blond hair? Get outta here. No, it's the exocarp. The yellow skin where the mist is located.
her ripe breasts to the oily rind, What a gal. 
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. You DO know that cunts come in a range of colours, scents, varying degrees of moisture and engorgement but not orange Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A  cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt. I'm not going for color -- that's why the primary descriptor for "cunt" here is moist. I could have gone sweet, too, but whatever. Anyway, I went with orange because they've been hypothesized to be the Golden Apples of Greek Myth, those apples that give immortality or whatever, apples that have launched a thousand ships, apples that got Atalanta laid. Maybe I should be more explicit with that.


So, to sum up:
The wind pushes the author out of house
The wind pushes Mr. Miller off the window (although for these two, maybe I need a bit of reworking)


death like orange blossoms
Judy Bennet like oranges


the evening's drone like a coffin being lowered (that's probably a better wording)
Judy's scream like a seedling shooting up


Judy's scream like a seedling (that's two motifs in one image)
Mr. Miller's brains like a sower's mess (seeds scattered by a sower would maybe be better wording?)

Laying it all out like this, maybe the first line is a bit out of context. Instead of winter, I should be saying spring. But anyway, I guess I should maybe make these connections more impactful and more explicit? You don't seem to have gotten much of the vernal connections. I should also probably work on bridging the plot better, as well as making the original thought of the hero's journey (thus, the coffin image) be better supported.

A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left Do you mean "in vain, I left few sympathies" as I cannot get meaning from "vain sympathies" As in, sympathies filled with vanity. Sympathies that don't really care about giving the girl any comfort. I'll have to reword this, then.
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen. Hmmm. Oh gawd...it isn't a dream, please don't tell that then you woke up with your dick in an orange and your pen turned in to a waking Gestaltism key It could or it could not be a dream, but the speaker has gotten what he wanted. And boy, were they sweet.

Good and bad  but mostly let down by sloppy handling of detail. To be fair, that is probably because there is too much detail.
I hope the above is the most recent draft. I can't do it again. I think the issue is that the connection between details is less explicit, plus a lot of things are rather awkwardly worded, and the plot is a bit of a middling mess. Anyway, thanks for the feedback! This is gonna be a good blueprint for the big clean up. But wow, who knew saying things through verse would be such an anally retentive task (hehe)? [i]Hard to maintain that balance of giving it all you got while keeping everything understandable and beautiful sounding. Oh well, it is fun, and the payoff when you've written something good should be big. Again, thanks for the feedback![/i]