Frogola

[tectak]

My first poem here, be brutal please - I want to get together a book of verse and this will be the first of many.

2nd review - thanks to flourescent and Billy for some great input
Hello ziec,
I deliberately avoided the words of the wise and have not read what lead up to this edit...it's just because I am partial to frog fantasies (http://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-14865...gs+confide) that I decided to wade in to this pond. My first unabridged crit would, though, be on the indecisive structure which swings about like the load on a cantilevered crane; always in danger of toppling (the thing is too long) and never sure where to settle. Is it a nursery rhyme? Is it a major metaphorical piece? Is it  prose, free-verse (whatever that is), blank verse or just plain incompetent? I cannot decide..In text may tell you why.

Frogola It is a fun fantasy.It could not be otherwise with this title. Oh goody

When it rains outside and the night choirs grow:
while the crickets sing high, No need for the second affirmation of simultaneity. "when" and "while" are equal in intent but by this duplication you over-beg a question. While and when what?
the frogs sing low.

But where do they go when they're tucked in their beds?
and what are the voices they hear in their heads? Dangerously close to an overused cliche...otherwise known as a pop song. Where do you go to my lovely, when you're alone in your bed? Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you...I wan't to look inside your head. Hmmm.
How loud are the screams that echo their dreams,
the sighs and the moans of the life in between? Sounds good. Rhymes intermittently enough to be serendipidously selected. Do you want this to read easily or is the irritation of one question after another serving some higher intelektuil purpose...if so, It is beyond me

Who gives them warts on their necks and their hands?
Whose legs do they eat?
What fate will they meet?
Which prince will they kiss to make him their own,
where do they go when their frogging is done? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know...you can give me a posset of pentathol but still I DON'T KNOW. Frankly, the "whose legs eat/fate will meet" seems forced when so resoundingly unnecessary.

If I were you my little friends,
I'd make this vow to make amends,
with the green blood splattered
on the cold roadside
and the twitching arm
trying to stay alive. Wha! Wh? Huh?Where did this come from? What point is now  being made? About now, this poem should end.

Because from the dark there are eyes that peer,
amphibious ears that long to hear
of a hardened tongue
a wicked stare
crooked hands
that will lay a snare... This is now padding on the road to nowhere...see, I can mix metaphors. Why begin with "because"? Who asked you anything? And you have not finished yet. If you could pull this in to a tight knot you could perhaps secure a tidy ending...as it is you seem to flailing about pointlessly. I really do believe that the poem ended a stanza ago. Sometimes less is more. Continually trying to get rhyme rewards is unbecoming but worse, it is addictive in us all. You need to take a view. Try reading this WHOLE piece out loud to a Vogon...here's a tissue

For whoever owns that
sorrowless,
merciless,
cruel and incompassionate glare; Impassive maybe. Why the semicolon?

will find his end on a gondola, All your own fault for calling the piece "Frogola" . Saved from the rhyming menace by a boatman born in Venice. Harrumpphh.
while the night creatures doom him
to Frogola. Phew. Was it worth it?

Original
Frogola

When it rains outside
and their choirs grow,
while the crickets sing high,
the frogs sing low.

But where do they go when they're tucked in there beds?
And what are the voices they hear in their heads?
How loud are the screams that echo their dreams?
And the sighs and the moans of the life in between?

Who gives them warts on their necks and and their hands?
Whose legs do they eat?
What fate will they meet?
Which prince will they kiss just to make him their own,
and where do they go when their frogging is done?

If I were you my little friends,
I'd make this vow to make amends,
with the green blood splattered on the cold road side
and the twitching arms trying to stay alive -

Because from the dark there are eyes that peer
and amphibious ears that are longing to hear,
of a hardened tongue and a wicked stare,
and crooked hands that will lay a snare.

For whoever owns that
sorrowless,
merciless,
cruel and in-compassionate glare;
will find his end on a gondola,
while the night creatures doom him
to Frogola.

][/b]