08-15-2015, 01:59 AM
Hi, i.might.be.a.bit.sad,
Your first three lines have the action happening now - a female in a stubble field. Interesting choice of 'ghosts': to me that signifies loss in this poem. Your last three lines also indicate the present - but why the ground is moving, I don't know. Not really any waving grass in a stubble field. Then the last line compounds the notion of loss.
What doesn't fit for me are the middle lines set in the past - She would sit... There's no indication of how or why this relates to the current action.
Rearranged, I get this:
She stands
in a field full of the ghosts of wheat,
worked dry of everything.
She sways
without meaning to, her feet firm
on the moving ground.
Everything has changed.
Just an idea to tighten it up and concentrate on some ambiguity and notion of loss.
Anything there, please dig in.
Cheers
Your first three lines have the action happening now - a female in a stubble field. Interesting choice of 'ghosts': to me that signifies loss in this poem. Your last three lines also indicate the present - but why the ground is moving, I don't know. Not really any waving grass in a stubble field. Then the last line compounds the notion of loss.
What doesn't fit for me are the middle lines set in the past - She would sit... There's no indication of how or why this relates to the current action.
Rearranged, I get this:
She stands
in a field full of the ghosts of wheat,
worked dry of everything.
She sways
without meaning to, her feet firm
on the moving ground.
Everything has changed.
Just an idea to tighten it up and concentrate on some ambiguity and notion of loss.
Anything there, please dig in.
Cheers
(08-11-2015, 07:44 AM)i.might.be.a.bit.sad Wrote: In a field full of the ghosts of wheat,
worked dry of everything it was meant for,
She stands.
She would sit,
but staring at the way the light catches the dry grass
and the way it skitters off the floating dust takes a certain
angle.
She sways without meaning to, her feet firmly anchored to the
moving ground.
Everything has changed.
A poet who can't make the language sing doesn't start. Hence the shortage of real poems amongst the global planktonic field of duds. - Clive James.

