The Lyme Grove

[Genuinebloke]

Edit #1

At the edge of the woods.
 
"Lock me up."
Her eyes offered
wrists upturned,If honesty is a virtue then I am unable to.make as much sense of this line as you obviously do. I can just get "Lock me up, her eyes offered (?). Wrists upturned as my arms imprisoned (her), but never truly (superfluous)  held." You can punctuate this line, as most, in different ways but I STILL cannot get  the sense to gel...so it ain't aspic.
as my arms imprisoned
but never truly held.
Faces pressed to bars
of a gate in a wall of stone; "of a-in a" could and should be worked on. It would help you if you made a complete sentence. As it is, this line needs to say " In a wall of stone there hung a gate. We pressed our faces against its bars.Here was (was becaused pressed) as far as we could (could because pressed) go." Now its your turn.
here is as far as we can go.
 
Had she asked, I'd have lied; Excellent though simple observation. Leave it in splendid isolation. Period after lied. You move on in the next line. Why link it with a covetous colon?
it was honour that stopped
us rattling the cage
and daring the bolt
to wriggle free,
so the hinges might groan their consent. Yes to this though I push opinion a little to suggest that "groan in grudging compliance" is more accurate. Your poem
 
One truth; looking back, Again with the colonic discharge. In what way are you subscribing meaning to the semicolon? "On looking back, one truth is clear. We died at that gate." I only mention this because you are creating high-acutance images but weakening their impact by smearing their outlines.
we died at that gate.
Avoiding the eyes
of a blind horizon,
our inaction cultured
a creeping infection. Now far be it for me to question meaning but this sounds too good to be true. Sometimes the sound is significant over the sense. For me, this is one of those times. I am as guilty of this word-worship as you. I once wrote "She will die in my mind like a flower; yesterday's beauty buried in tomorrow's memories". Sounds good to me even now but I have no idea what it means or ever meant. Crits liked it. Is that enough?
 
Behind us voices
teased tiny promises.
Singing lies of summer
that might yet last.
That moment we grasped
but blood once-fired soon cools, Pedantically, I am tempted to write, and no more after this, I promise, "We grasped the moment but blood, once fired, soon cools." Why do I suggest that you stop at this point? Because once again you make a wonderful commitment to clear thinking, you corral the thought, then muse off, exit stage left. How does the rapidly cooling blood time-out into "only" clock hands? Where is the synaptical link? If it were not so emphatically "only", what else could there be that would point skywards to allow the metaphor to clarify rather than obfuscate? Help.
until only clock hands point skyward.
 
Without admitting
defeat, we returned home
to tame fires burning in our hearths
and those who love us simply. Beautiful
Comfort. Survival. No blaze
like the summer we sought
and froze upon finding.
For the fall comes quickly in those woods "For the" is not needed. Somewhat contarily, and ask me not why, "the" definitive frost works
and the frost bites harder than any we've known.

An excellent edit. This piece is becoming very airworthy.It flies right.
You will, though, find structural anomalies in any poetry, moreso as the piece approaches touch-down and it get buffeted by the contrary opinions of windy crits. I think it is so close to landing that you should commit and prepare to throttle back. Don't do anything quickly, just trim the thing.
Best,
tectak


Original post

I am finding this one tricky. I want to tell a personal story which is then making it hard for me to be effective in self-editing. It may be that it just does not work, so any thoughts and feedback would be very useful at this point. Thanks!


The Lyme Grove
 
"Lock me up", her eyes
Held out wrists upturned
As my arms built a prison
That would never hold her.
With faces pressed to bars
In a gate set in stone;
The perimeter of our world
Of thirty metres square.
 
Here is far as we can go.
 
Had she asked, I'd have lied
It was honour that stopped
Us unpicking locks, vulnerable
To trespass and escape from within
Yet four hands never rose
To rattle the cage and dare the bolt
To wriggle free
So hinges might groan in condonance.
 
Behind us voices
Teased tiny promises
Singing lies of summer
That might yet last
For a moment we clutched
But blood once-fired quickly cools
Until only gooseflesh
And clock hands point skyward
 
So the breakout failed
And we died at the gate
Avoiding the gaze
Of a blind horizon.
With friendship uncertain
On paths not walked before us
Our inaction cultured
A creeping infection.
 
Without admitting
Defeat we retreated
A slow march, conjuring
From our mouths masks
Of rationality; each ensuring
The other was watertight
While denying the sink-
Holes opening in our chests.
 
We returned home to tame fires
Burning in our hearths
And those who love us simply.
Comfort. Survival. No blaze
Like the summer we sought
And froze upon finding
For the fall comes quickly in those woods
And frost bites harder than any we've known.

Thank you tectak. Excellent feedback. It's reassuring that the areas you comment upon are those which I knew were weak, though I could not put my finger on why. Your comments have given me fresh perspective. Like you say, I think I'll leave this one for a while and come back to it later for a fresh trim.
Have a good day.