07-22-2016, 10:14 AM
There are some strong images in this poem, and I enjoyed the opening stanza, a strong opening, which felt weighted down and weakened somewhat by more descriptive, expository details than necessary. I've copy-pasted the poem below with some suggested edits. I would start by breaking this piece into three sections - cutting away much of the cliches and journal-writing tone, fine-tuning the language, adding more muscle and heft to the poem. I see you definitely coming close to saying something but holding back, in the end. I hope some of this helps. I am new to this board but not new to critique, please let me know if you have any questions about the following.
i.
As a child I rummaged through
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes
in the sink.
Some nights, I’d wake up screaming,.
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms.
Wake up, son. Come on.
ii.
Mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,
my father stepping out of his truck
with my first dog, [ed - get more specific here, name, type of dog?]
my mother crying behind me.
I was eating lunch from
the edge of a hospital bed.
My dad said once,
“You probably don’t remember,
but you almost died
from pneumonia when you were a baby.”
iii.
I heard a monk speak on death
as a slow process
of sense draining from you,
followed by clarity.
I see my parents’ deaths. My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child. My tears have not changed. [SHOW DON'T TELL - go for the jugular here, actually describe, picture your parents on their deathbeds, what are they doing, saying, wearing, looking like?]
The unnamed close behind:
my birth and death
surrounding me.
i.
As a child I rummaged through
the bathroom cabinets, spilling
medicines and toothbrushes
in the sink.
Some nights, I’d wake up screaming,.
pinned to the hallway wall
in my father’s bear arms.
Wake up, son. Come on.
ii.
Mom broke the plate and spilt the beans,
my father stepping out of his truck
with my first dog, [ed - get more specific here, name, type of dog?]
my mother crying behind me.
I was eating lunch from
the edge of a hospital bed.
My dad said once,
“You probably don’t remember,
but you almost died
from pneumonia when you were a baby.”
iii.
I heard a monk speak on death
as a slow process
of sense draining from you,
followed by clarity.
I see my parents’ deaths. My fear
of losing them is the same that tore me from my bed
as a child. My tears have not changed. [SHOW DON'T TELL - go for the jugular here, actually describe, picture your parents on their deathbeds, what are they doing, saying, wearing, looking like?]
The unnamed close behind:
my birth and death
surrounding me.