Paperwhite (edit 1.2 - Sept 3, 2016)

[Achebe]

hello artjewl - I loved the original and its subtle meanings, its delicate assonance. Not so much the edit. Some thoughts below.
I'll try and post something on why I liked the original so much, later on.
Thanks for posting.

hello artjewl - I don't hae

I offer edit 1.2 for critique. 

(I have also included edit 1.1 in which I tried to tie the "fabric of horizons" in better. However, I realized as I did that, I then had 3 "themes" going in this short piece: flowers, time, and fabric/textile. Edit 1.2 was my effort to reduce that to flora and time. I'll use the weaving/textile bits in another poem soon.)

J/9-3-16

Paperwhite (edit 1.2 - The Botanical Edit)

Baby's breath on my chest
rests. The blooms rise, fall, echo
the hush in the wake of a soul
plucked bare. Time does not ....I liked 'stripped' in the original version, because of the assonance with 'hush', 'stripped', and 'does'. You don't have too many 'p' sounds in the poem. 
rest, but blooms, rises, falls, echoes
hours, days—fruiting trees ...Other than 'bloom', there's nothing horticultural about the first part of the sentence, so the juxtaposition doesn't work for me.
plucked bare. Time does not
care but creeps past the weeping. ...'creeps past the weeping' - unless you're trying to get more 'p' sounds into the poem, I don't see why you should have them here. 'P' in itself is not a pleasant sound. I think you need to aim for softer 'L' and 'S' sounds in the poem, like you did in the original.

Our days are fruits on trees. ...Stating the metaphor blandly doesn't work for me
Yesterday I buried my sons
and cares. I crept, past weeping,
as willows bowed in sighs.

Yesterday I buried my sons
under tiger lilies. But now I find,
willows bowed in sighs
of answered prayer, quiet

under tiger lilies. Now I find,
in the hush of a wakeful soul,
an answered prayer, quiet
as Baby's breath on my chest.


Paperwhite (v1.1 - The Fabric of Time Edit)

Baby's breath on my chest
rests. The blooms rise, fall, echo
the hush in the wake of a soul
worn bare. Time does not

rest, but blooms, rises, falls, echoes
hours, days—temporal weft and warp
worn bare. Time does not
care but weaving through tears.

Our days are weft through temporal warp.
Yesterday I buried my sons
and cares while weaving through tears
in the fabric of horizons.

Yesterday I buried my sons
under tiger lilies. But now I find,
in the fabric of horizons,
an answered prayer, quiet

under tiger lilies. Now I find,
in the hush of a wakeful soul,
an answered prayer, quiet
as Baby's breath on my chest.


Paperwhite

Baby's breath on my chest
rests. The blooms rise, fall, echo
the hush in the wake of a soul
stripped bare. Time does not

rest, but blooms, rises, falls, echos
hours, days, eternal moments
stripped bare. Time does not
care but dances through tears.

Our days are eternal moments.
Yesterday I buried my sons
and cares while dancing through tears
in the fabric of horizons.

Yesterday I buried my sons
under tigerlilies. But now I find,
in the fabric of horizons,
an answered prayer, quiet

under tigerlilies. Now I find,
in the hush of a wakeful soul,
an answered prayer, quiet
as Baby's breath on my chest.

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