Incurable (revision 18/11/2016)

[Sparkydashforth]

Hello Donald,

thank you so much for this incisive edit.  An invaluable critique which I will take to heart.
In fact, I am already seeing the light after your suggestions, and will mull over them,
and revise accordingly. 
It is indeed good to see the way forward on this work.

Very much appreciate your time spent on this.

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.   Interesting opening stanza, but I feel it could be a bit punchier? Whether you need 'carefully' is debatable, but 'ticks off the boxes' seems a bit long

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness, Nitpick; can you smell your own breath? I feel it is hard unless you raise your hand to mouth or something
as lungs struggle to filter air  
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. turgid and soup are doing the same thing; dont overwrite 
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,  some interesting and emotional imagery, 
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.  'expiring experiences' is too much for me, sound-wise
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex. latex caress might be better

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering  not sure if i like gathering as a noun here, and envelopes serves similar purpose after
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh again, gathering, envelopes, covers his flesh;   make sure you feel each similar statement actually adds something
with quilted retrospectives of his mother, this is good
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue  'even a 1985 Plymouth envelopes him' is really great. 
and chrome lodging for memories.  Not sure about the bit after the dash, i think i dislike lodging, but im not sure, it's not as good as the plymouth's intro

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.  Get that apostrophe out of my sight 
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears, not sure about pairing 'for' and 'from'. for and in, or just trowels wax from, perhaps.
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes.  This whole stanza is the best written of the poem, very tight, good stuff. I would perhaps change the location of your semicolon though 'from crumbling ears;/plants psychic [NO DASH NEEDED] seeds into that residue, then waters...' I think that the bridge between residue and waters should crescendo the rhythm of the stanza. This is minimal nit picking, but this stanza is nearly perfect so why not push it that bit further. 

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, Did he put the mixture back inside him? This confused me a tad. 
they will bind up all his loose ends, cool
until he drifts like a wane moon I'm on the fence about your use of wane. 
over the foot of his skeletal bed. I feel there is perhaps a line missing in terms of the movement; the sprouts grow, they bind him up [insert line about movement here]  then he drifts over his bed . You don't need to rush your ending toooo much, one more moment of ascension might be good.


~~~~~

There are my line-by-lines.
I like your poem alot; I think there's plenty going for it. It avoids alot of the potential pitfalls for a poem about an old bloke dying; I'm not drowning in syrupy sadness by the end. I think you can tighten up the first half, there are parts that are slightly over-written with some redundancy, perhaps just because you wanted some sound play in there. With those parts refined I think you have a very strong poem. I will attempt to crit any changes you make.

---

Hello Leanne,

thanks for this more detailed edit. I do agree with your suggestions,
especially those hard word sounds.
I have lots to ponder on, but a new revision is definitely imminent.
Excellent review from you!

Again, many thanks.

He studies the dinner card,
carefully ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon. -- this stanza makes me instantly love this old man, with his childlike joy, which of course hints to me that I will be pretty damn sad by the end of the poem (even if I hadn't read the title)

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
smelling it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the turgid chemical soup of the ward. -- I am not sure about the word "turgid".  Generally it's used for things like rivers in flood, so even though it's a technically correct descriptor for congested air, the connotation is of something flowing quickly, which this air definitely does not do.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky, -- beautiful image
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences. -- the two "ex" sounds here don't work well for me.  They are harsh and give this line a kind of staccato that I don't enjoy in combination with such a soft sensory image.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself. -- you could probably put a comma here, run the sentence on and remove the comma on the next line.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated
for the embalming caress of latex.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain gossamer gathering
that envelopes him, a coddling pall that covers his flesh -- the consonance of the l sounds in this line works beautifully -- pall is a good choice
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue -- I'm not convinced that using envelope twice is your best choice of words
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s. -- no apostrophe!
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels for wax from crumbling ears,
plants psychic-seeds into that residue; waters them
with the milky drops of his dreaming eyes. -- I just love this stanza in its entirety

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin, -- perfect
they will bind up all his loose ends,
until he drifts like a wane moon -- waning or waned, surely?
over the foot of his skeletal bed.


~~~~~