Incurable (revision 18/11/2016)

[Sparkydashforth]

Thanks again Todd,

there is a newer version of this at the foot of the threads. I realized (moments after posting - isn't it always the way),
that I had used 'racked' twice. That line has been changed. The line "delicately corrugated for latex caress" needed a missing 'the'.

Yes, subjective preferences now play a part in assessing this poem, but that's okay also.
I remain open to persuasion.

Regarding the tasting of the breath: when I was seriously ill in hospital, there came a time when that sensation
manifested itself to me, as hard as it is to explain, it was real at the time.

Cheers!

A few observations on the revision. We start moving into subjective territory with these things as some of it simply a matter of preference.

He studies the dinner card,
ticks off the boxes for Jell-O
and fruit cups; anticipates a deliciousness
that he will later swallow mechanically
on a plastic spoon.

He’s fascinated by his own breath;
tasting it on the exhalation, savoring a coolness,--I still don't really like this appeal to tasting now. What that first phrase really give me that "savoring a coolness" standing alone wouldn't provide?
as lungs struggle to filter air
from the chemical soup of the ward.--Nice cut. The line reads more quickly and feels less weighed down by the extra modifier. I didn't mind turgid at all but it seems the logical cut.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body. Shivers,
as fingertips recall their tactile experiences.--recall is a good substitute and I like tactile experiences too expiring as it goes with fingertips much better.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
The skin of his bone-racked back,
delicately corrugated for caress of latex.--This feels choppy without an article before caress.

A nurse checks his chart, adds a note.
She does not record a certain spectral gathering--Spectral is an improvement.
that envelopes him, a swaddling pall covering his flesh
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
coddles him, imparts a sky-blue
and chrome enclosure for memories.--I respect your artistic right to keep this. This is one of those style choices I mentioned earlier. I  think enclosure is a good enhancement. I think we already know that we are moving into the remembered past so I think what is bothering me most about this is "memories". I have a similar reaction to "dreaming" below but since I like that progression more I'm willing to shrug past it. I'd like more implication and less outright telling.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonias.
From a gun-metal tin,
he takes a small Swiss Army knife,
scrapes a yellow clay from under his fingernails,
trowels wax from crumbling ears,
waters psychic seeds
with the milky drops of dreaming eyes.

By dawn tendrils will have sprouted under his skin,
they will bind up his loose ends,
until he drifts like a gibbous moon--This is your biggest change. I could take this a few ways with "wane" I had felt that the focus was on the breakdown of the body. With gibbbous I have to rethink this to maybe being his memory and imagination has caused him to swell beyond his physical infirmity. This could be the release of death moon like a balloon. It could simply be him drifting to some other place through the escape of his thoughts. This makes it feel lighter than the previous read for me.
over the new-sprung rack of his bed.--This draws me back to the "The skin of his bone-racked back" line. The rack also makes me think of physical torture and him being freed from it. So, some big changes here but they work.

Best,

Todd



~~~~~~

Many thanks to all who got me to this revision.

Original Version

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.

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.
He imagines sipping an effervescent sky,
pouring it through a revitalized body.  Shivers,
as fingertips remember expiring experiences.
He turns on his side, curls up into himself.
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
with quilted retrospectives of his mother,
wife, his dog, even a 1958 Plymouth
envelopes him — imparts a sky-blue
and chrome lodging for memories.

At night, he enters a potting shed
made of sweet tobacco, string
and dark red begonia’s.
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.

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


~~~~~