03-03-2017, 09:17 AM
hello,
my very first thought, genuinely, was, are tadpoles in a group called a school? and this thought continued in my mind through the rest. i spent about 5 minutes looking it up and could find no definitive answer, so decided "school" was as good a word as any. and as i cannot base a critique entirely on my own ignorance [though, a better poem may not have distracted me with this insignificant detail], even in the "mild" forum, i will endeavour to do mildly better.
half of the poem made a kind of rambling sense, and the other half was just bafflingly pretentious nonsense trying desperately to wring some profundity from the better half. my suggestion is cut it back to its root, and, ironically, get rid of all the frippery.
far better would be:
I swallowed the secret
that swims in my stomach.
These words we speak when we must
not speak.
So, we make up stories.
Once there was a child who sang
and one who croaked.
We nod our heads, impatient for the moral,
like waiting for dessert after dinner—
sweet to cover the bitter,
sweet, to make us forget.
Truth burns inside with a blue flame.
This is the secret I cannot tell:
there are not two children, but one.
You are long dead
and my tongue roils
beneath this sediment.
my very first thought, genuinely, was, are tadpoles in a group called a school? and this thought continued in my mind through the rest. i spent about 5 minutes looking it up and could find no definitive answer, so decided "school" was as good a word as any. and as i cannot base a critique entirely on my own ignorance [though, a better poem may not have distracted me with this insignificant detail], even in the "mild" forum, i will endeavour to do mildly better.
half of the poem made a kind of rambling sense, and the other half was just bafflingly pretentious nonsense trying desperately to wring some profundity from the better half. my suggestion is cut it back to its root, and, ironically, get rid of all the frippery.
far better would be:
I swallowed the secret
that swims in my stomach.
These words we speak when we must
not speak.
So, we make up stories.
Once there was a child who sang
and one who croaked.
We nod our heads, impatient for the moral,
like waiting for dessert after dinner—
sweet to cover the bitter,
sweet, to make us forget.
Truth burns inside with a blue flame.
This is the secret I cannot tell:
there are not two children, but one.
You are long dead
and my tongue roils
beneath this sediment.
(03-03-2017, 08:13 AM)Todd Wrote: I swallowed the secret
that swims in my stomach
like a school of darting tadpoles.
These words we speak when we must
not speak.
So, we make up stories. Once
there was a child who sang diamonds
and another who croaked toads.
We nod our heads, impatient for the moral,
as when we wait for dessert after dinner—
sweet to cover the bitter, sweet
to make us forget.
Truth burns inside with a blue flame
like sulfur on my fingertips. -- sulphur?
This is the secret I cannot tell:
there are not two children but one.
You are long dead
and my tongue still roils
beneath this sediment.