Fifth Edit: The Swans in Wentworth Park

[tectak]

Hello Richard,
 I left this one to mature...it has not BUT I really think you should work on it.The title is too generic and pluralistic..."The" is definitive, "swans" plural, and by indicating a precise location you deny yourself and the reader the luxury of ubiquity. Swans are everywhere, the all look much alike and so "Swans" would do nicely. I do not see a metaphor, extended or otherwise, in this. I hope you did not intend that I should. What I CAN see, is a tail-end attempt to make some conclusion from what is , in fact, a mundane OBSERVED situation. Please understand that there is no negativity in this comment of mine or in the execution of the piece which I ascribe to you...it is simply that to make something out of nothing is quite impossible but to make something better out of a little is poetry. So line by line, assuming the title may change

First Edit:

The Swans in Wentworth Park

One wing bloodied, mangled;This is a statemental opener which is going to become seiously matter-of-fact very quickly. It reads like a police crime scene report. That is not what you are aiming for if I look down to where the arrow ends up. You can avoid the pathology by empathetic response....you are allowed to do that in a poem. What emotion stirred you as you observed the broken wing, the seeping blood, the TRAGEDY, dammit? There is no need for hyperbole. Just some passion transfer. Later you will use the first person; much better I think, to use the character's thoughts earlier. So, your poem, but:

The wing that flew the winds now hangs
in blood and bandage white. Fallen, yet
not understanding, why the mangled sail
no longer culls the air and lifts to sky....blah blah blah.

By empathy you indicate that this IS the character FEELING the plight of the bird, not simply reporting on it.

its exposed bones a different white than the rest.This is a weak line, even observationally, because it tells us nothing that simple deduction would not imply. How is it (the it word. OK here but not in the poem) a different white? Why is "it" a different white" ? Why mention it at all? Do you mean that the exposed bone is a different white from the "rest" of the bones (which you cannot see) or the rest of the bird, which you CAN see? Did the character muse upon the beauty and purity of the white plumage and fall saddened by the the contrast with raw-edged and fractured bone splinters? How did that make the character feel? A frisson of horror, a horipilation of physical empathetic resonse, a sickness-inducing heave ?  Tell us. Please. It is all there...that is why I think you SHOULD work on this one.
The other wing open,
begging the breeze for elevation,Oh boy...a wasted opportunity...you could make hay with this image. A begging wing is one thing (though I'm not sure what) BUT a wing that GESTURES as an indication of how the poor bloody swan FEELS would lead you in to untold poetic pleasures. It, not the WING that begs...it is a sentient, thinking master of flight that is thwarted, denied and dumbfounded by plight. How would you feel if it was you? Would your hand be sad if you dropped a bloody great brick on it? No...but you sure as hell would. Can you detect a veracity vortex downwards? Get back in to the empathetic mode ASAP.
but its feathers are denied
the blue of the sky.Sounds OK but is, in fact, nonsensical in view of foregoing. You are still talking wing not swan.

The indifferent ground
only offers support through happenstance,
while I
can't look away.A completely unnecessary stanza. I cannot but believe that you worked on this strangely composed sentence just to get the posture of the bird to bridge to"stance". Anthropomorphising the ground is a bridge  too far...and worse, you curtailed the thought by denying the character an honorable diversion...wobbly swan, broken wing, ground don't care....yet I cannot divert my eyes. Huh? 

I make eye contact
and I'm compelled to envision its mate,
flying away alone.
Its heartbreak more potent than my own dreams.So this is where we ended up. A lifelong mating bird just gives up, flies off, abandons the partner, callous but heartbroken....oh woe, yes, is ME. In one bound you are free. The extended metaphor made clear.

OK, this is a poem with a GOOD IDEA. You treated it far too forensically and that would lead to fair criticism of a similar nature IF you really meant it to be like this. I do not think that this is the case. You really wanted to feel and pair with the poor sodding bird in a heart-rending way...BUT you were NOT aware of your own purpose until you got near the imminent and unavoidable end....THEN you thought about what you should have been thinking about all along. So good on ya for the concept but for me you really must regroup your thinking, now that you know how it all ended up. Poetically... which is, I hope, what I have been talking about here...you only briefly get emotion in to the piece. The language is way to simplistic for complex considerations. Open it up and give it air...do not be dissuaded by the difficulty of florally attributed language...this is a sad poem. Make it so.
Best,
tectak  


Original:

 The Swans in Wentworth Park

Webbed feet
firmly on the ground.
Feathers denied
the blue of the sky.
One wing open,
begging the breeze for elevation.
The other wing lifeless:
bloodied and mangled.

Its eyes look desperate,
while its mate
flies away,
soaring
higher than a dream.