My favourite story

[Thunderembargo]

You set a good scene, Keith. There's an emotional richness to your writing. I'm envious of how you set your observations down.

My only call out is a line like this:

eyes are fragile and kind.

It's a bit lazy. You attribute the characteristics without earning them. I think if you were to clean this up and let the imagery and the scene you produce do the work, it would be stronger.

All good advice Todd, thanks for the help, I decided to cut the line you called out, you are very kind with your comments. Thanks again Keith

---

Will be written by a man with a bad limp
who only writes on his good days.
When the light fills his study just right,
he wishes he could capture all the colours.        

Each morning his stick taps down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always says "good morning"
to a lady watering flowers,
she only ever smiles back.
One day she will pick him a buttonhole
and change everything
by kissing his cheek and smoothing
a soft hand down his lapel.      this stanza would give me a faint feeling of loneliness, converted to hopeful openness  

He works with an old typewriter
named Jessie after his wife, worries
that one day he will open the study door
and find that its heart no longer beats.      a sad thought, that the typewriter could ever lose its meaning.

Sometimes he rests, sipping beer
under his favourite oak tree,
watching the sky for feeding Swallows,     swallows capitalized makes me think there is something to be swallowed, too. . together with the beer.
chasing the heat of a late afternoon.

His face has readable lines,                 
eyes are fragile and kind.
With a thought he takes a journey
beyond the pain in his leg,
around the agapanthus out               the agapanthus seems to bear some meaning I can´t grasp, maybe a too specific memory, that has to be avoided. I like the exotic appearance in the poem anyway.
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of a wind swept beach.

The words always find him thirsty
as he sits deserted,
arid until the rains come.
He cries as he writes,
only stopping to wipe his glasses.
I like the metaphor of words coming to someone thirsty, I like deserted´s double meaning and the thought that the good days are the rainy, teary ones in the poem´s context.

Thanks for the feedback Vagabond, im never sure if birds names should be capitalised...dicuss I changed it all the same so thanks for the help and your comments. Best Keith

I agree completely with Vagabond here.   The bird name is not formal, its capitalization spells no formal enhancement of ontic birdness.

---

will be written by a man with a bad limp
who only writes on his good days.
When the light fills his study just right,
he wishes he could capture all the colours.

Each morning his stick taps down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always says "good morning"
to a lady watering flowers,
she only ever smiles back.
One day she will pick him a buttonhole
and change everything
by kissing his cheek and smoothing
a soft hand down his lapel.

He works with an old typewriter
named Jessie after his wife, worries
that one day he will open the study door
and find that its heart is no longer beating.

Sometimes he rests, sipping beer
under his favourite olive shade,
watching the sky for feeding swallows,
chasing the heat of a late afternoon.

His face has readable lines,
with a thought he takes a journey
beyond the pain in his leg,
around the agapanthus out
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of a wind swept beach.

The words always find him thirsty
as he sits deserted,
arid until the rains come.
He cries as he writes,
only stopping to wipe his glasses.

The imagery of the poem flows easily and naturally from scene-to-scene and adds layer by layer to the thematic reflection and realisation of the poem; that the writer is indeed fecund and revivified within his own writing.   That he is emotionally fertile, and that he is capable of nourishing and watering the meandering ideations that he draws from his pensive and reflective life.   If he had some concern that his injured and tired body would not provide sufficient energy to propel and drive the motive force of his writing, then he would draw inspiration from his sweet and gentle neighbor or his possibly anthropomorphized typewriter.

Yet the poem is unfinished.   There is a missing link or memory that remains hidden only to the writer and leaves the source of the writers tears unobserved and unacknowledged.   The reader would be served by the offering of this additional information.   What are the source of his tears?   Was it a reflection concerning his youth, as he sits dryly churning through his long and ambling days?   The poem is compelling, yet perhaps lacks one or two lines that might show or at least hint at, more directly, the source of his tears.