08-13-2021, 12:56 PM
Years before you tried to die,
we walked amongst the gifts of August:
rolling green, rolling golden
summer heat impressed
upon dwindling twilight.
Then opening of your poem “Years before you tried to die” immediately grabbed my attention. I was immediately drawn in and wanted to know the story behind that line. On your third line you mention “rolling green” as a gift of August. I’m not too sure what you mean by that. Are you referring to the putting green? If that were the case, wouldn’t it be rolling greens? If you’re referring to hills around the golf course wouldn’t you want to specify that as “rolling green hills”?
Dusted in fireflies,
a traveling dark
bound tree line and sky.
Suburbs softened on the hills, whispered,
then silenced.
We spent our nights on the golf-course,
blue asphalt weaving through Bermuda grass,
the cart path sliding in and out of shadow.
I like the imagery in this sentence/stanza. I can easily imagine the narrator, and whoever he or she is with, walking the bike paths of the golf course. I wonder where the shadows are coming from, though. You mention “coyote nights” in your next stanza which led me to think this golf course might be in a desert location (Arizona?), minimal trees, not a lot of opportunities for shadows.
We never talked about how we’d grow
to miss those coyote-nights,
lounging in amber moonlight,
or about the pain growing, somewhere, far off and center
but we talked until
I found the imagery of “coyote-nights to be very visceral. Again, I envision a dry, desert environment. This may not be what you meant, but the fact that your description sent me there, I think, says you have a fine sense of being able to create a scene.
This is only the second time you’ve mentioned that something might be amiss with one of your characters. I like that. You are prolonging the suspence.
sprinklers squelched the air—
dozens, dotting the green,
each ticking In break-neck rhythm.
The change was bigger than we knew.
Anybody who has had a sprinkler in their yard would recognize your description of the sprinklers on the greens, even moreso those who have actually golfed. “Ticking In break-neck rhythm” I think should be “ticking in (no capital I) break-neck rhythm” And again the sense that something is amiss with “The change…knew” keeping the suspense going. Good job.
Water swung itself in circles.
Trees lifted from their roots.
Currents raked the rough,
foaming around the banks of sandtraps.
The fairway became a sink
With a par 4 drain, marked by a flag.
Dawn broke long ago.
Songbirds picked apart silence.
Dew formed, and rose,
and formed, and rose.
And the things that didn’t change sunk in the pit of the valley,
in the cup of the 18th hole.
I thought there was some powerful imagery in your last three stanzas, but I found myself wondering where all the water came from. Certainly not the sprinklers. If there was a metaphor hidden in there somewhere I wasn’t able to extract it.
In summary I found your poem easy to read (which in my opinion is always a good thing) and really full of some excellent imagery, of both a golfing and natural type. I particularly liked the story you weaved, even if I felt there was no resolution (that I understood anyway) at the end. Your poem read like it was easy to write, although I’m sure it wasn’t.
Really, good job. You should be proud.
we walked amongst the gifts of August:
rolling green, rolling golden
summer heat impressed
upon dwindling twilight.
Then opening of your poem “Years before you tried to die” immediately grabbed my attention. I was immediately drawn in and wanted to know the story behind that line. On your third line you mention “rolling green” as a gift of August. I’m not too sure what you mean by that. Are you referring to the putting green? If that were the case, wouldn’t it be rolling greens? If you’re referring to hills around the golf course wouldn’t you want to specify that as “rolling green hills”?
Dusted in fireflies,
a traveling dark
bound tree line and sky.
Suburbs softened on the hills, whispered,
then silenced.
We spent our nights on the golf-course,
blue asphalt weaving through Bermuda grass,
the cart path sliding in and out of shadow.
I like the imagery in this sentence/stanza. I can easily imagine the narrator, and whoever he or she is with, walking the bike paths of the golf course. I wonder where the shadows are coming from, though. You mention “coyote nights” in your next stanza which led me to think this golf course might be in a desert location (Arizona?), minimal trees, not a lot of opportunities for shadows.
We never talked about how we’d grow
to miss those coyote-nights,
lounging in amber moonlight,
or about the pain growing, somewhere, far off and center
but we talked until
I found the imagery of “coyote-nights to be very visceral. Again, I envision a dry, desert environment. This may not be what you meant, but the fact that your description sent me there, I think, says you have a fine sense of being able to create a scene.
This is only the second time you’ve mentioned that something might be amiss with one of your characters. I like that. You are prolonging the suspence.
sprinklers squelched the air—
dozens, dotting the green,
each ticking In break-neck rhythm.
The change was bigger than we knew.
Anybody who has had a sprinkler in their yard would recognize your description of the sprinklers on the greens, even moreso those who have actually golfed. “Ticking In break-neck rhythm” I think should be “ticking in (no capital I) break-neck rhythm” And again the sense that something is amiss with “The change…knew” keeping the suspense going. Good job.
Water swung itself in circles.
Trees lifted from their roots.
Currents raked the rough,
foaming around the banks of sandtraps.
The fairway became a sink
With a par 4 drain, marked by a flag.
Dawn broke long ago.
Songbirds picked apart silence.
Dew formed, and rose,
and formed, and rose.
And the things that didn’t change sunk in the pit of the valley,
in the cup of the 18th hole.
I thought there was some powerful imagery in your last three stanzas, but I found myself wondering where all the water came from. Certainly not the sprinklers. If there was a metaphor hidden in there somewhere I wasn’t able to extract it.
In summary I found your poem easy to read (which in my opinion is always a good thing) and really full of some excellent imagery, of both a golfing and natural type. I particularly liked the story you weaved, even if I felt there was no resolution (that I understood anyway) at the end. Your poem read like it was easy to write, although I’m sure it wasn’t.
Really, good job. You should be proud.