Maceration [revision 1]

[syntheticsunset]

Your rivulets redecorated,
trickling from the tub,
inviting lichen to the kitchen,
sowing mold along the flowered
moulding in the halls.

We returned to waterfalls
where I remembered stairs,
and even when the neighbors came
to fish you from the brimming bath
the flood would not subside.

So Mother flung the windows wide
and mopped until she cried.
Like ghosts appearing in the dusk
toadstools sprouted on the lawn,
and evening throbbed with frogsong.

All night I dreamed I chased your long
footsteps through dark marshes,
swamp vines dragging at my legs.
But as I slept, sawgrass crept
between decaying floorboards.

I woke again to read your words
to me. I’d kept them dry.
Although the tang of rotting timber
spiced our morning meals for months,
we held our ground like squatters.

I shelved you well above the water
when the swamp began to rise
and traded in my crocs for waders.
The men who tried to drain the mire,
alligators mangled.

By autumn, mangroves grew too tangled
for us to cut a path,
so we abandoned the land to the herons
and scattered you among the cattails
that consumed your wreckage.



Original

As I slept, your rivulets redecorated.
Trickling from the tub,
they invited lichen to the kitchen,
replaced our flowered wallpaper with moss.
I awoke to waterfalls
where I remembered stairs.

After they fished you from the brimming bath,
Mother flung the house open and mopped
until evening throbbed with frogsong.
Still the flood would not subside.

For months our meals were spiced
with the tang of rotting timber.
But we clung on,
shelved you well above the water line
and traded in our thongs for waders.
Men arrived to try to drain the mire,
though alligators made the work impossible.

Eventually, the mangrove grew
too tangled to cut a path.
In Autumn, the last of the walls falling away,
we abandoned the land to the herons,
scattering you among the cattails
that consumed the wreckage.

[milo]

There are a couple places where your word choices are working against you "clung on" "awoke" and you frequently choose passive voice when active would be so much stronger (meals were spiced with instead of tang of rotting timber spiced our . . .) but overall it is brilliant. The imagery, the tone, etc. Most of the word choice is excellent and you seem to appreciate a good line (until evening throbbed with frogsong). If anything I would pay attention to where the rhythm seems a little clunky, although I know this is not metric vers, it is still nice to use some metric techniques to control the flow.

[syntheticsunset]

True and Milo, thanks so much to both of you for the encouraging feedback!

The metaphoric flood is a bit ambiguous and difficult for me to get to the bottom of. I feel that I can dive deep enough to find something, but the floor is a bit murky, and although this might be hypocritical of me, for some reason I want a concrete bottom. I'm not sure if it's meant to represent mourning, or if it's meant to be literal, and surreal, or not.

I think you are on to something. I was trying to squeeze a bit from both worlds, the literal and the surreal. I'll try to make the murk a bit clearer

There are a couple places where your word choices are working against you "clung on" "awoke"

Milo, do you mean that the diction has a negative impact on the meter in these spots?

you frequently choose passive voice when active would be so much stronger (meals were spiced with instead of tang of rotting timber spiced our . . .)

Good crit! I'll work to weed out those weak spots.

you seem to appreciate a good line (until evening throbbed with frogsong).

Glad to get an up vote on that line – I'm rather fond of it.

If anything I would pay attention to where the rhythm seems a little clunky, although I know this is not metric vers, it is still nice to use some metric techniques to control the flow.

That makes sense to me. I'll work on shoring up the meter where it isn't working well. Do you have any more specific advice about using meter to control the flow?

[billy]

some good images, some great lines, all the time i was wondering who the you was. at the the i'm thinking it's the house but on re reads i think it isn't i would have liked just smidgen more info to help tie it all together, i think you have a really good poem here that's a little too well hidden as of yet. it seems to evolve over a rather long period of time, how long for mangrove to grow? for now i'm asking a lot of questions of the poem. not too bad a thing but i'd like to asking less.

thanks for the read and great to see you posting one of your own

As I slept, your rivulets redecorated.
Trickling from the tub, i keep coming back to this line, is there a suicide, was the water left on
they invited lichen to the kitchen, again i keep returning, why (not in a bad way but in a way that makes me try and make the story up. do you live in the swamps, are you Cajun/Australian. i'm looking for a marker i can see clearly,
replaced our flowered wallpaper with moss.
I awoke to waterfalls
where I remembered stairs. these two lines create a great image, it feels as though the sleep was very very very long, was it a coma?

After they fished you from the brimming bath, so it seems like it was suicide
Mother flung the house open and mopped
until evening throbbed with frogsong. feels forced though again it has a feel of swamp.
Still the flood would not subside.

For months our meals were spiced
with the tang of rotting timber.
But we clung on,
shelved you well above the water line i'd like to know the who, the maceration, the dead body?
and traded in our thongs for waders. thongs ? females?
Men arrived to try to drain the mire,
though alligators made the work impossible. not austrailian then , not even sure why i mentioned auz

Eventually, the mangrove grew def swamp
too tangled to cut a path.
In Autumn, the last of the walls falling away,
we abandoned the land to the herons,
scattering you among the cattails
that consumed the wreckage. the you is the house.

[tectak]

As I slept, your rivulets redecorated.Clear start as far as players go. You and I. You make the "rivulets" anthropomorphically inclined in L4 and this may be problematical. So...you, I and they. I can foresee issues here.
Trickling from the tub,
they invited lichen to the kitchen,Nice turn of phrase. Do you say lichen as in "kitchen" or lichen as in "liken"? Just curious. Either way, still nice..but now I look at "trickle"
replaced our flowered wallpaper with moss.
I awoke to waterfalls
where I remembered stairs.Again, nicely observed but we are in Niagra territory. Bit of a disconnect here. Trickle to waterfall in less than three lines. I don't care about the meter in this piece. It is though, a story so far. Do you think it is a poem. Why?

After they fished you from the brimming bath,You? Who? We are character swapping here. Needs clarification because this piece marches on apace and does not seem inclined to give me any more information. Help required. We now have "they" again but not, I suspect, the same "they" who I thought were anthropomorphic rivulets...er trickles...er waterfalls...er , HANG ON,floods already!
Mother flung the house open and mopped
until evening throbbed with frogsong."Until" is causative and chronological at the same time. I think you mean chronological. Try "...until the evening AIR throbbed with frogsong". It is not a complete cure but I cannot get this. "How was your evening?". "Oh, throbbing, thanks for asking."
Still the flood would not subside. I am beginning to think this is deliberate but even as a metaphor it is obscure... and if it IS a metaphor it should clarify not obfuscate. Maybe this piece needs to include some more information. I do not normally ask for more but there is a nice taste to the thing which is palatable and, well, moreish.

For months our meals were spicedYou can just get away with the all encompassing "our" but this reader is uncertain who y'all are.
with the tang of rotting timber.You have now lapsed into an acceptable meter and not before time...in fact, too late. I bet you do not maintain it
But we clung on,No. Thought not. It matters not. The previous two lines were an aberration. Though you show no inkling to make this in any sense metric verse it would help considerably if you could get closer to some rhythmical discipline.
shelved you well above the water line
and traded in our thongs for waders.
Men arrived to try to drain the mire,
though alligators made the work impossible.Hmmm. Last four lines are enigmatic. I want to say I know what the hell we are being given here, but you will excuse me if I admit defeat. We now have the very loose possessive "our" but once again, who are these be-thonged rednecks in the Okefenokee swamp?

Eventually, the mangrove grew
too tangled to cut a path.
In Autumn, the last of the walls falling away,
we abandoned the land to the herons,
scattering you among the cattails Catfish consume, surely? Not cattails
that consumed the wreckage.Gone. Given up. Nice while it lasted.

Hi Synthetic,
I kind of liked this because it DOES tell a story. It lacks poetic endeavour and is in fact the antithesis of what poetry is about. That is not a criticism....oh alright, it is...but you could do much better than this with your obvious observational prowess. The big issue is in the defining of your characters and in giving them (I, you, they, we) fixed identities. I can see merit in this, though. Milo gave you good advice, as he sometimes does , and I would refer you particularly to rhythm, regardless of whatever you feel is your own "style"...it is only pride. This is worth worth workshopping.
Best,
tectak

[milo]

Milo, do you mean that the diction has a negative impact on the meter in these spots?

not meter, sound. Awoke is silly when woke works just fine and sounds better. Clung just sounds ugly to me there and it is tough to explain sonically. It also reads weird "we clung on" . .. just awkward.

[syntheticsunset]

Thanks very much for the feedback, Billy and Tectak! The consensus I'm hearing is that the meaning is hidden a bit too far under the surface. If I have to explain the literal meaning, then I'm not doing a good enough job communicating. I'm working on a clearer revision in which I'll be more careful about the players and the timeline.

thongs ? females?

Billy, I meant footwear, not underwear. Maybe I'll change that to crocs – which might play nicely with the alligators on the next line

Katrina

Hrm... True, this isn't meant to be about Katrina. I'll make that more apparent.

Nice turn of phrase. Do you say lichen as in "kitchen" or lichen as in "liken"? Just curious. Either way, still nice..but now I look at "trickle"

Thanks! I say it like "liken."

...nicely observed but we are in Niagra territory.

Wow! Actually, yes, but not quite like you mean. The setting I imagined is maybe an hour drive from Niagara. Of course that's not really significant to the poem as it stands, but I was struck by the coincidence.

"Until" is causative and chronological at the same time. I think you mean chronological. Try "...until the evening AIR throbbed with frogsong". It is not a complete cure but I cannot get this. "How was your evening?". "Oh, throbbing, thanks for asking."

Haha! That's a nice catch. I'll noodle on it and see if I can come up with a more purely chronological phrasing.

Catfish consume, surely? Not cattails

I was shooting for the image of flora converting a ruin to mulch, growing out of the remains of the house. I think it works, no?

I don't care about the meter in this piece. It is though, a story so far. Do you think it is a poem. Why?
...
Though you show no inkling to make this in any sense metric verse it would help considerably if you could get closer to some rhythmical discipline.
...
I kind of liked this because it DOES tell a story. It lacks poetic endeavour and is in fact the antithesis of what poetry is about. That is not a criticism....oh alright, it is...but you could do much better than this with your obvious observational prowess.

I suppose there's a fine line between free verse and prose poetry. I was aiming for the former and didn't suspect such a strong reaction about the lack of consistent meter. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the distinctions between free verse and prose. Do you have suggestions about how to make a free verse piece more poetic, in a rhythmic sense, without turning it into blank verse?

Tectak, thanks again for your particularly detailed feedback. I really appreciate it, it's making me think, and I expect it'll make me a better writer.

[tectak]

Then is it about Andrew? What about "The Impossible". Lol, the risks you run if you leave all the interpretation up to the reader. I am sometimes ok with it, as I like to write (and read) lyrics that the reader can derive their own meaning from, but this isn't that sort of peace on earth. Piece.

---

Btw "The Impossible" is a movie about a tsunami.

---

Thanks very much for the feedback, Billy and Tectak! The consensus I'm hearing is that the meaning is hidden a bit too far under the surface. If I have to explain the literal meaning, then I'm not doing a good enough job communicating. I'm working on a clearer revision in which I'll be more careful about the players and the timeline.

thongs ? females?

Billy, I meant footwear, not underwear. Maybe I'll change that to crocs – which might play nicely with the alligators on the next line

Katrina

Hrm... True, this isn't meant to be about Katrina. I'll make that more apparent.

Nice turn of phrase. Do you say lichen as in "kitchen" or lichen as in "liken"? Just curious. Either way, still nice..but now I look at "trickle"

Thanks! I say it like "liken."

...nicely observed but we are in Niagra territory.

Wow! Actually, yes, but not quite like you mean. The setting I imagined is maybe an hour drive from Niagara. Of course that's not really significant to the poem as it stands, but I was struck by the coincidence.

"Until" is causative and chronological at the same time. I think you mean chronological. Try "...until the evening AIR throbbed with frogsong". It is not a complete cure but I cannot get this. "How was your evening?". "Oh, throbbing, thanks for asking."

Haha! That's a nice catch. I'll noodle on it and see if I can come up with a more purely chronological phrasing.

Catfish consume, surely? Not cattails

I was shooting for the image of flora converting a ruin to mulch, growing out of the remains of the house. I think it works, no?

I don't care about the meter in this piece. It is though, a story so far. Do you think it is a poem. Why?
...
Though you show no inkling to make this in any sense metric verse it would help considerably if you could get closer to some rhythmical discipline.
...
I kind of liked this because it DOES tell a story. It lacks poetic endeavour and is in fact the antithesis of what poetry is about. That is not a criticism....oh alright, it is...but you could do much better than this with your obvious observational prowess.

I suppose there's a fine line between free verse and prose poetry. I was aiming for the former and didn't suspect such a strong reaction about the lack of consistent meter. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the distinctions between free verse and prose. Do you have suggestions about how to make a free verse piece more poetic, in a rhythmic sense, without turning it into blank verse?

Tectak, thanks again for your particularly detailed feedback. I really appreciate it, it's making me think, and I expect it'll make me a better writer.

Milo gave you part of it. sonics. Rhymes work pretty good too and help you make certain words stand out and stick, if you're into that sort of thing, but I think what you mostly need is some strong sonic inflections to build your rhythm. Hisses and hard c-s and k's for emotions, rolling sounds (g's followed by L and such "glimmer" "glow". "guile" is harder sound, "beguile" is rhythmic. "clung" is a tongue twister, like "lung" with the "LUN" behind it. Soft g's work better after L's and U's and N's: lounge, lunge.) for music. You can also make it "sing" and "swing" musically with sonics as well.

---

"clung to" works better than clung on. Clungon clungon clungon clunglon

....and do not forget klingon!
Blank verse versus prose? All is opinion. Things change but semantically the poet writes poetically. If you dogmatically write prose you will often find that poetry slips in by accident and will not be detrimental. If you write poetry it is considered a failure by some if you lapse ( I am biased) in to prose. Sonics and alliteration are part of the way we sentient beings have programmed ourselves to speak. Though words are themselves described irritatingly as anapest or spondee or iamb or trochee et al it is worth remembering that in the beginning was the WORD. The descriptors came later. So, if you are writing prose, just write. Anything goes. Read it when you have written it but note that you could play the sentences and their contained emphases on a piano. No need to worry about breath control. If you are writing poetry, even blank verse, note that you should be able to play it on a clarinet.You must breathe. Ginsberg was my hero...there are now others.
The bigger question is when does prose become just ( I am biased) text. Well, frankly, it is rarely anything else. Oh, you will see the aspirants struggling to turn barely contained gabions of stony text into something remotely poetic by ridiculous line breaks and pointless enjambment but it fools no one...not even the writers of such stuff.
Grrrr.
I hope that helps.
Best,
tectak

[syntheticsunset]

True, it's not about Andrew, nor a Tsunami. I hope that's clearer with the revision.

Tectak, I attempted some metric constraint, even a bit of rhyme. I haven't decided which version I prefer.