When I die feed me to the worms
#1
Had an artist captured it the sky would look false.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame to his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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#2
Just wanted to say well done on this . (I read two layers or pictures in here).
On my first pass through I struggled a bit in the second stanza with the continuation of the descriptive lists, but then a dawning of meaning and progression took hold and I got increasing pleasure from each line.
Will be back to read a few more reads before the week is out, will offer any observations as I might see them ...but for now just enjoying the read
Cheers AJ
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#3
(05-18-2013, 09:13 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  A sky that would look false had an artist captured it.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

The reportage in here is excellent, a real poet's eye for details. I forgot how much I love the word 'olive' and now feel like I have to use it in a poem as well.

well done.
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#4
(05-20-2013, 06:46 AM)cidermaid Wrote:  Just wanted to say well done on this . (I read two layers or pictures in here).
On my first pass through I struggled a bit in the second stanza with the continuation of the descriptive lists, but then a dawning of meaning and progression took hold and I got increasing pleasure from each line.
Will be back to read a few more reads before the week is out, will offer any observations as I might see them ...but for now just enjoying the read
Cheers AJ

Thanks AJ not sure readers would get the cross section approach, but you seem to have so I'm hopeful, also I find list poetry pretty boring and this is very much a list so nearly changed my approach would be good to have your thoughts if you have time. Cheers Keith

(05-20-2013, 07:38 AM)milo Wrote:  
(05-18-2013, 09:13 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  A sky that would look false had an artist captured it.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

The reportage in here is excellent, a real poet's eye for details. I forgot how much I love the word 'olive' and now feel like I have to use it in a poem as well.

well done.

Thanks Milo I will look out for the word Olive as very much enjoy your posts. TOMH

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
Reply
#5
(05-18-2013, 09:13 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. -- Feel like you could have expanded on the idea in this first line more.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar. - Good consonance
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. --Good detail
Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

I can't relate to your poem because I am too young. You've got some good detail but I feel you mercilessly scrutinize this priest. Maybe he deserved it or maybe it doesn't matter. I missed your greater point about death. I remember Andrew Marvell when he tells the girl her virginity will go to the worms...
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#6
Hi Keith,
You asked me to leave some thoughts ...not sure if you wanted this many of them though Big Grin

When I die feed me to the worms
A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. This feels a sort of fractured, I almost want to reverse the read to: Had an artist captured it, this (or the) sky would look false
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals. Strong images for an overcast sky-scape with a slight sub text image beginning to form in the abstract thermals. (I read rising currents of hot air, sourced out of a shifting image without form – so that taken as a whole [L1&2 together] I read a picture of fake unreality, spun by someone as yet to be identified who is hiding behind a shadowed and overcast image of something they are not and that this image is increasingly difficult to maintain…but on the first read I admit that I missed this and was only able to see the sub layer on the second reading ).
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak. Love olive afro canopy– exactly right. (For oak I read righteous person [of faith], but the nodding element adds a sub text of shallowness to this. So someone of standing and note who has been or allowed themselves to be compromised. The large suggest years of standing so aged.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk. Gurning throws me a bit – I take this as gurning as in twisted faces, but it did leave me guessing a bit if you had meant something else to be taken from the presence of the tree in the scene….but added to leathery it makes a good image for an old and lived in [unappealing] face.
The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus. Again this was a line that I wanted to reverse : trapped, dry mucus bends /ing [his] nostril hair.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth. This is all good and is steadily building on the images of the first stanza. Nice image links back to the oak tree image with caterpillars and stick thin. On my first reading I did nearly loose it here but then there were enough clues to the sub text of the first stanza to make me think twice.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger. It was on the mention of the collar that it dawned on me that you were moving in a progression from sky downwards and I began to get into the read. Starch collar = something bygone and outdated. The man is on an ancient leash.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script. This line has caused me extra work to decide what the significance was for the Ink and paper. (Also did you mean to have “to” slotted in-between frame and his?). In the end I took this as a generational marker. (non computer literate – he trots out his sermons and chants his lines by rote and from hand written notes).
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. Loving all the precision details by this point. (esp the nylon!) I think you have very skilfully navigated the path from list poetry into character detail and each line from here on is adding to the “vicar” picture as well as leading me on a sub plot.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil. Love the jump into the soil from the soles of his shoes. Cleverly done I think. Also love the mirror image of his hair in the white writhing roots. Nice alliteration as well.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots. “In the potters hand” beautifully subtle use of well known image of being in Gods hand. This draws my mind down the whole dust to dust etc with the need for words to take me there.


Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher. Love the contrasts in this stanza between the images for creation and the passage of time. The river [of and full of life] that once flowed in this place / life that is now only remembered by the dry flaky and shifting stones of flat dull grey . This is wonderfully partnered with the colour and warmth of the wood of the coffin worked to a mirror finish [ in my mind like the sun set reflected on a slow flowing river surface – beautiful]. The carcass and remains of what once was are then contrasted with man made, blousy comfort of life recreated in a coffin. (and all the time the poem is still moving the reader down)

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands. Finally we get to the end of all things – to become worm feed!

As I said in my original post I just loved this and have got so much pleasure in going through this again to make these notes. I think there is much else that I could have added or made note of. I thought that it was a surprising poem in that I was not expecting to have so many layers to the read when I started out. From the details and the picture of the vicar with all his abstract forms of image that he hides behind to the point where he has become lost himself, to the beautiful images of nature that crop up in each of the stanzas and then the philosophical elements of the title and the overall image of the transitory nature of life being taken in froma view from the sky to the grave.

This was simply beautiful
Thanks for the read Kieth.
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#7
(05-21-2013, 09:12 PM)Brownlie Wrote:  
(05-18-2013, 09:13 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. -- Feel like you could have expanded on the idea in this first line more.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar. - Good consonance
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. --Good detail
Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

I can't relate to your poem because I am too young. You've got some good detail but I feel you mercilessly scrutinize this priest. Maybe he deserved it or maybe it doesn't matter. I missed your greater point about death. I remember Andrew Marvell when he tells the girl her virginity will go to the worms...

Hi Brownlie not too young to know off Andrew Marvell, the priest or vicar deserved it Smile like the line virginity will go to the worms. Thanks TOMH

(05-22-2013, 03:53 AM)cidermaid Wrote:  Hi Keith,
You asked me to leave some thoughts ...not sure if you wanted this many of them though Big Grin

When I die feed me to the worms
A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. This feels a sort of fractured, I almost want to reverse the read to: Had an artist captured it, this (or the) sky would look false
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals. Strong images for an overcast sky-scape with a slight sub text image beginning to form in the abstract thermals. (I read rising currents of hot air, sourced out of a shifting image without form – so that taken as a whole [L1&2 together] I read a picture of fake unreality, spun by someone as yet to be identified who is hiding behind a shadowed and overcast image of something they are not and that this image is increasingly difficult to maintain…but on the first read I admit that I missed this and was only able to see the sub layer on the second reading ).
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak. Love olive afro canopy– exactly right. (For oak I read righteous person [of faith], but the nodding element adds a sub text of shallowness to this. So someone of standing and note who has been or allowed themselves to be compromised. The large suggest years of standing so aged.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk. Gurning throws me a bit – I take this as gurning as in twisted faces, but it did leave me guessing a bit if you had meant something else to be taken from the presence of the tree in the scene….but added to leathery it makes a good image for an old and lived in [unappealing] face.
The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus. Again this was a line that I wanted to reverse : trapped, dry mucus bends /ing [his] nostril hair.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth. This is all good and is steadily building on the images of the first stanza. Nice image links back to the oak tree image with caterpillars and stick thin. On my first reading I did nearly loose it here but then there were enough clues to the sub text of the first stanza to make me think twice.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger. It was on the mention of the collar that it dawned on me that you were moving in a progression from sky downwards and I began to get into the read. Starch collar = something bygone and outdated. The man is on an ancient leash.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script. This line has caused me extra work to decide what the significance was for the Ink and paper. (Also did you mean to have “to” slotted in-between frame and his?). In the end I took this as a generational marker. (non computer literate – he trots out his sermons and chants his lines by rote and from hand written notes).
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. Loving all the precision details by this point. (esp the nylon!) I think you have very skilfully navigated the path from list poetry into character detail and each line from here on is adding to the “vicar” picture as well as leading me on a sub plot.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil. Love the jump into the soil from the soles of his shoes. Cleverly done I think. Also love the mirror image of his hair in the white writhing roots. Nice alliteration as well.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots. “In the potters hand” beautifully subtle use of well known image of being in Gods hand. This draws my mind down the whole dust to dust etc with the need for words to take me there.


Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher. Love the contrasts in this stanza between the images for creation and the passage of time. The river [of and full of life] that once flowed in this place / life that is now only remembered by the dry flaky and shifting stones of flat dull grey . This is wonderfully partnered with the colour and warmth of the wood of the coffin worked to a mirror finish [ in my mind like the sun set reflected on a slow flowing river surface – beautiful]. The carcass and remains of what once was are then contrasted with man made, blousy comfort of life recreated in a coffin. (and all the time the poem is still moving the reader down)

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands. Finally we get to the end of all things – to become worm feed!

As I said in my original post I just loved this and have got so much pleasure in going through this again to make these notes. I think there is much else that I could have added or made note of. I thought that it was a surprising poem in that I was not expecting to have so many layers to the read when I started out. From the details and the picture of the vicar with all his abstract forms of image that he hides behind to the point where he has become lost himself, to the beautiful images of nature that crop up in each of the stanzas and then the philosophical elements of the title and the overall image of the transitory nature of life being taken in froma view from the sky to the grave.

This was simply beautiful
Thanks for the read Kieth.

Aj let me start by saying a big thank you for taking the time and such a concidered reply, spelling mistake intended Smile

I like the way your reversal flows so will take that thanks,
standing at a grave side as I have done far to many times, always feels strangely fake and I always seem to remember more about the detail of the cemetery than the service so yes I was trying to say all a bit false.
The Oak is an oak and one of those old family friends that turn up and nod at the right points in the vicars mantra they always look like they forgot their teeth and could easily blend in with bark on an old leathery tree. I did miss the 'to' so will slot it in, Thnx. The stick and caterpillar were my attempts to stay with nature. I'm happy with the nostril line as I was hoping this would give the game away that I was traveling from sky, downwards.

You hit the nail with potters hands but I was trying to liken them to being in the hands of nature rather than god, god doesn't really have a role here.
with the stones I was trying to link that the river, nature, had already died here before and that all things end.
The vicar got such a bad review because when I got married my local vicar that I had grown up knowing got sick on the day and we had this young stand in that gave me the creeps, this is his manifestation in later life and the irony that he is the one to oversee my proceedings. Even I know that this would not come across in my poem and most of the time I expect the reader to have an extrasensory perception in nearly all of my more wordy poems (fact).
I hadn't thought about the colour contrast so thanks for pointing that out, but in the end all that's in the box is a unwanted suit and trace elements of make up. I think I will let the doc take what he can salvage and burn the rest, let the worms circle a little longer.

Many thanks AJ will edit as discussed. Keith

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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