From blossom to bottle (Edit 2)

[cidermaid]

Edit 3

Bottled elixir.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, tipped with pale pink lips.

An early promise of perfection seen within a foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Searching for the up lit skies, your creamy golden globes,
carefree in the playful breeze,
quivered with excitement, bright and keen.

You did not understand the art within the hands
that grasped your tender parts,
wilfully they ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start;

*

Fragrant in your wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your cream and gold abroad.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth and from adversity, poetry was birthed.

A host of deserting hangers-on marched with micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
trapped in pains of darkened webbed deceit,
they hung like berried beauty; past perfection,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Set free from wounds that would not heal
you slipped into a syrup,
that soothed your bits of bruised confetti
wooing poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.



* This stanza is out for this edit. See * for inclusion placement. (see note below)
Whilst the empty stalks of past support
exhale a fetid fragrance.
Maliciously dirty and caty,
dripping defiling pee. I have taken this stanza out for this edit. Tec thinks it is surplus to requirment. I quite like the sentiment for the metaphor and also it is part of the phisical processing issues. Comments on inclusion or to leave out please.


Edit 2.

Bottled elixir.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, top tipped with pale pink lips.

An early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes,
carefree in the playful breeze,
quivered with excitement. Bright and keen.

You did not understand the art within the hands
that grasped your tender parts.
That wilfully ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your cream and golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – and poetry was birthed in adversity.

A host of deserting hangers-on marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
Like berried beauty, left hanging past perfection,
weathered and worn, they were only fit for the birds to eat.

Your past support was plucked and trimmed
and deflowered stalks dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.

Set free from wounded leaves that could not heal
you slipped into syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.




Edit one Thank to RC for cliche alert
[b]Blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your tender parts
dashing your potential against the bloodied sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

Original post.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

[Brownlie]

I'll try my best to give you some helpful feedback here though I may misinterpret things that are obvious to most.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose; -- You switch from semicolons to commas are you haphazardly using punctuation or are you consciously being grammatically correct?
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips. - I am a bit confused here
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green. -- I'm confused here but that could be my ignorance.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes-- reaching up to lit skies?
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze. - To play in the breeze? or maybe Playing carefree in the breeze?

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun. -- The bloodied departing sun. Is this referring to the sunrise or something. I'm probably missing something.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start. -- This sounds like you're talking about Sylvia Plath who had her notebooks torn apart or burned or something. I like the sentiment of a woman who has to give up her dreams and work to enter into the constrained bonds of matrimony and become a cookie cutter image of a wife.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load. -Creamy golden load I am a bit confused it almost sounds like busting a nut (I'm being facetious) maybe others will get what you were after.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top, -- Kitchen table top is a great image to show what women were supposed to do according to societal roles
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat. -- I assume you meant berried as opposed to buried. You might be able to make the metaphor more clear but it is your call.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips. -- yes your plant metaphor seems to be working, hopefully others can give you some better comments.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed. - It reads pleasantly.

Tried my best with your poem, but I struggled to think of any advice I could give you for editing.

[R.C. KITCHENS]

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

I liked the piece and really don't have anything to offer up to edit except "soft hearted" seemed like a cliche to me. I don't know if there is another word to explain it, but, if there is, Im sure you know it.

[cidermaid]

Good point about the soft hearted RC.
Will edit later. (sometimes I think those blasted cliches are like some sort of virus in my brain that I can't ever see off, I keep having rpt attacks of them).

[tectak]

Edit one Thank to RC for cliche alert
Blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;I like "arose". It has a subtle duality of meaning. To "emerge" is fairly succinct but it also means "to come in to being". On the safe treads of friendship, I would say respect for this choice...even if I'm wrong
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,Now there is a problem of wordiness, possibly over-modification. The sentence structure is complicated in that there is a syntactical shift of tense. How so? Well, the cut-down version is "...a bundle of inspiration", but then you tinker with it by adding "freshly" (new, recent, comtemporaneous) in a composite link with "unshaken", implicitly extending into the past. I would go for "unshaking". Your poem.
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,Again, you are getting wordy. The anthropomorphosing of a "dream" doesn't work. "..complexioned", of course, does not ONLY refer to a visage BUT once you begin with the--alright androgynous-- word "youthful" you add humanising to an ephemerality....an apple to a banana. I note the "cream". I will again
top tipped with pale pink lips.See. You can't stop it now. Now we have a dream with lips
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globesMore cream, vicar? See below. Notwithstanding "Reaching up lit skies...."
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze. Gerund check. Reach-ing....swung(?) try:
" Swinging carefree to and fro, in the playful breeze

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your tender parts
dashing your potential against the bloodied sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.A rush of drama but much ado about nothing. Are we purloining an apple here or emasculating males in a medieval bellum sacrum, a kind of gore-filled genocide. All this "wilful", "grasping", tender parts", "bloodied","ripping" would have Eve a reclusive hermit if she knew what she had done. Oh, she did know. I get the genetic proclivity in all this, and don't think it is a bad concept, but for me you are in danger of intentional obscurity.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.Holy shit! This is lacto-porn. Just google creamy golden load...I am not making it up!
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps So that's one step, then?
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,See. This is what I mean about intent to be obscure against obscurity as a technique. I am ready for the next enigma....what do I get. Is it peek, peak or even pique? I can relate (wrong word) to any of them. Even dear ol' brownlie I believe, machinated his porriged pia mater and queried "berried"....or do you mean buried. Enough with the intent to be obscure...how about intent to be clear, and if obscurity creeps in it will at least be obscure to us both.
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee. I am not lost yet, but I want to be. Navigating through this is like driving with GPS. You are not lost but you have no idea where you are. Punctuate to clarity. " the stalk your support,..." needs help. Or is it stork? You know, the one's who bring babies?
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips. I think this poem ended way back. This stanza is but, and, that,and. Syrup is sloppy. We know it has five leaves...you told us already. Un-shredded confetti is a sheet...though I do like "poetic pollen" we are getting lippy again. Cream is expected anytime now but even without it, you are exceeding Young's Modulus with this windy metaphor.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow, "Unstoppered" is the wrong word. The word refers to a "vessel", not the contents...and watch out for "un" words in general. The prefix is variable in intent. It usually means "not" as in "unhappy", but it is also a verb as in "to uncover". "un-wilted" is the demise of the muse. Does it mean "not wilted" or "to unwilt" by watering, say. Hyphen away all you like but it is unlikely to un-crit you
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed. I really want these last few lines to hit me with a sharp object. See, now I'm doing it. You get hit with a blunt object and stabbed with a sharp object. Words that blow, "effervescing scents" 1.Give off bubbles.
2.(of a person) Be vivacious and enthusiastic.

Just needs a little calming down and pruning out of the dead stuff. There isn't that much to do but it's your poem. There are, though, areas of what could appear to be contrived innuendo, not the same as obscurity but often excused by the same arguements. Creamy golden globes swinging in the breeze and the release of the creamy golden load is just too much for reading before the 9pm watershead. That's just too obscure. Yes....you say!
Best,
a good effort, this is me liking it,
tectak






Original post.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

[cidermaid]

Thanks for the feedback Tec. I'm not normally reduced to tears when i'm reading a crit but your thoughts and comments on cream and golden load had me howling with laughter.
As ever i sometimes think you are just being obtuse as to a line meaning just for the sake of it and other times you are so sharp I'm concerned about you cutting yourself.

As to the Lacto porn I had no idea such things existed (I'll need to look it up) Although, as i recently spent many tedious hours this last week rapeing the hedges on the farm to get the bushes to release thier big floppy heads into my bag, I have to confess that I had an image of Uncle Buck in the washing machine scetch.
I will revisit the points you have made and try again. i wrote this with a very specific person and understory in mind and perhaps i did loose the thread of my cover metaphore in the process. I really want to get this one nailed as otherwise i have written a poor tribute for someone that i intended to honour with my best efforts.
Once again much thanks for all the work you put into the crits you give. Appreciation for your time and respect for your skill.
AJ.

[tectak]

Thanks for the feedback Tec. I'm not normally reduced to tears when i'm reading a crit but your thoughts and comments on cream and golden load had me howling with laughter.
As ever i sometimes think you are just being obtuse as to a line meaning just for the sake of it and other times you are so sharp I'm concerned about you cutting yourself.

As to the Lacto porn I had no idea such things existed (I'll need to look it up) Although, as i recently spent many tedious hours this last week rapeing the hedges on the farm to get the bushes to release thier big floppy heads into my bag, I have to confess that I had an image of Uncle Buck in the washing machine scetch.
I will revisit the points you have made and try again. i wrote this with a very specific person and understory in mind and perhaps i did loose the thread of my cover metaphore in the process. I really want to get this one nailed as otherwise i have written a poor tribute for someone that i intended to honour with my best efforts.
Once again much thanks for all the work you put into the crits you give. Appreciation for your time and respect for your skill.
AJ.

Hi cider,
I made up lacto-porn. Hyphens are just so convincingly un-veracious!
On a side note. If you want to laud someone, keep it simple, keep it memorable and keep it un-competitive. There's nothing worse than people saying nice things about you in a better way than you can say nice things about them!Best,
tectak

[cidermaid]

@ tec: Hopefully I’ve tamed this down to be suitable to be read before 9pm. (Although personally I’m gutted that there is not a lacto-porn site with “Devon dairy farmers under udders” story to be found …it might have been entertaining ). You will no doubt notice that I still have a thing with creamy going on in my poem. (I still prefer creamy golden load – poetically speaking, but I'll give it a try your way )

One question: I'm unable to make my mind up about "In adversity" in S4 last line. (It is there because of the strong image i have from the understory but as a stand alone not sure the poem needs it). Any thoughts please.

Also line two S1 is vexing me. I lkied unshaken (but get what was mentioned about the tense), however i really wanted the whole back image of "shake the darling buds of may" thing going on as after all this is a poem I wanted to dedicate to a poet. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

[tectak]

Edit 2.

Bottled elixir.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, top tipped with pale pink lips. Much neater, though still complicated at a different level. "translucent in a moonbeam" echoes on pensive reflection with "translucent AS a moonbeam.." "Top" is an unnecessary alliterative filler.

An early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish Picky point coming. If you are describing ANYTHING in terms of it's sensory attributes best not to mix 'em. So seen to be foppish is fine...but seen to be soft is not. It's like saying "She heard his touch." Anyway, "foppish" pretty well covers it on its own. Your poem"
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green. Envy
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes, Still don't get what this means! "Reaching up", OK. "up lit skies", maybe OK....but "reaching up lit skies" is bad eough to need a hyphen
carefree in the playful breeze,
quivered with excitement. Bright and keen. Comma after excitement or "bright an keen" looks like a margin note for a reading!

You did not understand the art within the hands
that grasped your tender parts.
That wilfully ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start. Yes to all of this. Like it now

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your cream and golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – and poetry was birthed in adversity. I have thing about the use of the dash. I like'm in pairs or not at all. milo?

A host of deserting hangers-on marched a million micro steps OK. It does what it says on the tin but a "mIllion micro" sums in my mathematical mind to just one!
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
Like berried beauty, left hanging past perfection,
weathered and worn, they were only fit for the birds to eat.

Your past support was plucked and trimmed
and deflowered stalks dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty. I know you luke this stanza, but for me it adds nothing except the piquancy of an overpowering condiment. It is just too much seasoning, added too late and it will not cook out.

Set free from wounded leaves that could not heal
you slipped into syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits I am still not sure how "soothed" and "shredded shredded bits" works.A "syrupy balm" would soothe, but are we talking bits of apple or bits of elderflower? Either way why free from leaves? " that soothed your bruised confetti flowers" would be intentionally clear...refreshingly so!
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips. and it would sit well in a trio. Soothed/bruised/wooed. Still lippy, though

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed. For me....perfect

Liking it more and more. The edit went the right way. They don't always.
Very best,
tectak


Edit one Thank to RC for cliche alert
[b]Blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your tender parts
dashing your potential against the bloodied sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

Original post.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

[cidermaid]

Hi tec,
thanks again for your thoughts.
It is obviously not working if I need to explain it but then again if you wrote a poem about a mathmatical formula - no matter how famous it was i would need you to explain it. Look up elder flowers (+ berries) and then if you are at all creative (in the kitchen) think about the process for making elderflower cordial or syrup. (In ciderland i then add this to the cider).

The wounded leaves (5 points) E/ flower leaves come in sets of five. and then this referance is probably a bit too "local"
= a ref to the five wounds of christ (our local village was the site of the prayer book rebelion...whose flag was the five wounds). In my mind the understory relates a period of phisical and spiritual pain that resulted in the emergance of something of greater worth than that which it was birthed from.
The soft and foppish I was trying to illicit an image of a youthful hair style.

Don't normally set out thoughts like this but I am getting frusrated with this one as to how I can communicate my metaphore and understory without it becoming abstract or unacessable...and without loosing the story. I guess I have too much of a fixed idea in my head of where I want the poem to go. I know the advice is for the writer to control the poem, but I also get a feeling that sometimes we have to work with the poem.

Does any of this make sense?...and any of you experianced poets got any thoughts on this ? (can be moved to a discussion thread)

[tectak]

Hi tec,
thanks again for your thoughts.
It is obviously not working if I need to explain it but then again if you wrote a poem about a mathmatical formula - no matter how famous it was i would need you to explain it. Look up elder flowers (+ berries) and then if you are at all creative (in the kitchen) think about the process for making elderflower cordial or syrup. (In ciderland i then add this to the cider).

The wounded leaves (5 points) E/ flower leaves come in sets of five. and then this referance is probably a bit too "local"
= a ref to the five wounds of christ (our local village was the site of the prayer book rebelion...whose flag was the five wounds). In my mind the understory relates a period of phisical and spiritual pain that resulted in the emergance of something of greater worth than that which it was birthed from.
The soft and foppish I was trying to illicit an image of a youthful hair style.

Don't normally set out thoughts like this but I am getting frusrated with this one as to how I can communicate my metaphore and understory without it becoming abstract or unacessable...and without loosing the story. I guess I have too much of a fixed idea in my head of where I want the poem to go. I know the advice is for the writer to control the poem, but I also get a feeling that sometimes we have to work with the poem.

Does any of this make sense?...and any of you experianced poets got any thoughts on this ? (can be moved to a discussion thread)

Hi Cider,
Yes...I do all the cooking in our house, and we are overstocked with elder- flower cordial (frozen from last year), elderberry wine 1999-2011 (none last year, ruibbish weather) and that just made tincture of flowers, gin, sugar and mint. Delicious. Never thought about god, though.
Re. metaphors. You made an interesting comment "I am getting frusrated with this one as to how I can communicate my metaphor(e) and understory without it becoming abstract or unacessable...".
Metaphors ARE the communicator. Metaphors are supposed to HELP the reader "see" the way you see. If you have to explain your metaphors they are poor metaphors...what is wrong with writing clearly both in direct prose and in metaphor. To say "The wounded leaves (5 points) E/ flower leaves come in sets of five" and then to expect the reader to take from this " a ref to the five wounds of christ (our local village was the site of the prayer book rebelion...whose flag was the five wounds). " Yikes! That is just way out there!
Similarly, how do we get from "soft and foppish " to "an image of a youthful hair style."... and why that anyway? How does it actually fit the context of what you are trying to say. If you had healed the metaphor with " soft and foppish as an adolescent's coiffure" you would have got it....but you leave out the bit you are trying to portray! The metaphor only works if you relate image to actuality. It does not work if you simply pair one image with another, neither of which is apparent anywhere except in your head.
...and there you have it. Great mental images are the most damnably difficult to portray in poetic precis. The imagined image is fractal in detail. You can think in any resolution you choose...but you must only print sufficient to avoid pixelating...otherwise we would be here all night, every night downloading
Best,
tectak

[cidermaid]

Yep thanks tec. I think this one is all over the place. back to the drawing board.

Sorry just read your last crit again. Can you give me any steer on why a dash should be in a pair. Not come accross this idea before, so genuine question as to why it needs this?

[Brownlie]

Edit 2.
I think it's great that you're editing, I just read some theory and then Billy posted a shitload of PDF.s that talk more about theory and all this stuff I didn't know about was for beginners! I'll do my best with your poem. One poignant piece of theory I'd like to share is that a poet may want to consider what type of poem they are writing. Is this supposed to be Humorous, Romantic, or Serious. Different genres are judged differently. I post this not just for Cider (I don't know how advanced cider is) but for everyone who is following the evolution of this poem. Now that you are out of breath I'll analyze the poem.

Note: I will be hypercritical and I may be a little confused, but keep in mind there are aspects of this piece that I like.

Bottled elixir. -- [b]The title suggests the subject of your poem, unless you're doing something more sophisticated.
[/b]
On that first morning you arose; -- Seems to be a double entendre. While I think it is clever many more experienced readers may find this double entendre clichéd
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.-- Steadfast inspiration seems too abstract I would suggest cutting them.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, top tipped with pale pink lips. -- Why use "a" A moonbeam/dream idk if it will mess up your grammar or anything.

An early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish --Perfection is too abstract.
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green. -- Is "under liveried in British racing green able to stand alone as an independent article?"
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes,
carefree in the playful breeze, -- I'd cut playful and carefreequivered with excitement. Bright and keen. -- The only word that's working here is quivered because that refers to an action.

You did not understand the art within the hands - What art?
that grasped your tender parts. --Tender parts seems like a euphemism you may want to clarify what your referring to.That wilfully ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start. -- I put these lines in italics, because I like the subject matter they refer to. I'm not sure if you could cut willfully or not I mean if he is ripping apart something he clearly wills it.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand, -- How is a gown Fragrant? Is there a specific smell you can mention.
snip, snipped from maternal chords-- If you are going for a serious poem I would get rid of snip snipped it sounds to sing songy for seriousness.
you released your cream and golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – and poetry was birthed in adversity. -- Are you being vague or ambiguous. If either, why?

A host of deserting hangers-on marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top, -- Kitchen table top is by far the strongest most evocative image in the poem that I can see.

I'm going to try to see if I can edit some things out...

trapped in windowless matrimony. -- Trapped in a web is a bit of a cliche'
A berry ripe and sweet, left hanging to soften and brown in the weltering sun. ( beauty is too abstract. Metaphors are always stronger than similes the edit was my vanity please pardon that. )
, -- Again perfection is an abstraction that I believe should be cut or replaced
Now only fit for the birds to eat.

Your past support was plucked and trimmed -- I don't like the word support there
and deflowered stalks dripped with green pee. -- Green Pee! Aliens?
Catty and maliciously dirty.

Dried leaves drained of moisture now shatter like glass into dust. (Again my vanity ) - A more vivid metaphor could more subtly lead the reader to the sentiments you are trying to express.
you slipped into syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.


Not bad, I mostly analyzed the thing ruminating on single lines so may comments may seem strange, I hope you keep editing or post a new poem.



Edit one Thank to RC for cliche alert
[b]Blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your tender parts
dashing your potential against the bloodied sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

Original post.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

[cidermaid]

Hi Browlie, thanks for all the work you put into those comments they are helpful and illuminating for further work on this one.Between you doing your crit I have already posted a thrid edit but i will be looking over the things you mention when i undoubtedly go through it again. Thank you.

@tec I decided it was "in a moonbeam" She is cream complexioned and when seen in the light of a moombeam she apears translucent. No doubt you will now tell me why I am wrong.

[Lauren Greenwood]

"a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration"

I like that part a lot, beautiful.

[tectak]

Edit 3

Bottled elixir.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, tipped with pale pink lips.

An early promise of perfection seen within a foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Searching for the up lit skies, your creamy golden globes,
carefree in the playful breeze,
quivered with excitement, bright and keen.

You did not understand the art within the hands
that grasped your tender parts,
wilfully they ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start;

*

Fragrant in your wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your cream and gold abroad.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth and from adversity, poetry was birthed.

A host of deserting hangers-on marched with micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
trapped in pains of darkened webbed deceit,
they hung like berried beauty; past perfection,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Set free from wounds that would not heal
you slipped into a syrup,
that soothed your bits of bruised confetti
wooing poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

Well, I for one love this edit....but I would, wouldn't I.
Excellent stuff, cider!
Best,
tectak

* This stanza is out for this edit. See * for inclusion placement. (see note below)
Whilst the empty stalks of past support
exhale a fetid fragrance.
Maliciously dirty and caty,
dripping defiling pee. I have taken this stanza out for this edit. Tec thinks it is surplus to requirment. I quite like the sentiment for the metaphor and also it is part of the phisical processing issues. Comments on inclusion or to leave out please.


Edit 2.

Bottled elixir.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of steadfast inspiration.
Cream complexioned, translucent in a moonbeam;
a dream, top tipped with pale pink lips.

An early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes,
carefree in the playful breeze,
quivered with excitement. Bright and keen.

You did not understand the art within the hands
that grasped your tender parts.
That wilfully ripped apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your cream and golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – and poetry was birthed in adversity.

A host of deserting hangers-on marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
Like berried beauty, left hanging past perfection,
weathered and worn, they were only fit for the birds to eat.

Your past support was plucked and trimmed
and deflowered stalks dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.

Set free from wounded leaves that could not heal
you slipped into syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Aroma from your grace now flows,
summer eased ripples upon a stream,
perfect and smooth, an Elderflower cider ease;
effervescence that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.




Edit one Thank to RC for cliche alert
[b]Blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your tender parts
dashing your potential against the bloodied sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

Original post.

This is dedicated to a wonderful woman and an outstanding poet who has encouraged and inspired me in more ways than she could possibly know.

From blossom to bottle.

On that first morning you arose;
a freshly budded bundle of unshaken inspiration,
a youthful trembling of translucent cream complexioned dreams,
top tipped with pale pink lips.
The early promise of perfection seen within a soft and foppish
five point crown; under liveried in British racing green.
Reaching up lit skies your creamy golden globes
swung to and fro, carefree to play the breeze.

You did not understand the wilful hands
that grasped your soft hearted parts
and dashed your potential against the bloodied departing sun.
Ripping apart all that you had saved
and set aside for a consummated start.

Fragrant in a white wedding gown, you passed from hand to hand,
snip, snipped from maternal chords
you released your creamy golden load.
Halos of sherbet lemon burst
in clouds of dusted worth – poetry birthed in adversity.
Deserting near neighbours marched a million micro steps
across the kitchen table top,
to be trapped in windowless pains of webbed deceit.
The snare of berried beauty left hanging beyond their peek,
fit only for the birds to eat.

Plucked and trimmed, the stalk
your support, dripped with green pee.
Catty and maliciously dirty.
Deflowered, but un-wilted your scent broke free
from the five wounded leaves that could not heal
and you slipped into a sloppy syrup
that soothed your shredded confetti bits
and wooed the poetic pollen from your parted lips.

Artfully matured, unstoppered words of grace now flow,
blessing and blowing effervescing scents
of a summer breeze and cidery elderflowered ease
that fuels the tongue of the poet’s creed.

[cidermaid]

Well, I for one love this edit....but I would, wouldn't I.
Excellent stuff, cider!
Best,
tectak

Steady on Tectak, for a moment there I thought you were paying a compliment.

Thank you.
Most of my editing sucess is down to your observations and input. ><

[tectak]

Well, I for one love this edit....but I would, wouldn't I.
Excellent stuff, cider!
Best,
tectak

Steady on Tectak, for a moment there I thought you were paying a compliment.

Thank you.
Most of my editing sucess is down to you observations and input. ><

Yes...I noted my own double entendre...but it was aimed at you!
best,
tectak

[Brownlie]

I'm happy tec liked your poem, he is quite picky so you have achieved something there but I still think lines like snip-snipped make your work sound nonsensical like Doctor Seus, but the entrapment of the kitchen and marital life are compelling themes to an idealist such as me... Keep in mind I am probably the bad guy from Foresst Gump.

[cidermaid]

Is there a bad guy in forrest gump? (do you mean the guy forrest punched or the Jenny's evil father?...the punched guy was just horribly misunderstood)