The Risen Suicide

[heslopian]

This poem has been edited slightly since first publication, based on feedback posted below.

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack.
I could not, dare not grasp the martyred mind
inside my daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind).
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide!

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

[heslopian]

I look forward to your in-depth feedback, Bilbo, and thanks for your comments thus far

[cidermaid]

I am unsure what your thoughts are on the idea of showing your original work with this one or not (i would have liked to see the original posted to compare and see the direction you are taking). I enjoyed it on your first showing and from what I can recall of the original, I think this edit is reading even better.
I will try and come back to this later and will certainly be back for several more reads. I think this is an excellent piece with a rich and original story, told with insight and understanding on the subject which gives the poem a depth and credibility. Thanks for the read.

[heslopian]

This poem hasn't been edited at all. I'd simply forgotten, before reading your comment, that I'd already published this poem here Sorry, cidermaid, my mistake.

[billy]

i looked at the first showing and it seems i never left feedback so i'll leave it here.

This is a long one jack. I've had a few reads already so I'll plod on. One thing I noticed was the use of because in the 1st stanza. Words like because should be pondered over for long long periods of time before being used . I'm not sure it's needed in this instance.
in a few places it felt forced so it could fit the meter and the meter seemed okay apart from the one spot. apart from a few forced lines it read well. i enjoyed the grieving sadness of the piece and more so because the priest had a story. i suppose the daughter did as well.

i think it needs some spit and polish but it's a great effort.

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. i like the enjambment of this and the above line i'd use a comma and make the 2nd line one complete statement. but i'm not to good at punctuation so think about it
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack, i'd use a period here and start the next line at [could not] and as filler [, he dare not....] or some thing else
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. [is] all or [was] all good solid opening stanza.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one the sentence run on (after one) gives an undue pause
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am? [fucking] seems out of place
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind).
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this again the enjambment gives an unwarranted pause between this and the next line.
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud? this is a great image
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide!

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared i'd suggest [rood] and [doorknob] and change [were] to [was]
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands. i'm still getting used to the extra half foot and the missing half foot being allowed. blank verse (just saying i spotted it ) (did you do it on purpose or by luck )
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me feels wordy/forced to fit the meter
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying is there an extra half foot?.
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through is this fact? i think it's the [spurting ]which throws me
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones. 2nd use of martyred, which stands out a lot because it's a less than common word
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud, the meter feels wonky but i'm not sure how to fix it. perhaps [Each night she pelts my windows with her mud,]
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse the extra half foot
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes, the less half foot, (which is okay, (i think) meter-wise)
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

[heslopian]

Thank you for your kind and helpful feedback, Bilbo The attempt at blank verse was deliberate; I wrote this poem while trying to teach myself iambic pentameter with Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled. Originally it was a sonnet, but I found the story too hard to contain in fourteen lines. As I wrote it I thought of what happens as literal - she really does rise from the grave and haunt him - but now I like to think of it as his conscience torturing him.
With the "because" line in verse one, would you recommend changing it to "I could not, dare not grasp the martyred mind"? Thanks again. xxx

[serge gurkski]

'Hi heslop.

I really like your new stuff. I could get into it but
beware! it would gt too philsophical

so I cannot answer you here.

ok for the time being just let me tell you
on a very good track.

[tectak]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. Fine opener. Just enigmatic enough.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent
in fields of sadness he could not attack, Is this "he" the same personnage as has a holy court? If so, He may need capitalising. After all, "Your" was.
because he could not grasp the martyred mind
inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. Not easy logical progression here. Some prolonged disconnect is apparent. It was a false grave...but now it is the truth?

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind). An injustice. Your character is suddenly over emphatically self-critical. The case for this is not yet made. This interjected rhetoric may be better later. As it is located, it seems gratuitous
I'm glad her mother's dead. You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more.
What did I think would happen when I laid
my daughter in that grave, her mattress mud?
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! I kind of warm to this theme. I want it to develop. The poem may be too long and meandering to make your points clear. See next line.

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes, I am now character confused. My,her,you, You, he, He, I. Consistency is dimishing as complexity increases. Needs looking at
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones. bedewed is suspect
I could not save the soul she killed herself. Punctuate to clarity

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

It is Gothic, dark and baleful in its outlook...but it reads better than it should because of the richness of imagery. A point worth noting aImost as a general mantra.
You need to look closely at your structured points, which sometimes blur into blunt unfocussed rambles. I see them, but cannot wholly grasp them.
This is me liking it.
As an aside...billy's comment seems germane. It's a long one, Jack.
Best,
tectak

[heslopian]

Thank you for your kind and excellent feedback, tectak I really appreciate it. For the record, every uncapitalised male pronoun refers to the father. Given that this is a first-person narrative and L5 suddenly switches to third, I see the confusion. In L4 of S4 ("I could not save...") where should the punctuation go?

[billy]

Thank you for your kind and helpful feedback, Bilbo The attempt at blank verse was deliberate; I wrote this poem while trying to teach myself iambic pentameter with Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled. Originally it was a sonnet, but I found the story too hard to contain in fourteen lines. As I wrote it I thought of what happens as literal - she really does rise from the grave and haunt him - but now I like to think of it as his conscience torturing him.
With the "because" line in verse one, would you recommend changing it to "I could not, dare not grasp the martyred mind"? Thanks again. xxx

i don't see why not jack

[serge gurkski]

The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind.
A daughter does this to a man, and I
was weak, preacher or not, a lost parent <<< i stumble rhythmically here
in fields of sadness he could not attack, << because he could not grasp the martyred mind <<< < inside his daughter's head. The truth is nought;
the grave is all the truth she knew and loved. <<< wow that is heavy but very good.

I found her in the barn and wasn't shocked.
With tender hand I plucked a knife from one
tight fist, then washed her neck with warm water. <<< again . I like whsat you write but watch, please do, out for the rhythm.
I knew her destiny was Hell. I tried <<< you don't need to capitalise hell.
to smuggle her elsewhere. A savage cross <<< yes ;-)
of kindling, thrust in earth with Arthur's zeal,
and her beneath, reserved for Judgement Day
despite that fucking sin (see what I am?
A foul-mouthed cur of wholly sodden mind). <<< very good but I don#t like the parentheses.
I'm glad her mother's dead. [b]You spared her this
torment, at least. I've earned her pain and more. <<< thumbs up
[/b], her mattress mud? I like this but don't get the context.
That cross, that evil cross, so barbarous
and crude, erected on a suicide! )(maybe Kitsch)

The roods of old were Heaven's doorknobs compared
to those sticks nailed by my tired hands.
I'd dressed her sweetly in her white night clothes.
Why she'd done this was no secret to me
or You. The joy was absent from her eyes,
and even loving grace wasn't enough;
my flock had tried, but man can't force a heart.
I beg You for forgiveness when studying
my case. I did not mean to mock Your ways.
That grave I made was vain and foolish hope.

She rose from it like lava spurting through
brimstone, her eyes static and mouth with worms
bedewed. I screamed then wept in martyred tones.
I could not save the soul she killed herself.

Now each night she pelts my windows with mud,
walking blind across the woods, not ghost or corpse
but dumb machine, symbol of my crimes,
reminder of hypocrisy. Her eyes
are yoke-less eggs, her skin a rotting steak.
She never speaks, but serves the wrath of You.

More later. must roll on now but you write superbly now.
whatever happened it did you good.

cheers
serge

[heslopian]

This is by now a fairly old poem, serge, by which I mean I wrote it a few months ago, but thank you very much for your kind and insightful feedback, it's really appreciated You're right, of course, about capitalising "Hell", but I like to describe it as a specific place, like Berlin or San Francisco, which I think capitalisation emphasises. JMHO, of course.

[serge gurkski]

This is by now a fairly old poem, serge, by which I mean I wrote it a few months ago, but thank you very much for your kind and insightful feedback, it's really appreciated You're right, of course, about capitalising "Hell", but I like to describe it as a specific place, like Berlin or San Francisco, which I think capitalisation emphasises. JMHO, of course.

I am fine with that. It is just a bit unusual.

But back to your writing: I am simply very impressed.

cheers
serge

---

Tom wrote:"The falseness of her Christian grave will haunt
me in Your holy court. My soul was blind. Fine opener. Just enigmatic enough. "

Nope it is not enigmatic at all.
cheers
serge