The Passover

[Vistaldust]

The Passover

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream,
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape.
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive,
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality.

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire.

[rowens]

This one might benefit more from a Mild Critique. Or even Serious.

[Vistaldust]

This one might benefit more from a Mild Critique. Or even Serious.

Ok. Thanks, Rowens.

[rowens]

This doesn't seem bad. I still think more people should read this in a more advanced critique section, so it doesn't get buried again. Me too, if I can get myself into a better mindset.

[Vistaldust]

This doesn't seem bad. I still think more people should read this in a more advanced critique section, so it doesn't get buried again. Me too, if I can get myself into a better mindset.

Rowen, do you know how I can move this and then delete it hear so it isn't in multiple critiques?

[milo]

This doesn't seem bad. I still think more people should read this in a more advanced critique section, so it doesn't get buried again. Me too, if I can get myself into a better mindset.

Rowen, do you know how I can move this and then delete it hear so it isn't in multiple critiques?

you can either pm a mod or wait from one to wander by and trip over it.

done.

[Vistaldust]

This doesn't seem bad. I still think more people should read this in a more advanced critique section, so it doesn't get buried again. Me too, if I can get myself into a better mindset.

Rowen, do you know how I can move this and then delete it hear so it isn't in multiple critiques?

you can either pm a mod or wait from one to wander by and trip over it.

done.

Cool...thanks milo

[ScurryFunger]

"When Souls Say Goodbye"

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream,
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape.
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive,
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality.

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire.

I was captivated. So then I had to try and critique it, it wasn't an easy job.

So I read it again and thought, 'I don't like the title and there is one comma that looks out of place'.

The next time I read it I thought it should be called 'Death Bed Guilt'.

I'm going to wait and see if anyone else thinks there is a comma that seems out of place as well, before pointing out where it is, cos I could be wrong.



The next time I read it I thought it should be called 'wishful thinking'.

[TheWall0912]

"When Souls Say Goodbye"

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream,
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.
I really like this first stanza a lot. I'm getting a nice image in my head and the way the dream is described is really good. Don't change this.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping I like this line and the next two, they're simple, yet very powerful.
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape.
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.
The idea of a Catholic (I think the C should be capitalized?) marriage being one without escape is really good. I have heard that if a couple follows the religion closely divorce is not an option. However, if I am wrong, I apologize, I am not religious.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive,
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality.
I really like the fact that the dream was just memories. In which case I think you could change the title to something about being on a death bed, as I'm guessing this is about. But the title as is doesn't bother me either.

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
From here on I got a little confused... You could try to clean it up a bit. I had to read it about 3 or 4 times. Could just be me though.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire.

I really like everything about this. Honestly I don't see too much that you can change. Just giving you my praise.

If you do choose to edit though, I look forward to the next draft!

[Vistaldust]

"When Souls Say Goodbye"

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream,
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape.
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive,
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality.

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire.

I was captivated. So then I had to try and critique it, it wasn't an easy job.

So I read it again and thought, 'I don't like the title and there is one comma that looks out of place'.

The next time I read it I thought it should be called 'Death Bed Guilt'.

I'm going to wait and see if anyone else thinks there is a comma that seems out of place as well, before pointing out where it is, cos I could be wrong.



The next time I read it I thought it should be called 'wishful thinking'.

How about "The Passover"?

---

"When Souls Say Goodbye"

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream,
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.
I really like this first stanza a lot. I'm getting a nice image in my head and the way the dream is described is really good. Don't change this.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping I like this line and the next two, they're simple, yet very powerful.
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape.
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.
The idea of a Catholic (I think the C should be capitalized?) marriage being one without escape is really good. I have heard that if a couple follows the religion closely divorce is not an option. However, if I am wrong, I apologize, I am not religious.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive,
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality.
I really like the fact that the dream was just memories. In which case I think you could change the title to something about being on a death bed, as I'm guessing this is about. But the title as is doesn't bother me either.

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
From here on I got a little confused... You could try to clean it up a bit. I had to read it about 3 or 4 times. Could just be me though.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire.

I really like everything about this. Honestly I don't see too much that you can change. Just giving you my praise.

If you do choose to edit though, I look forward to the next draft!

Thanks, I appreciate the critique!

---

Thanks for the feedback, guys. I like scurry finger 's idea of hanging the title. I want to call it "The Passover" but I'm not sure I can just change it without it appearing as a new poem.

[animasrwm]

Quite an interesting take on dying
Having sat with someone I could really relate to what you were saying.
Not sure if it was your intention but liked the way the feeling of how time
Almost stops on these occasions.
Minor point I think I would have called it
When a soul says goodbye

[ScurryFunger]

Thanks for the feedback, guys. I like scurry finger 's idea of hanging the title. I want to call it "The Passover" but I'm not sure I can just change it without it appearing as a new poem.

Oh crumbs, isn't 'the passover' a bit jewish when it's about catholic marriage guilt (or something).

[Vistaldust]

[quote='ScurryFunger' pid='136601' dateline='1376584996']
Thanks for the feedback, guys. I like scurry finger 's idea of hanging the title. I want to call it "The Passover" but I'm not sure I can just change it without it appearing as a new poem.

Oh crumbs, isn't 'the passover' a bit jewish when it's about catholic marriage guilt (or something).

Passover is Jewish but Christians observe it too. I was thinking more about the man passing over into death....well, you get that, I'm sure.
Thanks.

[Apophrades]

The Passover

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream, It is confusing when you use two unusual adjectives to describe something quite abstract.
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof This image is good. "Leaky roof" supplements the craving for water, and neatly foreshadows his drinking habits.
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret. This line, beginning from One drink... is cliche.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape. This is cliche, but I like it as narration
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive, Unless I'm missing the point, "alive" in this context seems like a literal statement rather than "ecstatic, excited etc."
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality. I don't like this stanza. You deal too much with the abstract and concrete, right at once. For a start try removing "of reality".

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire. Ambiguous, remove it maybe?

[Vistaldust]

The Passover

He dreamed a morphine dream.
It was a hospice dream, It is confusing when you use two unusual adjectives to describe something quite abstract.
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

In all his dreams he craved water,
feeling his sandpaper throat closing.
The drink never came - just Kodachrome
images of the old house with the leaky roof This image is good. "Leaky roof" supplements the craving for water, and neatly foreshadows his drinking habits.
and the well-trimmed hedges.
Once he passed out in them stepping
out of his car. One drink too many,
a chapter often repeated with regret. This line, beginning from One drink... is cliche.

She was there. She was always there,
even when he drank, and hit, then
left her all alone to cry. It was a catholic
marriage for which she had no escape. This is cliche, but I like it as narration
Fifty years passed, and those times were
forgotten by the closing of iron curtains.

Now she was with him again in summer 1964,
riding the tire-framed Ferris wheel, watching Manhattan
standing tall in the distance. It had been
a good time and she was alive, Unless I'm missing the point, "alive" in this context seems like a literal statement rather than "ecstatic, excited etc."
reaching out her hand to pull him toward her,
yearning to take him to the place where guilt falls
away and sweet music plays.

The dream begins to dissolve.
The morphine expires, and images of loftiness
become hardened in the cold mist
of reality. I don't like this stanza. You deal too much with the abstract and concrete, right at once. For a start try removing "of reality".

Soon he realizes he is still alive,
and the place where she lives is a place
he knows he can never go.
He knows they are standing over him,
waiting, crying, remembering.
He remembers, too.
The dropper touches his lips. Soon he
will remember as they have, of happy
times, days of penance, reinvention,
and the opiate trance he hopes
will be his last dream before nothingness
- or fire. Ambiguous, remove it maybe?

Thanks, Apophrades. I appreciate the time and the critique. I'm still stumped on a final name for this thing. Maybe I'll call it "Dances with Wolves." Cliche ??

[Apophrades]

Let it rest, maybe. You might suddenly think of it again and know what to call it/make adjustments.

[billy]

no line by line.

i think you can strip a good third away from what you have and the poem would become automatically better.
the narrator of the poem needs to show the reader with some solid images more than just tell a story.

the 1st two lines work but could work a lot better if you work on them. they're the doorway to a longish poem so you need to pull the reader in, dream on the first two lines as you have it might scare the reader away. a suggestion would be to create one line that utilizes the two thoughts. an example;

He rode morphine dreams.
It was a hospice dream, remove the second line and use hospice somewhere in the title.

so you get something like.

Hospice mortallaty

He rode morphine dreams
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

though i do you you need to do a large edit before you start rearranging the piece.

wish i could have been of more help

[Vistaldust]

no line by line.

i think you can strip a good third away from what you have and the poem would become automatically better.
the narrator of the poem needs to show the reader with some solid images more than just tell a story.

the 1st two lines work but could work a lot better if you work on them. they're the doorway to a longish poem so you need to pull the reader in, dream on the first two lines as you have it might scare the reader away. a suggestion would be to create one line that utilizes the two thoughts. an example;

He rode morphine dreams.
It was a hospice dream, remove the second line and use hospice somewhere in the title.

so you get something like.

Hospice mortallaty

He rode morphine dreams
bathed by memories of darker
times made bright by a twist of plot,
believing scars he inflicted quickly healed.

though i do you you need to do a large edit before you start rearranging the piece.

wish i could have been of more help

Big help, billy. Thanks. Great ideas