Aranea

[alatos]

Thanks so much for all the helpful advice guys!



Aranea (Version #2)

As I sat on this bench,
and grappled with my unruly thoughts
which distracted from my blank page,

my eyes wandered from boundless skies,
distant mountains,
and perfect blooms

to the cobweb in the metal chains
that supported my own seat.
I could only see a few strands

of old and fragile silk,
beaten by the wind.
Then, I saw their maker hanging, crumpled: dead.

I looked closer,
and suddenly much more appeared:
a thousand sacred, shining threads of slightest width,

expertly woven with cosmic orders
of rotations and eclipses,
revolving, and patterned on some unseen loom.

Every place this web took root on the chain
was as roots of a tree, entangled,
or the fine veins in my own observing eye.

How sad it was that the artist would never spin again.
I poked him with my pencil,
and quickly he crawled, alive,

up, and trembled: awake.

This poem to me is all about allegory. I'm just finding out more about American Romanticism and the Transcendentalists, and I absolutely love it. My favorite poem I've found so far from that category is Brahma by Emerson.

In this poem, the first verse is about the wandering, self-centered mind (hence first person pronouns where I otherwise would have removed them), which can distract from meaningful realization. The second verse (in which I chose to keep "perfect blooms" with the purpose of sounding cliche) is about "Brahman" in an allegorical sense. I try to turn to these boundless, distant, perfect, classical things for inspiration: but it doesn't work. So, in the third verse, I turn my attention to the minuscule, a small spiderweb. At first, it seems worthless, forgettable, and dead. Then in the fifth stanza, I realize just how intricate and grand this tiny spiderweb actually is. I see the same laws at work in this spiderweb as in the cosmos. This is my way of showing the famous equation Atman=Brahman. I try to evoke this in the last few stanzas with words like cosmic, rotations, eclipses, revolving, patterned, unseen loom, roots, and entangled. And then finally, saddened that the spider (who represents some sort of intelligent creative force, not to say I'm quite convinced of this) is realized to not me dead: he has been alive this whole time. And now, just like I woke him up, I myself have been awakened.








Aranea

As I sat on this bench,
grappling with my unruly thoughts
which distract from my blank page,

my eyes wandered from boundless skies,
distant mountains,
and perfect blooms

to the cobweb in the metal chains
supporting my own seat.
I could only see a few strands

of old and fragile silk,
beaten by the wind.
Then, I saw their maker hanging dead.

I looked more closely,
and suddenly much more appeared:
a thousand perfect, shining threads of slightest width,

expertly woven with cosmic orders
of rotations and eclipses,
revolving, and patterned on some unseen loom.

Every place it took root on the chain
was as roots of a tree, entangled,
or the fine veins in my own observing eye.

How sad it was that the artist lay dead.
I poked him with my pencil,
and quickly he crawled, alive,

up, and trembled: awake.


not too happy with this poem as far as execution goes, but I like the concept. I'm curious to hear interpretations and any advice. Thanks!

[jdeirmend]

I have a sympathy with the style of this poem. First person narrative, culminating in an epiphany that comes from attending closely to a phenomenon of nature. This is a time tested formula for poetic success.

Let's try and work out some of the kinks.

Aranea

As I sat on this bench,
grappling with my unruly thoughts
which distract from my blank page,

There are tense shifts in this first stanza that need to be fixed. "As I sat" just doesn't work with "this" bench; the preposition "as" indicates present tense in this context, whereas "sat" is in the preterit. The gerund "grappling" takes the narrator back into present tense. Since the rest of the poem is composed mostly in the preterit, I'd encourage you to stick with that.

my eyes wandered from boundless skies,
distant mountains,
and perfect blooms

perfect is a blase adjective. If you're going to try and wax poetic about flowers, keep in mind how overdone this is. It makes it hard to "make it new." Flowers are perhaps the object that has been most frequently written about in the history of the art.

to the cobweb in the metal chains
supporting my own seat. You're back in the present tense. Suggestion: switch the gerund to passive voice, i.e., "that supported."
I could only see a few strands

of old and fragile silk,
beaten by the wind. these are some solid lines here, that evoke a lot. Stick with these..
Then, I saw their maker hanging dead. This seems rather uninventive. Can you find a way to show it, instead of just saying it?

I looked more closely, Go with "closer." It will read better.
and suddenly much more appeared: Again, show, don't just say
a thousand perfect, shining threads of slightest width, this is pretty good. "Perfect", once more, is an adjective you would do well to cross off the list of available ones. As an abstraction, it shows us nothing, and tells us nothing interesting.

expertly woven with cosmic orders like where you're headed here
of rotations and eclipses, try and specify. Of stars/planets?
revolving, and patterned on some unseen loom. That is a fantastic line.

Every place it took root on the chain What does "it" refer to? The web?
was as roots of a tree, entangled, may want to add a "the" here
or the fine veins in my own observing eye. technically capillaries.

How sad it was that the artist lay dead. Again, try and say this with an image.
I poked him with my pencil,
and quickly he crawled, alive,

up, and trembled: awake.


not too happy with this poem as far as execution goes, but I like the concept. I'm curious to hear interpretations and any advice. Thanks!

There was much to admire in this. I hope my critical comments don't serve to discourage you whatsoever, but help you to cultivate your craft. Keep it up!

James

[Graystar]

Hi Alatos,

James gave you many important and key suggestions in my opinion. I like the way your poem draws into the world of the spider. I am fond of spiders. I would like to see you develop the thoughts of the speaker in the poem so the reader realizes his page is no longer blank.

I truly hope you make revisions as I want to read them. You have captured my interest.

Thank you,
Graystar

Aranea

As I sat on this bench,
grappling with my unruly thoughts
which distract from my blank page,

my eyes wandered from boundless skies,
distant mountains,
and perfect blooms

to the cobweb in the metal chains
supporting my own seat.
I could only see a few strands

of old and fragile silk,
beaten by the wind.
Then, I saw their maker hanging dead.

I looked more closely,
and suddenly much more appeared:
a thousand perfect, shining threads of slightest width,

expertly woven with cosmic orders
of rotations and eclipses,
revolving, and patterned on some unseen loom.

Every place it took root on the chain
was as roots of a tree, entangled,
or the fine veins in my own observing eye.

How sad it was that the artist lay dead.
I poked him with my pencil,
and quickly he crawled, alive,

up, and trembled: awake.


not too happy with this poem as far as execution goes, but I like the concept. I'm curious to hear interpretations and any advice. Thanks!

[jdeirmend]

Yes, yes! I concur with Graystar 100%. There are a few images in this that are so very pregnant. I think the trick for this poem will be to try and tap into these, and use what is evoked to replace a lot of the abstraction and filler. We want to see a revision, so don't keep us waiting too long.

Hi Alatos,

James gave you many important and key suggestions in my opinion. I like the way your poem draws into the world of the spider. I am fond of spiders. I would like to see you develop the thoughts of the speaker in the poem so the reader realizes his page is no longer blank.

I truly hope you make revisions as I want to read them. You have captured my interest.

Thank you,
Graystar

Aranea

As I sat on this bench,
grappling with my unruly thoughts
which distract from my blank page,

my eyes wandered from boundless skies,
distant mountains,
and perfect blooms

to the cobweb in the metal chains
supporting my own seat.
I could only see a few strands

of old and fragile silk,
beaten by the wind.
Then, I saw their maker hanging dead.

I looked more closely,
and suddenly much more appeared:
a thousand perfect, shining threads of slightest width,

expertly woven with cosmic orders
of rotations and eclipses,
revolving, and patterned on some unseen loom.

Every place it took root on the chain
was as roots of a tree, entangled,
or the fine veins in my own observing eye.

How sad it was that the artist lay dead.
I poked him with my pencil,
and quickly he crawled, alive,

up, and trembled: awake.


not too happy with this poem as far as execution goes, but I like the concept. I'm curious to hear interpretations and any advice. Thanks!

[alatos]

Updated in original post.

[jdeirmend]

Updated in original post.

Alatos,

I enjoyed your exegesis a lot! I think it's good that you're reflecting on the meaning of your own writing like that. The trick, however, is to say all that in a way, in the poem, that makes it very hard for the reader to not come away with something similar. That I enjoyed the exegesis more than the poem shows me that the poem isn't quite there yet.

I would encourage you to keep digging with this one. Just my suggestion; take it for what it's worth, but I don't think you've mined your vision in full yet.

Incidentally, the craft-centered approach that most poets favor involves an obsessive amount of reflecting and re-writing. If this is a new idea to you, I hope you're not alarmed. And I assure you, it is a maddening sort of fun.