Cocoon

[Stephanie]

Still working on my other poem but going to let it rest for a wee while then come back to it.


deleting as it is being published

[Todd]

Hi Stephanie, I've meaning to come back to this one for some time. Here are some comments for you:

Still working on my other poem but going to let it rest for a wee while then come back to it.


Cocoon

The day my butterflies broke free from my body--wonderful first line, wonderful conceit. You can cut the first my. You probably need a comma at the end of this.
they unrolled me like a paper thin cocoon--probably hyphenate paper-thin. Love the way this line serves as a jumping off point

opened out, insides exposed--cut this line. It's a bit clunky. I realize that messes up your couplet style, but I'm sure you can come up with something.
held me up to the light and saw right through me.

They fold me differently each day,
sometimes a plane, sometimes a boat--don't use a plane here. It takes some of the power away from the origami line later. How about a hat (boat upside down) so that may work

at sundown they turn back my corners
press me flat, but the creases remain

a map of reminders of all the shapes
I did not sustain. They write on me--I've enjoyed this progression

but the story doesn’t stick,
the words jumble into empty noise.--noise seem wrong something with scribbles seems write for the conceit you're building

Once they cut me into a child’s snowflake,
that night the holes in my body leaked dark onto the bed.--gorgeous

There are versions of me in magazines, glossy sheets
that mock my worn parchment until it’s corners curl.--its. Nice lines

Each morning I try to draw myself a mouth
but the lines blur, bleed my lips to buttons,--see, this is the right way to handle the above line. It's visual not auditory. In fact you can't talk about the process that's part of the problem

sometimes I romantise myself into letters--typo: romanticize
from imagined lovers who run their ink stained fingers[--great line, with a great line break

over my yellowed skin as if it were lined with gold.
One day I will learn the art of origami

fold myself into a bird and fly away. The light draws me--love the origami progression
like a moth in winter until the edges of me are singed back.--gorgeous

I am afraid of windy days, hold on tightly--there's a slight confusion of subject between days and hold (I must, they must, you must). I'm not sure how to take this line.
to my children’s paperweight arms.--solid ending

I enjoyed the poem Stephanie. Hopefully the comments help some.

Best,

Todd

[Stephanie]

Brilliant thank you!

[Graystar]

Hi Stephanie,
Delightful poem with movement that flutters in exquisite ways. I learn so much from Todd's critiques on other's poems. I am new at this but I had a few thoughts I'd like to share.

Still working on my other poem but going to let it rest for a wee while then come back to it.

Cocoon as a title is fair enough but to me my brain thinks Origami Dream
Cocoon

Could this be reversed? They unrolled me like a paper thin cocoon
the day butterflies broke free from my body.
The day my butterflies broke free from my body
they unrolled me like a paper thin cocoon

Then begin new sentence with more flesh on L3
opened out, insides exposed
held me up to the light and saw right through me.

They fold me differently each day,
sometimes a plane, sometimes a boat. I agree with Todd but perhaps an airplane would work

at sundown they turn back my corners
press me flat, but the creases remain Love this image

a map of reminders of all the shapes
I did not sustain. They write on me

but the story doesn’t stick,
the words jumble into empty noise. I disagree with Todd here, I like the line.

Once they cut me into a child’s snowflake,
that night the holes in my body leaked dark onto the bed. Wonderful

There are versions of me in magazines, glossy sheets
that mock my worn parchment until it’s corners curl. More wonderful

Each morning I try to draw myself a mouth
but the lines blur, bleed my lips to buttons, absolutely wonderful

sometimes I romantise myself into letters
from imagined lovers who run their ink stained fingers

over my yellowed skin as if it were lined with gold.
One day I will learn the art of origami

fold myself into a bird and fly away. The light draws me
like a moth in winter until the edges of me are singed back. Did you mean back here or black?

I am afraid of windy days, hold on tightly
to my children’s paperweight arms.

You have a way with words Stephanie! Keep writing! Thank you, I am truly awed by this poem.

[Stephanie]

Thank you!

Interesting that you disagree about the noise line. In my current edit I have it as

the words jumble into navy jam

to try and make it more visual. Would be interested in any thoughts people have on that line.