Whiskey Memories third edit

[beaufort]

Thanks to each of you who have read this and made comments. I have incorporated many of your suggestions. Appreciate it.


Whiskey Memories

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.

But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill,
her made-up eyes smoky, piercing,
hips, grandma says, made for birthing.

Boys act the fool around her,
they flirt with her in school,
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.

Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips her hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
from her eyes when she sees them staring.

They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to dreams of success,
home to wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.



Side Track Grill

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.

Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are smokey, piercing,
Her hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

Boys act the fool around her,
in sleeveless shirts they work the fields
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.

Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips
her hair just so, the way she laughs
and then shoots anger out her eyes
when she sees them staring.

They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.


Side Track Grill

As a child she was fat like her mother,
her arms and legs tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, carrying tales,
knowing she could never find a man.
But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are dark and smoky,
a woman now, with grown up demands.

The boys act foolish around her,
with spotted chins and worries heavy,
dreaming of her legs around their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even grown men after work,
watch her flip her long black hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
out her eyes when she sees them stare.

They wearily down a scotch or two,
then drive the bumpy blacktop road
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls
with rolling hips and smoky laughter,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can offer.


Whiskey Memories

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads,
knowing she would never get a man.

Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.

Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair
the way she laughs, the way she
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.

They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,
who want more than they can give.

[tectak]

Whiskey Memories

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads,
knowing she would never get a man.

Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with See end on line break words. with is weak
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.

Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair
the way she laughs, the way she
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.

They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,
who want more than they can give.

Hi beaufort,
Where did this come from....it is very good. You have taken a short story and hung another on to it, then another, then another...so conceptually it is dense with information and complexity. The final layer is your own place on the stage and you have succeeded in being just sufficiently opinionated to avoid being judgmental or preachy. How to improve it? Well, I am loathe to say that you should mechanise the meter and so I will not...instead, take a look at your line breaks and flow.
Take this as an example:

Even the grown men, after work
watch the way she flips her hair,
the way she laughs and then spews anger
out of her eyes when she sees them look.

It is not strict meter but the poem itself does not need it...it is what it is. You could look again at the one issue of flow, but don't over edit. Sometimes a stone unturned gains great moss.
Best,
tectak

[beaufort]

I will work on the meter - thanks for your comments, I appreciate it.

[ChristopherSea]

Hello beaufort, There is a lot to like in this poem. I had a concern with a couple of your line breaks and the jolting switch from the 'girl' to the 'men' in the closing stanza, which was quite odd for me:

Whiskey Memories

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads, <'shook their heads' wagging sounds like a dog's tail to me>
knowing she would never get a man.

Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with <'eyes made up dark and smoky'>
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.

Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair
the way she laughs, the way she
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.

They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,

home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,
who want more than they can give.

I was very interested in this girl, less so with the men, probably because they come and leave like an afterthought or an appendix in that final stanza. Why not make two poems out of this. 'Nubile' with the girl and 'Whiskey Memories' with the men. Some thoughts for your next edit. See what you think. Nice work!/Chris

[beaufort]

Hello, and thanks for your thoughtful comments. I will be working on it and hope to improve. Appreciate it.

[Todd]

Hi Linda, I quite like what you're attempting here. Some cooments for you:

Whiskey Memories--This is an interesting title in that we focus on the woman, but it isn't her memories that are in view. I like this to some degree, but in one sense it doesn't work because the men wouldn't have the earlier point of view prior to the Side Track Grill, and there's no sense here that she also had whiskey memories.

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads,--wagged (don't like the word) their heads seems unneeded. If you could restructure and end on rolled moving their eyes down a line it might play nicely with round on the previous line
knowing she would never get a man.

Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with--I don't like the break on with
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.--I like this simile.

Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair--Maybe rearranging the break so it ends on flips may be interesting because we expect her to be flipping food and it would provide a nice nuance
the way she laughs, the way she--don't like this break but I'm also not a fan of spews (while it may work with whiskey its an unattractive word maybe burns to give the sense of a grill again like flips does and then rewrite the next line a little
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.

They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,--love this line with its break on sour (how it ties back to whiskey)
who want more than they can give.--great ending

Hope some of the thoughts will be helpful.

Best,

Todd

[beaufort]

Thanks you, Todd, for your comments. I will be working on this and reposting.

[gilmored]

this is a strong poem. It tells the story of oh so many, yet is all its own. I love the chevy reference! personally you lost me in the last three lines. I'm not sure what to suggest. It just seams unfinished

[milo]

I miss the legs sausage tight and round.

[Todd]

I think the edit robbed the poem of its spark. I'll give more detail when I'm not typing on a phone.

[gilmored]

I miss the legs sausage tight and round.

I concur. It gives a good image for the reader.

[beaufort]

aargh. I'll keep trying, will put sausages back in for Milo and gilmored and wait for other comments. Thanks to all for patience and input. Linda

[milo]

aargh. I'll keep trying, will put sausages back in for Milo and gilmored and wait for other comments. Thanks to all for patience and input. Linda

maybe make it sausage-tight though

[beaufort]

nothing worse than loose sausages

[Todd]

Hi Linda, I think this one is back on track, a few comments below on the revision:

Side Track Grill--I don't mind this title over the original. It does give you an option you're not using though you could possibly retitle it "Working at the Side Track Grill" or just eliminate the name of the establishment from S2, L2 and keep the current title and reword a bit. Just options

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.

But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are smokey and piercing, --typo: smoky. I like smoky over piercing quite a bit. I'd be tempted to cut piercing. The ____ and ____ construction suggests you haven't found the best single word or image to convey her eyes. In any event, you use smoky later maybe that needs to be the fire she lights in the men shown somehow, but not the reuse of this word
Her hips, grandma said, made for birthing.

The boys act the fool around her,
in sleeveless shirts they work the fields--nice edit here


dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.

Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips
her hair just so, the way she laughs
and then shoots anger out her eyes
when she sees them staring.

They wearily down a scotch or two,--There's got to be a better option than wearily. Cutting it frankly is a better option.
before taking the back road home -
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to their dreams of success,--I'm not a fan of the repetition of home on this line and the next
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.

Beyond those minor points, this remains a really nice piece.

Best,

Todd

[beaufort]

Thanks, Todd. I was trying to use "piercing" as a near-rhyme to birthing - reading it out loud it seemed like it needed something to keep it from stuttering so badly. I'll wait a day or two and try again. Thanks for your time on this, appreciate it. Linda

[Asyndetoff]

Nice well told story. I read it once to full avail of my capacity and a second time for the fun of it.
Reminds me a lot of . to say the very least, buck 65.

Quote.
They give you orders
And whatch when you write them
Wishing that you
Could be their menu item
They want to be breast fed
The day you get work off
If you in their thoughts
They walk home and jerk off

[billy]

hi beaufort.

the poem starts off about the girl with big hips and moves to the men and their wives without missing a beat, i can only pick out a few nits where there are unneeded words like [but] and [the] etc. and the first line thing but other than that i enjoyed the read. it's what i presume the midwest usa to be like.

Side Track Grill

As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.

But now she’s almost grown, eighteen, is but needed?
and working at the Side Track Grill is and needed?
Her made-up eyes are smokey and piercing, what about a comma instead of and?
Her hips, grandma said, made for birthing. i really like this line. it works well with the 2nd line of the 1st stanza. and is very gandma like. it also shows us some of the things that moulded her

The boys act the fool around her, is [the] needed?
in sleeveless shirts they work the fields
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy. great image and very masculine to boot.

Even the grown men after work is [the] needed?
watch the way she flips
her hair just so, the way she laughs
and then shoots anger out her eyes
when she sees them staring.

They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.

[justcloudy]

Hi beaufort,

Just wanted to say this last edit has much more punch to it than the others. I've followed this thread but didn't have much to add to the discussion, and felt quite ambivalent towards the poem. The latest version finally has me feeling something and I loved it. Very honest. You've done a wonderful job.

Bedside has made some good suggestions above. I'll add one comment about the line "in sleeveless shirts they work the fields": the rest of the poem masterfully gives detail yet leaves things open enough for the reader to project what they know onto the characters, making it much more powerful. Working the fields is a bit too narrow for me, especially because that's only a small part of what farmers do. Maybe something about working outside instead? That'd include many more jobs.

Anyway lovely piece, well done.

-justcloudy

[beaufort]

Thank you Billy, BedsideFungus and justcloudy. I appreciate all of your suggestions and have posted a new edit.