What Remains

[71degrees]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

[SkaaDee]

Hi

Fascinating stories. Are they true?

Anyway, the heart of the poem should be in the last part about
you and your father and why you continue to misunderstand each other.
I think somehow that needs to be brought out.

In terms of layout, perhaps split each country into its own stanza, just a thought.

enjoyed your poem.
Scott

[tigrflye]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father I think the poem starts here
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear I really like pilfer. Its usually used to describe stealing things that aren't very valuable. Ashes aren't valuable. BUT to you, they are.
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each otherfeels like a cliffhanger! How? That is a brilliant thought but I wish I could look back at the poem now and see a few examples of how you misunderstood each other

A lot of this feels like Wikipedia. It is information. Interesting information but..
Perhaps you are just trying to show how different countries/cultures handle death.. or maybe you decided to share those facts for a different purpose.
Regardless, for me, the poem starts when you begin talking about your father. Picturing the ashes in your hand.. someone else wearing his coat.. it evokes emotion from me because I have lost loved ones.. I have urns that contain family members ashes. I can relate.
I don't get any emotional response from the factual presentation of the information in the first half.
If you are attached to the factual information, perhaps you could find a way to connect it ..compare it.. to the death of your father.
Thanks for sharing, Jenn

[ellajam]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

Hi, 71, I've been enjoying this one. I find it striking to imagine a different outcome even down to the moment of burial. I was a little confused at the end because it seemed you wanted to wish the same scenario on another child by having their father resemble yours, but I don't think that is what you mean. Maybe a small change in wording might make it clearer. Were you just saying he would have suited someone else better?

Can you tell me why you punctuated the poem with exception of the period?

Thanks for posting, interesting and touching read.

[Glittercake]

I like this poem because it shows how you are dealing with death and still projecting your misunderstood relationship with him in a feasible way. It flows well from where tigrflye said the real poem starts, but before that it just sounds like a interesting back story before the real show begins. But as I said I like it, my only thought is that you should separate the two ideas with a simple
...
Space.

[71degrees]

Hi

Fascinating stories. Are they true?

Anyway, the heart of the poem should be in the last part about
you and your father and why you continue to misunderstand each other.
I think somehow that needs to be brought out.

In terms of layout, perhaps split each country into its own stanza, just a thought.

enjoyed your poem.
Scott

This is one of a proposed chapbook. You are, of course, correct. The misunderstanding between father and son is the focal point and will be brought out. Thanks.

---

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father I think the poem starts here
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear I really like pilfer. Its usually used to describe stealing things that aren't very valuable. Ashes aren't valuable. BUT to you, they are.
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each otherfeels like a cliffhanger! How? That is a brilliant thought but I wish I could look back at the poem now and see a few examples of how you misunderstood each other

A lot of this feels like Wikipedia. It is information. Interesting information but..
Perhaps you are just trying to show how different countries/cultures handle death.. or maybe you decided to share those facts for a different purpose.
Regardless, for me, the poem starts when you begin talking about your father. Picturing the ashes in your hand.. someone else wearing his coat.. it evokes emotion from me because I have lost loved ones.. I have urns that contain family members ashes. I can relate.
I don't get any emotional response from the factual presentation of the information in the first half.
If you are attached to the factual information, perhaps you could find a way to connect it ..compare it.. to the death of your father.
Thanks for sharing, Jenn

If ashes aren't so valuable, why do people keep them? Thanks for the read….

---

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

Hi, 71, I've been enjoying this one. I find it striking to imagine a different outcome even down to the moment of burial. I was a little confused at the end because it seemed you wanted to wish the same scenario on another child by having their father resemble yours, but I don't think that is what you mean. Maybe a small change in wording might make it clearer. Where you just saying he would have suited someone else better?

Can you tell me why you punctuated the poem with exception of the period?

Thanks for posting, interesting and touching read.

I rarely use end marks (at least periods) in my poems. Poetry is so…so open, I guess. It never ends, does it? I agree w/your assessment of the end, but then you answer your own question so well It may just work...

[Truerenigma]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

This poem actually is not too bad. However, the missing stops do nothing to benefit the poem or the reader. You're sayin "poetry is open", but imposing a so-called stylistic choice upon your readers, even when it serves no purpose but to confuse and irritate, is a rather ridiculous and close-minded concept. Think about it. I'm hesitant to offer any more crit because it seems doubtful that you would even take it in to account.

[71degrees]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

This poem actually is not too bad. However, the missing stops do nothing to benefit the poem or the reader. You're sayin "poetry is open", but imposing a so-called stylistic choice upon your readers, even when it serves no purpose but to confuse and irritate, is a rather ridiculous and close-minded concept. Think about it. I'm hesitant to offer any more crit because it seems doubtful that you would even take it in to account.

Thanks for the "….not too bad…" comment. Appreciate it. I think about all comments. Some more than others. FYI: People who hesitate are lost.

[Truerenigma]

That's good to know. Thanks.

[jdvanwijk]

Hello 71degrees,

I enjoyed your poem, I think you have an original concept here. My main problem is that for me the parts don't really mesh into a whole yet. The images from the other funerals don't seem to relate strongly to the main one of the narrator's father, to me they feel like stray observations. I'm curious to know what your intention was? Also I don't think the lack of full stops works. I don't feel it adds anything, for me the confusion it causes breaks the flow of reading.

All best!
Jan

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

[Rathbone]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father I think the poem starts here
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear I really like pilfer. Its usually used to describe stealing things that aren't very valuable. Ashes aren't valuable. BUT to you, they are.
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each otherfeels like a cliffhanger! How? That is a brilliant thought but I wish I could look back at the poem now and see a few examples of how you misunderstood each other

A lot of this feels like Wikipedia. It is information. Interesting information but..
Perhaps you are just trying to show how different countries/cultures handle death.. or maybe you decided to share those facts for a different purpose.
Regardless, for me, the poem starts when you begin talking about your father. Picturing the ashes in your hand.. someone else wearing his coat.. it evokes emotion from me because I have lost loved ones.. I have urns that contain family members ashes. I can relate.
I don't get any emotional response from the factual presentation of the information in the first half.
If you are attached to the factual information, perhaps you could find a way to connect it ..compare it.. to the death of your father.
Thanks for sharing, Jenn

A great poem, very powerful once it ends, but as Jenn said, its almost as if you left us with a cliffhanger. I personally like the incorporation of the factual data on death, i feel as if it sets a mood for how you are feelings at a distance from the death. I think what you should do is make one or two stanzas explaining a little more about your relationship with your father prior to his death and place it as an intro. that would tie up this poem and let people leave with a strong emotional, and misunderstood feeling that i believe you may be striving for.

[heslopian]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

I'd recommend dividing this into verses. You have demarcation anyway, with certain sentences beginning on capitals, so to not separate into verses just looks strange.
The last two lines are a bit superfluous, in my opinion, but otherwise I loved this poem. It's such a refreshingly matter-of-fact yet subtly spiritual and emotional approach to the subjects of death and grief. There's something really clever about the way you discuss cultural death rites, which to a western audience feel exotic, then close with a funeral somewhere as ordinary and industrialised as Wisconsin, America. Thank you for the read

[71degrees]

Your suggestions make sense, especially with/about the last two lines. Looking back at the comments others have made, some folks seem to want things out of this poem that they want to see while ignoring 3/4 of the poem. You got it. And I thank you for this comment. It gives me confidence to keep the full intention and work on the other things you have suggested. Appreciate it.