Gandhi's shadow-- edit 2

[justcloudy]

edit 2 Mostly minor changes, thanks Ella and Helospian.

Each Tuesday at 9:10
you come to drive me home,
and I try not to dirty my slacks
on the dented car door
spattered with damp dirt.

Each Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Ghandi,
we watch him weave
between the cars waiting
for green under the bridge.

Between 9:20 and 9:21
I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse,
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Digital lights blink 9:22,
engines rev and he turns
his gaze towards me.
He doesn't stretch out a hand
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?



I rewrote this two different ways as per the suggestions I got here. (Thanks rowens, Chris and billy.) I liked this version better.

edit 1
Each Tuesday at 9:10,
you come to drive me home,
and I try not to dirty my slacks
on the dented car door
plastered with brown.

Each Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we watch him weave between the cars
waiting for green under the bridge.

Between 9:20 and 9:21,
I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse,
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Digital lights blink 9:22,
engines rev and he turns
his gaze towards me.
He doesn't stretch out a hand
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?



original
Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

[rowens]

Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Are you trying to develop a style with your lines? You have a consistent way of writing that blends run-on sentences and fragments, understatements and wordiness. Maybe you're trying to break through with this style, and in that case it's a positive and interesting thing and worth struggling with and refining.

I don't think the last two lines of that stanza are very good. It sounds a little better as

streaked with dust from your job
when [as] you come to drive [take] me home.

You could even say bring me home, but that might open up for more than you're trying to say.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

It has good and bad qualities all the way through. The long-winded sentences build before coming to abrupt stops. Your lines jut, throw brief drop kicks, then the poem ends leaving everything tied in a tiny knot.
Sometimes it's like you're speaking a sophisticated, middle-class ebonics that has no problem with using language but with describing things that should be indescribable.
It doesn't seem far from success, but there still seems to be an insecurity in handling it.
I don't know anything. But your poems usually deserve lots of attention, in the negative and the positive sense. I think you have a lot going for you.

[justcloudy]

Thank you rowens for the thoughtful critique, you've given me a lot to think about. I appreciate it, really.

-justcloudy

[ChristopherSea]

Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

Cloudy,

My first thought, on a quick drive by, is to begin this poem with the second stanza. It would then open up with that grand portrait of your street-Mahatma and his urban setting. This is not to say that I don't like the first stanza. In fact, I like it a lot, but I would reserve it for another poem./Chris

[justcloudy]

Chris, I played with that idea, and actually there was more first-stanza stuff that I already cut out. I think you may be right. Thanks for the suggestion, I think I needed to hear it from someone else to be sure. (There's your insecurity rowens!) ;p

-justcloudy

[billy]

a good few vignettes of the Tuesday drive home. not sure if the [every Tuesday] lines could be better with something like [On Tuesdays at 9.10 PM]
i like the exactness the two times give the reader and wonder if 9 25 or 9 30 would enhance the routine of the poems content. the 1st 2 lines of the 4th stanza pulled me up simply because it didn't jell with the rest of the poem. but other than that i only had a few nits.
thanks for the read.

Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge. is green, money?

Shaded leathered skin stretches for some reason i keep wanting to read this as stretched
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites. would [unexpected], or [expected] work better

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame, these 1st two lines feel too much, for me they don't fit the poem, sorry but my only suggestion is [are they needed?] the next 3 lines do the job all on their own for me.
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading it feels like there's a comma missing but i don't want to look like a fool and get it wrong
one?

[justcloudy]

Thanks billy.

I like the idea about the 9:25 etc, I'll have to think on whether that's the direction I want to take here.

Also thanks for the thoughts on L1-2 S4. I think you're right. I got too caught up in how to say what I wanted to say, and didn't step back and see the bigger picture. It's much too wordy.

"Waiting for green" was intended to have a double meaning--the cars waiting for the green light and he waiting for money.

-justcloudy

---

rowens I can't get over your "ebonics" comment. Just seems so weird to me. For real though, where did you get that from? Every time I think I see what you're saying it slips away again...

[rowens]

You talk like an educated lady. Then all of the sudden you throw out things like

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.


And other poems, you'll be carrying on with a narration then just throw some fragments in trying to describe something.

I said sophisticated ebonics. Everything is sounding fine, dull and proper, then you say things like

I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse,
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Those are sentences all right, but this is better than some of your other poems I had in mind.

As for this poem, it isn't so bad. Not in your last version. You have reckless meanderings, stops and starts, but it's not so bad. I am doing this, and I say so to you, and he has done this which I see, end. I'm not saying anything positive or negative, just my impressions.

[ellajam]

Hi, cloudy, I think this edit has done a lot. S1 and S2 read smoother with the change of every to each, but I'd love to see a break on "weave" if it is possible.

I think the addition of more times really works to make me understand why you mentioned them to start with. I can now get the poem as that stopped minute when we see, and then move on.

I've liked the finger lift from the start, hope you continue to hold on to it. Thanks for the read, Although I sometimes get stumped on suggestions for you, I love watching you edit.

[i]I rewrote this two different ways as per the suggestions I got here. (Thanks rowens, Chris and billy.) I liked this version better.

edit 1
Each Tuesday at 9:10,
you come to drive me home,
and I try not to dirty my slacks
on the dented car door
plastered with brown.

Each Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we watch him weave between the cars
waiting for green under the bridge.

Between 9:20 and 9:21,
I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse,
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Digital lights blink 9:22,
engines rev and he turns
his gaze towards me.
He doesn't stretch out a hand
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?



original
Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

[justcloudy]

Thanks rowens for the explanation. I guess I'm a fan of "reckless meanderings". ;p It's really interesting to see someone else describing my poetry, and I like that you're honest about what you see. Thanks a lot.

I appreciate your thoughts ella, thanks. I think you're spot on with the "weave" suggestion, glad you mentioned it. I sometimes feel lost when I edit, but if someone else is learning from my process then hey, that's cool. This one at least seems like a solid step forward, and I'm happy to get your confirmation of that. =]

-justcloudy

[heslopian]

edit 1
Each Tuesday at 9:10, Is this comma needed?
you come to drive me home,
and I try not to dirty my slacks
on the dented car door
plastered with brown. Small point, but "brown" in this context makes me think of shit smears. "Mud" might be a more efficient word.

Each Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we watch him weave between the cars
waiting for green under the bridge. Good action in this verse. Concise and pacey.

Between 9:20 and 9:21, Is this comma needed?
I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse, Excellent line, subtle and devastating.
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Digital lights blink 9:22,
engines rev and he turns
his gaze towards me.
He doesn't stretch out a hand
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

The premise of this one confuses me a little, as I don't quite see what the connection is between Gandhi and a homeless man besides the boulevard's name, though as I don't know much about Gandhi (beyond that he was into peaceful protests against British Empiricists) that may just be my ignorance. Anyway, I enjoyed the pacey narrative and sharp images here. Thank you for the read

[justcloudy]

Helospian, I've been trying to come up with a good answer for you, but the honest truth is that I'm terrible at thinking of titles and when that one popped into my head I thought, why not? And Gandhi kind of looked like a beggar, right? ;p This is inspired by a real man on a real corner, so I didn't make up the street name. I could change it if it confuses things though.

Thanks for your thoughts and encouragement.

-justcloudy

[oxomiya]

The revised version is definitely better. In the last stanza i am wondering if "-a pleading one" might be better than a version without the article.

Good work!

I rewrote this two different ways as per the suggestions I got here. (Thanks rowens, Chris and billy.) I liked this version better.

edit 1
Each Tuesday at 9:10,
you come to drive me home,
and I try not to dirty my slacks
on the dented car door
plastered with brown.

Each Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we watch him weave between the cars
waiting for green under the bridge.

Between 9:20 and 9:21,
I consider his shaded leathered skin
stretched over crooked nose
and around a jutting jaw.
Traced with shadows of abuse,
his eyes don’t lift from hoods and tires.

Digital lights blink 9:22,
engines rev and he turns
his gaze towards me.
He doesn't stretch out a hand
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?



original
Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?