Estella's granddaughter (Edit 1)

[cidermaid]

Edit 1 (Billy...I agreed with all your comments in the end...I tend to loose track of my commas as I work through a poem and after a point i stop seeing them - thanks for the fresh eyes )


She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.

Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching dust
from the faded thatch filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on some one coat paint.

She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.

I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.

Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.

But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.



Original


She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.

Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint.

She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.

I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.

Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.

But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.


Slight edit done from original post - took out hazy from S3 L5 first word

[billy]

Hi AJ good to see you posting a poem

after a quick read i like it a lot, busy as of 2 mins from now but will read again tomorrow.

[Keith]

She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet.

Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks;
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint.

She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair.

I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.

Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.

But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.


Slight edit done from original post - took out hazy from S3 L5 first word

Hi AJ
I have missed your poetry, great to see you posting. The opening stanza is spot on and I love Air fixed it says so much,and the whole stanza referring to a photo album in a wardrobe and giving us a charater within the pages is very well done. My understanding of your poem is one of looking back through old family photographs and seeing the beauty of a bygone era trapped in the pages, wondering what they were like and what things they did, At first I thought the fixing the ceiling was out of place but after a few reads I see its needed to set the moment lying on a bed. You have so many great lines here, I really like the detail you bring into these moments especially the first persons look back at herself, contrasted with current images some great lines "The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered glare" super. I also enjoyed the detail of the hands complete with wrinkles and purple rope veins. I think you can probably tell how much I like this I cannot offer any crit that would improve anything, so I won't. The title choice takes us immediately to the world of Great Expectations and for that alone it is perfect this is then supported later by the inclusion of Capability Brown all setting a back drop to the person in the photograph. That feeling you capture in the last stanza of looking at faces in our old photographs for me its my mum and dad when they were young I see them but I don't know who they where then and can only begin to imagine what their life was like, wow you have told this so well, great poem AJ one I will keep coming back to, definitely a keeper. Best Keith

[Erthona]

Ha, another great expectation.

Although I like the internal rhyme of "zeppelined bovine" the word "zeppelined" caused me problems until I realized you meant it as "like a zeppelin". I initially got that mixed up with the purple rope and thought you were talking about a purple Zip-line, then further compounded by the "extreme sports" reference. Although, altogether it is a nice image, I think it will cause others problems (I can't be the only slow one out of the bunch). Is "Lancelot Brown" really that well known in Britain? Maybe a footnote for your poor American brethren.
Oh well, I'm certainly not one who has the right to complain about obscure references and allusions

Dale

[bena]

I like the zepplined bovine...but then being one, I suppose you recognize your own. I guess some people might assume that a cow got a sudden urge to pilot zepplins....

I think this is really strong, and even though I didn't (nor do I now) know who Lancelot Brown is, I can get a general idea from context clues.

Enjoyed it!

bena/mel

[cidermaid]

Thanks everyone for such kind comments.

I have never been too sure about putting notes to explain referances under a poem...Dale was that a serious suggestion to make a note that Lancelot Brown was the given christian name of "Capability" Brown (as in the renowned landscape designer) ...or were you just messing with me?
Either way, I much appreciate the encouragment.
(Keith people will start talking...we need to keep our passion secret).

[Keith]

Thanks everyone for such kind comments.

I have never been too sure about putting notes to explain referances under a poem...Dale was that a serious suggestion to make a note that Lancelot Brown was the given christian name of "Capability" Brown (as in the renowned landscape designer) ...or were you just messing with me?
Either way, I much appreciate the encouragment.
(Keith people will start talking...we need to keep our passion secret).

>< Let them talk

[billy]

just few negligible nits AJ.

for me this is your best write so far, it's image rich and unfolds in a wistful, yet sometimes hurting way. i have no idea who estalla or the granddaughter is and fear if i look it up it will spoil the anonymity i got from the fact. the introspection of the person's other selves (if that's what it was ) as seen through well expressed pictures.

thanks for the enjoyable read.

She’s in there,
with her vacant air-fixed smile.
Behind the wardrobe door,
in her boxed ease. Cocooned in her tissue dreams,
complete with her floral coronet. this stanza has a really sad feeling about it, it reminds me of the old vaudeville stars who drink because they are no longer able to find work

Whilst I lie here,
a red road map in folded repose, watching the dust is [the] needed?
from the faded thatch, filter through the ceiling cracks; is the mid-line comma needed?
over which I’ve been meaning to daub some Polly-filla
and slap on, some one coat paint. again, is the comma needed? i do like the image and the juxtaposition of the old ceiling and the faded looks of the granddaughter

She stalks me.
As I pass the mirror in the hall.
An utter bitch! In her tight jeans, looking young and fit.
The zeppelined bovine who currently lives there, under a silvered
glare, bristles slightly as the apparition flicks her hair. i like the sonics of there and glare, i'm not sure if it's internal rhyme or not,but i like it.

I have plenty of purple rope
wrapped in wrinkles round my hands;
I could hang her out to dry. Let the wind and rain
etch in mould and grime; the sun to fade
her lace trimmed train. She would grow old.

Instead of extreme sports,
halo tinged with an unrealistic health glow;
she would show me suitable pursuits, a graceful pose
or two, in stately homes with a nice view. Lancelot Brown no shit i know who this was (i'm an ex landscape gardener (seriously) i don't think it woud have done any harm using his more well known name
gave us beautiful grounds – either would do.

But she seems forever fixed
in her plastic coated, protective ways.
Safely ensconced between the sheets that veil her eyes;
one by one I turn the days; each a lie to be exposed,
to the truth that I don’t know who she is.


Slight edit done from original post - took out hazy from S3 L5 first word

[Erthona]

AJ

No, I would guess these days if you are "Capability" you can look up "Capability"
or so it seems to me, if you're not "Capability" why are you reading poetry?

In truth, this is one of the most well crafted and clever poems I have read recently.

Dale