Everything is still here

[tomoffing]

Revision 1 - (Thanks to all and kindofahippy and tara in particular for their in depth feedback) Major edits are in bold.

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight;
each blinked into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

This frozen silent third acre
amplifies a familiarity
rustling in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Days passed tumbling
from ivy clad banks
lopping the heads of daffodils
we'd planted the past October.
"Planting patience" you called it;
digging your past to seed my future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the sleeping bulbs tonight
and I recall scepticism
of the promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A sullen recollection peers
from the frost squinted gable window
of the shed where I served my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
frustration chisel-chipped in its grey mortar
consequence cemented in its stone walls.

A silvery limbed young birch is sheltered
by the snow flecked stoic old chestnut
who's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers-
since I stopped stringing them.

"...needs felling." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and rippling into inky floodwater
drums a forgotten question
of transience and impermanence.

"You'll follow them to find out son,
in your own time." Follow I did.

Roused by the door handle's cold click
to fizzing conversation, bottle-clinks
and twinkling flutes I pause,
absorbing everything
that's still here.

Everything is still here.

Original
Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

[ellajam]

So well done, if you edit I would expect only minor changes, as is it brings me right to the place and emotion.

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl I love the use of purl, it swirls but for me brings up an image up the wisps being knitted.
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past This confuses me, but it's a first read.
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse. These three lines are beautifully clear, "stopped dropping conkers" is lovely.
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater The use of plash instead of splash was jarring for me.
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click The end, while it wind things up nicely, doesn't add anything new for me.
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

You've beautifully encapsulated the journey, each stanza stands strong. Thanks so much for the impressive read.

[kindofahippy]

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

This stanza sets the emotion of the poem, a relaxed reverie on a soft and snowy day. L3 has the image of silk clothes out on a clothesline under the moon. L4 and five present a slightly confusing metaphor, are you saying that just seeing the stars brings back memories?

A frozen one third acre of silence "quiet" would be a softer-sounding word
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars This was jarring to me, until I read the next lines. Echoes don't rustle.
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

In stanza two, are you implying that the first stars you ever saw were in this frozen one third acre, and if so, does the logical connection the following stanzas have mean that all of these activities take place at night? If this is not the intended reading, perhaps a refrain between S1 and S2 would help change the tone to day.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks If S2 is meant to be directly followed by this action, adding "Then" as the first word would enforce that.
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October. "one fall evening" would resonate with the "sleeping bulbs" of the next stanza
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future. I am also confused by this. Do you mean past hard work for a secure future? "bury the future" sounds like regret for a possible future action.

I cannot tell if the protagonist was tumbling directly from the sloe bushes on ivy clad banks or if the two events take place at different times. If S3 was not supposed to be directly following S2, a refrain for the time change would be nice.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies Nice imagery of a field in bloom
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism skepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust I'm wracking my brain to understand this. What is that shed made of? Salt and pepper would be the obvious, but salt and sugar? Is it limestone? Ordinary gray stone, I don't see sugar in that.
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes; oh, beautiful sonic shift between pitch and pick!
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic "idle" for such a gentle poem
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait. What sapling, I thought this was regarding the ancient chestnut?

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question reflection is needless filler, the line has the same effect without it and it interrupts the sense of sound here
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click The tone of this line is darker than the rest of the poem. "Cold clink" sounds like a hated person is entering the room.
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

[71degrees]

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

Aesthetically, this is beyond wonderful. Right down to the "door handle's cold click" as you shut down the poem and come full circle from title to last line. Unfortunately, you present this wonderful, picture post card of your youth and don't let me in. The poem is filled w/abstract words and images (that I admit are wonderful, I've already said that) that mean something to you b/c as you tell me, "Everything is still here." You say it over and over and over but you don't let me inside to what they "really" mean except, "Everything is still here." I do note that the chestnut needs to go but you prefer to wait (to keep things as they've always been?). If you want to give me a Hallmark moment, lovely, dark, and not so deep, you have succeeded. I felt somehow empty and wanting much more by the time I finished. Everything is indeed still there…but shouldn't it be more than just physical things?

[tomoffing]

thanks for the kind words and excellent critique folks,

kindofahippy,
seems that I've skewed your interpretation, of stanzas 2 & 3 in particular.
Let me work on the tenses and conjugations. I will try to bring more clarity there.

And for your suggested edits. I've been unhappy with the echoes, shed and reflection images you pointed out, so your reinforcement is much appreciated.
A couple of others I'm attached to and will just have to stay i'm afraid.

71,
This is absolutely not intended to be purely about the physical things.
The deeper metaphor is there for me but I obviously have not illuminated it sufficiently.


thanks again t

[geoff]

Hello tomoffing,


Here are some light thoughts to ponder:

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw. ...punctuation is a bit off in the stanza; there is no complete thought. I like the images, but am not entirely sure what I am supposed to take from the last two lines the more I pick at them--the stars are given the agency of the action (the "breathing", but I'm not convinced they should as of now

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence...for a stanza that does a good job of stirring up images, the "echoes of innocence" feels hard to grasp fully
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait. ...liked this line. Ties the past with the present.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

Lots of images here that feel well-crafted. However, the stanzas often strike me as being more independent from each other than I would prefer. They often introduce a new element of this natural setting, rather than relying on what preceded them. The result is an effect that keeps me going from "exhibit to exhibit" in a way. Things that I expect to get more detail don't (e.g., the "sentences" served out in the shed). There are many elements that could be poems in and of themselves, but I felt as though they got brushed over.

Thanks for the read
-geoff

[visualcondyle]

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

-----------------
Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries if the title to the first line is purposeful enjambment, I absolutely love it.
as wisps of silk that purl beautiful line, take out "that"
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight each breath moves into hindsight/each is breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw. the recollection of memory? good

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence WC with innocence: "echoes of 8 or 9," whatever age you were maybe?
that rustle in the briars great image
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough "when I was?" I want to see that here
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks from the ivy banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils heads off the daffodils
we planted one October. you could use "in" since the reader is aware you are emphasizing nostalgia in this stanza
Planting patience you called it; this is the crux of your poem, to me, "planting patience." using this as a title would also work
Digging the past this line and the one after it aren't needed. your stanza supports itself, most definitely.
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs "sleep among the deep-seated bulbs" could be quite pretty as well
and I recall scepticism  if you require this spelling, otherwise: skepticism
of a promised blossoming; or, "of green promises,"?
I know better now the speaker's personal voice is here, I love the sense of vulnerability present
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences "where I served/among..." to play out the implication of serving food, and etc, it's lightly witty leading into the next line that the reader doesn't expect- "pitch forks..and axes"
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls. or, "sunk into the soil beneath the rocks?" if you prefer something more deeply rooted

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic I would work on this line a small bit
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers dash here to drive me into the next line?
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently. good use of dialogue, but this really catches me off guard. I don't think the reader is prepared for this dialogue just yet.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait. don't be afraid to italicize your particular moments

The dull beat of unseen swans From this point on, I feel a very different poem rise out. I would split these into two parts, & maybe that way you can utilize both your titles. I, II.
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question work on these last two lines in this stanza, I know you can dig deeper
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?" if you are going to place quotations around these lines, I would follow suit in the previous dialogue you implied earlier.
"You'll follow to find out in your own time." This line is a small bit of a mouth-full. Perhaps, "you'll find out in your own time" would be better suited here.

Roused by the door handle's cold click handle's sharp sounds
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale, and breathe,
absorbing stillness. perfect chance to tie in your stars again to make similar here.
Everything is still here. good repetition

---------------

Hey there,

Your poem was a joy to read. Your speaker is very expressive and nostalgic.

The reader is such a third party, as is your speaker in a way. The speaker presents us memories
with great use of the senses to draw us in, and almost objectively recalls moments in the past rather
than placing his or her own understanding on them now, in the present. This gives me time as the reader,
to grasp my own perspective on the matter. Your form and stanza separation doesn't need any work, I think.
I made several comments above, a few stating something like "wc/word choice" and etc, mostly since I feel
those parts are extra places the poem can really shine, because every word will matter.

There are a lot of strong images throughout the poem, and I noted above that "planting patience" is the crux of
your poem. Without this, there's room for the reader to wonder about your young speaker's objectivity as to
what he or she really feels. What I'm getting, is that young admiration and bitterness that comes very intermixed
with the process of observing a role model. The concept of rushing the growth of patience or attempting to accept
it an early age is a fantastic device in the poem.

Looking forward to seeing future revisions if you continue on
-VisualCondyle (Tara)

[milo]

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs

Echoes of innocence is cliché enough to be a movie title. Even if it wasnt , it is the __________ of "(some random abstraction)" construct that almost alway reads hackneyed in poetry. You do it again with "acre of silence".

[jeremyyoung]

There are perhaps a few tweaks here and there that could be made. But, on the whole this is really rather good.

It took me on a journey that I didn't expect to go on, which included the peril of the stone shed.

[ChristopherSea]

Tom, What a wonderful tone poem you have crafted! This evokes that homeward bound fuzzy warmth that we all have experienced. I like the title bleed into the first line and how it serves as a recapitulation in the close. Great sigh of familiarity and calm in the opener. For me, all of those landscape references speak just as much of home as the house itself. I could even relate to those 'sentences', as hard yard-work was often my punishment for missteps, but I loved it and did such a good job that my Dad would always slip me a few dollars for my efforts anyway. You could play the wording here and there as others no doubt point out, but in a poem such as this some of the more common phrasing evokes that shared experience appeal of the poem. We had a walnut and crabapple dropping those conkers on us too. The 'conservation with Dad' moved me as well. Especially, not having him with us now. Nice work and thanks for sharing./Chris

[beaufort]

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.

A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.

Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.

The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.

I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans really like this line and the surety of what it is that is unseen
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.

"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."

Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.

while I think the last stanza brings the poem full circle in its reflection of the first stanza, I might be tempted to omit it and end it with the quote above. You write well, enjoyed this.[b]

[tomoffing]

Revision 1 posted with major changes in bold.

Thanks very much for all time and opinions, some really considered and detailed critiques have helped enormously.

t

[geoff]

Hello tomoffing,
here are some thoughts for your edit:

Revision 1 - (Thanks to all and kindofahippy and tara in particular for their in depth feedback) Major edits are in bold.

Everything is still here

as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl ...to make the image even stronger, could replace "as" with "in"
and shimmer in puddled moonlight;
each blinked into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw. ...not entirely convinced by the punctuation in this stanza still. the sounds of the words is strong and pleasing (the /u/'s in the beginning)

This frozen silent third acre ...is "silent" needed? I think frozen can capture that in a way...
amplifies a familiarity ...."amplifies" has a tone that did not really mesh with "briars" and "bushes" of this stanza for me. Also, rather than being told that the speaker is recollecting, I think that the descriptions that come later satisfy that goal ...
rustling in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.
...this stanza, for me, does little to advance the poem. the first stanza already introduces the reflection with the last two lines; the next stanza continues it with the "days passed" etc. While I liked the images in this stanza, that isn't enough to justify it for me...


Days passed tumbling
from ivy clad banks ..."ivy-clad" (liked that image; brings a darker, navy-like feel); comma after "banks"
lopping the heads of daffodils
we'd planted the past October.
"Planting patience" you called it; ....minor, but the repetition of "plant" in this and last line was noticeable...
digging your past to seed my future.

Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the sleeping bulbs tonight. ...would be nice if a stronger tie between these "bulbs" and the plants from the last stanza, drawing a tighter bridge between past and present. even a pronoun or adjective like "these" before "sleeping" could work
and I recall scepticism
of the promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.

A sullen recollection peers ...not convinced that a recollection can be "sullen," though it can make people feel that way...
from the frost squinted gable window ...squinted? not sure I fully understand its use here
of the shed where I served my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;...is this needed? the "chisel-chipped" and stone/mortar images already give this a sense of labor
frustration chisel-chipped in its grey mortar
consequence cemented in its stone walls. ...this stanza is packed tight with description (dropping an adjective or two could actually make it smoother as some of the descriptions felt less accurate.. vague terms like "frustration" and "consequence" could be given concrete names (e.g., cusses, names, hour marks, phrases of some kind). liked the idea conveyed here...

A silvery limbed young birch is sheltered
by the snow flecked stoic old chestnut
who's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers-
since I stopped stringing them. ...where does the treehouse come from? there is some assumption here that the speaker and reader are on the same page....

"...needs felling." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.

The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field....liked "arrowing"...
and rippling into inky floodwater
drums a forgotten question
of transience and impermanence.

"You'll follow them to find out son,
in your own time." Follow I did.

Roused by the door handle's cold click ...perhaps just me again, but I was imagining some distance between the speaker and the house. This sentence jarred me out of that (appropriately maybe!). It reads a bit more like a narrative than I'd prefer, mostly because it tells what happens more than leading the reader..
to fizzing conversation, bottle-clinks
and twinkling flutes I pause, ...the "twinkling flutes" were interesting...
absorbing everything
that's still here.

Everything is still here.

Solid images still, but the progression from scenes still is missing smoother, natural transitions for me.

enjoyed the read
-geoff