A Crofter Dies edit 0.0001abu

[tectak]

Donald drew a cross-line through the six stiff days that passed him by;
each week so marked detached him more
from where he once thought he might die.
He rubbed the lines and felt the stone beneath the flaky, crack-crazed beige.
(Like salt-pans dried by long, hot days;
like clay-split land in summer haze;
like fractures in a pond-ice maze.)
Donald, there’s the door.

Donald placed his hazel hand upon his staff of willow whip;
he hoist and hauled his aching bones,
through strength of will, with trembling grip.
The blanket fell about the floor; he stood upright in night-tight clothes.
(Like soft bark on Sequoia grows;
like water round a smooth rock flows;
like sepals on an early rose.)
Donald’s leaving home.

Donald never turned his head, but steadfast walked into the sky;
no tears squeezed out from those grey eyes,
that further might his sight deny.
The heather, higher than his shins, fought his feet and snagged his stride.
(Like briars hook from every side;
like blackthorn stems the fiercest pride;
like….but no…sweet suicide.)
Donald lived…then dies.

Tectak
A tale in the Coylet Bar
2014

[ellajam]

Oh, I'm in love with this one. The varied line lengths and rhyme pattern hold my interest and never disrupt. Is this a specific form or what can become of forms once they are learned so thoroughly you can depart from them to the poem's advantage? This one makes me read it over and over, it's a pleasure.

For my read something seemed to be missing between shins and fought.

"The heather, higher than his shins, fought his feet and snagged his stride."

Thanks for the fine read.

Donald drew a cross-line through the six stiff days that passed him by;
each week so marked detached him more
from where he once thought he might die.
He rubbed the lines and felt the stone beneath the crack-crazed beige.
(Like salt-pans dried by long, hot days;
like clay-split land in summer haze;
like fractures in a pond-ice maze.)
Donald, there’s the door.

Donald placed his hazel hand upon his staff of willow whip;
he hoist and hauled his aching bones,
through strength of will, with trembling grip.
The blanket fell about the floor, he upright stood in night-tight clothes.
(Like soft bark on Sequoia grows;
like water round a smooth rock flows;
like sepals on an early rose.)
Donald’s leaving home.

Donald never turned his head, but steadfast walked into the sky;
no tears squeezed out from those grey eyes,
that further might his sight deny.
The heather, higher than his shins, fought his feet and snagged his stride.
(Like briars hook from every side;
Like blackthorn stems the fiercest pride;
Like….but no…sweet suicide)
Donald lived…then dies.

Tectak
A tale in the Coylet Bar
2014

[Erthona]

I've nae grievance to cite against this poem.
So be it. Though it pains me, me hats off my head;
exposing the hairless waste, a shinny* dome.

dae


* yeah, so what, I use it with purpose!

[tectak]

I've nae grievance to cite against this poem.
So be it. Though it pains me, me hats off my head;
exposing the hairless waste, a shinny* dome.

dae


* yeah, so what, I use it with purpose!

You liked it, then?
Though that would not be considered valid crit and I would need to ban you...Ah, how fortune swings the points; stars by night, lodestone by day. North by north east...we tack the winds, that once blew us the other way.

---

Oh, I'm in love with this one. The varied line lengths and rhyme pattern hold my interest and never disrupt. Is this a specific form or what can become of forms once they are learned so thoroughly you can depart from them to the poem's advantage? This one makes me read it over and over, it's a pleasure.

For my read something seemed to be missing between shins and fought.

"The heather, higher than his shins, fought his feet and snagged his stride."

Thanks for the fine read.

Donald drew a cross-line through the six stiff days that passed him by;
each week so marked detached him more
from where he once thought he might die.
He rubbed the lines and felt the stone beneath the crack-crazed beige.
(Like salt-pans dried by long, hot days;
like clay-split land in summer haze;
like fractures in a pond-ice maze.)
Donald, there’s the door.

Donald placed his hazel hand upon his staff of willow whip;
he hoist and hauled his aching bones,
through strength of will, with trembling grip.
The blanket fell about the floor, he upright stood in night-tight clothes.
(Like soft bark on Sequoia grows;
like water round a smooth rock flows;
like sepals on an early rose.)
Donald’s leaving home.

Donald never turned his head, but steadfast walked into the sky;
no tears squeezed out from those grey eyes,
that further might his sight deny.
The heather, higher than his shins, fought his feet and snagged his stride.
(Like briars hook from every side;
Like blackthorn stems the fiercest pride;
Like….but no…sweet suicide)
Donald lived…then dies.

Tectak
A tale in the Coylet Bar
2014

Hi ella and thanks for struggling through this one,
The rhyme scheme is mine until I am advised otherwise and was really born out of meter...which comes from closely listening to how people tell each other stories in pubs and interject when they feel they have something to contribute. I like the off-rhyme and wish I was better at it but
A
B
A
Cb
Cb
Cb
Cb
B
works for me. The Cb thing is not important but when it rings it rings clear.
The "shins" thing should be read like this:
The heather [higher than his shins] fought his feet and snagged his stride
I hope that is clearer.
Best,
tectak
PS I could have written it in porridge-thick Scottish vernacular, but the bloody Americans think I'm being Rabbie ( Sorry, Robert) Burns, and that he is Jewish.
I may speak it that way in the privacy of my own bothy.

[abu nuwas]

I found it v readable, which is quite unusual, and probably not a compliment. The similes -and what a breath of fresh air, after so many .........metaphors!- were like a counter-point : partly Scottish and of the crofting counties, partly alien : not many sequoias north of the border. Yet the whole painted an old crofter to me, and I have been caught plenty of times by the tough old woody heather --an easy way to break an ankle!

Grammatically, the line preceding your brackets needs to end in a comma, and then the first 'like' needs to lose its capital, as otherwise, there is no main verb, and the phrase peters out. I say that, because this the Serious place, where normally I dare not breathe the rarefied air --- so that little comment is my entrance-ticket.

Be a pity if the Scots do drift off to nowhere.

[ChristopherSea]

Your morbid obsession with aging and death is paying off in pearly tombstones on this retreat. I was afraid Donald duck had met his anatine end. I like your rhyming parenthetical device, as it becomes a pub song with almost a chorus. What, no fought-fraught stride to march in time with the other stanzas? Nice tale from the Coylet my friend./Chris

[ellajam]

Reading well done meter's not a struggle, it's a sweet ride. For me, learning meter and form is a struggle, sometimes to the point where no decent ideas get through. It's encouraging to read something as structured yet free as this one is. Maybe there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Thanks for that. And yes, for me it would have been more difficult if you had written it the way you hear it.

[Erthona]

"You liked it, then?
Though that would not be considered valid crit and I would need to ban you...Ah, how fortune swings the points; stars by night, lodestone by day. North by north east...we tack the winds, that once blew us the other way."

Ach! Da nae be putting words in my mouth laddie. I said "I've nae grievance to cite against this poem." Which means (in the Kings English, if I spoke it), it has it's problems, but it doesn't impinge upon the clarity, but not having anything bad to say about it, is a far crying from liking the ankle biting little brute! Ban me or don't, I prefer "Old Spice" for my deodorant (I swear, give an' inch and they'll take your hand. Pray for the poor man's neck muscles as that melon sitting on top of them grows to bursting. "Wobbles like a drunk he must". Get out of here ya backwards talking leprechaun), but I da nae see me underarms as any of yer business. Seems to me you should take reference of your own arm before it breaks!

Dae MacDae of the clan MacDae

[tectak]

I found it v readable, which is quite unusual, and probably not a compliment. The similes -and what a breath of fresh air, after so many .........metaphors!- were like a counter-point : partly Scottish and of the crofting counties, partly alien : not many sequoias north of the border. Yet the whole painted an old crofter to me, and I have been caught plenty of times by the tough old woody heather --an easy way to break an ankle!

Grammatically, the line preceding your brackets needs to end in a comma, and then the first 'like' needs to lose its capital, as otherwise, there is no main verb, and the phrase peters out. I say that, because this the Serious place, where normally I dare not breathe the rarefied air --- so that little comment is my entrance-ticket.

Be a pity if the Scots do drift off to nowhere.

Thank you abu,
You should come here far more often, even though I humbly disagree with you comma comment....though you reasoning is spot on I hoped that by using brackets I could introduce the concept explained to ella, that this was how I "heard" the tale around the open fire. Sequoias are the imported giants of the western highlands but I admit to stretching things a bit. I looked at the "likes" after your crit and noticed I had caps after semicolons in the last stanza. Corrected. Credited.
Best,
tectak

---

Your morbid obsession with aging and death is paying off in pearly tombstones on this retreat. I was afraid Donald duck had met his anatine end. I like your rhyming parenthetical device, as it becomes a pub song with almost a chorus. What, no fought-fraught stride to march in time with the other stanzas? Nice tale from the Coylet my friend./Chris

Hi chris,
No,not morbid at all A celebration of all that life is until it is not.
The tale was told and the toast was made. All seemed to know or know of Donald...or if not Donald some other lonely life sycophant who finally had enough and planned an end.
This old boy had counted down the weeks since Christmas and was found 100yds from his croft, stone cold...but he did not die in his bed...except metaphorically.
Best,
tectak

[ChristopherSea]

I found it v readable, which is quite unusual, and probably not a compliment. The similes -and what a breath of fresh air, after so many .........metaphors!- were like a counter-point : partly Scottish and of the crofting counties, partly alien : not many sequoias north of the border. Yet the whole painted an old crofter to me, and I have been caught plenty of times by the tough old woody heather --an easy way to break an ankle!

Grammatically, the line preceding your brackets needs to end in a comma, and then the first 'like' needs to lose its capital, as otherwise, there is no main verb, and the phrase peters out. I say that, because this the Serious place, where normally I dare not breathe the rarefied air --- so that little comment is my entrance-ticket.

Be a pity if the Scots do drift off to nowhere.

Thank you abu,
You should come here far more often, even though I humbly disagree with you comma comment....though you reasoning is spot on I hoped that by using brackets I could introduce the concept explained to ella, that this was how I "heard" the tale around the open fire. Sequoias are the imported giants of the western highlands but I admit to stretching things a bit. I looked at the "likes" after your crit and noticed I had caps after semicolons in the last stanza. Corrected. Credited.
Best,
tectak

---

Your morbid obsession with aging and death is paying off in pearly tombstones on this retreat. I was afraid Donald duck had met his anatine end. I like your rhyming parenthetical device, as it becomes a pub song with almost a chorus. What, no fought-fraught stride to march in time with the other stanzas? Nice tale from the Coylet my friend./Chris

Hi chris,
No,not morbid at all A celebration of all that life is until it is not.
The tale was told and the toast was made. All seemed to know or know of Donald...or if not Donald some other lonely life sycophant who finally had enough and planned an end.
This old boy had counted down the weeks since Christmas and was found 100yds from his croft, stone cold...but he did not die in his bed...except metaphorically.
Best,
tectak

I may be of the Dylan Thomas school on dying, as voiced in his Villanelle:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...

[tectak]

I found it v readable, which is quite unusual, and probably not a compliment. The similes -and what a breath of fresh air, after so many .........metaphors!- were like a counter-point : partly Scottish and of the crofting counties, partly alien : not many sequoias north of the border. Yet the whole painted an old crofter to me, and I have been caught plenty of times by the tough old woody heather --an easy way to break an ankle!

Grammatically, the line preceding your brackets needs to end in a comma, and then the first 'like' needs to lose its capital, as otherwise, there is no main verb, and the phrase peters out. I say that, because this the Serious place, where normally I dare not breathe the rarefied air --- so that little comment is my entrance-ticket.

Be a pity if the Scots do drift off to nowhere.

Thank you abu,
You should come here far more often, even though I humbly disagree with you comma comment....though you reasoning is spot on I hoped that by using brackets I could introduce the concept explained to ella, that this was how I "heard" the tale around the open fire. Sequoias are the imported giants of the western highlands but I admit to stretching things a bit. I looked at the "likes" after your crit and noticed I had caps after semicolons in the last stanza. Corrected. Credited.
Best,
tectak

---

Your morbid obsession with aging and death is paying off in pearly tombstones on this retreat. I was afraid Donald duck had met his anatine end. I like your rhyming parenthetical device, as it becomes a pub song with almost a chorus. What, no fought-fraught stride to march in time with the other stanzas? Nice tale from the Coylet my friend./Chris

Hi chris,
No,not morbid at all A celebration of all that life is until it is not.
The tale was told and the toast was made. All seemed to know or know of Donald...or if not Donald some other lonely life sycophant who finally had enough and planned an end.
This old boy had counted down the weeks since Christmas and was found 100yds from his croft, stone cold...but he did not die in his bed...except metaphorically.
Best,
tectak

I may be of the Dylan Thomas school on dying, as voiced in his Villanelle:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...

Oh,and Chris, I forgot to mention (re your artistic endeavour), rhododendrons are the single most serious invasive life form in north west Scotland -apart from the English- costing millions in attempted eradication. Felling these monster shrubs leaves tons of logs awaiting disposal. I brought two chunks backs with me for a friend to carve. Each piece about 6inch. diam by 3 feet long weighs over 60 lbs. The wood is extremely hard and dense and to me, irresistable. I wish I could have brought back some larger pieces as it gets up to 12 inches diameter and more.

[ChristopherSea]

Thank you abu,
You should come here far more often, even though I humbly disagree with you comma comment....though you reasoning is spot on I hoped that by using brackets I could introduce the concept explained to ella, that this was how I "heard" the tale around the open fire. Sequoias are the imported giants of the western highlands but I admit to stretching things a bit. I looked at the "likes" after your crit and noticed I had caps after semicolons in the last stanza. Corrected. Credited.
Best,
tectak

---

Hi chris,
No,not morbid at all A celebration of all that life is until it is not.
The tale was told and the toast was made. All seemed to know or know of Donald...or if not Donald some other lonely life sycophant who finally had enough and planned an end.
This old boy had counted down the weeks since Christmas and was found 100yds from his croft, stone cold...but he did not die in his bed...except metaphorically.
Best,
tectak

I may be of the Dylan Thomas school on dying, as voiced in his Villanelle:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...

Oh,and Chris, I forgot to mention (re your artistic endeavour), rhododendrons are the single most serious invasive life form in north west Scotland -apart from the English- costing millions in attempted eradication. Felling these monster shrubs leaves tons of logs awaiting disposal. I brought two chunks backs with me for a friend to carve. Each piece about 6inch. diam by 3 feet long weighs over 60 lbs. The wood is extremely hard and dense and to me, irresistable. I wish I could have brought back some larger pieces as it gets up to 12 inches diameter and more.

Indeed, I just looked it up: Invasive species: Some species (e.g. Rhododendron ponticum in Ireland and the United Kingdom) are invasive as introduced plants, spreading in woodland areas replacing the natural understory. R. ponticum is difficult to eradicate, as its roots can make new shoots.
Lovely invaders, but as usual man is the interloper, moving plant and animal species about with no concern for ecological balance. Perhaps a rhodo-wood industry would help to resolve the problem and pay for eradication. What are you doing with that wood? You cam IM me to avoid cluttering this thread.