Gallery

[UnclePedro]

1st Edit (only changed capitalization and separation into stanzas)

Hey, you there by the sidelines
kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
with your head down, your thoughts
so far away that you see nothing
but a blur, and the blur blends
into one large painting, an empty
gallery collecting dust

Hey, you with the popped collar,
you with your cotton cave
swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
into your mind to look inside
and they are always disappointed

Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
a mask, the mask that conceals
more than your face, but that
empty gallery, the plain insides
so forgotten and abandoned

Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
is black, a deep, dark, oily black,
your palette poisoned from the
other painters painting it,

Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
from your insides because
your heart is diseased and
is choking, your own body
rejecting the outside, and so
you collapse inward, swallow yourself,
quarantined to protect, run away
to live, to paint your own picture

Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
making noise in your mind, a storm
surging and breaking on your skin,
but the skin will not break, and your mouth
refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
your dungeon of empty paintings,
the prisoners in your mind, who have
never seen the light of day

Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
walls, with it's grime and filth
and stench, but unlike the rest
of your gallery, the prison is
streaked with colors, random
patterns and strokes mixed together

Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, and the key
is in your hand, It's ok
because I understand

Original

Hey, you there by the sidelines
Kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
With your head down, your thoughts
So far away that you see nothing
But a blur, And the blur blends
Into one large painting, An empty
Gallery collecting dust,
Hey, you with the popped collar,
You with your cotton cave
Swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
Into your mind to look inside
And they are always disappointed,
Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
A mask, The mask that conceals
More than your face, but that
Empty gallery, the plain insides
So forgotten and abandoned,
Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
Is black, A deep, dark, oily black,
Your palette poisoned from the
Other painters painting it,
Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
From your insides because
Your heart is diseased and
Is choking, your own body
Rejecting the outside, And so
You collapse inward, swallow yourself,
Quarantined to protect, Run away
To live, To paint your own picture,
Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
Making noise in your mind, A storm
Surging and breaking on your skin,
But the skin will not break, and your mouth
Refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
Your dungeon of empty paintings,
The prisoners in your mind, who have
Never seen the light of day,
Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
Walls, with it's grime and filth
And stench, But unlike the rest
Of your gallery, The prison is
Streaked with colors, Random
Patterns and strokes mixed together,
Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, And the key
Is in your hand, It's ok
Because I understand

[ellajam]

Hi, Unc, welcome to the workshops. Just on a first read, a few impressions. I like the clarity of this and and found the gallery idea interesting and the sonics were often well done. For me the capitalization on every line makes for a more confusing read, do you think it adds to the poem? I couldn't detect a form forcing you into some of the weak breaks: by, that, the, so and others. I hope to be back with more meaningful crit after some more reads. Thanks for posting it.

Original

Hey, you there by the sidelines
Kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
With your head down, your thoughts
So far away that you see nothing
But a blur, And the blur blends
Into one large painting, An empty
Gallery collecting dust,
Hey, you with the popped collar,
You with your cotton cave
Swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
Into your mind to look inside
And they are always disappointed,
Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
A mask, The mask that conceals
More than your face, but that
Empty gallery, the plain insides
So forgotten and abandoned,
Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
Is black, A deep, dark, oily black,
Your palette poisoned from the
Other painters painting it,
Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
From your insides because
Your heart is diseased and
Is choking, your own body
Rejecting the outside, And so
You collapse inward, swallow yourself,
Quarantined to protect, Run away
To live, To paint your own picture,
Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
Making noise in your mind, A storm
Surging and breaking on your skin,
But the skin will not break, and your mouth
Refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
Your dungeon of empty paintings,
The prisoners in your mind, who have
Never seen the light of day,
Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
Walls, with it's grime and filth
And stench, But unlike the rest
Of your gallery, The prison is
Streaked with colors, Random
Patterns and strokes mixed together,
Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, And the key
Is in your hand, It's ok
Because I understand

[UnclePedro]

Hi, Unc, welcome to the workshops. Just on a first read, a few impressions. I like the clarity of this and and found the gallery idea interesting and the sonics were often well done. For me the capitalization on every line makes for a more confusing read, do you think it adds to the poem? I couldn't detect a form forcing you into some of the weak breaks: by, that, the, so and others. I hope to be back with more meaningful crit after some more reads. Thanks for posting it.

Original

Hey, you there by the sidelines
Kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
With your head down, your thoughts
So far away that you see nothing
But a blur, And the blur blends
Into one large painting, An empty
Gallery collecting dust,
Hey, you with the popped collar,
You with your cotton cave
Swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
Into your mind to look inside
And they are always disappointed,
Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
A mask, The mask that conceals
More than your face, but that
Empty gallery, the plain insides
So forgotten and abandoned,
Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
Is black, A deep, dark, oily black,
Your palette poisoned from the
Other painters painting it,
Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
From your insides because
Your heart is diseased and
Is choking, your own body
Rejecting the outside, And so
You collapse inward, swallow yourself,
Quarantined to protect, Run away
To live, To paint your own picture,
Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
Making noise in your mind, A storm
Surging and breaking on your skin,
But the skin will not break, and your mouth
Refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
Your dungeon of empty paintings,
The prisoners in your mind, who have
Never seen the light of day,
Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
Walls, with it's grime and filth
And stench, But unlike the rest
Of your gallery, The prison is
Streaked with colors, Random
Patterns and strokes mixed together,
Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, And the key
Is in your hand, It's ok
Because I understand

Thanks for the suggestions! Yeah, I agree with you about the capitalization, I'll probably take out the mid-sentence capitalizations. The weak breaks are part of the style of the poem however. I'm not sure what to call it, it's my own monster-child that I sometimes you in my poems. It certainly is intentional, the majority of the lines use weak breaks. I think I use them with the intention to draw elements from a spoken word poem, sort of mixing a free-verse poem and a spoken word together, although this certainly isn't a spoken word poem. I also I agree that there isn't really a pattern to the weak breaks, but there is several places in the poem that could be separated into stanzas if I was looking to have that degree of separation between the ideas.

Edit: So I was looking at what the poem would look like without the capitalized words mid-sentence and I realized that they are intended to create a slight degree of separation between the lines. If the poem had hard breaks between lines and less weak breaks, the capitalized words would be the beginning of each sentence (for most of them)

[ellajam]

I was talking about capitalizing the first word of each line being what made for a more difficult read.

[heslopian]

The poem keeps giving words in the middle of lines capital letters ("A mask, The mask that conceals"). A comma doesn't end a sentence, so for the capitals to be justified you need a full stop. I'd go back and really think about the grammatical structure of this piece, as it does feel confused, though there's a lot of clarity in individual images. The poem doesn't quite hang together as a sensible narrative, but the gallery metaphor is strong. Personally, I'd divide the poem into verses and focus solely on that metaphor. Describe each painting in the gallery and what it means to the narrator, as opposed to just hurtling ahead with action. Thank you for the read

[UnclePedro]

I was talking about capitalizing the first word of each line being what made for a more difficult read.

So I changed all the capitalization stuff. I'm not too sure that I like it better, but if everyone else thinks it reads better this way, then I'm fine with that

---

The poem keeps giving words in the middle of lines capital letters ("A mask, The mask that conceals"). A comma doesn't end a sentence, so for the capitals to be justified you need a full stop. I'd go back and really think about the grammatical structure of this piece, as it does feel confused, though there's a lot of clarity in individual images. The poem doesn't quite hang together as a sensible narrative, but the gallery metaphor is strong. Personally, I'd divide the poem into verses and focus solely on that metaphor. Describe each painting in the gallery and what it means to the narrator, as opposed to just hurtling ahead with action. Thank you for the read

Yes, I know that a comma doesn't end a sentence, but in this poem I'm using it in a different manner. For the original piece (not the 1st edit), the commas before the capitalized words in the middle of the sentences represented a separation, really a breath, as if someone were reading a spoken word piece.

More importantly, the focus of the poem is not intended to be about a gallery, but about the psychological situation of the person the narrator is describing. Spoiler alert, this issue that the narrator is talking about is the character's depression and how he/she has sunk into themselves and closed off themselves from the people around them, climaxing the poem with the narrator telling the character that it is really the messed up problems that the character is hiding that is what makes them unique and an individual.

Thank you for reading, I am taking these changes into consideration, particularly the structure of the poem so that the piece can flow better

[Thoughtjotter]

1st Edit (only changed capitalization and separation into stanzas)

Hey, you there by the sidelines
kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
with your head down, your thoughts
so far away that you see nothing
but a blur, and the blur blends
into one large painting, an empty
gallery collecting dust

Hey, you with the popped collar,
you with your cotton cave
swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
into your mind to look inside
and they are always disappointed

Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
a mask, the mask that conceals
more than your face, but that
empty gallery, the plain insides
so forgotten and abandoned

Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
is black, a deep, dark, oily black,
your palette poisoned from the
other painters painting it,

Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
from your insides because
your heart is diseased and
is choking, your own body
rejecting the outside, and so
you collapse inward, swallow yourself,
quarantined to protect, run away
to live, to paint your own picture

Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
making noise in your mind, a storm
surging and breaking on your skin,
but the skin will not break, and your mouth
refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
your dungeon of empty paintings,
the prisoners in your mind, who have
never seen the light of day

Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
walls, with it's grime and filth
and stench, but unlike the rest
of your gallery, the prison is
streaked with colors, random
patterns and strokes mixed together

Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, and the key
is in your hand, It's ok
because I understand

Original

Hey, you there by the sidelines
Kicking in the dirt, playing with pebbles
With your head down, your thoughts
So far away that you see nothing
But a blur, And the blur blends
Into one large painting, An empty
Gallery collecting dust,
Hey, you with the popped collar,
You with your cotton cave
Swallowing your head,
Yeah, you hear, but you won't look,
The colors hurt your eyes, they seep
Into your mind to look inside
And they are always disappointed,
Hush, yes, keep quiet, hush,
Your words are eclipsed by
A mask, The mask that conceals
More than your face, but that
Empty gallery, the plain insides
So forgotten and abandoned,
Hush, be still, yes, hush,
The curtain drawn will hide you,
And here you paint, but the paint
Is black, A deep, dark, oily black,
Your palette poisoned from the
Other painters painting it,
Hey you, you escape artist,
You with the eyes that bleed
From your insides because
Your heart is diseased and
Is choking, your own body
Rejecting the outside, And so
You collapse inward, swallow yourself,
Quarantined to protect, Run away
To live, To paint your own picture,
Hey, you stranger in the mirror,
Making noise in your mind, A storm
Surging and breaking on your skin,
But the skin will not break, and your mouth
Refuses to rupture, to crack and expose
Your dungeon of empty paintings,
The prisoners in your mind, who have
Never seen the light of day,
Yeah, I've seen that prison,
It's iron bars and blood streaked
Walls, with it's grime and filth
And stench, But unlike the rest
Of your gallery, The prison is
Streaked with colors, Random
Patterns and strokes mixed together,
Hey, you with this colorful dungeon,
Your gallery is in there, And the key
Is in your hand, It's ok
Because I understand

Well, Uncle Pedro, You have written the masterpiece of a soul within one who dwells in his own mind. When read aloud one walks with the narrator as he guides himself through his own endless gallery.
Thanks for a return to the "Twilight Zone",
R T