The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
Second draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale
on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage,
but saw instead death speeding low
over the town, her cloak
reeking of orange blossoms.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza,
Mrs. Miller's son had fallen
from Judy Bennett's window when
a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen!
First draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms.
Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
I was about to offer my usual scintillating comment(s) when I noticed
you hadn't posted this to "Misc". I'd have deleted this entirely, but my
delete button is being a bit spasmodic at the moment; and, not wanting
to seem impolite by leaving you a blank comment, I decided to leave
you this instead (which, looking back on it, was probably worse).
sorry,
ray
P.S. In my book, any poem with moist brains and scattered cunts has a leg up.
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
(05-16-2015, 03:40 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms. -- I guess the only thing I can say is to try and tighten up the language.
Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave. -- Are you talking about a funeral dirge? I suppose that detail can be specified.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence -- The word "Maiden" will make the poem quaint in my opinion. I suppose that could work if you indulge that quality of the word.
like the fateful first seedling of spring, -- I guess there's that "April is the cruelest month" bit, but otherwise I'm not so sure this is needed. Perhaps it is though I'm being lazy here.
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. -- I kind of like this idea because it is like a humorous reworking of poets who do that sort of thing with fruit metaphors.
As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
I kind of like the aspects of this poem that show how distanced writing can be from actual events. Rhythmically the poem may be off, but I'm not sure what you're after in that regard.
May you pm me the shiny piece of feedback, at least? I'm a magpie.
Agreed on that first point. I don't think I need to specify if it's a funeral dirge or not; that next line shows it well enough. Changed maiden, plus a few other words -- still trying to get the sound sorted out, as well as seeing if everything could be tighter. That "April" bit you're referring to is meant to parallel the fact that the boy's brains looked like a sower's mess - he planted the seed, her scream was the seed growing up. Not sure if that reinforcement is neat, though -- the orange blossom-orange fruit play is maybe clear enough already.
As for your general glance, that's one aspect, yes. I hope the other themes are apparent enough -- without being too apparent, that is. First edit edited in top.
Second edit -- just a bit of tweaking with the line breaks. The short ones are just too short, I think, messing up the reading somehow. Also removed that exclamation point at the end -- I think it makes everything sound a bit too comic.
(05-16-2015, 03:40 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: Hi river,
there comes a time for prose. It is when it wants to become a poem. To make it so is not as easy as simply sticking in line breaks. I want to like this for its prose and so that we can agree at the outset, that is how I am going to read it.
Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell, Caution. Construction work ahead. The night before last, winter fell. Yep. That is clear... but lookee, I added a comma. Surely you didn't mean "the night before, last winter fell"? No. Of course not. Thing is, I am reading this out loud. Did you?
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. Love it. See it. Do not yet understand it. You do not need generically different oranges. Orange blossom, singular, is just fine.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds. Temptingly dream-like but because I "know" you I don't think you would go down that route.I must say, though, that you do seem spacially challenged. You were inside then went outside then went in again to get your pen, then went out and followed a fast-moving meteorological phenomena through the clouds whilst noting empty streets er, below. So you were up looking down or down looking up as you moved through those streets by some means. Hmmm. Dreamy.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then, "then, and" is clunky and probably avoidable by ommission. Try it with a period after business.
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave. Trying too hard causes mixed metaphorical musings. A dirge by any name is a sound. A box is a box is a box, lowered, raised or left where it is.
So the thought came: was I her mark? Why did this thought come to you? It didn't to me and I've been with you since you left your place. Is there something you know that you thought you had told me? Well, you didn't...at least not to involve the causational "so".
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, Bugger me. Three cliches in a row plus a physiological paradox thrown in for good measure.Don't see that this adds anything useful. Padding.
a girl's scream shot through the silence When did the dirge stop dirging?
like the fateful first seedling of spring, You have done it again. Mixed metaphor due to terminological imbalance. A scream is a sound. A seedling is a seedling is a seedling...though why is the first one fateful and even if you can tell me, what does it sound like? An onion, maybe?
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited. That will slow your pulse if just walking slowly speeds it up. Please don't tell me we are in Backwards Land
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off. No.Construction wonky. When did he fall? Before the gust of wind or after? This is an old chestnut. At which point do you fall off a bridge?
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess. I am sure this is a great explanatory descriptor but I don't yet know what a sower is. I have a feeling I won't like it. Already it seems contextually isolated.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest, You DO know that the zest of an orange is that little volatile mist that spits out if the crumpled skin? Blond hair? Get outta here.
her ripe breasts to the oily rind, What a gal.
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. You DO know that cunts come in a range of colours, scents, varying degrees of moisture and engorgement but not orange Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left Do you mean "in vain, I left few sympathies" as I cannot get meaning from "vain sympathies"
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen. Hmmm. Oh gawd...it isn't a dream, please don't tell that then you woke up with your dick in an orange and your pen turned in to a waking Gestaltism key
Good and bad but mostly let down by sloppy handling of detail. To be fair, that is probably because there is too much detail.
I hope the above is the most recent draft. I can't do it again.
Best,
tectak
Second draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale
on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage,
but saw instead death speeding low
over the town, her cloak
reeking of orange blossoms.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza,
Mrs. Miller's son had fallen
from Judy Bennett's window when
a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen!
First draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms.
Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
there comes a time for prose. It is when it wants to become a poem. To make it so is not as easy as simply sticking in line breaks. I want to like this for its prose and so that we can agree at the outset, that is how I am going to read it. I guess I'll have to beat in some sound into this. But I'll work on that once all the issues of imagery and theme and plot and characterization are done -- probably rework this into stress meter with a lot of alliteration (I hate rhyming, hehehe).
Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell, Caution. Construction work ahead. The night before last, winter fell. Yep. That is clear... but lookee, I added a comma. Surely you didn't mean "the night before, last winter fell"? No. Of course not. Thing is, I am reading this out loud. Did you? I did. The night before winter came -- perhaps this could be clarified, extended, whatever. Or perhaps changed up, as will be noted.
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. Love it. See it. Do not yet understand it. You do not need generically different oranges. Orange blossom, singular, is just fine.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds. Temptingly dream-like but because I "know" you I don't think you would go down that route.I must say, though, that you do seem spacially challenged. You were inside then went outside then went in again to get your pen, then went out and followed a fast-moving meteorological phenomena through the clouds whilst noting empty streets er, below. So you were up looking down or down looking up as you moved through those streets by some means. Hmmm. Dreamy. Yes, spatially challenged -- need to change that. But hey, who said anything about this being just meteorological phenomena?
And that's one of my problems with poetry (crafting it, maybe reading it). How do you make literal fantasies be what they are first, and not be thought of as symbols or metaphors beforehand? I encountered this before in "The Wandering Dream", where many of the impersonal images are objects first, symbols second -- it is literally a wandering dream to a waking man. Then, the problem was it needed paring down -- here, I think, I need a lot of clarification.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then, "then, and" is clunky and probably avoidable by ommission. Try it with a period after business. Tried -- will return with it once the rest of the poem is hammered out right.
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave. Trying too hard causes mixed metaphorical musings. A dirge by any name is a sound. A box is a box is a box, lowered, raised or left where it is. I don't get this -- the dirge is being compared to a coffin. So death. Perhaps it's a bit of a mix, but it plays with the next "like" metaphor, since it indicates descent, while the next one indicates ascent -- the author falls, the lady later rises. Nevertheless, I'll look to improving this later, maybe make that suggestion more impactful, or change dirge to the more direct "drone".
So the thought came: was I her mark? Why did this thought come to you? It didn't to me and I've been with you since you left your place. Is there something you know that you thought you had told me? Well, you didn't...at least not to involve the causational "so". Agreed that I need to clarify this a bit, although I'm still thinking the line "as if all but I knew her business then" does it fairly -- perhaps I should change up the wording there, so the whole scene would seem more sacrificial?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, Bugger me. Three cliches in a row plus a physiological paradox thrown in for good measure.Don't see that this adds anything useful. Padding. Yes. This was padding when I wrote this, too -- I'm not very good with narrative bridges yet. Will work on this.
a girl's scream shot through the silence When did the dirge stop dirging? "Through what pretty much was just silence" -- I'll change this up.
like the fateful first seedling of spring, You have done it again. Mixed metaphor due to terminological imbalance. A scream is a sound. A seedling is a seedling is a seedling...though why is the first one fateful and even if you can tell me, what does it sound like? An onion, maybe? Although unlike the last mixed metaphor, the girl's scream is, as a symbol, a sign for itself, a scream, meant only to indicate to the speaker that things are going on. The metaphor isn't a metaphor for a metaphor (although the scream does signify something, that second level does not break with its primary meaning in the story). It's meant to suggest a thing shooting up from the ground, from the darkness, into a sort of light, into the speaker.
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited. That will slow your pulse if just walking slowly speeds it up. Please don't tell me we are in Backwards Land Padded bridge, as in before. Will work on this.
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off. No.Construction wonky. When did he fall? Before the gust of wind or after? This is an old chestnut. At which point do you fall off a bridge? When a gust of wind pushed him off. I don't see the error.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess. I am sure this is a great explanatory descriptor but I don't yet know what a sower is. I have a feeling I won't like it. Already it seems contextually isolated. Sower is a planter of seeds (Parable of the Sower?) -- a play with "like the fateful first seedling of spring".
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest, You DO know that the zest of an orange is that little volatile mist that spits out if the crumpled skin? Blond hair? Get outta here.No, it's the exocarp. The yellow skin where the mist is located.
her ripe breasts to the oily rind, What a gal.
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. You DO know that cunts come in a range of colours, scents, varying degrees of moisture and engorgement but not orange Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt.I'm not going for color -- that's why the primary descriptor for "cunt" here is moist. I could have gone sweet, too, but whatever. Anyway, I went with orange because they've been hypothesized to be the Golden Apples of Greek Myth, those apples that give immortality or whatever, apples that have launched a thousand ships, apples that got Atalanta laid. Maybe I should be more explicit with that.
So, to sum up: The wind pushes the author out of house The wind pushes Mr. Miller off the window (although for these two, maybe I need a bit of reworking)
death like orange blossoms Judy Bennet like oranges
the evening's drone like a coffin being lowered (that's probably a better wording) Judy's scream like a seedling shooting up
Judy's scream like a seedling (that's two motifs in one image) Mr. Miller's brains like a sower's mess (seeds scattered by a sower would maybe be better wording?)
Laying it all out like this, maybe the first line is a bit out of context. Instead of winter, I should be saying spring. But anyway, I guess I should maybe make these connections more impactful and more explicit? You don't seem to have gotten much of the vernal connections. I should also probably work on bridging the plot better, as well as making the original thought of the hero's journey (thus, the coffin image) be better supported.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left Do you mean "in vain, I left few sympathies" as I cannot get meaning from "vain sympathies" As in, sympathies filled with vanity. Sympathies that don't really care about giving the girl any comfort. I'll have to reword this, then.
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen. Hmmm. Oh gawd...it isn't a dream, please don't tell that then you woke up with your dick in an orange and your pen turned in to a waking Gestaltism key It could or it could not be a dream, but the speaker has gotten what he wanted. And boy, were they sweet.
Good and bad but mostly let down by sloppy handling of detail. To be fair, that is probably because there is too much detail.
I hope the above is the most recent draft. I can't do it again. I think the issue is that the connection between details is less explicit, plus a lot of things are rather awkwardly worded, and the plot is a bit of a middling mess. Anyway, thanks for the feedback! This is gonna be a good blueprint for the big clean up. But wow, who knew saying things through verse would be such an anally retentive task (hehe)? [i]Hard to maintain that balance of giving it all you got while keeping everything understandable and beautiful sounding. Oh well, it is fun, and the payoff when you've written something good should be big. Again, thanks for the feedback![/i]
there comes a time for prose. It is when it wants to become a poem. To make it so is not as easy as simply sticking in line breaks. I want to like this for its prose and so that we can agree at the outset, that is how I am going to read it. I guess I'll have to beat in some sound into this. But I'll work on that once all the issues of imagery and theme and plot and characterization are done -- probably rework this into stress meter with a lot of alliteration (I hate rhyming, hehehe).
Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell, Caution. Construction work ahead. The night before last, winter fell. Yep. That is clear... but lookee, I added a comma. Surely you didn't mean "the night before, last winter fell"? No. Of course not. Thing is, I am reading this out loud. Did you? I did. The night before winter came -- perhaps this could be clarified, extended, whatever. Or perhaps changed up, as will be noted.
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. Love it. See it. Do not yet understand it. You do not need generically different oranges. Orange blossom, singular, is just fine.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds. Temptingly dream-like but because I "know" you I don't think you would go down that route.I must say, though, that you do seem spacially challenged. You were inside then went outside then went in again to get your pen, then went out and followed a fast-moving meteorological phenomena through the clouds whilst noting empty streets er, below. So you were up looking down or down looking up as you moved through those streets by some means. Hmmm. Dreamy. Yes, spatially challenged -- need to change that. But hey, who said anything about this being just meteorological phenomena? Lingua in maxillam.
And that's one of my problems with poetry (crafting it, maybe reading it). How do you make literal fantasies be what they are first, and not be thought of as symbols or metaphors beforehand? I encountered this before in "The Wandering Dream", where many of the impersonal images are objects first, symbols second -- it is literally a wandering dream to a waking man. Then, the problem was it needed paring down -- here, I think, I need a lot of clarification.I blame myself for using the metaphor word. Most cases of comparison in this piece are, in fact, similes. You use the word "like" but then say, for example, a dirge (or drone) is "like" a coffin. Again, a (sound of a) scream is "like" a seedling. You take no account of the obvious. Dirge cannot be like a coffin any more than a scream can be like a seedling. You could convert to metaphors, you know the sort of thing...sea of grief, my body is a temple...or leave as similes but compare like characteristics. a dirge like the hum of a funeral crowd (poor, but do you see?) or scream shot through the silence like a seedling breaking through spring warmed soil
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then, "then, and" is clunky and probably avoidable by ommission. Try it with a period after business. Tried -- will return with it once the rest of the poem is hammered out right.
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave. Trying too hard causes mixed metaphorical musings. A dirge by any name is a sound. A box is a box is a box, lowered, raised or left where it is. I don't get this -- the dirge is being compared to a coffin. So death. Perhaps it's a bit of a mix, but it plays with the next "like" metaphor, since it indicates descent, while the next one indicates ascent -- the author falls, the lady later rises. Nevertheless, I'll look to improving this later, maybe make that suggestion more impactful, or change dirge to the more direct "drone".
So the thought came: was I her mark? Why did this thought come to you? It didn't to me and I've been with you since you left your place. Is there something you know that you thought you had told me? Well, you didn't...at least not to involve the causational "so". Agreed that I need to clarify this a bit, although I'm still thinking the line "as if all but I knew her business then" does it fairly -- perhaps I should change up the wording there, so the whole scene would seem more sacrificial?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, Bugger me. Three cliches in a row plus a physiological paradox thrown in for good measure.Don't see that this adds anything useful. Padding. Yes. This was padding when I wrote this, too -- I'm not very good with narrative bridges yet. Will work on this.
a girl's scream shot through the silence When did the dirge stop dirging? "Through what pretty much was just silence" -- I'll change this up.
like the fateful first seedling of spring, You have done it again. Mixed metaphor due to terminological imbalance. A scream is a sound. A seedling is a seedling is a seedling...though why is the first one fateful and even if you can tell me, what does it sound like? An onion, maybe? Although unlike the last mixed metaphor, the girl's scream is, as a symbol, a sign for itself, a scream, meant only to indicate to the speaker that things are going on. The metaphor isn't a metaphor for a metaphor (although the scream does signify something, that second level does not break with its primary meaning in the story). It's meant to suggest a thing shooting up from the ground, from the darkness, into a sort of light, into the speaker.
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited. That will slow your pulse if just walking slowly speeds it up. Please don't tell me we are in Backwards Land Padded bridge, as in before. Will work on this.
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off. No.Construction wonky. When did he fall? Before the gust of wind or after? This is an old chestnut. At which point do you fall off a bridge? When a gust of wind pushed him off. I don't see the error. I know you don't so:
"Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son FELL fom Judy Bennett's window. A Gust of wind (had. Optional) pushed him off."
You may not see the problem but do you see the solution?
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess. I am sure this is a great explanatory descriptor but I don't yet know what a sower is. I have a feeling I won't like it. Already it seems contextually isolated. Sower is a planter of seeds (Parable of the Sower?) -- a play with "like the fateful first seedling of spring".Yes. Thought so. What on earth is a sower's mess? This simile is not helpful. I guessed that a "scattering" was sought but that word "mess" is totally inappropriate.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest, You DO know that the zest of an orange is that little volatile mist that spits out if the crumpled skin? Blond hair? Get outta here.No, it's the exocarp.Yes..I will not argue though the zest IS the volatile oil, hence "to zest" means to release said oil. If you insist on the comparison you may need to retract nonetheless, otherwise we have blond hair likened to exocarp. Same issue throughout. You want to compare incomparables. Judy's blond hair to the golden zest of an orange(poor but you get the idea) The yellow skin where the mist is located.
her ripe breasts to the oily rind, What a gal. What can I say?
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. You DO know that cunts come in a range of colours, scents, varying degrees of moisture and engorgement but not orange Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt.I'm not going for color What a huge mistake, then, to choose the only fruit defined near solely but certainly primarily by its colour -- that's why the primary descriptor for "cunt" here is moist. I could have gone sweet, too, but whatever.I am a child of the sixties and can recall with little effort a prodigious number of cunts...none tasted sweet except by auto-suggestion and once or twice with the addition of a Mars bar...hers, not mine Anyway, I went with orange because they've been hypothesized to be the Golden Apples of Greek Myth, those apples that give immortality or whatever, apples that have launched a thousand ships, apples that got Atalanta laid. Maybe I should be more explicit with that.
So, to sum up: The wind pushes the author out of house The wind pushes Mr. Miller off the window (although for these two, maybe I need a bit of reworking)
death like orange blossoms Judy Bennet like oranges Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana
the evening's drone like a coffin being lowered (that's probably a better wording) Judy's scream like a seedling shooting up
Judy's scream like a seedling (that's two motifs in one image) Mr. Miller's brains like a sower's mess (seeds scattered by a sower would maybe be better wording?)
Laying it all out like this, maybe the first line is a bit out of context. Instead of winter, I should be saying spring. But anyway, I guess I should maybe make these connections more impactful and more explicit? You don't seem to have gotten much of the vernal connections. I should also probably work on bridging the plot better, as well as making the original thought of the hero's journey (thus, the coffin image) be better supported.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left Do you mean "in vain, I left few sympathies" as I cannot get meaning from "vain sympathies" As in, sympathies filled with vanity. Sympathies that don't really care about giving the girl any comfort. I'll have to reword this, then.You have almost managed to define the opposite of "vain". When
something is done "in vain" it is done out of care or fervent hope but is thwarted by counter circumstance
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen. Hmmm. Oh gawd...it isn't a dream, please don't tell that then you woke up with your dick in an orange and your pen turned in to a waking Gestaltism key It could or it could not be a dream, but the speaker has gotten what he wanted. And boy, were they sweet.
Good and bad but mostly let down by sloppy handling of detail. To be fair, that is probably because there is too much detail.
I hope the above is the most recent draft. I can't do it again. I think the issue is that the connection between details is less explicit, plus a lot of things are rather awkwardly worded, and the plot is a bit of a middling mess. Anyway, thanks for the feedback! This is gonna be a good blueprint for the big clean up. But wow, who knew saying things through verse would be such an anally retentive task (hehe)? [i]Hard to maintain that balance of giving it all you got while keeping everything understandable and beautiful sounding. Oh well, it is fun, and the payoff when you've written something good should be big. Again, thanks for the feedback![/i]
A rickety draft (or a draft with the Rickets!) By adding more sound effects (and a good bit of regularity with the accents), I hope I've taken the appropriate step from prose to poesy (em dash) er, poetry. There's also more parenthetics (hooray?) and a slightly lighter tone.
The night before last spring sprouted, I was This was supposed to be "last spring sprang", which I thought was terribly (as in, terrible) funny play on words. Anyway...
pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
Slipping outside to see the damage, I saw
death soaring swiftly over the city,
her drab dress bearing orange blossoms.
[Remember your botany (or is it your myths)?
Oranges are Hesperidia, so named
for the golden apples of inspiration
growing in the gardens of Hesperides.] I am a bit sure the message of this parenthetic is important, but I've yet to think of a better way to so incorporate it. (or does it fit even as part of the poem proper?)
I'd gleaned a quest! With curious heart,
I grabbed the book and pen by my porch, Spatial problem is gone, I hope. I'm keeping the dreamy (drugged up) aesthetic.
padlocked my door, and followed her course
through the clouds. No souls swept the streets
as if all but I knew death's business then, The clunkiness here was consciously kept in. I'm still looking for a better way to reword this line altogether.
and crickets clicked their heels to the call
of a funeral party of stars. Alone at night,
with death soaring swiftly over the city?
Fear thus filled me (call me a coward).
But then, a scream shot through the silence Padding is gone.
between the cold cricket chants. I hope this is better than the dirge and silence thing.
Its sound was as fair as a fateful seedling
springing from springtime soil Simile hopefully clarified.
to the sower so beholden. So, I ran
to the source, and found the corpse
of Mrs. Miller's son. He'd fallen from
the fairest Bennet's window; When replaced with a semicolon.
a gust of wind had pushed him off.
His scattered brains were sower's seeds Hope this is a better wording.
scattered on springtime soil.
Moments ago, he was singing so:
"Judy, your hair is an orange's zest,
the flavorful prelude veiling your luscious breasts,
the oily rind! Let me peel the skin-layers off,
to taste of the fat flesh, your hot heart!" A fuller response: a girl might be incomparable to an orange, but (1) it is a bit of a joke (a lot of poems out there do hammy comparisons like this) and (2) more importantly, the comparison is meant to be a bridge to the idea of death and sex bringing inspiration. But hey, I hope this more detailed metaphor gives a bit of reason to the dirty mind of Mrs. Miller's son.
(Your cunt) A dutiful neighbor, I gave the girl
my sympathies, then slipped swiftly away. Vain omitted.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key; it wouldn't be
until the dawn that I'd return to my desk.
Lucky I had my book and pen!
A bit responsive, but the problems seem to mostly relate to manner, so I'm not entirely convinced the poem's matter is fundamentally flawed (then again, I haven't seen anyone argue for that yet, so....)
(05-25-2015, 10:04 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: A rickety draft (or a draft with the Rickets!) By adding more sound effects (and a good bit of regularity with the accents), I hope I've taken the appropriate step from prose to poesy (em dash) er, poetry. There's also more parenthetics (hooray?) and a slightly lighter tone.
The night before last spring sprouted, I was This was supposed to be "last spring sprang", which I thought was terribly (as in, terrible) funny play on words. Anyway... Why last? It cannot be next and as you do not specify the spring before last (or any year) it MUST be last spring. So. "The night before spring returned to my door...". Unless this is mirth-verse I just do not see why you think "spring sprouted" is funny enough to be left in on merit.
pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
Slipping outside to see the damage, I saw
death soaring swiftly over the city,
her drab dress bearing orange blossoms.
[Remember your botany (or is it your myths)?
Oranges are Hesperidia, so named
for the golden apples of inspiration
growing in the gardens of Hesperides.] I am a bit sure the message of this parenthetic is important, but I've yet to think of a better way to so incorporate it. (or does it fit even as part of the poem proper?) What is this all about? Is it an uppity footnote? Why are you launching in to admittedly needed explanatory notes? It IS that obscure but don't tell me what you mean, write what you mean in the poem.
I'd gleaned a quest! With curious heart,
I grabbed the book and pen by my porch, Spatial problem is gone, I hope. I'm keeping the dreamy (drugged up) aesthetic. I shot an elephant in my pyjamas.Howler. If anyone grabbed me by my porch I would lash out.
padlocked my door, and followed her course
through the clouds. No souls swept the streets I bet they were on strike. You just can't get the staff these days
as if all but I knew death's business then, The clunkiness here was consciously kept in. I'm still looking for a better way to reword this line altogether. I repeat. "No souls swept the streets as if all but I knew death's business. Crickets clicked their heels to the call of a funeral party of stars"...but what the hell it all means is beyond me.
and crickets clicked their heels to the call
of a funeral party of stars. Alone at night,
with death soaring swiftly over the city? I question the use of this question mark. Is it a question?
Fear thus filled me (call me a coward). "Thus" is superfluous and pretentious and pedantic and purposeless and thus you should omit it
But then, a scream shot through the silence Padding is gone. But then again...and then again. Truly, dreadfully childish. You are MUCH better than this.
between the cold cricket chants. I hope this is better than the dirge and silence thing. Imagery is shot to hell. Crickets were clicking their heels (good) but now they are chanting crickets. One or the other. Please
Its sound was as fair as a fateful seedling You are now about to vanish off my radar.This flying machine has crashed. It is a wreck. You cannot be serious so nor can I. Goodbye.
springing from springtime soil Simile hopefully clarified.
to the sower so beholden. So, I ran
to the source, and found the corpse
of Mrs. Miller's son. He'd fallen from
the fairest Bennet's window; When replaced with a semicolon.
a gust of wind had pushed him off.
His scattered brains were sower's seeds Hope this is a better wording.
scattered on springtime soil.
Moments ago, he was singing so:
"Judy, your hair is an orange's zest,
the flavorful prelude veiling your luscious breasts,
the oily rind! Let me peel the skin-layers off,
to taste of the fat flesh, your hot heart!" A fuller response: a girl might be incomparable to an orange, but (1) it is a bit of a joke (a lot of poems out there do hammy comparisons like this) and (2) more importantly, the comparison is meant to be a bridge to the idea of death and sex bringing inspiration. But hey, I hope this more detailed metaphor gives a bit of reason to the dirty mind of Mrs. Miller's son.
(Your cunt) A dutiful neighbor, I gave the girl
my sympathies, then slipped swiftly away. Vain omitted.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key; it wouldn't be
until the dawn that I'd return to my desk.
Lucky I had my book and pen!
A bit responsive, but the problems seem to mostly relate to manner, so I'm not entirely convinced the poem's matter is fundamentally flawed (then again, I haven't seen anyone argue for that yet, so....)
Hi river,
Initially, I was not sure what this was about. Now I am sure I don't know...so, progress.
What is this? Are you critting your own work?
This forum, river, is for work which is polished but needs a damn good buffing. Just post your poem. I cannot make out what is and is not the poem anymore...or I cannot be bothered and it is all your fault.
Best,
tectak
the above could be poetry, but in general. the poem read more as a story than a poem. in general most of it could be said more succinctly and in a better voice. there are some images but again they feel too literal. i followed her through the clouds...how, can you fly? it needs to be clear more than literal. at present i think the first person narrative is hiding a lot of what could be done in respect to lifting the poem. personally i feel it needs a lot more work before being posted in serious.
The night before last winter fell, so it was [the last night of autumn? ]
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk on my desk if you must but it feels too literal. let the reader fill in some of the poem
(05-16-2015, 03:40 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead feels like filler [ i stepped outside] isn't that a given unless you chair bound, bedridded, or legless? why not a simple [i went outside] the rest of the line adds nothing
saw death speeding low over the town, Death sped low over the [word of choice here as long as it's not sleepy] town
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. was she that close you could smell her? if so it needs to be mentioned.
death sped by then flew
over the [word] town
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
Second draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale
on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage,
but saw instead death speeding low
over the town, her cloak
reeking of orange blossoms.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza,
Mrs. Miller's son had fallen
from Judy Bennett's window when
a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen!
First draft:
The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms.
Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.
As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
(05-16-2015, 03:40 PM)RiverNotch Wrote: Golden Apples
The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk ----------I like the conversational tone that comes from this line. It's a nice way to start out.
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop. ----------the "our" here detracts from the actual subject of the poem (which is her/death). It makes me wonder who our entails, and I don't see that serving a purpose anywhere else. I would prefer a "my" instead.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms.
Curious, I gathered my book and pen, ----------a true poet. going out to follow death. grab first aid? nahh. just book and pen. Love it.
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were empty that night, ----------the inaction in this line grates against the rest of this stanza, which has movement (at least subtly) in every line.
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?
Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, ----------how does one go about intentionally quickening their pulse? Not saying I don't like it, it just stands out. I would play around with 'my pulse quickened' instead if you haven't already.
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring, ----------line seems a tad overwrought to me.
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.
Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off. ----------This is clearly the crux of the poem, but by how its written so matter-of-fact it doesn't feel like it. Maybe that's a good thing?
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. ----------Gotta have the T&A. It fits great, really nice work.
----------actually you know what, I like the dichotomy between the matter of fact crux and the T&A afterwards, it works well as a unit.
A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
----------I'm not 100% on the title, but I think overall this poem accomplishes what you set out to accomplish.
-"You’d better tell the Captain we’ve got to land as soon as we can. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital."
--"A hospital? What is it?"
-"It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now."
Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt.
